Dungeon Core Academy: Books 1-7 (A LitRPG Series)

by Alex Oakchest

  “Core Beno,” said Galatee, though there was no smile on her lips for me. “What happened here?”

  “I was too far away when I heard the blast,” I said. “But from what I can see, the ground imploded rather than exploded. See the rubble? It’s all underground. If the ground had exploded outwards, the rubble would be spread all over the wastes.”

  “Imploded, exploded, I don’t give a troll’s arse,” said Reginal. “We sent our traders with the last of the clans’ possessions to buy the vegetables and grain that were in those wagons.”

  “Then that wasn’t very prudent of you,” I said.

  Reginal glanced at Galatee. “Does this Core ever think before he speaks?”

  Galatee look at me, then nodded. “That is the problem; Core Beno thinks about everything he says, and he means every word.”

  “Beno, you know more about this than you are letting on,” said Reginal.

  He was right.

  I hadn’t known, not until a few seconds ago. But now I did.

  I had been staring at the sinkhole in the ground, gazing at the great view of Core Jahn’s dungeon it had unearthed, and I had started to understand what had happened.

  This wasn’t good. No, this was the opposite of good. This was…it was…well, this was bad.

  I wish I could say I was surprised, but a disaster like this was nothing unusual for Jahn. Core Jahn had always been the worst student in the Dungeon Core Academy. The academy overseers kept their selection process secret, but it was understood that when deciding which dead person they would forge into a dungeon core, they selected people who had displayed in their first life, the skills that would make them worthy of resurrection as a dungeon core.

  For Core Jahn, I could only assume it was a case of mistaken identity.

  Because now, peering down into his dungeon and seeing the rubble and the broken wagons and the smashed vegetables, I saw something interesting.

  Charred vines of essence. Broken floor tiles.

  Yup. Core Jahn had messed up. Or, as we used to describe catastrophic errors in the academy, he had well and truly Jahned things up.

  His dungeon was a state, and he’d destroyed the clans’ new food rations. That was a problem in itself since we hadn’t managed to cultivate the barren wasteland soil enough to allow it to grow things yet.

  I knew what was coming next.

  Reginal nodded at one of his clan members, a small goblin with a snaggletooth and who always squinted at people when he talked to them.

  “Fetch the whip,” Reginal said. “And stop squinting at me.”

  The whip. Great.

  “Is that necessary?” asked Galatee.

  Reginal nodded, arms folded in the same way he did whenever his orders were questioned. “It’s not just necessary, it’s essential.”

  “Essential is a synonym for necessary,” said Gulliver. “They mean the same thing.”

  “What’s a synonym for idiot scribe?”

  “Moron writer,” offered Gulliver. “Imbecilic author. Donkey-brained novelist…”

  “Shut up,” said Reginal, then turned to Galatee. “I know you don’t like whips and things, but sometimes you need to force them to respect you. You see…”

  The two leaders fell into a discussion about the use of physical punishment to instill authority, while the snaggle toothed goblin scarpered away to fetch the whip.

  “The whip?” muttered Gulliver to me. “Few good things come from the words fetch the whip. Except in a Tatanooka pleasure house when you’re sauced and you tip the house mistress an extra silver.”

  “Reginal doesn’t trust Jahn and me. Ever since the clans joined together and they became joint leaders, Reginal’s treated me like psychic who offers to read a man’s fortune by inspecting his skin moles.”

  “He is suspicious of you both.”

  “Of all cores, I think. Of our construction, which the academy shroud in secrecy, and our intentions, which I also shroud in a healthy dose of secrecy.”

  Reginal had good reason to distrust me, of course, but now wasn’t the time to think about it.

  No, now was the time to think about whips.

  “As I understand it, man’s weapons can’t harm a core,” said Gulliver. “Have I got that right?”

  “Normal weapons, no. It’s like shooting water at a duck. But if something is made with mana, or it’s alchemically altered, I start to worry. Reginal’s got an Alchemically-Altered Reverse Essence whip.”

