Light Bringer: New World[LitRPG, Fantasy, a very crazy idea]

The old quarry sat two and a half miles south of the Drainage Sluice Gate, tucked behind a continuous ridge of volcanic rock that separated the marsh basin from the first foothills of the iron range.

The site was a circular pit two hundred feet deep, excavated by the Legion over two centuries ago to quarry the dense black basalt blocks used in the foundations of the main perimeter wall.

The bottom of the quarry was dry, blanketed in fine gravel and fragments of rusted rail ties abandoned after the veins ran dry. The sheer vertical walls of dark stone rose straight toward the violet sky, completely blocking any direct line of sight from the watchtowers and searchlight arrays of the Central Bastion.

Dante’s mental interface updated the perimeter scan.

[Isolated Zone: South Quarry Pit.]

[Hostile entities detected within 500 meters: Zero.]

[Optical line of sight to Capital: Completely obstructed by terrain.]

Maria dropped the two canvas sacks loaded with fresh game meat and the four ferrite tusks onto a flat slab of rock with a heavy sigh of relief.

”One hundred and ten pounds of clean meat and eighteen pounds of pure mineral iron,” she wiped the blood from her boning knife onto her trousers, slipping the blade into her toolbelt. ”The butcher on our townhouse corner will hand over at least six hundred scrip for the tusks alone.”

Dante did not answer right away.

He walked into the center of the basalt pit, where the gravel floor opened into a flat clearing a hundred feet across. The air down here was still, spared the biting drafts of the upper plateau and the choking stench of methane drifting from the tar pools.

He unbuckled the side straps of his heat-resistant leather vest, parting the rear seam that covered the basilisk bone plate.

Maria settled onto the stone slab, crossing her long legs and resting her elbows on her knees.

”Letting the beast loose here?” she asked, her voice laced with curiosity.

”We’re at the bottom of a two-hundred-foot crater,” Dante replied, his right hand checking the cold plate across his vertebrae. ”No Legion pickets, and no searchlight from the wall can reach down this deep. I need to calibrate the practical mobility of this frame before we end up in a corner where my life hangs on a split-second jump.”

”Just don’t go drifting up to the lip of the pit, bighead,” she pointed toward the top of the stone wall. ”Pinch your nose over that rim and the artillery lookouts will mistake you for a slag bat and put a four-barreled flak round through your forehead.”

”I know what I’m doing.”

Dante closed his eyes.

He drew mental intent down into his soul core, this time stripped of the frantic desperation that had accompanied that bloody clash in the boiler room. The command was issued with measured precision, channeled through pathways seasoned by thirty-four Intelligence.

Deploy: Winged Vestige.

The two skeletal frames parted the slits in his shirt with two crisp, clean snaps of expanding cartilage.

The wings unfurled into the quarry floor with the heavy whoosh of canvas snapping in a gale.

Their wingspan had grown following his breakthrough to Level 20. They now spanned over six and a half feet from tip to tip, locking firm behind Dante’s shoulders.

Thanks to the Runic Containment Matrix forged with primordial iron dust, zero golden light bled through the pinions. Their entire surface was a matte leaden gray, matching the surrounding basalt plates, with the edge of every flight feather tapering into rigid bevels that looked carved from honed slate.

When the quarry air brushed against the plumage, the lingering heat from the mire was cast off automatically.

Dante opened his eyes.

The physical sensation defied description.

With nine Strength and twelve Constitution, Dante had always perceived his own body as a sluggish mechanical drag that demanded deliberate effort just to sustain a steady march. But the second the wings reached full extension, his center of mass felt as though it floated a foot above the gravel.

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The air around his skin gained a tangible density, an aerodynamic buoyancy answering every subtle flex of his thoracic vertebrae.

He took three running strides across the gravel.

On his fourth step, he bent his knees and drove the wings downward in a single compact stroke.

WHOOSH.

The volume of air displaced by condensed ether kicked up a wide ring of dust across the quarry floor.

Dante’s body vaulted off the gravel along a clean diagonal, rising six feet into the air with an effortless buoyancy no human vanguard could mimic without active propulsion skills.

He did not climb toward the lip of the crater, keeping well within the safe margin of the basalt walls. Tucking his left wing downward, he drew the feather array into a sharp banking angle and glided horizontally five feet above the deck, cutting across the hundred-foot clearing in under two seconds of fluid motion.

