Fractured Earth: An Apocalyptic LitRPG (Viceroy’s Pride Book 3)
Fractured Earth: Chapter 1

Lieutenant Colonel Hans Bowman crumpled the report in his hand in disgust and threw it to the ground. He snorted.

He should probably stop calling himself a Lieutenant Colonel while he was at it. The army that granted him that rank had already disintegrated into a collection of isolated warlords, ruling over disconnected chunks of what had once been the United States. Sure, some of them still worked for the local civil authorities, but it took everything in him to not sneer at their foolish weakness.

Politicians were what led humanity to the brink of destruction. They argued and bickered amongst each other, trying to score petty political points while they let problems linger and grow. The country was left to run on autopilot for decades at a time, a couple of yearly speeches during the elections hardly a substitute for leadership.

Distrust and dissatisfaction reached the point where you could shake the entire system with a puff of fresh air. The Coalition for Human Transcendence was much more than a stiff breeze; they were a hurricane.

In the moment of humanity’s greatest triumph, after it finally fought off an extraterrestrial invasion, they swooped in and tried to seize power. The coalition approached him as soon as his task force came back from Brazil.

Their pitch was attractive. Highlight the architects of humanity’s victory and install them as political leaders to clear away the detritus and litter of a past age and forge a glorious new future for the entire planet. As one of the more prominent figures that would have been granted political power in this new order, Hans stood to benefit immeasurably.

The only problem was the people giving the pitch. Oil, telecommunication, and information technology executives had to be convinced, along with a couple fossils who literally did nothing but horde and trade vast quantities of stock. The same figures who exerted influence on the previous government would expect to control him from behind the scenes, too.

Hans knew exactly what the future they were seeking to create would look like. It would be the same as before except with new masters and without even the veneer of paying attention to the common man.

Not that he cared about what the common man thought. He did once, but learning magic changed that. Compared to collecting mana, day-to-day concerns about political parties and divisions paled to a shadow of its former importance.

Honestly? Hans couldn’t care less about whining complaints of food shortages and bandits springing up. In Brazil, he killed honest-to-god monsters. As part of a team, they’d brought down at least two elves. Those moments, covered in hot blood with his breath coming in fast frantic strokes as mana washed over him, put everything into perspective.

Compared to those moments, food tasted like ash and sex lost all meaning. Some of his men tried to warn him that it was addictive, that the sensation clouded his reasoning. Even if that was true, he could feel the power thrumming through him, letting him perform superhuman feats.

He knew better than to listen to the doubters or overcomplicate things. There was no question in his mind. The coalition was lying through their collective teeth when they promised a utopia free from “the corruption of the past.”

There wasn’t anything noble or well-meaning about their goals. The coalition wanted to rule the world, and they wanted to make him a cog in their machine. Instead, they would rather twist him to their will through lies, threats, and blackmail.

At least Hans could admit the truth of the matter to himself.

He wanted power, naked and white hot. There wasn’t any need to wrap it in pretty words. There wasn’t any need. Might was an end to itself.

Bowman walked outside the penthouse suite he had appropriated for himself into the thick, humid Florida night. The bodies of three defectors littered the balcony, discarded and useless. He had already taken their mana last night,leaving nothing but their useless husks of meat.

In the middle of the bodies stood a wooden frame bearing the only survivor amongst the defectors draped across it. His hands and feet were lashed to the wooden planks by blood-soaked razor wire, every movement no matter how slight eliciting another groan of pain from the man. Hans’ heartbeat accelerated as he approached the prisoner. Even from here, he could almost taste the mana flowing through the man’s veins.

He bit his lip, trying to quell his urge to simply kill the man and take his mana. He hadn’t been able to restrain himself when his guards brought the man’s companions to him, but Bowman needed answers from someone.

With the previous round of prisoners, he hadn’t even asked them questions, instead tearing them apart and reveling in the rush of mana that the act of destruction brought him. Ultimately, it was a mistake, but Hans was under a lot of stress. It was understandable if he periodically needed an outlet, given how many things were going wrong.

“Private William Ritter.” Bowman tried unsuccessfully to steady his breathing as he approached the bound man. “You’ve been caught trying to desert in the face of the enemy. I’m sure you know the price for your actions?”

“Desertion?” The soldier chuckled, wincing as the movement reopened the wounds on his wrists. “That’s what you’re going with? When our government needed our help, you decided to set yourself up as the tinpot dictator of Florida. Any JAG officer worth their salt would blanch at the things you’ve ordered us to do in the name of ‘maintaining martial law and order.’ You forced us to crucify children, Bowman!”

“They were looters, Ritter!” Bowman screamed, slamming his fist into the frame. The dull pain from the blow barely registered as he raged on. “The animals of this state simply can’t understand the order I’m trying to provide for them. Outside our boundaries, chaos reigns. The Louisiana bayou is swarming with frog aliens, and warlords rip apart the very heart of this country for a couple precious shards of lucre. I don’t care how old the malcontents are; if they rebel, they must take accountability for their actions.”

“We just wanted to go home to our families, Bowman,” Ritter spat out. “The war was over, and the government was collapsing. I have a wife and a son. I can’t trust the local police to keep them safe; they needed me home. I didn’t sign up to help you live out your delusions of grandeur.”

“Your family needed you?” Bowman grabbed the slumping man by his throat, pulling him close. Ritter gasped as the razor wire dug into his wrists. “Your oaths of service needed you, Ritter. Your duty needed you. Now, tell me: who convinced you to defect? Who in my camp is working with the enemy?”

