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

by Alex Oakchest

  I hadn’t gotten around to creating any new monsters yet, even though I had new ones available to me. My battle with the Collector had taken me from level 10 to 13, a tremendous jump in power that brought my total available essence to 1199. There was so much for me to do with it, yet I couldn’t right now. We couldn’t start thinking of the future without settling the past.

  This new chamber was small, with little decoration save for mana lamps that we hadn’t ignited yet. I felt it was in keeping with the room’s purpose, and anything more might lack taste.

  Every member of the dungeon squeezed into the space, and we were even joined by Core Jahn, who floated on the same pedestal as me, and who the kobolds and beetles and Gary looked at with new-found respect after seeing what he had built on the surface.

  Evidently, wooden lodges were prized more than poison chambers and ingenious traps these days, but maybe I was just being bitter. I was proud of Jahn, and glad that he had taken up the slack in surface building. I much, much preferred creating dungeon things.

  “My friends,” I said, “We are here to pay our respects to Dylan, Karson, Fetter the raven, and Megalodonid, who have all fallen in service to our dungeon. Their work for us will never be forgotten, nor will they ever truly leave this place. Tarius?”

  Tarius stepped forward. He held four glass jars filled with dust. In as tasteful a ceremony as I could manage, I had used the alchemy chamber on my departed creatures.

  “Tarius,” I said, “The head of my newly-created dungeon union, will now commit our friends to the dungeon they served, so they can be part of it and watch over us forevermore.”

  As we looked on in utter silence, Tarius approached a metal cylinder wedged into the ground. He opened it, and with a sniffle, began to tip the dust inside.

  “Bye, Karson,” he said.

  Though the metal prevented us from seeing it, the dust of our friends would fall down the cylinder like snowflakes, traveling through a narrow hole that led deep into the ground.

  Over time, they would become one with the mud and soul and in that way would always be a part of the dungeon, whether they still served it or not. This room would serve as a memory of Karson, Dylan, Fetter the raven, and Megalodonid the drownjack.

  “Shadow?” I said.

  Shadow, her feet crowded by her puppies, approached the mana lanterns.

  “Our scout and newly-appointed kennel master will light the tributes,” I said.

  Shadow ignited four mana lamps, each fixed on the wall behind the cylinder, each to represent a creature who had fallen.

  I hoped I wouldn’t have to add more lamps to the wall, but at least if we did, I knew my creatures could come here and sit in meditative silence and think about their friends.

  “I don’t want any of you to work this evening,” I said. “Tarius, the hole in the loot room ceiling can stay for now. We’ll let the full moon spend its last night shining into the dungeon. Wylie, you are not to even think about grabbing a pickaxe. Spend tonight however you desire, my friends, whether that be together or in quiet reflection.”

  The air was somber, but it was also hopeful. Despite the loss of fellow creatures, we had earned a great victory, and the future was bright for our dungeon.

  Or, in the way I much preferred to thinking about it, the future was dark. Very, very dark. The kind of darkness that leads the most seasoned of heroes astray.

  My clanmates filed out of the remembrance chamber, their steps marshaled by Brecht tapping on his tambourine, and Gary crooning a song that was quickly drowned out by the beetles and ravens chanting for something upbeat.

  This left me and Gulliver, who had watched the events without a single quip or unnecessary show of wit and had simply recorded the ceremony in his book.

  “I never thanked you,” I said. “In the loot room, you broke scribalistic neutrality to save Wylie.”

  “Aye. Never let it be said I don’t help my friends.”

  “Won’t you get in trouble with the guild?”

  He nodded. “They’ll find out. They always do. That’s the problem with scribes; they have ways of wheedling information out of anybody. I’ll be kicked out, I expect. I was already on my last warning after spreading rumors that Archibald De La Monseur plagiarizes his stories from a talking dog.”

  “Sorry, Gull.”

