“It will not require much defense,” the Beryl King ground out. “This Lowen would have to attack you alone. Dungeon Lords are the only beings who can travel outside their dungeons. I have heard rumors of the Vault and its formidable powers, but one rogue Dungeon Lord could not possibly threaten you here, in the seat of your power. Though you are only level 36, your dungeon design is impressive for one so weak as you.”
“Not so weak as you might suppose,” Roark replied with a deadly grin as he pulled his spell tome from his inventory, allowing it to float above his outstretched palm. “I may be the lowest-level Dungeon Lord at this table, but I have skills, abilities, and spells that none of you have ever seen. Magicks that you couldn’t dream of. There’s a reason my name is on the lips of every adventurer, Beryl King, and why the Cruel Citadel is advancing in rank faster than any other dungeon in Hearthworld.” He stared the rocky golem down, refusing to drop his gaze. If he had learned anything dealing with Azibek it was that he needed to display strength here, not vulnerability. If he faltered, the other Dungeon Lords would likely turn on him like a pack of feral dogs.
Finally, the Beryl King dipped his head a fraction of an inch. “Point taken.” Not an apology for the slight, but as close to a concession as Roark was likely to get from him or any of the others.
“You say that only Dungeon Lords are able to cross the threshold out into the world,” Roark continued, not bothering to acknowledge his minor win, “but the underlings in the Vault aren’t mobs like in your dungeons. They’re men and women brought here from another dimension, like the heroes. They can travel anywhere in Hearthworld they choose. So my battle will not be against Lowen alone, but against his sizeable forces.”
You want our help fighting another dungeon. Ko spoke to his mind, and by the nods around the table, the minds of the other Dungeon Lords. You cannot beat him because you are weaker than he is, so you wish to bolster yourself with our strength.
“You misunderstand,” Roark said. “None of us could beat him, not with the full force of his dungeon behind him. The Vault of the Radiant Shield is currently the top-ranked dungeon in Hearthworld, and Lowen and every one of his army is at the top of their Evolutionary Path.”
“Ko’s right,” Gevaudan growled, pulling a leaf of fresh Fangbane from his Inventory and breathing in its scent. “You talk big. Waving around your spell book. Boasting of unmatched power with one side of your mouth while admitting weakness out the other side.” He lifted his muzzle to the air, sniffing deeply, lips pulled back from deadly fangs. “I smell lies. Trickery in the air, barely concealed by the scent of meat.
“You wish to impress us, to frighten us into submission, but everybody knows that Trolls are the least powerful of all the mobs. Baby heroes cut their teeth on your kind, yet you would demand our loyalty and seek to be the head of this alliance? Any one of us sitting at this table could shred you like prey in our teeth.” The wolfman cocked his head, ears laid back flat. “In fact, what is to stop me from challenging you here and taking this marketplace and citadel for my own?”
“The deadliest poisons in all of Hearthworld,” Zyra said, appearing next to the Gevaudan, a gleaming black-edged dagger pressed firmly into the side of his shaggy-furred throat. “One nick and you won’t go four paces before you’re dead.”
Roark smiled at the hooded Reaver, then waved for her to put the blade away. “As you can see, my generals are loyal. But I have no fear of you. You’re welcome to try it.” Roark smirked. “Azibek thought he could crush me, too, and now I run his dungeon. I’ll be happy to introduce you to forever-death as well, mate.”
“Besting one of us in your own territory would prove little,” Ishri the Cunning said. “There is, however, a way you can prove much.” The Bloodleech paused, glancing at each of her fellow Dungeon Lords in turn. After a moment they all nodded. “We want you to kill a hero...”
The coordination. The baiting. The posturing. This whole thing had been a setup, designed to push Roark into action. And the impossible labor they wanted performed in return was a dead hero? Roark was almost disappointed.
He laughed. “Do you even know what ‘Griefer’ means?”
“You’ve killed small heroes,” Gevaudan growled. “Puny pups compared to the one we want you to kill. His name is Bad_Karma.”
The name touched off a spark of recognition in Roark’s mind, but he couldn’t remember where he’d heard it before.
