The Great Overthrow [A Souls-like LitRPG]

The Great Land was an ocean of pulverized slate and crushed dreams. To navigate it without the safety net of Complete Energy was to walk blindfolded through a graveyard of forgotten Supreme Beings.

The Vagabond moved with calculated paranoia. Every step his ruined leather boots took was cushioned by the Step of Silence, draining minute fractions of his naturally regenerating Mana. It was a risky expenditure, but the alternative was alerting the unseen horrors lurking within the dense, bruised smog.

Beside him, barely reaching his knee, trotted Shadow. The pup was a silent phantom among the grey ashes. Its violet-tipped fur bristled occasionally as it sniffed the heavy, metallic air, processing the hostile environment. It didn't bark. It didn't stray. The binding protocol had tethered its primal instincts to the Vagabond’s survival logic.

For two hours, they trekked deeper into the wastes, following the unnatural scent of old incense and tarnished brass that cut through the sulfurous wind.

Then, the Vagabond heard it.

Clink. Clank. Ding.

A chaotic, discordant symphony of hundreds of small, rusted bells and clinking coins. The sound echoed eerily through the smog, carrying a tune that was both cheerful and deeply unnerving.

The Vagabond dropped into a low crouch behind the rusted remains of an iron barricade. He tapped his leg twice. Shadow immediately flattened its small body against the ash, disappearing entirely into the gloom.

Out of the grey miasma emerged a silhouette that defied natural taxonomy.

It was a cart, but it was massive—three stories of rotting wood, canvas tents, hanging lanterns that burned with sickly green flames, and cages filled with unidentifiable, twitching oddities. The entire structure was built upon the back of a grotesque beast of burden. The creature resembled a colossal, mutated tortoise, but instead of a shell, its back was covered in thick, calcified fungal plating. It lumbered forward on six thick, elephantine legs, its blind, fleshy head swaying low to the ash.

Sitting atop the beast’s massive neck, holding a set of reins made from braided human hair, was the Mad Merchant.

He was a spindly, hunched figure entirely swallowed by layers of opulent, mismatched silks and heavy furs that had clearly been looted from dead nobility. His face was hidden behind a polished brass mask molded into a permanent, exaggerated, maniacal grin. A wide-brimmed hat, adorned with the black feathers of smoke-ravens, sat slightly askew on his head.

"Step into the light, moth!" a voice crackled from behind the grinning brass mask. It was high-pitched, raspy, and dripped with theatrical amusement. "I can smell the fresh blood on your boots, and the beautiful, heavy scent of Lira in your pouch!"

The Vagabond didn't flinch. "Do you trade, or do you scavenge?" he called out, his voice cold and devoid of emotion.

The Merchant threw his head back and laughed—a sound like coins rattling in a tin cup. He pulled on the reins, and the six-legged beast ground to a halt with a heavy sigh that blew a cloud of ash into the air.

"I am Elias! I scavenge the dead and trade with the doomed!" the Merchant declared, spreading his silk-draped arms wide. "And you, my friend, have the distinct aroma of a man who is both! Come closer. My beast only eats those who try to steal."

The Vagabond stood up slowly. He stepped out from the barricade, walking deliberately toward the towering cart. He whistled sharply, a single, low note. Shadow detached from the darkness and followed close to his master's heel, its mismatched eyes fixed intensely on the massive beast of burden.

As the Vagabond approached the light of the green lanterns, Elias the Merchant leaned forward, peering over the edge of the beast’s neck. The brass mask seemed to glint with mechanical curiosity.

"Ah..." Elias murmured, his theatrical tone dropping into something much sharper and far more calculating. "The heavy leather. The cold eyes. The distinct lack of a family crest. And... is that a Magic Book I spy strapped to your hip?"

The Merchant chuckled darkly. "One of the Secret Alliance's little rats. Sent to play the grand game of survival. Tell me, Bound Soul, how is the Usurper's air treating your lungs?"

"It keeps me awake," the Vagabond replied flatly. "I need a weapon. Ranged."

"A pragmatic rat! The best kind!" Elias clapped his gloved hands together. Then, his brass mask tilted downward, locking onto the knee-high, pitch-black pup sitting beside the Vagabond’s boot.

The Merchant froze. For five seconds, the only sound was the howling wind.

"By the dying Supreme Beings..." Elias whispered, genuine shock bleeding through his manic persona. He scrambled down a rope ladder hanging from the side of the beast, moving with surprising, insect-like agility. He landed in the ash a few paces from the Vagabond.

Elias crouched, his masked face leveled with the pup. Shadow let out a low, vibrating growl, baring its sharp, serrated teeth.

This tale has been pilfered from NovelFire. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

"A Royal Beast," the Merchant breathed, his gloved fingers trembling slightly. "The lineage of the Mother of Shadows. You actually broke into the Obsidian Forest and lived? You stole a Supreme Being’s offspring?"

"I acquired an asset," the Vagabond corrected coldly. "But right now, it's just a pup that eats fish."

Elias looked up, the grinning mask reflecting the Vagabond's ruined leather armor. "Fish?" he barked a sudden, grating laugh. "You feed a Supreme Being's lineage fish? Oh, you ignorant, wonderful rat! It will grow on fish, yes. It will reach the size of a hound. But it will never become a terror."

The Vagabond narrowed his eyes. "Explain."