  The whip was made by La Rue da Manyouirno, an artificer of renown, with much of his renown coming from his inability to come up with catchy names for his inventions. He had also created the Telekinetic Steel Handheld Mobile Plate to Mouth Device, otherwise known as a fork. A fork that lifted food to your mouth telekinetically.

  But while the TSHMPMD fork wasn’t dangerous, his essence whip was the opposite. It wasn’t dangerous to most living creatures, but to cores like Jahn and me, it was a real bitch of a tool.

  Gulliver nudged me. “Looks like he’s back. You’re right; that’s no ordinary whip.”

  Reginal took the whip from Snaggletooth Squinter and held it aloft. The handle was made from leather but had a blue gem sitting on top. From this gem stretched a wavy length of light, a sliver of blue and red streams of luminescence that twisted this way and that when Reginal moved his hand.

  I grimaced at the sight of it.

  Poor Jahn. I couldn’t let this happen.

  “Tell the other core to join us,” said Reginal. He glanced at me, sitting on the pedestal point. “You can share the same block of stone as another core, no?”

  “They are called pedestal points,” I said, refusing to show my fear of the whip. “And yes. What do you plan on doing with your toy?”

  “You cores think you are so clever. The Wrotuns may have trusted you, but I see you. I see the crafty looks on your faces.”

  “We don’t have faces. In case you didn’t notice, we’re made entirely of gemstone.”

  “I feel it, then. I feel your sneakiness like bile in my stomach after a night of beer and merriment. I have told Galatee many a time that you cores are plotting against us. Finding ways to undermine our efforts to transform this wasteland into a real home.”

  “Galatee?” I said. “Surely you don’t believe this?”

  First Leaf Galatee regarded Reginal carefully. She snapped her fingers.

  Nothing happened.

  She turned to face the procession of Wrotun people who had followed her and Reginal out of the caverns and to the surface.

  “I thought I told you,” she said, almost under her breath. “When I snap my fingers, I expect someone to appear by my side in an instant.”

  “That isn’t always feasible,” muttered a dwarf.

  “And it seems a rather pointless display of power,” I added. “I assume it is to heighten your authority. But authority in appearance only isn’t authority at all, Galatee. A leader earns respect through action and integrity.”

  “What would you know of leadership or integrity, Core Beno?”

  “Do I need to remind you that I currently have a multitude of creatures under my employ?”

  Galatee laughed. “Your kobolds and your strange spider-leech monstrosity?”

  “His name is Gary.”

  “She’s got a stare that could bake bread,” said Gulliver. Then added, “I don’t know what I mean by that.”

  “Enough,” said Galatee. “We made your duties clear to you and Core Jahn. You are to continue building defenses in your dungeons to protect our main cavern system, while helping cultivate the wasteland. Yet, all I see is a hole in the ground and miles and miles of barren soil.”

  “We’re dungeon cores, Galatee. The clue is in the name. We’re used to creating labyrinths of misery, mutilation, and murder. The three M’s. We aren’t farmers.”

  “Ah yes. You have to learn how to work with your essence on the surface. The academy sent an instructor to teach you, yet for all your lessons – which coun
ts as time away from your duties, I might add – you have nothing to show for it.”

  I thought back to my lessons with Instructor Samson Bing. He wasn’t a Dungeon Core Academy Instructor, though the academy had sought him out and sent him here at Overseer Bolton’s request. Samson specialized in purchasing cores rejected by the academy and teaching them to use their essence-wielding abilities for good, rather than evil. Boring. A waste of a profession, if you ask me.

  Yet, I had no choice but to study with him. After all, First-Leaf Galatee was my owner, and as much as I hated the word, she had a contract that was written on paper and sealed with mana. I could not disobey her, or the magic contract would do bad stuff to me. I could explain the inner workings of such a contract to you, but that will suffice for now.

  So yes, that meant lots of studying. Luckily, studying is my forte. I am not the most intelligent core in Xynnar, but I work hard. As much as the idea of creating things that didn’t involve the three M’s saddened me, I had put all my energy into it.

  But what did I have to show for it so far?