  Gulliver flashed a smile. “Don’t be sorry, Beno! The scribes’ guild doesn’t hold the ownership of letters, you know. Nor do they have exclusive rights to quills and paper, words, and the eyes with which people read them. I can still write.”

  “Doesn’t being part of the guild protect you when you report on conflicts and all that kind of stuff?”

  “Pah. I’m done scribbling about the feats of dukes who stand at the back of their battle lines while their commoners die for them, only to charge in when the fight is won and crow about their bravery.”

  “You’re welcome to stay here,” I said.

  “Thank you, my friend. I’ve grown fond of this place. Even so, I will be away for a little while. Totemly Brilliant is selling rather well, according to Inky Mick, and people are asking for me. There may be more opportunities. More gold, more interesting people who want to share their stories, more maidens who need the company of a handsome scribe. I think I’ll go seek them out.”

  “Okay,” I said. “You can come back anytime. My dungeon is always open.”

  CHAPTER 35

  Far across Xynnar, miles and miles away from Yondersun and Core Beno’s dungeon, a lad and his new bride slumped onto their bed in the Saucy Goose tavern, worn out after a day of celebration.

  The tavern door was a thick one, hefty enough to block out not just the draught, but the sounds of the wedding guests below who weren’t ready to give up partying yet.

  Lying on his back and holding his new wife’s hand in his, the lad reflected about how lucky he was to even see this day. Only weeks ago, he’d thought he might die. After fleeing back home, the first thing he’d done was ask his sweetheart to marry him, and the wedding was hastily arranged.

  But he didn’t just think about his luck. He pondered about the future, where he would work hard at the mill and try to rise to foreman, and then perhaps higher. Who knew? Maybe he could become a partner.

  He thought about a future that no longer involved being a hero.

  He thought about a dungeon far, far away, one which almost ended his life but in fact, had saved it. For if he’d become a hero as he always dreamed, a dungeon would have got him.

  Perhaps not for years, but eventually it would, for every dungeon trap springs shut eventually, and there’s a reason you don’t see many old heroes.

  No, the hero's life was no longer for him. He had honored his word to the core and spread the news of the dungeon in the wasteland. He had already sent the Sider lady and her party the dungeon’s way, and no doubt there would be more to follow. His job was done, and he never wanted to think about a dungeon again.

  Forget the life of a hero, for it is no life. The best life comes when a man can spend his time with his family or his dear friends, not traipsing through gloomy passageways. The lad finally understood that.

  Now, he was overwhelmingly happy to live a life where nothing ever happened to him. Just a life of the sweet mundane for the rest of his days.

  The end of book 3

  Dungeon Core Academy: Book 4

  CHAPTER 1

  It was the hero’s birthday, judging by the serenade his brothers had given him as they entered my dungeon. A day to celebrate his passage into the world, a day of gifts and fun and well-wishes. The perfect day for me to slaughter him.

  The problem was, he didn’t seem too scared. Not even after I had thrown everything at him in the hopes of snuffing out his life on the anniversary of its beginning, which was too ironic a chance for me to pass up.

  He and his brothers had battled their way through the twists and turns of my labyrinth, disarming traps, fighting monsters, and solving puzzles until they reached the hea
rt of my lair: the loot room.

  As the largest chamber in my whole dungeon, this was the scene of numerous fights between my monsters and parties of heroes. A metal chest dominated the center, and inside was that which every hero desired: loot. Gold coins, beautiful vases, shiny antiques. Heroes might have many reasons to enter a dungeon, but the strongest was a desire to beat the dungeon core’s monsters and make off with his treasures.

  It was here that we’d all thrown down our last cards, the hero and me. If the hero won, my dungeon loot was his. If I won, his miserable life was forfeit.

  And things were looking good.

  My three beetle warriors threatened his left flank. Gary, my giant troll-leech-spider hybrid loomed to his right, cutting off any chance of escape in that direction. Meanwhile, Brecht, my kobold bard, was hidden on the far side of the room, pounding his tambourine to release magic notes that filled his fellow monsters with even more courage.