“What?” Ritter asked, incredulous. “No one told us to run away from base. We all just saw the news. The new aliens are landing everywhere, and all of the warlords are too busy fighting each other to keep our families safe. Hell, my family isn’t even in your territory. The next wave of dissenters you order me to string up might include my son.”

“I will not listen to your lies, Ritter,” Hans drew the knife from his belt, stabbing it through his captive’s forearm. “Tell me who convinced you to defect, and I will make this quick. If you don’t cooperate, I’ll take my time and enjoy myself, like I did with your friends. The choice is yours.”

“Respectfully,” William Ritter squared himself up, looking Hans in the eyes. “Get fucked, Colonel. Even if I had help, I wouldn’t rat them out to you. You’re a stain on our uniform, and my biggest regret right now is that I won’t live to see someone cut that smirk off of your face.”

The knife in Ritter’s forearm vibrated, as if rapped with a tuning fork. Mana flared from the bound man. Bowman’s eyes flicked to it just in time to see it jerk out of the prisoner’s arm in a fountain of blood. He threw himself to the side, and that was all that saved his life. The blade seemed to cut an arc through the air in slow motion, slicing deeply into Hans’ cheek. He staggered back a step or two, eyes wide as he slapped his hand to the still bleeding gash.

“Damn,” Ritter sighed. “It was worth a shot. How far gone are you, Colonel, that you’d give a knife to a metal mage? You just couldn’t stop yourself when you thought about torturing me. You’re making mistakes, Bowman. A lot of them.”

Hans shrieked in rage, pulling out his handgun and emptying it into Ritter’s immobile form. Shot after shot slammed into the prisoner, rocking him against the wooden frame. Then, the hammer clicked on an empty chamber. Bowman looked at the gun blankly for a second, his ears ringing, as he finally realized that the gun’s slide was locked open. He set it down on a glass table and stepped toward Ritter.

The wave of mana hit him like a fluffy pink cloud, wrapping him in its embrace. Jolts of lightning flowed down his spine, causing Bowman’s entire body to spasm with pleasure. His breath came in short, sharp gasps. Hans sank to one knee, the cool cement of the rooftop grounding him as the rest of his world whirled and spun. He closed his eyes, sinking into the gauzy cotton candy arms of the mana.

All too soon, the sensations came to a stop. Bowman shivered despite the humid heat of the night. Ritter’s body hung limply from the wooden frame, silent and unable to answer any questions. Hans sighed, picking up his handgun from the table. He ejected its magazine and replaced it with a fresh one before racking a round. Traitors and enemies surrounded him, and it was better to be safe than sorry.

He stalked back into his penthouse, pausing for a brief moment to admire the artwork that its previous owners had selected. It was a shame that they wouldn’t turn over their residence to him peacefully.

He had never been a violent man, but there was something about a mundane human defying him that just angered him. Their deaths, just like those of so many others that had followed them, were unfortunate. If only they’d stopped aggravating him, driving him to extremes–

The elevator to his penthouse opened with a chime. Bowman stepped inside and pressed the button for the ground floor. When the coup failed and the government collapsed, he had quickly taken over Miami. Some of the local forces resisted, but an efficient and brutal application of magic quickly brought them into line. Now the entire state of Florida was in the hands of his Reformed Army of America.

The door opened, and Hans stepped out to fearful salutes from the handful of soldiers working in the building’s ground floor. Many, like Ritter, doubted the need for the RAA. Bowman knew they were wrong. Democracy and leniency were chinks in the armor humanity needed to don if they were going to weather this storm.

Already, the amphibious Orakh were landing all over a world torn by civil strife as power-hungry forces fought over the trappings of power. With no one to order them, half of the world’s army units refused to move, while the other half attacked haphazardly, without any planning or organization. In America, only the RAA was able to successfully hold back the alien landing in the bayou.

For now. Bowman ran a hand through his thinning hair. It seemed like every day there were more of the greyish-green brutes. Troops were beginning to run low on munitions, and without a centralized government to purchase more, eventually the RAA was going to end up using their empty rifles as clubs. Already, they were raiding stockpiles and private homes to bolster their armories.

Of course, the citizens complained when the RAA seized their guns. They even tried to start a pro-second-amendment protest in downtown Miami. He had put a stop to that rather quickly. A handful of magically enhanced special forces operatives hanging the protest’s leaders from light poles took the vinegar out of the rest of the protestors.

He didn’t have any time for them. The RAA operated recruitment centers all across Florida, calling on patriots to volunteer against the alien menace. Anyone who sat around at home, letting firearms and ammunition go to waste in the face of such a threat, was useless. Hell, half of them weren’t even working. With the alien invasion and the fracturing of the government, most companies shut their doors. Even those that tried to stay open were plagued by uncertain logistics. No one really knew where or when goods would arrive, and there was growing confusion as to what currency could be used to pay for it.

America needed to be made whole again, and this time without the imperfections that marred the first attempt. The nation would pass through a crucible, burning out its imperfections and corruption until it could truly stand on its own once more. Until then, the common citizenry couldn’t be trusted with something as weighty as governance. The last thirty years of politicians proved that.

Still, for Bowman’s dream to come to fruition, he would need to beat back the Orakh. He had one of the strongest armies on Earth, but he didn’t have the magic or expertise to fully defeat them and seize power. As distasteful as it was, he would need to seek help.

He stepped into the ground floor conference room, a forced smile on his face.

“Merella Amberell,” he intoned, nodding at the elf lounging in an overstuffed chair. “I’ve heard so much about you. It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”