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

by Alex Oakchest

  Chapter 15

  After filling out form upon form in the star lodge, our dungeon was finally registered. I was itching to get started on my preparations. Every academy competing in the tournament would be older, richer, and more prestigious than ours. That already put us at a disadvantage.

  The only consolation was that the other academies would be sponsoring their students as cores. It was a way to show the quality of their institutions by putting forward their most talented pupils.

  This was probably my only advantage. I hadn’t been a student for a long time now. I had maintained a real dungeon, and I possessed combat experience that none of the other cores would. That was what I clung to. It was the reservoir of hope that I would have to drain dry if I was to stay upbeat.

  With our academy registered, we were permitted entry to God’s Fist mountain. A giant pair of durinium doors were set into its base. These led to various tunnels, which in turn led to the portdoors. Each core had their own portdoor that gave them access to their dungeon, no matter how far away from Heaven’s Peak their own dungeon was.

  I didn’t often find myself in awe of things, but God’s Fist was one of those rare sights that inspired it. I hesitated a moment before entering, staring up at the landmass towering above me and reaching to the heavens as if to summon the gods. There was no doubt that this place was worthy of a prestigious tournament. That its great mounds of stone were steeped in history, glory, failure. It was said that halfway up the mountain, there was an inner chamber where masons carved records of every tournament onto the walls. What would it say about me when this was done?

  I guessed I would know the answer soon. Or maybe it was better to say, I would write the answer myself. Our academy might have been the lowest on the ladder, but our destiny was our own. I would make sure of that.

  Our portdoor was one of thirty-two inside God’s Fist. Thirty-two academies who would battle it out in the arena in the skies. That seemed overwhelming to me. I vowed right then to stop thinking about numbers. It wouldn’t do any good to dwell on the overwhelming odds.

  The portdoor was a rather ancient construction. Steel, with runemarks etched all over it. When Bolton and Gulliver approached it, nothing happened. But when I floated along the tunnel and joined them, the door glowed and creaked open.

  “Reassuring,” said Bolton. “At least nobody will be able to steal their way into your dungeon, Beno.”

  “And if they do, I’ll simply murder them. One of the perks of being a dungeon core.”

  Floating through the portdoor, I found myself back in my dungeon, in those familiar chambers and tunnels, where Wylie, Klok, Maginhart, Rusty, and the rest of the dungeon clan were waiting.

  “Time to get ready,” I said. “The first round is a couple of days away, and there are lots of things we need to do. So, let’s get to it, and then we can go destroy some other academy’s pathetic chump of a core.”

  “You sound rather positive, Beno,” said Gulliver.

  “I’ve been thinking about the tournament a lot, and I have various strategies we can put in place. So yes, maybe I am feeling a little upbeat. For now, I want every dungeon monster except Tomlin to go to the arena, choose the weapon you’re most proficient with, and spend a few hours training. In the meantime, I’m going to watch the other cores.”

  The main tournament arena was a stone bowl that sat at the very peak of God’s Fist. It was known as the Saucer of the Gods, and every core wanted to battle there.

  But given that thirty-two academies would fight in the first round of the tournament, it was necessary to have several smaller arenas. Right now, these were open for cores and their monsters to spar in.

  I accessed the arenas by a set of portdoors further up the mountain. Like the doors that led to my dungeon, there were sixteen portdoors, and each led to a different arena. The arenas themselves twisted away from the mountain like branches from a tree trunk, though each one was lower than the Saucer of the Gods.

  I chose one that was already occupied by an academy, and I floated into the spectator section. That was one of the drawbacks of using the arenas to spar in: anyone was allowed to spectate. Today, I planned on spending a few hours watching as many cores as I could.

  The spectator section was more crowded than I’d expected, with many residents of Heaven’s Peak and travelers occupying the seats. Some had beers in their hand, others were eating goods bought from the city bakeries. Some even wore white shirts with various academy emblems crudely drawn on. That was a good point. Our academy didn’t have an emblem. I’d have to fix that.

  In the arena itself, were two cores, a gaggle of overseers, and plenty of monsters. Only one of the cores would be registered to compete. The other was probably a fellow student at the academy and would be there to train.

  A man sitting near me caught my attention. He had a bun in one hand and a beer in the other. “Psst. Core.”

  There was no hostility in his voice, which was a novelty. Most folks in cities didn’t like to speak to cores. But I guessed in Heaven’s Peak, they were used to us.

  “What is it?” I said.

  “Which academy is down there?” he asked, nodding at the arena.

  I looked at the symbols painted on the overseers’ robes. A yellow snake encircling a scorpion.

  “The Academy of the Forked Sting,” I said.

  “That explains the scorpions,” said the man.

  The cores each occupied a semi-circle of the arena and summoned their first monsters. One had created a scorpion as big as a dog, with a pronged tail curving over its body. The other core produced a cobra with one head, yet two bodies.

  Normally, dungeon cores can’t summon monsters when they are above ground. If that was the case here, it’d be a crummy tournament. From my reading, I knew that the arenas on God’s Fist were altered so that they interacted with a core’s essence in the same way that a dungeon would.

