Aura Breaker [LitRPG Cultivation]

[certher]

I reach pushup eighty and drop flat. Sweat splashes on rough cement. Cedric walks by my bars, the light above him buzzing.

"Hey, Charles. Still want a book? Something to pass the time?" He waves an old paperback.

I sit on my knees. "Pass the time? That is my whole life now. Slide it in, Cedric."

The hatch clanks. The book is Biological Psychology. The pages are yellow and smell like dust, but to me it is fresh air. I breathe in the smell and let the words slow my heart: stress, fear, habits. What once was homework is now survival.

After a few pages my pulse is calm. I hide the book under my bunk and listen. One drip near the showers. The elevator motor above. A soft prayer in B Block. Sound tells me more than sight here.

Feet apart, I start squats. My legs burn and my mind drifts back to Harvard and later to the CIA office in Sacramento. Back then books like this were required. If I could not explain stress by Friday, my badge froze on Monday. I never thought those lessons would keep me sane behind bars.

Five years locked up. I have seen loud men break, quiet men fade, and tough men scream. To stay whole, I keep my mind busy. I replay old cases, rebuild talks, ask new questions. If my brain keeps working, the darkness stays out.

At ten in the morning the doors click open. Yard time. Summer twenty thirty, central California. The sun feels like fire. We march outside, orange uniforms bright on the blacktop. I tilt my head back and drink the light.

Near the fence I sit cross legged. A faint smell of eucalyptus drifts over the walls. Footsteps stop beside me. Damian lowers a flat box, draws a chessboard with pencil, and sets bottle caps and soap chips as pieces.

"Ready to lose your lunch break?"

I laugh. "You have not taken a pawn since spring. Your move." I push a cap forward. Chess is travel for men without tickets.

Damian moves a soap bishop. "Radio says the Valley Siren mailed another card. Four girls gone."

I slide a pawn. "He is getting bolder. Cards mean he feels power. The time between grabs is shorter. He will keep going until someone stops him."

Damian squints at the sky, thinking hard. "You build his profile from a yard bench?"

A smile spreads across my face as I move another pawn. "Help me out. Which night does he strike?"

"Tuesday. Every Tuesday night."

"Good. And what sign does he leave?"

"Cops swear they can't find a single trace, not even a fingerprint."

I push a knight across the carton. "They're hunting the wrong thing. A real sign isn't a fingerprint or a shoe mark. It's a message the killer wants the world to read."

Damian's eyes narrow. "You mean the postcards?"

"Exactly. He needs people to notice. It's the crack in the armor. Serial hunters crave recognition, but there's more to it than that." I move a pawn to support the knight. "The sign is also control. It's ritual. Some of them have OCD traits, compulsive loops they wrap around each kill. The sign is how they claim ownership of the event and replay it in their mind. That repetition keeps the thrill alive. If police want to catch him, they have to treat the sign like a window into his pattern. Not just what he does, but why he has to do it."

Damian studies the board, lips pressed tight, then nudges his rook forward.

I don't rush. I slide my queen and lock the outcome. Checkmate in two.

He leans back with a quiet grunt and nods, as if he expects it.

We clean the board, bottle caps clinking as they drop into the carton. When the buzzer shrieks, we both rise without a word.



We join the line heading to dinner. The hallway smells like bleach and old sweat. Through a tiny window the sky is bright blue. I wish I could feel that air on my face.

I'm thirty‑four and serving life. The math says I'll die in here, but that doesn't scare me. My only regret is simple: I left some of them breathing. If these walls ever fall, I'll spend every day hunting the people who killed my family until the last name is crossed off.



The server slops gray stew onto my tray, adds a lump of rice and a bread square hard as drywall. Calories, nothing more. I turn, scanning for empty space near the back wall.



Reggie steps into my path. Sweat darkens his collar, tattoos curling up his throat like wire. His shoulder hits mine. The tray launches, clanging on tile. Gray stew explodes across the floor and soaks my boots.

"The fuck, man?" I snap, wiping broth off my pants.

