Heroes of Darkness: A Dark Dungeon Realm LitRPG Omnibus Collection

by Wolfe Locke

  “You will train for battle in the Arena. In my generosity, I have granted you a small portion of my power. A seed to grow within you in hopes of something worthwhile to bloom. If you fight with honor, I will bestow more of it upon you.”

  Tetraites nodded again. A spark of iced lightning danced across his skeletal fingers. A light that cast blue into the darkness of the Great Empty.

  “One last thing,” Zekant said. He raised his arm as his blue armor shone with heavy runes and enchantments. Blood-red lightning erupted from his hand and fingertips. The lightning completely enveloped Tetraites in a whirlwind of fire as the inferno rebuilt and remade the skeleton in dark baptism. When the fire vanished, the skeleton’s eyes had turned red. Tetraites roared with bloodlust and rage.

  “I’ve also given you a vampiric aspect. Your desperate need for blood will make you stronger and more terrifying in battle. If you succeed, I will make many more like you. Pray that you serve me well. I have bonded a system to your soul, much like what my brethren have used in their towers and dungeons, to assist with your growth. Do not fail me.”

  Chapter 2: The Starting Kit

  Notification: You have been granted a Vampiric Aspect.

  Specific subtype – Bloodlust

  Details: While in battle, if an opponent has been bloodied, you cannot retreat and will experience a surge in strength and tenacity.

  The information burned itself into Tetraites’ slumbering mind, and when he awoke, he found he was lying on the floor of a cavernous stone hallway. Torches with black steel handles were set into metal brackets on the walls. The torches flickered with a sickly green light. Wherever he was, it felt like it was very deep underground, though Tetraites somehow knew that wasn’t the case. He was somehow somewhere else altogether.

  The last thing he could remember was writhing in pain on Zekant’s table, surrounded by fire. Zekant must have knocked him unconscious and sent him here. Better than the pit, at least. He shuddered.

  Tetraites bridled at the Dark Lord’s presumption. In life, he had been the most powerful necromancer in the world—and the richest. People had feared and loathed him, yes, but they had obeyed him and paid him tribute. And Zekant had treated him like he was nothing, a mere slave to be toyed with as he pleased. The arrogance of it disgusted him. A thought crept into his mind, an alien thought.

  This was once my minion, I will forgive this outburst. The next time will be your doom.

  Tetraites shuddered again. “My apologies, Master.” He muttered as his thoughts shifted. Better a slave than entrenched in the Well of Souls. Floating in the pit had been a state of constant agony, a hellish afterlife. As punishment for the wrongs, he had committed in his life, he had been forced to ruminate on them endlessly. Anything was better than that.

  A sudden noise around the corner startled him, and he leapt to his feet. Something is coming. He frantically looked around for a weapon. Nothing, not a thing. The only objects in the hallway were the torches, and they were securely bracketed to the wall. I won’t be able to get those out.

  The noise grew closer—an awful skittering sound, as if something with many legs was running toward him at high speed. It was a sound Tetraites vaguely recognized but couldn’t quite place.

  Zekant gave me ice magic! He tried to call on it, reaching for the well of power that had been so familiar to him when he was alive. Nothing. Not even a spark. How pathetic. He braced for impact as the thing, whatever it was, barreled around the corner with a shriek.

  The creature before him was monstrous. It was running toward him on twelve spindly spider-like legs, each covered in matted gray hair. Its torso was reptilian, and its head was batlike, with massive, tattered ears. A snake’s tongue flicked in and out of its mouth periodically as it raced down the hallway.

  “You’ve arrived!” it gibbered, scuttling to a stop in front of him. “The first of the master’s slaves.”

  Tetraites felt a flicker of irritation at that, but he let it go. He had no desire to draw the ire of the Dark Lord, not so quickly anyway, there would be plenty of time for that later. He stared at the grotesque creature before him, red flames dancing in his eyes.