  Although I was in a chamber south of the loot room, I used my core powers to project my voice throughout my dungeon.

  “You’re outnumbered,” I said.

  The hero looked in the air upon hearing my voice, then glanced at his brothers. One had been incapacitated by triggering a poison dart trap, and Brecht had used his Fable of Fear song to paralyze the other.

  “You can look at them all you like,” I said. “They’re no help to you now. It’s just you and I.”

  “Interesting that you would say you and I, core,” replied the hero.

  I had to give him that – he had never betrayed his fear in the numerous times he’d been in my dungeon.

  He continued, “You and I. Heh. It’s funny, I don’t see you anywhere. All I see is your gaggle of beasts. A man might say that you don’t dare face me yourself.”

  “A man might also say that fighting a dungeon core who doesn’t have arms isn’t a fair fight at all. Therefore, my monsters are my arms.”

  He grinned now. Such arrogance, it was written all over his face. He had already beaten my dungeon, and I saw in his expression that he knew he could do it again.

  “Well, limbs can be severed whether they are monster’s arms or not. I’m fairly certain I won’t die on my birthday. It would be such an affront to my mother,” he said.

  He took a single step forward, towards the loot chest.

  Click.

  “Shit.”

  He looked at his feet, and I saw a slight change in his expression. There were many, many sounds that a hero dreaded hearing in a dungeon, such as an evil cackle, the scraping of claws, the scuttle of feet. A click was down there with the worst of them.

  “A pressure plate, I presume?” he said. “How droll. I suppose if I shift my weight from this spot, something nasty will happen?”

  “You’re a perceptive one.”

  “What is it, then? Pitfall? A bucket of acid overhead? A giant boulder?”

  “I wouldn’t want to spoil your surprise,” I said.

  He thought about it.

  He thought some more.

  I waited, expecting steam to leak from his ears and fog up my dungeon, he was thinking so hard.

  “Well played,” he said.

  Realizing that he didn’t have any desirable options, the hero did the sensible thing and stayed completely still.

  Halfway across the dungeon, in the comfort of my core room, I allowed myself a minute to enjoy the feeling of imminent victory. But then even a minute seemed too long, so I cut it short. I couldn’t assume victory was mine just yet. I had to put the hero in his grave before I danced over it, otherwise I was just dancing over a hole in the ground.

  I turned my attention to my core vision. This was a flickering frame of light hovering in midair, and within that ethereal picture frame I saw a cavernous room, the darkness broken only by light blinking from lamps on the walls.

  Dagger-shaped rocks pointed down from the ceiling, and the acoustics of the curved room made every sound echo. This was an effect I had designed so that when a hero cried, he couldn’t escape his own whimpering. It was a work of art.

  In the center of the loot room was him; the hero who had become a real pain in my arse over the last few weeks.

  Cael Pickering. The middle of the three Pickering brothers. Easily the most capable hero of the bunch, and he knew it.

  I wasn’t going to let him beat me again.

  I studied the scene as if it were a game of chess, looking for anything I had missed, any way that my nemesis could get out of this. I rotated the frame of light back and forth, round and round, studying all angles of the loot room.

  All the while, Cael stayed put, one foot on the pressure plate trap, sucking in his cheeks as he tried to think of a way to get out of it.

  Had I left any weaknesses for him to exploit? If I had, they were beyond my ability to see them.

  “There’s nothing he can do. See? He’s finished!” I said. “At last I’ve trapped the sword swinger! Five times this berk and his dopey brothers have waltzed into my dungeon and taken my treasure. But there’s no way out of this one.”

  A figure shifted from the corner of the core room. A wolfish beast called a kobold, a species which many dungeon cores use for mining, laboring, and even fighting. I had many of them, including a kobold bard, shaman, rogue, and several miners.

  “Dark Lord said he had no way out last time,” said Tomlin.