  “You have nothing to show,” said Galette, seeming to read my thoughts. Though I doubted she was a telepath, she had an instinct for reading emotion that would serve her well as a leader. “Your silence tells me that, even if I was blind to the fact that this is still a plane of desolation. And now, your friend Jahn has well and truly Jahned up and destroyed our food supply.”

  “How did you learn about Jahning up?”

  “A kobold told me. That is not relevant, Beno. My point is that Chief Reginal is right; you cores are failing so miserably that I am beginning to think it is willful. Reginal, go ahead and motivate these gems in whatever way you see fit.”

  “Thank you,” said Reginal. He peered into the great hole in the ground and bellowed, “Core Jahn, get your miserable mineral arse up here.”

  There was no sign of movement from below. No noise save the gentle sound of mud falling from the edges of the sinkhole.

  I looked at the hole and then at Reginal, holding his whip. I had to stop Jahn from getting a thrashing. There could be no doubt that was the motivation Reginal had in mind.

  So, how was I going to explain this in a way that helped my friend avoid a lashing?

  Looking at the mess, it was obvious what had happened. Jahn had placed some sort of fire-tile trap too near his essence vines, and then he’d accidentally triggered it somehow. When too many essence vines catch fire too quickly, things get hot and explodey.

  “I really Beno’d this up, didn’t I?” said a voice.

  There, floating beside me on the pedestal, was my good friend Jahn. He was a dungeon core like me, though colored orange and shaped like a distorted, overweight star. Though we dungeon cores aren’t usually expressive, it was amazing the friendliness and warmth Jahn managed to convey. I guessed it was just part of his aura; for a being forged to wreak death, destruction, and doom – the three D’s – he was a swell guy.

  We hadn’t always been friends, Jahn and I. Back in the academy I hadn’t made many friends because I was so preoccupied learning everything I could about coredom.

  But after we both failed the academy, whether my failure was deserved or not, and found ourselves owned by Galatee and the Wrotun clan, we had become good pals.

  My desire to help Jahn avoid getting whipped for his catastrophic error wasn’t just because I’m a good guy. Not solely because I’m a good guy, anyway.

  No; Chief Reginal and First-Leaf Galatee treated Jahn and me as if we were one being. When Jahn messed up, it made them look disparagingly on cores as a whole, and it made Reginal pay more attention to what we were doing.

  Right now, if I was to capture the narkleer and find a way to sever my mana-sealed contract with Galatee, I needed his attention to be focused elsewhere.

  So, an excuse.

  Come on…I must have been able to think of something.

  “Core Jahn,” said Galatee. “Would you like to explain what happened?”

  Galatee was being reserved, I could see, but Reginal’s fury was clear in how the veins on his goblin forehead were bulging. Around us, the Wrotun and Eternals clan workers were still picking through the vegetables that hadn’t been completely ruined. They all knew what Reginal’s fury meant, and the tension seemed to stretch from one worker to another like a chain.

  “Core? We’re waiting,” said Reginal.

  “Well, you see, um,” began Jahn.

  “Thermal pockets,” I blurted.

  Galatee and Reginal both looked at me.

  I had nothing.

  “Thermal…”

  “Yes,” I said, constructing the theory as I spoke. “The sun has beaten down on this wasteland for hundreds of years. That’s how long the land here had been untouched, no? Heat soaks into the soil, where it is trapped. Normally it would dissipate over time, leaking back out through holes in the dirt. But you have so many cultivators working here, digging with metal tools. You have masons chipping away at stone. Someone must have created a spark, and Lady Chance frowned on them. A spark managed to strike near enough to a hole where a thermal pocket was leaking, causing the explosion.”

  Gulliver shrugged. “Sounds perfectly plausible to me.”

  Both Galatee and Reginal stared at me now, wearing not just masks of doubt, but full costumes of it.

  I had hoped I had used just enough true-sounding words that they’d accept my explanation. That’s the thing with truth; you don’t need to say something actually true, just something that sounds like it could be.

  But no, this wasn’t going to work.

  I glanced at Brecht.

  Because Brech was a kobold I had created, I could speak to him using my core voice, which nobody else would hear.