Reggie grins, eyes bright with spite. "Thought your family taught you better manners, Harvard. Oh, wait. Forgot they're dead."

The word dead punches open an old door: copper fills my nostrils, that thick, hot-metal stench coating the hallway where I found them.



My vision narrows until there's only his face. The lights, the noise, the cafeteria stink, all of it falls away. Three seconds to dismantle him. Left elbow to the nose. That breaks sight and shatters orientation. Most men don't fight well when they can't see. Open palm to the throat. Not a showy hit, but a mean one. It stuns the vagus nerve, collapses the larynx, sends the brain into panic mode. The body thinks it's dying. Third move, right fist into the orbital bone. Hard enough to crack the socket and shut one eye for good. Knee to the inner thigh, just above the knee joint. Deep tissue damage, dead leg, his stance drops. Final strike, hammer fist to the temple. Disrupts balance, concussive if clean. That's the structure. Now I move.

Elbow first. I feel the bridge fold like wet cardboard. Blood jets. His hands go up too slow. My palm hits his throat and he gags. Not just from shock, but because his windpipe spasms shut. He chokes. Instinct makes him stumble, right where I want him. I twist and put my whole shoulder behind the punch. His cheek caves. The eye swells instantly. He starts to fall. I grab his collar and ride him down, pin his chest with my knee. Then I start hammering. Knuckles to bone, again and again, until his face changes shape.

Blood runs down my arm. My wrist throbs. I don't stop.

He makes a noise. Wet. Half a gurgle. It doesn't matter. I keep hitting until nothing moves beneath me.

The first baton hits my ribs. It feels like someone swung a steel bat into my side and lit a fire under the bone. The second lands across my spine. My knees buckle. Everything inside me folds up. They drag me across the tiles, arms half-dead, boots grinding into the floor. In a brief twist of my neck I catch the body: blood spreads in a glossy fan, jaw cracked wide, one eye already gone, no twitch left in him. I smile.

"My family is dead, you say? Well, so are you, you stupid fuck."



They throw me in hard. My shoulder hits first, then the door slams behind me. Keys rattle. Cedric's voice follows, somewhere behind the bars. "You know that's it for the books, right? You're off the warden's list." I hear him, but I don't care.

I lie on my back and stare at the wall, breathing slow. My ribs hurt, but nothing feels broken. Just bruises. I stand, pull the blanket off my bunk, and reach under for the book Cedric gave me. I try to read, but the words won't stay. My head keeps drifting back to what happened.

I used to think I had it handled, that I was past it. I'm not. They're still there, under everything. My trigger. Always will be.

A scream tears through the block. I sit up, but before I can move, the wall explodes. Concrete splits open like paper. The ceiling cracks. Dust fills my throat. The floor buckles under me. Everything around me is falling apart at once. I hear metal twist. Pipes burst. Another scream. I get to my feet, but it is already too late. The side of the building gives out. Cold wind hits my face, and through the broken wall, I see the world ripping open.



"What the fuck is this?" I say out loud, stepping toward the opening.

The ground outside is moving like water. Big chunks of land crack off and drop straight down. Whole buildings disappear as if they've never been there. On the far side, forest starts growing where nothing existed moments ago. Trees rise out of dirt that didn't exist five seconds ago. It looks like the world is being torn up and put back together at the same time. I want to focus on the ground, on the chaos, but a screen pops up right in front of my eyes. Bright white, clear letters:

Welcome, candidate. Planet 399D has been selected for System Trial. Sync initializing.

I read only the first line before something slams into the side of my head.

Everything goes black.

 

[certher]

I wake face down on a slab of broken concrete. My head pounds like someone is beating a drum inside my skull. Dust coats my tongue, blood drips from my ear, and every breath scrapes my throat raw. I groan and press my palms against the stone but my arms shake so hard I almost collapse. The world blurs until I count slowly to ten. On the eleventh breath the spinning slows. I push again, haul myself into a sitting position, and blink sweat from my eyes. That is when I notice the bright square floating in front of me.



