3001 Paths to Death - A Lite litRPG Looper

As much as people tried and wished for a restart, the fact of the matter was that restarts weren't real. Actions, choices, and words all had lasting consequences.

If a man called another man a bastard only to apologize when the bastard turned out to be a great man, the bastard profaner could never reclaim the bastard label he so bastardly dealt out. No apology and no do-over would change the fact that there were still two bastards.

So no, I wasn't going to accept a restart with Cal. It didn't matter that we were coffin buddies on a first-name basis or that I felt terrible because he was friends with a tree, and I just massacred a forest, and it especially didn't matter that I was stuck in a loop with what seemed like endless restarts.

Cal was my possessor, and I was possessed. We weren't starting over unless that meant he was exorcized from my mind.

"What do you mean no?" Calypso asked.

"I'm a bastard." Damn it. I only had one chance, and I missed the landing.

"We're bastards. Shit." He had to be messing with my mind. I thought I could sneak in another attempt.

"You're a bastard, and unless restart means you leave, then no, you get no do-overs." The execution was sloppy, but the message was delivered. Further boosting my confidence was the fact that I no longer palm-hugged my head and had resumed cultivating my frozen pot full of boiling water.

"You do understand—"

"I know I'm in a recursion. It doesn't make 'restarts' any more real."

"The amount of looping your mind goes through to jump to a conclusion is fascinating."

"The caterpillar weaves many paths before he calls a cocoon home."

"What is this caterpillar you refer to, and why is it essential to your world? I do not believe I encountered a single one. Is it like a dragon?"

"More like a phoenix without the fire and dying, which makes it much more impressive."

"And that is cause for your obsession?"

"I'm not obsessed with them. I tend to avoid them. They're bad for business."

"You're making this all up."

I sorta was. That didn't make it any less true, and I had a pile of ashes of chewed-on maps as evidence. Or I had. The evidence might've been destroyed, and blaming moths was probably more accurate than butterflies. Still, they were cousins, so they remained guilty by association. Besides, we were talking about caterpillars. What did anyone really know about those morphing grubs?

"The caterpillar is the harbinger of tragedy," I said with a confident finality. "Their beauty preludes destruction."

A wisp of understanding breezed through my thoughts. I could almost see the octopus nodding and getting lost in the memory of a beautiful tree where Cal sat and ate lunch under Ash's shade. The memory was fleeting, and empty walls erased my image of Cal, leaving only his voice behind.

"You said there was no fire. Now I know you are making this up. I feel it in your pulses as well. They are getting extra sparky.

"Well, how do you like it when someone messes with your mind? It's beyond unsettling. And butterflies are beautiful; of course, they are bad for business."

"So, are we even?"

"Not even close. You need to get out of my head."

"I cannot, nor do you want me to. As much as you long for the grave, you long for her more."

"Get out."

"We can work together. Our goals align for a while."

"Get out."

"If I leave, you will die. There will be no vengeance. The Deliverer is never held accountable. Your friends remain dead, forgotten with the worms, and then your world, Helm will be destroyed, and everyone here will die with it.

"I don't care about revenge, and I don't care about the world."

"Yet the destruction of a forest and spirit beasts has brought you to your knees."

"Because it was by my hand."

"And if you let the world be destroyed, is it not because of your hands?"

"I'm not the one holding the ax, am I?"

"Will that help you sleep any easier? You may not be holding the ax, but you did nothing to stop its fall."

"And how am I supposed to do that when you, a mighty god, couldn't stop the ax from falling."

"We both know I'm no god."

"Ae." There was another pause in the conversation. No veil is parted for me to get a glimpse of Cal, and I sense no emotion from him either. I wait for a comfortable thirty seconds before I start brewing.

Without my guidance, the bonfire tripled in mass. Entire trees burned in seconds, barely satiating the fires' hunger. The mana around us had become distorted with death and fire. Both were driven to consume, uncaring that the more they did, the faster they ended their pursuit.

I couldn't sense the ambiance of any other mana except for the kettle I cultivated and the night brooding in the distance. I assumed our conversation was just on pause. I don't know what made Cal so skittish at times. That left me with my thoughts, which were still relatively empty.

This wasn't my favorite loop.

Favorite or not, the fruit of my labor was on the edge of ripeness. Through the delicate culmination of time, mana, heat, and water, I'd transmuted the thousands of dull cores into a midnight-purple powder. I had enough powder for about four pills worth of epic rank. Their quality based on the darkness of the powder was nothing to brag about; most likely, it would be appraised at the inferior quality. Inferior as it was, I had a fortune. My pot held more value than I ever dreamed about.

With my hand on my large pot, I manipulated the ice, removing extra material and sculpting the rest into a teacup.

Cultivators argued over the best way to consume pills. Some said grinding them up and adding them into an elixir was the only true path; others swore that you had to swallow the pill without letting it touch your tongue in fear that you might taint the composition.

A few cults preached that consumption destroyed cultivation and was a shortcut to damnation—these were few and far between and were mainly composed of brawny physical cultivators. Most of the powerful cults invested heavily in pills and elixirs. Power was the only path; all that mattered was how far one could go.

I tended to favor the logic of Bettsy, "if you have a pill, swallow it; if you have tea, drink." We rarely had either, and on most occasions, we would sip on hot water and reminisce on the day and how much we disdained our customers.

I missed Bettsy. Outside the loop, it had only been a couple of weeks since I last saw her, and I wondered how she managed both of our businesses. I will return home in one of these loops, I decided, if only to see her and let her burn down my shop, hers would burn down right after.

In another life, I'd take her to my home island where she dreamed about living and help her settle down and begin a new adventure. She'd be uncomfortable with the idea at first. But she'd warm up to it in hours and then practically beg me to take her to the land of endless seas.

It didn't matter. Three words shattered my passing thoughts, bringing me back into the realm of realism. It was a hard pill to swallow, and I doubted I'd be able to.

I swished water in a cup, mixing the powder into a potent elixir, and raised my glass to the witch who taught me everything I knew about brewing—the same witch that led Lana into my shop. In a smooth motion, I tilted my head back and drank the thick liquid in one hard swallow. My core ignited like the bonfire beside me.