  “Brecht, play something to make them believe me.”

  The level 15 bard sat cross-legged on the ground, with his giant tambourine before him. He began to drum softly on it while whistling a gentle tune.

  “This is no time for music,” began Regional.

  “Quite,” agreed Galatee. And then, her expression changed. Her brow unfurrowed just a tad, and her eyes became a little less glaring, and more twinkly. “Though, I have to say, Reginal. Part of Core Beno’s explanation rings true. I swear I have heard of thermal pockets before.”

  Reginal stroked his chain. “It may be. Hmm.”

  Now, I received a message in my inner core.

  Brecht [Kobold, Bard] has leveled up to 16!

  - Song learned: Chorus of Courage

  Well done Brecht!

  I didn’t actually say this, because that would reveal that he hadn’t been merely tapping his tambourine, but had been using his bard skills. So instead, I gave my kobold the core version of a wink.

  Which is nothing, because we don’t have eyes.

  Reginal and Galatee hadn’t quite digested my story, but at least they’d swallowed it. Bards really are brilliant, aren’t they?

  Alas, they also have their limitations. I had tried to get Brecht to play his song of persuasion while I convinced Galatee that she should relinquish ownership of me, but it hadn’t worked. It was all down to a bard’s skill level, and a person’s inner resolve, you see.

  For example, Galatee’s belief that I was her property was deeply ingrained in her, and as a level 15 bard, Brech wasn’t able to override that.

  But, today they hadn’t quite known what had caused the explosion, so Brecht’s beautiful music was effective in wrapping conviction to my words.

  “I suppose I owe you an apology, Core Jahn,” said Galatee. “Reginal and I are so wrapped up in our duties, that we forget that for every inch of this land we make our own, miles and miles of it are untamed. You are not to be blamed for natural phenomena.”

  “Apology accepted, your grace,” said Jahn.

  He sounded like he fully believed it. Even though he had been the cause of the explosion, there was no need for Brecht to use his Bard skills on Jahn. He was as gullible as they came.

&nb
sp; Reginal, still gripping his whip, stared at Jahn. There was still suspicion in his eyes; his will must have been stronger than Galatee’s.

  Behind him, Brecht still tapped on his tambourine, though he began to lose the rhythm, and his whistling was dropping a note here or there. He must have been running out of mana.

  Was Reginal going to buy it?

  “Those damn thermal pockets,” I said. “Reginal, if you like, I can teach your tunnelers how to spot them. It should avoid any nasty surprises in the future.”

  Reginal said nothing; he just eyed Jahn. Seconds passed, stretching into a full minute.

  Finally, he nodded at me. “That would be sensible, Core Beno,” he said, and strode off toward his workers and began helping them pile any unspoiled food away from the sinkhole.

  Galatee soon joined him, leaving Jahn and me alone.

  “Oh, hey Gull,” said Jahn.

  Gulliver smiled at the core. “That was lucky, my friend. You nearly beno’d things up!”

  “Exactly. That was close,” said Jahn. “I thought I had really Beno’d up. I don’t want to be whipped again. Not after last time. Thank the Demons Below for thermal pockets, eh?”

  I grimaced, remembering the sounds of pain Jahn had made when Reginal used his whip on him. I couldn’t even remember Jahn’s transgression now, but it surely wasn’t worth the punishment.

  No, this couldn’t stand. Cortes weren’t meant to feel pain. We weren’t objects, we weren’t slaves, we weren’t just tools to be ordered around.

  I had to put an end to it, and get Jahn and me our freedom. Only then, as a being belonging only to myself, could I start really progressing. Doing what a dungeon core should, what I was made for; expanding my underground lair and building a den of diabolic destruction that would make heroes’ bowels loosen at the thought of it.

  But first, freedom. I would get it for Jahn and me.

  “Jahn, be careful with fire tile traps. Don’t place anything fire-related near your essence vines, okay?” I said. “I need to go; I have dungeon stuff to attend to.”

  “I’ll stay up here and chat to my good friend Jahn for a while,” said Gulliver.

  And with that, I pedestal-hopped back into my dungeon.