  Tomlin was my oldest kobold. My oldest friend, I suppose you’d say. He always retreated to the safety of my core room whenever heroes entered the dungeon. If cowardice was measured in gold, Tomlin’s riches would make a king tremble with envy.

  “This time I’m right. Look at him! His brothers can’t help. He can’t move from the pressure tile because he knows he’ll release a trap, and he’s outnumbered. If he gets out of this, then you might as well close my dungeon down.”

  “Tomlin is scared, Dark Lord.”

  I felt a rebuke on my tongue that was so sharp I almost cut myself with it. One stare into Tomlin’s wide, pathetic eyes was enough to stop me saying it. No good would come from kicking a kobold when he was down.

  “I know you’re worried, but this is dungeon life. Heroes are always going to come. You would do better to try and get over your fear.”

  “Tomlin cannot fight.”

  “You don’t need to. Perhaps go to the loot room and stand in the shadows and watch how Gary, Brecht, and the others deal with it. You’ll see that heroes aren’t anything to be scared of. They’re made of flesh and blood, just like you. Flesh can be cut, and blood can be spilled.”

  “Your words do not inspire Tomlin with courage.”

  “Everyone gets scared sometimes, Tomlin. Bravery without fear is better described as foolishness.”

  “Look, Dark Lord! Hero is doing something,” said Tomlin, pointing.

  There was a movement in the frame of light that showed the loot room. Cael, still standing in the same spot, was fumbling for something in his shoulder satchel.

  He was up to something. Given that thus far, Cael and his brothers had defeated almost every trap I set for them, I needed to end this quickly and without mercy.

  “Gary?” I said, casting my voice beyond my room and deep into the dungeon. “Finish this. Tear out their guts. Drain their blood. Rip their heads off their necks and kick them down the tunnels, and other equally horrible things.”

  Cael looked up from his satchel and spoke to the air. “Can we finish it in a second? I’m looking for something.”

  “Tear him into tiny pieces, Gary,” I ordered.

  In the loot room, Gary, my giant spider-troll, scuttled toward Cael. Gary was the first boss monster I had ever created. A hybrid of a troll, spider, and leech, he towered above most beings, was ugly enough to inspire fear in the stoutest of hearts, and had a ferocious appetite for hero flesh, even though he pretended that he was too dignified for such base desires.

  As he stomped forward his every step echoed through the room and created a clamor that should have stirred fear in
even the bravest of heroes.

  But Cael Pickering wasn’t just brave. He also had that special quality that renders bravery infallible: he was arrogant as hell, and he didn’t care to hide it. His arrogance was so shameless that it was hard to dislike him completely. As they say, arrogance is the younger brother of confidence, retaining its charm but lacking its older sibling’s wisdom. I respected anyone who had that quality, even if they were heroes who I’d have to kill.

  A smile crept on Cael’s face, and he laughed in a way that was meant for me to hear it. Whatever he planned to do to get himself out of this, he was almost ready.

  “Gary,” I commanded. “Slaughter him on the spot.”

  Before Gary could reach him, Cael produced a leather purse from his satchel. It was tied with string and bigger than his head, and should not have even been able to fit inside his satchel. It must have been magically altered. What was he up to?

  He set the bag down by his feet, and then simply stepped off my pressure trap.

  “Not bad, core,” he said aloud. “I almost feel tired this time around. You’re improving, but you have a long way to go. Now, let’s see what treasure you have for me this time.”

  There were no clicks. No noises of traps activating. Instead, there was just the sound of Cael whistling to himself as he began helping his brothers.

  Damn it! I knew how he’d escaped my pressure plate, and I hated it. If I was powerful enough to spawn a dragon to scorch the heroes to cinders, I would have. Even though dragons are notoriously poor dungeon occupants.

  It was obvious what he had done. If the trap had been working, then him stepping off it should have triggered a hidden compartment in the ceiling. A gallon of acid should have rained down, boiling him alive and filling the dungeon with the stench of charred hero skin.

  But there was no rumbling of a secret hatch, no lovely acid.