The square glows as white as a welding flash. In the center simple letters hang, steady and bold: Initialization complete. I read the words out loud. The moment the last syllable leaves my mouth the square fades. Nothing else happens. No sound, no shock, just hot air heavy with moisture. I finally look past the place where the screen hovered. The prison corridor is split open to bright sky. Ferns burst through cracked floor plates, vines coil around twisted bars, and beyond the gap a green jungle stretches in every direction.



I haul myself upright and run a quick check. The floor tilts and bodies lie everywhere. Hunting for any sound of life, I step out of the cell and move along the broken walkway. Five bodies in ten steps. No knife cuts, only flesh ripped wide open. The smell is metal mixed with rot. This was no riot. At the end of the row Cedric sprawls on his back, eyes going dull, chest slashed by four deep grooves as wide as my hand. No person makes wounds like that.



I look at Cedric one last time. He was the only guard who treated us fair, always talking about his wife and two kids. Now he is never going home. I grab his baton and stick it through my belt. Ruined bars and cracked stone surround me, but I spot a hole where the wall broke. I need to get out and see what happened. Something shredded the prison, flashed a weird screen, and called it a Trial. If Earth is part of some game, I have to learn the rules fast.



I crawl through the cracked wall and drop onto warm grass. Each step sinks a little, damp under my feet. I shove vines aside and move clear of the rubble. A bush shivers ahead. A chunky reptile-boar creature waddles out, skin mottled green and black, claws dripping clear slime that eats the grass. A faint box floats above its snout: Swamp Leech Gator - Level 1. The words fade, but the beast keeps staring. I lift Cedric's baton, knees bent, heart thumping. First lesson of this Trial starts now.



The beast springs. I swing the baton across its snout. Metal cracks hide, but the impact numbs my hand. Claws rake my ribs and rip the prison shirt wide. Hot pain spikes through my side. I grunt, stumble, then plant my feet. The creature wheels around, jaws open for another bite. I jab forward to block, but the baton slides off slick teeth. A claw hooks my arm, tearing skin and spattering red across the grass. My grip nearly fails.

Anger steadies me. While it shakes off the first hit, I dart in, jam the baton deep into its eye. Cartilage pops under the thrust. The monster thrashes, head jerking. I keep pressure, shove harder until the tip bursts through soft brain. The body shudders and drops. A thin message blinks in front of me:

[System Notification]

Kill confirmed – Swamp Leech Gator.

Reward: +2 Shards.



I crouch beside the body, still breathing hard, baton loose in my fingers. I reach for one of its claws, but before I touch it, the corpse starts to break apart. Skin, muscle, bone. Everything crumbles into shards of pale light. They hover for half a second, then shoot straight into my chest. I flinch, but there's no pain. Just a tight pressure behind my ribs.

Then I see it.

A thin bar appears on the left side of my vision.

EXP

It starts to fill. Slowly, but steady.

So that's what the Level meant. The System tracks kills. Tracks me.

I stare at it for a few seconds, thinking. If this really works like some kind of MMO, maybe there's more. Maybe I can trigger something else.

"Profile," I say out loud.

Nothing.

I try again. "Status."

A screen pops up floating in front of me.

[System Notification]

Name: Charles Mercer

Level: 1

Class: N/A

Titles: Sealed Case

Shards: 2

Stats:

Vitality: 1.0

Strength: 1.0

Dexterity: 1.0

Luck: 1.0

I stare at the numbers, trying to make sense of them. One point in everything. No class, no skills, no hints. Just a name, a title, and something called Shards. My eyes linger on that last one. Two Shards. That's what I got for killing that thing. Not meat, not hide, not even bones. Just… points. Currency, maybe? Or fuel?

"Inventory," I say, but nothing comes up. "Map?" Still nothing. Whatever this system is, it's not going to hand me answers. Maybe it unlocks more later. Maybe I'm just a bug in its code.

I wipe sweat from my forehead, then wince. My side's still bleeding. The ragged edge of my shirt is soaked and sticky, but I'm out of clean cloth. I sit on a warm rock and breathe slow. The jungle around me clicks and chirps. Everything's alive. The kind of alive that hunts. If that lizard-thing was level one, I don't want to meet level five. Not like this.

