Heroes of Darkness: A Dark Dungeon Realm LitRPG Omnibus Collection

by Wolfe Locke

  Seraph laughed at that, "Sadie, you know I've never been the hero of this story. My role has always been something else altogether." He stopped laughing when he saw her brow furrow in frustration and obvious irritation and quickly changed the subject.

  "I've been working on a new monster," Seraph explained as he walked over to his desk and handed her a drawing he had been working on.

  She looked at it with a curious expression on her face. "What is this supposed to be, and what's the point of it? It just looks like a red jellyfish?" she asked, wanting an explanation.

  "I'm calling it an Eldrenaust. I'm going to introduce it to the tutorial, it splits and explodes upon taking physical damage, I think if we introduce that mechanic earlier when we can still revive people it'll mean fewer casualties in the war against Aeon, and I think something like this that's alien, but still killable, will help them adjust better," Seraph explained with an excitement that was uncommon for him.

  "I see, and tell me, Seraph, have you made any adjustments besides to the office door here for your palace? You know the players are supposed to clear it and defeat you to move on to the next floor," Sadie asked with a teasing tone.

  Seraph looked away, knowing he had been negligent in that regard. He had never hesitated to kill before, but this would be different, his life wasn't on the line and the future of the world wasn't at stake, the tables had turned in that regard. "I haven't yet. I've got a few ideas I'd like to test out but it’s kind of a difficult problem to solve, do I ensure what I offer is difficult enough that the players grow from the experience, while at the same time keeping as many of them alive as possible to pass on to the next floor?"

  Sadie shook her head impatiently as she grabbed him and started to pull. "That's a problem for later, we've got to get going if you intend to greet each new cohort in person."

  Seraph nodded as he held out both of his arms and magically changed into his daytime attire, a business suit, and a cap to meet with the new players. If it helped keep people alive, Seraph had no complaints, as far as second chances go, this new life and the opportunities it presented made all the hardship and sacrifice worth it.

  "Alright," Seraph said as he tore himself away from the window and closed his notebook. "Let's get going." And with a clap of his hands, he disappeared in a flash of light, reappearing in the center of a grand stadium behind a podium as all the new refugees from the surface looked down on him from their seats in the bleachers, all-new adventurers.

  “Greetings, some of you have come from afar, and some of you from much closer. Listen to my words and heed them well. I am Seraph, the Demon Prince of Tyranny, ruler of the first floor of the Dungeon, and Lord Overseer of what you will come to know as Hometown. In this place, I am one of 7 obstacles you must overcome before trying to ascend to the final floor. It will not be easy. This starts the journey of a lifetime. Many have started from the same position you are in now, and many have failed. Success is not guaranteed, neither is power or strength. I have arranged for you all to have a small introduction to life in the dungeon. This room will soon fill with monsters of my own creation, to whoever kills the most, I promise you one epic tier cosmetic, to everyone else who survives, a small gift of Sol. Begin!"

  Seraph dropped the mic and faded away, teleporting back to his office to watch from afar how the new adventurers were doing, and one out of all of them caught his attention, the first human to catch his attention. A young boy really, not much older than he had been with long scruffy hair and an ill-fitting jacket had a score of 0, even as the others in his group racked up kills. Not because he was unable, not because he was fearful; as best as Seraph could tell the boy was guiding the battle with the use of support-type abilities. It has been a long time since I've seen somebody like that. Selflessness. He could be a hero.

  "Sadie," Seraph called out curiously, wanting to know more, and wanting to make sure they were on the same page. "That boy there, what's his name?"

  Sadie picked up the clipboard with all of the registration forms and flipped through them. "John Ruthiare. His question and answer session showed him to have an attitude geared towards being a supporter. He was granted the Magic Shield ability and the Inner Fire ability."

  Ah, thought Seraph. A true hero. I hope he survives the changes I’ll bring to the dungeon.