  “The master created me to show you, slaves, the rules of the Arena,” the creature went on. “I’m to take you to the Armory for your Starting Kit. Then I’ll show you where you’ll be training and where you’ll be resting between battles. You’re the first one. The first!”

  Starting Kit? Tetraites thought, puzzled. Other slaves? Others like me.

  Would he be fighting against them in the Arena? Or alongside them?

  “I’m Crixa,” the thing babbled on, oblivious to his inner musings. “And I already know who you are. Tetraites the Conqueror! May you prove worthy of the name and the boon of life our master has granted you.”

  The words the Dark Lord had given the monster sounded ridiculous in the thing’s squealing voice. It scuttled a ways down the hallway, then stopped and looked back in annoyance.

  “Are you coming?” it said with an edge to it’s voice. “Quickly! To the Armory!”

  Notification: You have met Crixa the Artificer. You are to meet them at the Armory to begin your new life in the Spectral Arena.

  Details: Draw basic weapons and armor before your first fight.

  The information was absorbed in his mind. Then in irritation, Tetraites followed. It seemed like they were moving at a pace slower than the creature wanted because it kept running ahead and looking back at him in alarm. Tetraites took pleasure in its distress, intentionally walking slightly slower than needed.

  They walked for what felt like miles, turning down hallway after identical hallway. At every junction, Crixa stopped and tasted the air with its forked tongue before choosing which way to go. The Arena must be massive. If the subterranean maze beneath it was this large, Tetraites wondered what it looked like above ground.

  Gradually the hallways grew more expansive, and the torches on the walls were replaced with intricate iron sconces that burned with a brighter green flame. The air also started to smell absolutely terrible—like a cross between rotting meat and sweat. It was the vilest stench Tetraites had ever encountered, and it was coming from ahead of them. It grew stronger and stronger as they moved toward it. Tetraites felt uneasy.

  “W-what is that?” Tetraites asked, trying not to gag in disgust. Horrified at the thought of meeting the source of the smell.

  Crixa giggled idiotically. “The smell? That’s the Armorer.”

  They turned a corner to find a shop window flanked by iron candelabras. Each candelabra bristled with black candles and sat in a pool of insidious -looking black wax so deep that it was as if they had been there for centuries. Above the window hung a sign that said SPECTRAL ARMORY in an elegant script.

  The noxious smell was very strong here, and Tetraites realized gratefully that he no longer had to breathe as one of the undead.

  Crixa stopped in front of the window, spindly legs twitching with glee and excitement. “Armorer! It’s time,” the monster squealed. “Open up! The first of the slaves have arrived, and he must be armed!”

  A massive bull’s head appeared in the window in a wave of stench as it looked out at them. It was filthy. Its fur was matted with mud as flies and gnats flew around its face. Its long horns were caked in dirt and dried gore. Its torso was manlike and covered in coarse brown hair. A minotaur. Tetraites thought approvingly. I should have known Zekant would choose to fill his realm with half-breed monsters.

  The bull-man rolled a piggish black eye toward them, part of the iris yellowed and bloodshot. “Who’s this, then? Fresh meat for the pyre I presume.”

  Its teeth were sharp and serrated like a shark. Bits of flesh and bone was still stuck between them. Tetraites wondered if he’d have to fight a creature like that, and if so, how he’d manage to defeat and kill one. In his previous life, he would have just summoned a horde of undead to mob and tear it apart.

  “I am Tetraites the Conqueror,” Tetraites said, est
ablishing himself and saying the words inherent in the part. “I’m here to battle for glory in the Spectral Arena and to redeem myself by fighting in the war against the God Aeon. I will live again.”

  The bull snuffled and laughed. “The maggot speaks. No one asked you, maggot. Crixa, you came for the Starting Kit for this one?”

  Crixa’s twelve legs danced in place while the front legs rubbed together. The Armorer seemed to take that as an affirmative. He vanished behind the window again, and from the other side, loud shuffling noises could be heard.

  Tetraites moved closer, wondering what exactly was in Zekant’s Armory and what powerful equipment he might hope to receive from the Dark Lord one day.