I focus back on the screen. "Titles," I say.

The words shift.

[Titles]

Sealed Case – No one knows your full story. Not even the System.

Description: This title marks you as a narrative irregularity. Certain mechanics may behave unpredictably around you.

I stare at the words a second longer. "Narrative irregularity." That's one way to put it.

I'm done sitting.

I head downhill, moving between twisted trees and roots the size of my thighs. This place isn't Earth. Not the one I knew. It's hotter, denser, too green. Half the plants look like they want to grab something.

Ferns open as I pass. Somewhere behind me, something howls.

A flicker appears in the air ahead. White and transparent, like static in midair. A rectangle. Same size as the Status screen, but thinner. I take a slow step toward it.

It pulses.

[System Alert]

Zone Sync in progress.

Biome: Jungle Lowlands

Status: Unstable

Warning: Trial balance fluctuating. Expect abnormal encounters.

The screen snaps away.



I push forward, parting vines with the baton. Every leaf glistens, every root tries to trip me. A twig cracks to my right. I stop, heart ticking loud. Nothing.

I take one more step. Something explodes from the brush, a lizard the size of a terrier with mantis claws clicking. It moves too fast. Before I swing, it hooks my thigh. Fire shoots down to my knee. I curse, swing the baton, catch its ribs, feel bone give.

The thing flips, lands, surges in again. I jam the baton straight into its mouth. Crunch. It shivers, legs kick, then falls still.

[System Notification]

Kill confirmed - Razorback Skitter

Reward: +1 Shard

Blood spills through the rip in my pants. A fresh alert flares.

[System Alert]

Health below 50%.

I tear cloth from my sleeve, knot it above the wound, and pull until the flow slows. Head swims. The dead skitter crumbles into shards of light that dart into me.

A new screen slams into place before I even finish knotting the bandage. White letters cut through the green blur of the jungle.

[System Notification]

Level Up!

Current Level: 2

All core stats increased by 0.5

Unused Attribute Points: 1

Warmth rolls out from my chest the moment the screen fades. It spreads through my arms, into my ribs, and down the length of my hurt leg. The raw fire at the slash quiets to a steady throb. I peel back the bandage in disbelief. Fresh skin pulls tight where the gash was open seconds ago. The cut is still red, but the meat has closed and the bleeding has almost stopped.

I flex my knee. It answers without the stabbing jolt from before. The System didn't just hand me numbers; it poured them straight into muscle and bone. Level two feels like stepping out of a cast you never knew you wore.

"Not bad,"

[System Notification]

Trial code: 399D.

Dungeons to be cleared: 118 467.

World goal: clear all dungeons, unlock the Superdungeon at the Central Island, survive.

The text holds for a single heartbeat, then melts into the jungle glare.

New ink settles in the edge of my sight, small and steady.

Quest

Clear all dungeons

Progress: 0%



Zero. A fat round nothing. I let the number sit in my head for a breath, then shrug it off. One dungeon at a time. Same rule as chess in the yard. Win the pawn first.

"Status."

The panel snaps up. Each stat ticks at one point five and wears a tiny blue plus.

Vitality 1.5 +

Strength 1.5 +

Dexterity 1.5 +

Luck 1.5 +

One free point blinks at the bottom. I think the word Strength. The plus beside it flashes and fades.

[System Update]

Strength raised to 2.5

Heat slides through my shoulders. The baton feels lighter, swing faster. Good.

The jungle falls quiet, like someone pressed mute. Leaves ahead quiver. A trunk splits as something huge shoves through. First I see claws, each the length of my forearm. Then fur plastered with swamp muck. A skull broad as a desk pushes past vines. Text burns above it in angry red.

Bogroot Grizzly

Level 5

It snorts, sucking air, eyes fixed on the blood drying down my leg. Every muscle under that hide flexes like knotted rope.

I roll my grip on the baton, set my feet, and pull one long breath. The beast lowers its head and starts to charge.

 

[G1 Convoy]

So far, this is looking pretty good and I hope you will continue it. TFTC.