  The Skeletal Champion

  A Dark Dungeon Realm LitRPG

  By Wolfe Locke

  Prologue: A Meeting in Pandemonium

  In a room constructed of blackest obsidian, Eldritch fire burned in torches gleaming off the walls as the Shadow Council convened in the heart of Pandemonium. Four of their members waited on the return of a fifth.

  Footsteps echoed down the hall as Mr. Black, the long awaited fifth member, entered and took his seat at the table before announcing tiredly, "It is done. Per our last discussion, Helion has forfeited his seat and his title. A suitable replacement is being groomed as we speak to steal his essence and replace him as the master of Afterlife. What has been done cannot be undone."

  At the head of the table, Mr. Light nodded in approval. "No, it cannot, but that is our way. Let us turn towards the first order of business, and then we will circle back to that. I would like to introduce Amarath's chosen, the vessel who has inherited his power."

  Mr. Black turned and looked towards the far end of the table and saw a pale man step through a portal from the mortal realm to join them. The man's face was crisscrossed by scars as if the man's very skin had been sewn together in grafts of scar tissue and bonded with black steel. Protruding through the man's blue scale armor, Mr. Black could see two mounded stubs of scar tissue where wings had once been.

  "This is the candidate?" Mr. Black asked curiously as an uncommon feeling of anxiety struck him at the oddity of the situation. As creatures of eternity, it was not common for their members to be replaced, he himself had replaced the immortal Wednesday, but that had been nearly a millennia ago. Yet here they were voting to replace one of their own and working to replace another. "What of Amarath then?"

  The scarred man answered. "His spirit lives in within me, slumbering and regenerating. His true body, the world dungeon, was heavily damaged, and just like my own body was torn asunder during our fight with Aeon. The outcome of the battle was poor for us. Even without the drain of the travel through time, Aeon would have still been beyond us."

  "Poor indeed and an ill omen for the future. Amarath was quite as powerful as were you in your own right. I know of you." Mr. Black answered with a nod. "They called you a tyrant, did they not? The murderer. The Black Seraph, the man from the future. I understand that you've taken over the function of the Dungeon until Amarath awakens. Do you believe a hero capable of slaying Aeon can be cultivated on those floors?"

  The man paused and shook his head no. "When Amarath was at his full power, I was the strongest among humanity to pass through the floors of his Dungeon. I consumed, just as he did, millions of lives to gain my power. That power wasn't enough. My fight with Aeon lasted seconds at best before I was forced to retreat.”

  “My wings were torn from my body, never to heal. Much of our mutual power has been used to spread the influence of his Dungeon to raise up humanity. There will be no savants among them, though I am confident we can produce soldiers and have places to expand using the dungeon seed.”

  From the other side of the table, still wearing her full battle regalia of full plate armor, Ms. Blue spoke up as her aura glowed gold as she looked at the scarred man as if seeing firsthand the truth of his story firsthand. She was Scrying. "So, you have faced Aeon himself and lived to tell the tale. The proof is in those scars were wings used to be. I vote to confirm. You will be a valuable asset to our group. It's a yes from me."

  The confirmation of Ms. Blue was followed up by a confirmation by Mr. Green, then Mr. Light, then Mr. Black. The only one who had said nothing was the oldest among them, Mr. Sunday, who spoke up in a low and calm voice. "I'll provisionally allow it. Amarath was one of the true
immortals like myself. I have fought alongside his chosen in battle under a different name when summoned. I grant you a new title. From this day forward, your former name of Seraph is no more. You shall henceforth be known as Mr. November. Sit back down and take your rightful place among us."

  "Now, Mr. Black, tell us of the candidate to replace Helion." Mr. Sunday ordered, "How long do you think it will take? Things move in the outside world slowly, but we do not have the luxury of ages."

  Mr. Black raised his hand in acknowledgment. "It is not uncommon for any of us to establish a tower, Dungeon, or labyrinth. Indeed, it's even encouraged like in Ms. Blue's Arcanasium, but Helion's Tower is a perversion of that. An abomination he keeps as a toy in his palace. I've seen it myself. In there, I found the candidate."