Ko sent him a picture of a woman in low-quality chainmail carrying an armload of books out of Mogrifa & Mogrifa’s, the scene taken straight from his memory. “He’s only the number one player on the server,” the woman said to Roark as if he should already know.
“Bad_Karma isss the highessst-level hero in Hearthworld,” Shess said. “He has causssed more lossst levelsss than any other. You will never meet hisss equal. But he hasss the fatal flaw shared by all heroesss...”
“Hubris,” Rohibim finished for her. “He exists in Hearthworld under a special set of conditions that only allow him to die once. It is called Hardcore Mode. If he dies, he’ll be gone forever.”
“Simple, then,” Roark said, shrugging. “I’ll kill him, problem solved.”
“Not so simple,” Drokara crawked. “For he’s survived thus far without dying long enough to reach level 50.”
We want his head, Ko sent, showing Roark a picture of a severed head leaking blood onto a silver plate. You want our swords in battle, the strength of our arms, our magicks at your back? Show us you can use your sword. Show us you are worthy to lead and worthy of following. If you can do this thing, kill the unkillable, we will give you what you want.
“If you can bring down Bad_Karma, we’ll join you,” Gevaudan said, once more twirling that Fangbane leaf beneath his nose. “And not just us. Kill him and another half-dozen dungeons around the world will be knocking down your door to join, too.” He hooked a clawed thumb toward his chest. “I’ll personally make sure of it. You only got three days to prove your worth, though, fast talker.”
“And if you fail after three days’ time,” the Beryl King said, “you’ll never have another chance. This is our only offer. Agree to it or we are finished here.”
╠═╦╬╧╪
Karma’s Head
The Dungeon Lords have spoken. They won’t ally their dungeons with yours unless you kill Bad_Karma, the top-rated hero in Hearthworld, within three days.
Objective: Kill Bad_Karma and present the Dungeon Lords with his head within the time limit.
Reward: The Dungeon Lords will ally their dungeons with the Troll Nation, 70,000 Experience, and The Eternal Blessing of the Seven
Failure: Fail to kill Bad_Karma within the allotted three days or fail to return his head to the Dungeon Lords within the allotted three days.
Penalty: Alliance with the Seven Dungeon Lords permanently locked.
Restrictions: None
Accept quest? Yes/No
╠═╦╬╧╪
Roark didn’t even have to consider it. There was no other way to gain their allegiance. Besides, he’d killed plenty of heroes beyond his level since coming to this world. What was one more?
“It’s a deal,” he said, selecting Yes.
Battle Plan
ONCE THE DUNGEON LORDS had all returned to their own territories via single-use scrolls, Roark called Kaz, Zyra, Griff, and Mai together in one of the upper rooms of the inn. Mac returned from his adventures as well and was busy rubbing phosphorescent spores from his beard and head onto the legs of Roark’s leathers. Apparently, he’d spent the night playing in a field of fungi.
“It seems fairly straightforward,” Roark said after he explained the Dungeon Lords’ quest. “Just kill this Bad_Karma bellend, then we can get on with preparing to fight Lowen.”
The agreements Roark expected never came. Instead, his friends looked from one to another with grim frowns.
After an uncomfortably long moment, Mai threw up her pink hands. “Sure, and none of you are going to tell him?
You’re just going to let him walk into this?”
“Now, Mai,” Griff said, his tone appeasing. The grizzled old trainer took a breath and turned to Roark. “I don’t think ya understand, son. Bad_Karma is walkin’, talkin’ death. Unstoppable. No mob nor player has ever killed him.”
In spite of the fact that Mac clearly wouldn’t fit on the chair by himself, let alone behind Roark, he shoved his head between Roark and the chair back, digging and pushing until Roark stood up and let him have the seat. The Young Turtle Dragon settled down with a sighing chirp of contentment, half his shell hanging off the front.
“I put down Pwnrbwner_OG like the dog he was twice,” Roark said, dusting the glowing spores from Mac’s shell. “I killed Azibek and half the Trolls in this damned citadel on my way to Dungeon Lord. And that was all well before I hit my final evolution. I’m stronger than I’ve ever been, level 36, and a Jotnar Infernali and Hexorcist with skills no one has ever seen. And you lot are telling me I’m supposed to be afraid of some hero just because nobody’s killed him yet?”