  The room behind the window was enormous. Racks of gleaming weapons were stacked in even rows. Against the far wall—huge broadswords the size of a man, deadly-looking glaives and spears, maces that looked like they could cleave an enemy’s head in with one blow, and shatter whatever floor was underneath after.

  Everything was at the ready and sharpened to a razor’s edge. Next to the traditional weaponry was the spelled weaponry. Tetraites recognized some of it from his previous lifetime. While he hadn’t equipped his undead armies directly, that’s what servants were for, he had been the one to issue the orders.

  The sword at the end of one of the racks looked like it was made of soft and useless copper, but Tetraites knew it held an activated enchantment that would envelop an opponent in all-consuming Hellfire until nothing was left of the body but ashes.

  There was a stack of arrows that glinted with cruel barbs in the torchlight that would travel for miles once shot and were almost impossible to remove from a body. These arrows would never stop, never lose speed or power until they found their target or hit solid mass. Whatever that might be.

  The spear hanging high on the wall would open a deep chasm if driven into the ground, sending entire armies to their eternal rest deep beneath the earth. There were more weapons whose power Tetraites could only guess at, and he quivered with anticipation, thinking that he soon might learn what secrets they held.

  Racks of armor of every kind of material and helms covered an entire wall on the room’s right side. As with the weaponry, conventional Armor stood next to spelled, and each piece was beautifully made and of the highest quality.

  Tetraites looked for the glacial Armor that he’d seen Zekant wearing at the Well of Souls, but it was nowhere to be found. The Dark Lord himself likely has a private Armory for his own favorite pieces, Tetraites thought. As did I.

  On the left side of the room, cubbies held scrolls of every imaginable size and color. Tetraites could feel the magic emanating from them. Every scroll held a spell. Some were deadly, some were spells of healing, some were complex illusion magic, but all were immensely powerful. He wondered if the Dark Lord had written them all himself. If so, Zekant was an existence not to be trifled with.

  The Armorer returned, brawny arms full of equipment. Tetraites backed away as the minotaur dumped a stack of Armor and weaponry on the counter in front of him. This is it! As the first warrior to be created for the arena, he was sure to have the best and most powerful pieces. He couldn’t wait to see what the Dark Lord had chosen for him.

  “All right,” said the Armorer, sounding bored. “Starting Kit. Basic Weaponry. First item, Basic Sword.”

  The minotaur held up the sword for Tetraites to see it. It was tiny. The hilt was unadorned iron and the blade, while sharp, was clearly well-used. It didn’t look like the sword of a conquering gladiator at all.

  “Basic Spear,” said the Armorer equally unimpressed.

  Like the sword, the Basic Spear was completely lacking in that killing edge and flair he was hoping for. Tetraites fought back a wave of fury. What an insult.

  “Basic Armor.”

  The minotaur held up a breastplate and helm. Both were plain iron and covered in scratches as if they’d been used by generations of soldiers before him.

  “Basic Shield.”

  A small round metal shield completed the kit.

  They call me a conqueror and tell me to become an elite, yet here they are, giving me children’s toys! Tetraites opened his mouth to protest. Then he remembered himself and the master he now served. He was no longer Xanthus the Great, the Necromancer, feared by half the world. He was only Tetraites the slave. Tetraites the unworthy. Tetraites who feared the pit.

  “The Dark Lord has been quite generous,” he said.

  The minotaur grunted in response as the half-man pushed the items across the counter towards Tetraites. “We’ll see how you do.”

  Notification: You have been granted a Starting Kit. This includes a basic iron sword, a wooden spear, and iron armor with a matching helmet.

  Details: Watch your back, and maybe get some better armor for it.

  The minotaur reached a massive paw under the counter and brought out a gleaming gold coin unlike any Tetraites had ever seen and as Xanthus, his treasure chests had been filled with every currency in the known world. The coin glowed with its own internal light, casting flickering patterns on the minotaur’s ugly face, causing even the flying bugs to disperse.