  "How has he perverted Afterlife?" Mr. Green asked with concern, both for himself and for the group, wondering what crime Helion had committed.

  "The tower is infinite." Mr. Black answered. "There is no top, and when the last of his climbers die, he resurrects them in waves to try again. A cursed existence for those trapped within it. But that was not his crime. He has failed in his duties to prepare for Aeon. He kills climbers for sport rather than preparing for our war. He has lost the mandate of his title and with it his name."

  "So, who will replace him? One of those Wraiths he keeps as pets?" Ms. Blue asked skeptically, "I've my doubts cousin that you've somehow managed to go about finding a suitable candidate among that wretched lot that he found wandering between the stars."

  Mr. Black shook his head. "No, not one of his Wraiths. I meant among the souls he's stolen for himself, his climbers. I managed to reach the last of them before the group's complete wipe and right before the tower reset. If all goes to plan, one of them should replace Helion. I've given them an artifact I've claimed allows time travel. Instead, it will allow one of them to retain their memories and a way to subvert the Wraiths to our own ends."

  Mr. Sunday paused in contemplation before responding. "That is good. Keep me updated on the progress. However, we still need more soldiers. To our newly appointed member, Mr. Sunday, I task you to forge as many warriors as you can. If we cannot count on either the Tower or the Dungeon for the production of Elites, we must look elsewhere. Mr. Light, what of your ventures in Otherworld?"

  Mr. Light shook his head. "It goes slowly, but I believe it will produce candidates who will be useful lieutenants and captains in the war to come, stronger than all but us. Though how many will be produced this way, I do not know. The Forgotten King of that realm has been amicable."

  "I've got a proposition," declared Mr. Green as they all turned to look at the armored demon lord. "The Gehenna Pits feed directly into the Well of Souls. As they are removed from the cycle of reincarnation. I can take a portion of those souls and craft an arena for those long dead warriors and bind them to our cause."

  "What of Ouroboros then? Can he be restrained in your absence?" Mr. Sunday asked with a thought towards the infinite and all-consuming entity that Mr. Green was tasked with maintaining.

  "I believe so." Mr. Green answered bluntly, "But not forever, though forever can wait on the pending war with Aeon. For now, he contents himself with wars and empires in the world he has created within his cage."

  "So be it then." Mr. Sunday responded as he moved to adjourn the meeting. "You all have your missions. Meet back here in two weeks and plan on meeting every two weeks until our council is whole again."

  Chapter 1: Champion of the Dark Lord

  Mr. Green returned from the Spectral Council's meeting in Pandemonium, and with his return, took up his true identity of the Dark Lord Zekant, the icy ruler of the Great Empty. In his frozen castle deep in the Nether, Zekant stared down at the souls whirling within the Well of Souls, fed by the Gehenna Pits that had been scattered throughout the realms by the other members of the Spectral Council.

  He leaned close. His glacial armor gleamed in the flickering green light emanating from the spirits’ wispy bodies in the Well as he contemplated which one to choose, which one would be his next warrior. Which one he would raise to be a champion. Which one indeed.

  Tortured souls, all of them having been removed from the cycle of reincarnation, heroes, monsters, victims, and villains alike. Now just spirits that circled endlessly in the Well, weeping in soundless misery until Zekant began to speak whispers to them of what was to come.

  Contemplating his choices, Zekant took his time. The Path of Graves awaited them once more. Whoever it was that he chose to raise up. The battle of warrior against warrior in the Arena, was an important one. The great war was approaching, and with it, the need for an elite army of soldiers and minions.

  The other rulers of Pandemonium would be watching his progress with interest, looking for any sign of weakness, and eagerly awaiting the opportunity to seize upon it. With the coming of Aeon, it was expected to not show anything but strength. Survival demanded it.