Griff raised a hand to stop him. “Say for a second that ya could kill him. Won’t matter, ’cause gettin’ to him’s the real problem. He’s a level 50, is Bad_Karma. I know the citadel’s the talk of the town at the moment, but this kid would never set foot here. It’s a low-level dungeon for beginners, and no matter how big it gets, he’ll always see it as such.”
Roark shrugged. “So, I go to him.”
“Convenient,” Zyra said, sarcasm dripping from her voice. “Do you have a silver platter to serve yourself on or are you going to smith one before you leave?”
The skepticism in his abilities was starting to annoy Roark. First from the other Dungeon Lords and now from his own mates, who should believe in him more than all others.
“I will kill him,” Roark insisted. “Doubt me if you want, but it’s going to happen. I just need to know where to find him.”
Griff sighed. “Well ...” He trailed off, fiddling with the handle of his shortsword. “Though I think it’s ill advised, I know how ya might get at him if yer determined. Bad_Karma has a standing appointment at the arena. Does battle once a week like the overconfident little jackdaw he is. With my connections, might be I could smuggle you in.”
“You’re going to help him with this... this suicide?” Mai asked. “Kaz, he’s your best friend. Aren’t you going to stop him?” she pleaded, eyes big, hands outthrust.
The Knight Thursr raised his huge chin and set his enormous fists on his hips.
“If Roark says he can kill Bad_Karma, then Kaz believes him. Roark has done everything else he said he would. He defeated the first floor Overseer, Ugoraz, when no one thought he could. He won Zyra to our cause. Earned the trust of Trolls everywhere. Killed Azibek. Built a Troll Marketplace and founded the first mob settlement in all of Hearthworld. He even brought us the wonders of food! Kaz believes.”
“Do what you will, then,” Mai fumed, crossing her arms over her ample bosom. “I’ll not be crying when you’re off for respawn, Dungeon Lord. And don’t be expecting me to keep your meal warm, either. The Infernali take you all.”
“I’m on your side, Mai,” Zyra said. “I’m placing my bets on the Griefer respawning before dinner. Might see if I can’t get over to the arena and place a little gold on the match.”
Roark smirked nastily at the hooded Reaver, but she just shrugged as if the outcome of his face-off with Bad_Karma was a foregone conclusion.
On the other side of the circle, Kaz tried to put his arm around Mai, but she shrugged his enormous arm off. The Knight Thursr’s eyes grew wide, and his lower lip quivered at the rejection.
“Mai darlin’, go easy now,” Griff said, patting her arm. “It ain’t gonna matter what we say, nobody’s gonna be able to talk the Griefer out of goin’ after Bad_Karma. Sometimes a young man just has to learn for himself.” The old arena hand trained his one piercing blue eye on Roark. “Not an old man, though. We don’t get old by ignorin’ common sense and runnin’ in to certain death, you ken?”
“Understood,” Roark said, nodding. “Now, how do we get to him?”
“Not we,” the weapons trainer said. “You. Getting everyone in will never happen. You’ll be on your own. Karma usually faces off against other heroes. Way I hear it told, there’s a waitin’ list as long as my arm of folks who want to fight him just for the pleasure of sayin’ they died by his hand. But it ain’t unheard of for him to warm up against scads of captured mobs. Usually low-level creatures taken in off the plains, but I’ve seen higher-level creatures in there a time or two. If you could disguise yourself as something else, it’d be a big help. Can your illusion spell do that? Make you look like a different kind of mob? Because if so, I reckon I can get you thrown in with the other mobs.”
Roark nodded. It would be pushing the limits, but maybe with his new Skin Deep: The Art of Glamorous Makeovers Grimoire, he’d be able to arrange something.
“Give me a few hours and I should be able to manage it. How soon can you get me in?”
Griff leaned back in his chair and cupped his chin in his scarred hand, staring off while he did the calculations.
“It’s only a shake of the kelpie’s tail to midnight. If we head over first thing in the morning, I reckon we can get you into the mob cages in time for the day’s fights.”