  An overseer down in the arena held his hands in the air. “Ready? Begin!”

  The scorpion and two-bodied cobra battled each other in their own styles. The scorpion lashed with its tail, while the cobra edged around it, slithering this way and that and waiting for an opening.

  “My money’s on the scorpion,” said the man near me.

  “The cobra,” I said.

  “You’re having a laugh. The scorpion is bigger than a bloody wolf!”

  “Size doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Tell my wife that.”

  The battle was over in a blink. When the scorpion, urged by its core, overcommitted itself with a sting, the cobra slithered under its guard and wrapped around its body, coiling itself tighter and tighter until the scorpion’s exoskeleton crunched.

  The scorpion lay dead on the sand, but only for a moment. Light gathered around it, and its limbs filled out again and straightened. Soon, it was back on its feet.

  That was the most reassuring thing about the tournament. It was an exhibition. Monsters wouldn’t die here, except for in the most extreme circumstances. It meant that between bouts, monsters who were defeated in one fight would heal a little in time for the next.

  The cores took their positions again, with a single difference. In the semi-circle occupied by the Academy of the Forked Sting’s main core, a ‘1’ was etched into the sand.

  “Best of three, ain’t it?” said the man near me.

  “That’s right. Three rounds in each fight. The first core to get two wins is the victor.”

  The man tore a strip from his pastry and offered me some. When I politely declined, he tossed it in his mouth. “If a core wins the first two rounds, they might as well stop the fight. The other core can’t win, can he?”

  “In that case, they’d fight the third round regardless. They call it the honor round. It would be insulting to the losing core to end the fight after two rounds, even if he has already lost.”

  “You know a lot about this,” said the man. “Are you fighting?”

  “That’s the plan.”
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  “Well, good luck to you. I’ve been watching sparring all morning, touring the different arenas. There are some nasty, nasty cores competing this time. My dad brought me to the tournament when I was a lad. Must have been forty years ago now. The cores get meaner every time. See you around, core. Hopefully, not in an honor round.”

  With the man gone, I focused on the arena. The cores summoned their monsters for round two. This time, the Academy of the Forked Sting’s practice core summoned two monsters.

  One was a spider the size of a cat, the second a reptile of some sort. In the early rounds of the tournament, cores would be allowed to summon up to five monsters during a fight. If you were stupid, and you summoned four monsters in round one, that meant you would only be able to summon one monster for the rest of the fight. In that case, you’d have to hope your monsters didn’t get wiped out in round one.

  This time, the main core summoned a little frog. This joined his two-bodied cobra. Winning the first round had given him an advantage, in that he could field two monsters around two, while only using one extra summon slot. The practice core had now used three summon slots in total.

  The battle began, and the spider and reptile soon ganged up on the cobra. To my surprise, they managed to kill it. This left them just a little frog to face. I almost left the arena, sure that I knew the outcome and didn’t need to see more.

  However, the frog opened its mouth and sprayed out a toxin of some sort. Within seconds the other monsters were motionless, and the frog hopped around in triumph.

  It had happened so quickly. Much quicker than when I battled heroes. In a core-versus-hero battle, there was always time to strategize on the fly. Here, it was clear that a battle could be over in an instant. Not only that, but the caliber of monsters on show was worrying.

  Only twenty minutes earlier, I been full of optimism. I was sure that I could watch each core spar for a while, and work out a way to beat them. Now, after watching just one core, I wasn’t so sure.

  I didn’t have many monsters that could counteract venom or toxins. And that was just one academy. Some academies specialized in cores that made arcane creatures, water creatures. Any type of creature you could think of. Could I counteract each one?

  But that wasn’t the worst of it. Looking at the core of the Academy of the Forked Sting, I could tell that their core’s quality rank was better than mine. It was the shine on their core. The way their essence reacted to their commands. Now that I was aware of core quality, I could see how it affected cores.

  Suddenly, I wished I had never gone back to the Dungeon Core Academy. The old saying was right. Ignorance really was bliss.

  The fact was that I was in trouble, and coming to watch the cores sparring had proven that to me.

  I was about to leave when one of the Academy of the Forked Sting overseers in the arena looked up at me.

  He called the attention of the other overseers and then pointed in my direction. I activated my core hearing, which allowed me to listen to them.

  “That’s him! The core who founded his own academy.”

  “Not very impressive, is he?”

  “Doesn’t even have an emblem!”

  They soon bored of talking about me and left the arena with their core. Alone with my thoughts, all I could think was that it would be a miracle to get past round one.

  If I fought fairly, of course.

  That was the answer - I just needed to cheat. And to do that, I needed a new plan.

  Chapter 16

  Vike

  The folks who lived under the ruins called themselves the Shielded Republic. Vike stayed with them for a while, enjoying the company and warm meals. A while became months, and months became years.

  Their hospitality wasn’t free, but warm meals and shelter weren’t the only things on offer. All the elders ever talked about was how much promise Vike showed. That it felt as if he had lived among the Shielded Republic all his life.

