Apocalypse Architect: A Tower Defense LitRPG

Jax never expected to be snatched off the road in broad daylight.

As they marched him toward the settlement, his mind raced, fixation locking onto the Sentry Tower back at the base. He hadn’t had time to replenish the Energy Shards. If he didn’t make it back before nightfall, the fortress would be defenseless against the nocturnal swarm.

While Jax calculated escape routes, Barnaby walked beside him, clutching the white Styrofoam cooler to his chest, his face a mask of panic and confusion.

Halfway to the outpost, Jax stopped dead in his tracks.

“Hold on,” Jax said, his voice steady. “My brother here hasn’t done anything. If you’re investigating, investigate me. Let him go home.”

Officer Walker paused, surprised by the request. He glanced at Barnaby, who was grinning foolishly at a butterfly fluttering nearby. Walker scoffed. He had no interest in interrogating a simpleton.

“Fine,” Walker muttered. “The big idiot can go. But you’re coming with me. And don’t try anything stupid.”

Walker waved a dismissive hand, but before Barnaby could move, the Iron Spear Syndicate thugs stepped in.

They formed a wall of muscle and malice, blocking Barnaby’s path. One of the younger thugs, a sneer plastered across his face, reached out and slapped Barnaby’s cheek disrespectfully.

“Not so fast. What’s in the box, big guy? Open it up. Let us see.”

Barnaby recoiled. They wanted his ice cream. His face darkened, and he shuffled behind Jax, using his brother as a human shield.

The thugs roared with laughter. To them, teasing a giant with the mind of a child was the height of entertainment.

“Look at him hide! Hey, retard! Hand over the box, or your brother gets a beating.”

Barnaby flinched at the threat. He peeked over Jax’s shoulder, his voice trembling. “You… you can’t hit my brother! Hit me instead!”

Despite the brave words, his grip on the cooler tightened. He couldn’t bear to let it go.

Jax sighed, feeling a headache building behind his eyes. He reached back and squeezed Barnaby’s shoulder.

“It’s okay, Barney. Give it to them. I’ll buy you a mountain of ice cream when we get back. Just go back to the fortress and load the crystal like I showed you. Can you do that?”

Barnaby nodded vigorously, then froze. He shook his head just as hard. “No! Brother, I’m waiting for you. I… I’m scared to go alone.”

Jax cursed silently. He couldn’t blame him. The wasteland was crawling with scavengers who would eat someone like Barnaby alive. Sending him back alone was a risk, but keeping him here was dangerous too.

“Alright,” Jax decided. “You stick with me. But open the box. Eat the ice cream. All of it. Right now.”

Barnaby’s eyes went wide. “All ten?”

“Every single bite.”

A massive grin split Barnaby’s face. He popped the lid of the cooler.

The Iron Spear thugs craned their necks. When they saw the half-melted treats inside, their greed spiked.

“Holy shit. It’s actually ice cream,” one thug exclaimed, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Who carries ice cream in this heat? Hand it over!”

The thug lunged, his dirty hand reaching for the cooler.

He never touched it.

Jax moved. It was a blur of motion, a sudden explosion of kinetic energy. He side-stepped and drove a brutal front kick into the thug’s sternum.

CRACK!

The thug left his feet. He flew backward as if yanked by a cable, sailing over ten meters before crashing into the dust.

He curled into a ball, clutching his chest and retching blood. Terror replaced the arrogance in his eyes.

“You…” he wheezed, blood bubbling on his lips. “You dare fight back? Boys! Get him!”

The other thugs drew their weapons—clubs, pipes, and rusted metal bars.

“Stop!” Officer Walker barked, stepping between them. “Are you deaf? I said stand down! This is an official investigation. You don’t touch him until we get to The Guild Hub. Do you have no respect for my authority?”

The thugs paused, looking at Walker like he was a particularly annoying insect.

“Respect?” The lead thug spat on the ground near Walker’s boots. “What are you? You’re nothing. Get lost, Walker. This guy attacked us. He’s the killer. I say we execute him right here!”

“Yeah! We’ve got a witness! Tie him up and let us beat the truth out of him!”

“And grab the retard, too! He needs to learn who runs this turf!”

The mob surged forward.

Jax dropped into a combat stance. His Constitution was seventy-three—superhuman by wasteland standards—but he was unarmed and outnumbered eight to one.

Two fists against sixteen hands, he thought grimly. And three of them have knives.

He clocked the glint of steel. Three thugs held twenty-centimeter daggers, positioning themselves in a triangle formation to flank him. A single stab wound out here meant infection, sepsis, and a slow, agonizing death.

Walker watched the situation spiral out of control. His face paled. He realized with sinking dread that he had absolutely no control over these men. He had spent years bootlicking, bowing and scraping to get his position at The Guild Hub, and now he was about to lose it all in a street brawl.

If he stayed, he’d be caught in the crossfire. If he intervened, Iron Spear would crush him.

Walker made a choice. He turned and ran, sprinting toward The Guild Hub like his life depended on it.

Jax ignored the fleeing coward. He was focused on the three knife-wielders.

Suddenly, a rush of air warned him of an attack from behind.

Jax didn’t turn. He simply lashed out with a vicious mule kick.

THUD.

His heel connected squarely with the sneaker’s chest. The force was devastating. Ribs shattered with a sickening crunch. The attacker was dead before he hit the ground, blood spraying from his mouth in a fine mist.

The brutality of the blow made the others hesitate for a split second, but bloodlust took over. They swarmed.

“Barney! Drop the box and fight!” Jax roared.

Barnaby looked at the melting ice cream with profound sadness, then looked at the thugs who wanted to hurt his brother. His sadness turned to rage.

Letting out a primal roar, Barnaby charged. He flailed his massive arms in wild, clumsy haymakers—”Turtle Fists”—but behind those clumsy strikes was the strength of a battering ram. He plowed into the group, sowing chaos.

Jax seized the opening. He dropped to a crouch, grabbing a handful of loose sand and gravel. As three thugs lunged at him, he whipped his hand forward.

“Gah! My eyes!”

Blinded and cursing, the trio stumbled. Jax swept his leg in a low, powerful arc.

Thump-thump-thump.

The three men hit the dirt hard.

But there were too many of them. A shadow loomed over Jax.

WHACK!

A heavy wooden club slammed into Jax’s back. Pain exploded along his spine, stealing the breath from his lungs. He stumbled forward, gritting his teeth against the agony.

He spun around. A young thug in his twenties was raising the club for a follow-up strike, aiming directly for Jax’s skull.

There was no time to dodge. No time to block.

Jax’s eyes went cold. He reached into his storage space.

Metal. Cold steel. The trigger.

The Rifle materialized in his hands.

At point-blank range, he didn’t need to aim. He just squeezed.

BANG!

The gunshot was deafening, a thunderclap that silenced the brawl instantly.

The young thug with the club froze. He looked down at his chest, where a hole the size of a fist had suddenly appeared. His expression was one of pure shock. He looked at Jax, opened his mouth to speak, and then collapsed backward, dead.

Jax stood over the body, the smoking rifle in his hands.

He cursed inwardly. Well, that tears it.

This gun was the stolen evidence they had accused him of taking. Now, he had not only revealed it in front of witnesses, but he had also used it to kill a man in broad daylight.

It was the classic “yellow mud in the pants” scenario—even if it wasn’t shit, it looked like shit. There was no explaining this away. He was caught red-handed with the murder weapon, standing over a fresh corpse.

The surviving thugs stared at the rifle, their eyes wide with fear and vindication.

“He’s got the gun!” one screamed, scrambling backward. “He killed him! He’s the murderer! Go get the guards! Report it!”