  After some time, Zekant saw what he was looking for. He reached a mailed hand into the Well and dragged out a blackened soul by the neck. It flickered through forms, first a blurred face, then a sun-bleached skeleton as it tried to wriggle out of Zekant’s clutches. The Soul’s efforts were futile. With a firm grasp on the spirit, Zekant moved to the great stone table where three cards were already laid out and waiting for him.

  He said a word of power, and black ice crackled from his hand, freezing the soul in place, and put the soul on the table, chaining it down with restraints he had conjured from the ether. The soul shrieked and tried to break free, but Zekant held it fast.

  Chuckling darkly at the terror of the spirit, Zekant turned his attention to the downward facing cards pulled from the Destiny Deck to determine how he would resurrect the soul and held a mailed glove over the cards as they began to glow.

  He turned the first card over. Death. A skeleton dancing with a scythe, its eyes consisting of cold blue flames. The spirit on the table screamed in agony, but Zekant paid it no mind.

  He turned the second card over. Death again, in a heavy black robe, holding his hand out to a beautiful maiden as she slumped lifeless to the ground. The spirit started to thrash, screeching louder than before, as Zekant turned over the last card.

  For the third time, the Death card appeared. This time Death as a dreadful ruler on a throne of broken iron. Three visages of Death grinned up at Zekant from the table, their ice-blue eyes seeming to dance with mirth at the prospect of the fight ahead.

  “Yes,” Zekant said to himself as the spirit writhed before him. “This one will do nicely.”

  The Dark Lord breathed in deeply, gathering his power within him. The air hummed with electricity as black sparks crackled around him. Zekant let his ice magic flow through him, feeling invincible as the raw power poured out of him. The cards had shown him everything he needed to know.

  In life, this soul bound on the table had been the necromancer Xanthus. A man damned for eternity for his unholy work. His slain body was thrown into a Gehenna Pit by the long-forgotten hero who had killed him. He had raised undead armies for corrupt kings and emperors, glutting himself on the riches he received in exchange.

  Xanthus’ pleasure palace of red and black marble had been famous throughout the known world, as had the diabolical feasts and orgies he had hosted there. In the end, Xanthus’ gluttony had what killed him, his appetites drawing the attention of heroes.

  Zekant raised his arms and spoke another word of power. Black lightning shot from his hands and enveloped the spirit in the cracking blue fire of the Nether. Xanthus shrieked in pain, trying to escape from the ice bonds that held him fast to the table. Zekant chuckled in amusement at the spirit’s pain. In the Great Empty, the pain of the souls he possessed only made him stronger. He could feel his power growing as the spirit’s agony grew.

  Slowly, Xanthus started to change, his wispy body solidifying into a corporeal form. Instead of a ghostly spirit, a skeleton writhed on the table, ice-blue eyes aflame, jaw clacking open and s
hut as it tried to scream and found itself unable to do so without vocal cords. Zekant frowned. This would not do at all.

  He said three words in quick succession, and suddenly, the air was pierced with the skeleton’s screams. The Dark Lord had given the creature a magical voice.

  “Enough!” Zekant boomed in annoyance. “I’ve given you life, do not force me to take it from you so quickly.”

  The skeleton fell silent. The flames of its eyes danced in its head, watching Zekant warily out of an abundance of caution.

  “You are lucky,” Zekant said. “You have been chosen for the Spectral Arena I will create. To fight in the great war against the God Aeon. If you do well, you will redeem yourself in the eyes of the Lords of Pandemonium and be returned to the cycle of reincarnation. If you do poorly, you will be cast into the farthest reaches of the Nether into oblivion. "

  “Master,” the skeleton mewled. “I—“

  “Silence! You are my slave now! I do not allow my slaves to speak to me unbidden.” Zekant snapped as a massive bolt of power began to form in his mauled fist.

  The skeleton shut its mouth. Fear of oblivion guiding its movements.

  “Much better,” Zekant said. “You are no longer Xanthus. That is a name lost to time and forgotten ages. You will now be called Tetraites the Conqueror. May you prove worthy of the name.”

  The newly-christened Tetraites the Conqueror nodded mutely, unsure of his newfound fate.