  They made him do all sorts of tests. Ones that evaluated his strength, others his mind. Even some strange ones that concerned his spirit. Vike didn’t mind. The tests weren’t difficult, and a meal was a meal.

  One day, an elder approached Vike while he was collecting logs in the forest near the ruins.

  “It is time that you advanced in your training, Vike.”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Don’t be so hasty to agree. There will be no going back from it, boy. Some paths close behind you when you place your feet upon them.”

  “Fine by me.”

  The training they put him through pushed him beyond the limits of pain and tiredness. Such base emotions soon became lost to Vike, so often did he experience them.

  Their grueling exercises and relentless mentoring almost killed him. Every time things got tough, Vike remembered some of the worst beatings his father had given him. Thoughts of the life he’d left behind pushed him through whatever the elders could throw at him.

  The only thing that made him waver were the tremors he would sometimes get after meals. Although extremely painful, they would only last for a few hours at a time.

  The sect healers checked him several times, always confirming there was nothing wrong with his body. Gradually, the tremors and spells of pain began to lessen, until Vike barely felt them at all.

  A year later his training was finally over. Vike was initiated into the sect as a fully-fledged member of the Shielded Republic.

  But that wasn’t everything.

  Approaching the end of his initiation, an elder offered him a bowl full of some kind of dust.

  “You must ingest the core, Fledgling Vike,” he said.

  “Core? Do you mean a dungeon core? I read about them. People have tried to eat cores before, to earn their powers. They always died.”

  “But they were not as prepared as you,” said the elder.

  “Eating core dust? I am not prepared for anything of the sort.”

  The elder smiled. “Do you remember the tremors you used to have after eating?”

  Suddenly, Vike understood. He leaped to his feet.

  “You were feeding me core dust?” he shouted, barely controlling his anger.

  “Everything we have done, every task we set you, had a reason behind it. The hardships you were put through were only to make you stronger. Never through anger, like your last guardians. You have a choice now, Vike. Complete your initiation, or say farewell to your time here. If you do that, we will part as friends and not enemies. But the doors to the ruins would forever be closed to you.”

  After thinking about it, Vike reached out towards the bowl of core dust.

  The core dust that the members of the Shielded Republic ingested didn’t give them the full powers of a dungeon core. They would need to ingest a full core for that. No amount of preparation would make such a feat survivable.

  But it wasn’t without its benefits. As his real training began following his initiation, Vike discovered that the Shielded Republic could use the core dust inside them to conjure shields from nothing.

  If he thought their last training was relentless, then this was on another level. One of their more popular exercises was to line up in front of him, a dozen at a time, and pepper him with rocks. Vike could either conjure shield after shield or suffer the onslaught of stone.

  For sixty days of training in this exercise, he barely had a centimeter of skin that wasn’t bruised. And yet all the same, they felt different from the bruises he used to get back at home. It felt like there was a point to them.

  From then on, Vike saw every bruise and painful cut as a mark of pride.

  Vike soon became the best in the sect at using his power, even at such a young age, and after coming upon this life much later than many others. Year after year he trained and trained and trained, always rising through the ranks.

  Thirty years after he had seen the ruins for the first time, everything changed.

  By that time, the three men who had first found him had died. Two of them in
battles, one to illness. The woman who had accompanied them was now Vike’s wife. Though she was fifteen years older than Vike, they were happy.

  But when the sect’s head elder died, the ruins fell into chaos. As with every time a head elder succumbed to their mortality, the sect was destined to be plunged into years of squabbles and power grabs that escalated in severity. This would continue until either a new elder was chosen, or the clan was irrevocably damaged.

  By this time, however, Vike had amassed a great collection of books. When he wasn’t training his shield powers or caring for his family, he spent time by the ruins, translating the strange marks.

  That was how Vike Arby learned that his old family was not his family at all. That the father who used to beat him shared no blood whatsoever with him.

  According to the runes, the first elder of the Shielded Republic, the true elder, had a very interesting characteristic. He had heterochromia. One of his eyes was green, the other bright red. All of his descendants had had such eyes.

  This was very interesting to Vike. Because the reason his father used to beat him was that he always believed his mother had slept with another man. Ever since Vike was born, his father had believed him to be the product of betrayal.

  And why did he believe that?

  Because one of Vike’s eyes was bright red, and the other was green.

  The translation of the runes ended any potential feuds within the clan. The others agreed it was no coincidence that Vike shared a rare condition with the true elders of the Shielded Republic. Nor was it a coincidence that he had left home and traveled in a random direction, and had somehow stumbled upon the ruins.

  With an almost unanimous vote, Vike Arby was made head elder of the Shielded Republic. Along with another bowl of core dust to ingest, Vike was given his true name.

  Henceforth, he would be known as Vike Stonecroft.

  Gone was his old name. Gone were the horrible memories of a family to who he didn’t belong. He never found out how any of this came to be. How he had grown up with a family that wasn’t of his blood. But that didn’t matter now.