The wind rushed across his face without drag.

Carving a ninety-degree turn around an overturned iron beam, he flared his full wingspan to brake, touching down atop a ten-foot square block of dressed stone with scarcely a sound from his boot soles.

Maria watched from her slab, lips parted and an eyebrow arched in unfeigned astonishment.

”Well look at that...” She let out a dry scoff through her nose. ”The kid learned to skim the ground like an iron owl.”

”It isn’t sustained flight,” Dante called down from the stone block, breathing through his nose with no trace of labored lung strain. ”It’s assisted gliding powered by Mana dispersion. The system drains only two points of Mana for every ten seconds of horizontal lift.”

He fanned his right wing outward, testing the articulation of the joints.

”The maneuver envelope is ridiculous,” he continued, a rare trace of enthusiasm in his voice at the practical yield. ”I can clear a thirty-foot oil sluice without touching a bridge, and I can shift heading mid-air if incoming fire tracks my vector.”

”Let me test something.”

Maria rose from the slab with the fluid speed of twenty-six Dexterity.

She bent down, scooped up a chunk of basalt the size of a fist weighing about four pounds, and drew her right arm back with the full torque of thirty-three Strength.

”Block this, bighead!”

The four-pound stone hurled from her fingers like an artillery shell from a mechanical sling, whistling on a flat trajectory straight for Dante’s chest atop the stone pillar.

Dante made no move to dodge.

He put his faith in the density of the gray pinions.

With a snap of neural intent, his left wing swept across his torso, folding the overlapping plumage into a curved shield two feet wide directly in the path of the incoming rock.

The basalt chunk struck the outer face of the feathers.

CLACK.

The stone shattered into four fragments on impact, clattering harmlessly to the dirt without knocking Dante’s wing back by a single millimeter.

The surface of the feathers shielded by the primordial iron showed not a single scratch. The stone-gray texture absorbed the kinetic impact with the rigidity of armored plate, transmitting only a dull vibration into his shoulder blades that dissipated within half a second.

He unfolded the wing once more, looking at the pulverized gravel at his boots.

”Concussive resistance is entirely passive,” Dante noted, stepping off the basalt block in a cushioned drop aided by his outstretched feathers. ”The material density exceeds that of your steel bar.”

Maria walked over to him, reached out a gloved hand, and tapped the tip of the gray wing.

Her fingers ran over the rigid feather bevels, feeling the metallic chill of the surface and the complete absence of any etheric heat pulse.

”Feels like solid steel,” she said in an undertone, checking where the plumage met the flesh of his back. ”Yet it carries the mass of genuine feathers. Use this to deflect grazing rounds like the shot Miro took, and the lead bounces right off without tearing your meat.”

”That’s the tactical utility.” Dante willed the trait to retract.

The wings drew inward slowly.

The skeletal frames slid back through the slits in his shirt with faint clicks of sinew, tucking beneath the skin of his back until only the two satin marks remained visible over his shoulder blades.

The basilisk bone plate settled flat and cold against his spine, seamlessly aligned with the natural circulation of his five-hundred-and-ten-point Mana pool.

Dante buckled the side straps of his leather vest, smoothing the fabric over his chest.

”Mobility is calibrated,” he hoisted one of the canvas sacks containing the fresh game meat. ”Now we gather the haul and head back to the South Sluice before the night shift drops the portcullis.”

Maria grabbed the heavier sack bearing the ferrite tusks alongside her forty-pound greatsword, slinging the strap over her shoulder with practiced ease.

They began their trek out of the quarry pit, following the gravel switchback toward the waterlogged marshland.

The violet sky was shading toward dusk, and the towering smokestacks of the Central Bastion were already spitting glowing embers that flecked the industrial horizon with pinpricks of fire.

Dante walked with steady strides beside Maria, the reality of their upgraded capabilities settling firmly into his core.

They held a six-month lease on a fortified townhouse, weapons tempered for concussive shock, Tier Three specializations ready to unlock, and an unflagged aerial mobility tool that no one in this iron empire would ever expect on the back of a Level 20 summoner.

The city waited ahead for their return, and they were more prepared than ever to claim their ground behind its sixty-foot walls.