Elias stood up, dusting ash from his silks. "Information costs coin, my friend. But consider this a promotional gift for a man bold enough to rob a nursery. Royal Beasts are parasitic anchors. They are fueled by the very fabric of this corrupted world. If you want it to truly grow—to gain the strength to rip the head off an Iron Vanguard—you must feed it Spiritual Energy. Let it feast on the raw, condensed souls of the horrors you kill."

Elias leaned in close, the smell of incense overwhelming. "But be warned... even if you feed it every lesser mutant in this Great Land, it will only ever reach the size of a hunting hound. The energy here is too thin, too diluted by the ash. To unleash its true, massive potential, you will eventually need the dense, highly concentrated arcanum of the First Kingdom. But that is a suicide run for another day."

The Vagabond absorbed the information instantly, filing it into his tactical ledger. Spiritual Energy equals growth. But the Great Land has a hard cap.

"Noted," the Vagabond said. "Now. Show me your arsenal."

"Straight to business! I love it!" Elias spun around, clapping his hands.

A complex series of pulleys and gears whirred to life on the side of the massive cart. A heavy wooden panel dropped down, revealing a stunning, lethal display of weaponry.

"I have exactly fifty-four Lira," the Vagabond stated bluntly. "And I don't wear plate armor. If you hand me a broadsword, I will be dead before I swing it. I need range. I need speed."

Elias paused, his masked head tilting as he seemingly read the Vagabond's aura. "You have eight drops of Spiritual Energy in your ledger. Eight drops! Not even enough to form a single Complete Energy to knit a broken bone. You are walking on a tightrope over a canyon of swords! Very well. A man of high dexterity requires an instrument of precision."

The Merchant reached past the heavy weapons and pulled out a beautiful, sleek composite short bow. The wood was a dark, polished ash-wood, reinforced with cured horn and bound in tight leather.

"The Whisperer's Recurve," Elias said, running a gloved hand over the string. "Forged by the blind fletchers of the First Kingdom. It lacks the brute mechanical force of a crossbow, but in the hands of someone with high dexterity, the draw is instantaneous, and the release is practically silent. It scales perfectly with your nimble fingers."

The Vagabond picked up the short bow. The weapon felt like a natural extension of his arm. It was practically weightless. He pulled the string back. The tension was immense, requiring strict skeletal alignment, but his [18 DEX] allowed him to hold it steady without a single tremor.

"Perfect," the Vagabond said. "How much?"

"For the bow? Thirty-five Lira," Elias said, pulling an abacus made of knuckle bones from his robes. "But a bow without teeth is just a curved stick. I have a quiver of thirty armor-piercing iron-tipped arrows. Forged to punch through Exiled chainmail. That will be fifteen Lira."

The Vagabond did the math. "Fifty Lira total. I also need an armor repair kit. Needles, wax thread, and boiled leather strips to patch this," he pointed to the torn, bloody slashes on his arm where the Crawler had nearly gutted his bicep.

Elias rubbed his brass chin. "A repair kit is five Lira. That brings the total to fifty-five Lira. You only have fifty-four."

The Merchant leaned forward, the grin on his mask widening. "What will you sacrifice, Vagabond? The arrows? The armor?"

The Vagabond didn't blink. He reached into his pouch, pulled out his hunting knife, and laid it flat on the velvet cloth next to the bow.

"I bought this knife off a dead scavenger three days ago," the Vagabond lied smoothly, though his voice remained icy. "The steel is chipped, but the hilt is wrapped in genuine Royal Forest dire-boar leather. It’s worth at least three Lira to the right buyer. I'll give you the knife and fifty-two Lira for the bow, the thirty arrows, and the repair kit. I keep two Lira."

Elias stared at the cheap hunting knife. He knew it was garbage. He knew the Vagabond was bluffing about the leather. But the sheer, cold audacity of the mercenary—bartering a worthless blade to maintain a two-Lira safety net while standing on the brink of death—delighted the madman.

"Deal!" Elias cackled, snatching the knife and the heavy handful of tarnished coins from the Vagabond.

The Vagabond slung the quiver of thirty arrows over his right shoulder. He secured the sleek composite short bow across his back. He tucked the leather repair kit into his belt pouch. He felt the familiar, reassuring weight of lethality return to his body.

He pulled out the Magic Book.

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ASSET INVENTORY UPDATE

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Physical Currency: [2] Lira.

Armament:

- Primary: The Whisperer's Recurve (Composite Short Bow).

- Ammunition: 30 Armor-Piercing Iron-Tipped Arrows.

Armor: Compromised (0% Physical Mitigation) -> Repair Kit Acquired. Pending manual restoration.

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"A word of advice, archer," Elias said as he climbed the rope ladder back to his perch atop the massive beast. "The Great Land is vast. If you want to harvest real Spiritual Energy and heavy Lira, look for the Sunken Catacombs beneath the ash. There are Mini-Bosses lurking in the dark that hold treasures far richer than roaming hounds. But be careful. If you die with zero Complete Energy, you don't even leave a ghost behind."

The Merchant cracked his hair-whip. The colossal fungal beast groaned and began to lumber forward, the cart swaying dangerously, the bells resuming their chaotic, maddening symphony.

"May the Usurper forget your name, Vagabond!" Elias’s voice echoed as the cart disappeared back into the heavy smog.

The Vagabond stood alone in the ash, a bow on his back, two coins in his pocket, and a knee-high Royal Beast at his side.

"Come, Shadow," the Vagabond said, his eyes scanning the horizon for the entrance to the Sunken Catacombs. "It's time to test the tension."