“Good,” Roark said. “Prepare to leave come first light. I’ll be handing this Bad_Karma bloke’s head to the Seven Dungeon Lords before sunset.”
But first, he needed to find a suitable illusion to mask his appearance.
ROARK STALKED FORWARD on silent feet, rounding a snaking bend in a shallow tunnel with rough earthen walls. Behind him, Zyra ghosted along, invisible though he could feel her presence like a reassuring hand clutched in the black of night. It had taken him hours of scouring the seemingly infinite pages marked with the “Wiki” ribbon in his Mystic Grimoire to find a creature suitable for his purpose.
At first, he was sure that he would need to find a master of illusion for Griff’s plan to work, but research proved that to be rather problematic. His own Illusion Cloak, provided by the World Stone Pendant, allowed him to assume his human form, but he couldn’t tailor it at will, which meant he needed a chimera capable of casting such elaborate illusions. It turned out that there were a fair number of such creatures roaming Hearthworld’s caverns, tombs, and dungeons, but few had the specific type of effect he needed. Those who did have illusory spells or abilities powerful enough to achieve the desired effect were creatures of enormous strength and renown. Dungeon Lords and Ladies who would be able to rip him apart with a thought or the twitch of a claw.
Ancient Dragons, it seemed, were the most likely source of illusion magick, followed in short order by various named demonic lords, undead liches, vampire monarchs, djinns, and rakshasa. It seemed the power of illusion was incredible deadly and hoarded by some of the fiercest monsters in Hearthworld. Roark was already running low on goodwill with the other Dungeon Lords, so simply asking for a favor seemed unwise, especially since he was trying to prove he was powerful enough to govern without their aid.
With that avenue of research thoroughly exhausted, they turned instead to creatures that didn’t rely on glamour or illusion to hide their form, but rather utilized bodily transmutation to survive and kill. A skill Roark could potentially learn since he had chosen the Change Yourself, Change Your Friends, Change the World: Transmutation Tricks Grimoire with his final Evolution. There were a number of these, most of them lower level—everything from Selkies and Barguest to Doppelgangers and Werewolves—but none were quite right. Not for this. But after a bit more digging and a helping hand from Griff, who was basically a compendium of monster lore thanks to his time in the arena, they found an acceptable alternative.
His quarry was an exceptionally odd creature known as a Grapple, a close relative to the Mimic. Mimics, it seemed, were far more commonplace than their lesser-known brethren, disguising themselves as treasure chests, tables, an
d even loot items such as swords or shields, only to transform into monsters of fangs and claws when heroes unwisely got too close. Genius, really. Roark had employed trapped treasure chests filled with spikes or acid to great effect, so he could admire the workmanship of a fellow hero-killer.
The Grapple, however, utilized a bit of a different strategy to kill its prey.
By all accounts, they were far deadlier than mimics, though less intelligent and driven almost entirely by hunger.
Finding one had not been easy, but if the eye-witness accounts from the Wiki pages of his grimoire were to be believed, there was likely one in this rudimentary cave system, which was home to a group of creatures not so different from the Changelings that inhabited the first floor of the Cruel Citadel.
The tunnel let out into a ragged, dome-shaped cavern, the ceiling above covered with long, dangling roots from some massive tree outside the cave system proper. A burbling creek carved its way through the center of the cavern, watering the patchy brown grass and stunted trees flanking either side of the slow-moving creek. Luminescent green mushrooms—smaller versions of the capped fungus found in the lower levels of Roark’s dungeon—sprouted from the walls, casting the whole scene in ghostly emerald light. Little huts of mud and sticks peppered the cavern’s interior, sheltering the dungeon’s inhabitants.
One of the chittering creatures spotted them and slipped from a squat home with no door.
The creature was three or four feet tall at most, its skin a putrid green a shade darker than the fungus, its arms too long, its legs too short. It moved with a waddling hop, using its arms as often as not. It had a pinched reptilian face with cold beady eyes that seemed to catch everything. It wore crude leathers and carried a sharpened stick instead of any sort of proper weapon. According to the spidery text floating over its head, it was a [Kobold].
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