  “This is a Sol,” the Armorer said. “It’s a currency of energy that will drop when you slaughter your enemies. Gather enough of these, and you’ll be able to buy better gear and armor. As well as unlock additional abilities from Zekant.”

  Better gear. Tetraites reached out for the coin greedily, but the minotaur moved the Sol away.

  “The maggot has quick hands. You’ll have to earn these, slave.” The minotaur explained with a smile that bordered on a sneer.

  Crixa sniggered behind him, and Tetraites felt his eye-flames burn bright with annoyance. One day, I’ll kill you. Tetraites promised as he calmed himself. All the more reason to strive for victory in the Arena. He’d have the gear he wanted soon enough.

  “One last thing,” the Armorer said, pulling a scroll down from the cubby behind him. “The Dark Lord has generously opened a pocket in the fabric of reality for you and formed it into a ring to be worn. You can store your equipment within it as you gather it. Use this spell to bind the ring to you.”

  Tetraites picked up the ring and the scroll. He untied the leather thong holding it closed as he slipped the ring on his hand. As soon as he unrolled it he felt a wave of power crackle along his entire body as the jolt of the information entered his brain.

  Notification: Spell Learned “Access Spacial Ring”

  Details: With this spell, you may at will retrieve items and place items within the pocket dimension inside the ring.

  He cackled elated. This is easy. I already know the spell.

  “When I was alive,” Tetraites said, “I had to actually read the scrolls to learn the spells.”

  The minotaur shrugged, unconcerned, unimpressed and uncaring. “Welcome to the Great Empty, may you serve our master well.”

  Tentatively, Tetraites reached out with his power to the ring on his hand. He felt the internal space of the spatial ring quickly and dropped the weapons and armor inside. Watching as the items disappeared in a flash. It feels good to use magic again, even if it’s borrowed power.

  “Onward minion!” Crixa gibbered. “To the Training Grounds!”

  The Training Grounds were in a massive subterranean cavern with a vaulted ceiling. Practice weapons of every conceivable type lined the walls, all blunted or made of wood for training. Along one wall were targets for the gladiators to practice on with ranged weapons or battle magic. Along another were three iron gates with darkness beyond.

  “For the beasts and summons,” Crixa muttered in explanation. “Down here, they’re just illusion magic. Zekant doesn’t want to waste the real monsters on training. They, unlike you, are not so easily replaced.”

  Half of the training space was taken up by a miniature arena with low stone walls. A dueling arena? The floor was covered in sawdust. To make it easier to clean up the blood? Crixa saw him looking and twitched its spindly legs
in acknowledgment.

  “You’ll be doing practice battles in there once the Dark Lord creates the other champions,” Crixa explained. “Pay close attention to them once they spawn. Knowing their strengths and weaknesses could be the difference between your survival and certain death.”

  Tetraites thought about this. Strengths and weaknesses…what would the other champions be like? What skills would they have, and how could he use them to his own benefit…or to their destruction? Would they all be saddled with the same pathetic weapons he had, or would the Dark Lord be more generous with some than with others? I’d be a fool to assume things will be equal.

  A wall of small doors opened directly out from the Training Grounds, and Crixa took him there next. The beast made a complicated clicking sound low in its throat, and one of the doors swung open with a creak of rusty hinges.

  “This is your cell,” it said. “You’ll rest here between battles to recover your strength. If you perform well, I have been told to provide you luxuries.”

  Tetraites walked inside. The room was tiny, sparse, and lit by torches bracketed to the walls. A low bench on one end was covered by a thin blanket. It was just wide enough for him to lie down on.

  “Your first battle is to be tomorrow,” the beast said. “It will be your first test. One of many, I am sure. The Dark Lord wants to see if you have a killer instinct. Or if you’re unworthy of the blood on your hands.”

  Tomorrow! So soon?

  The door slammed behind him, triggering a lock that would keep him in place. Tetraites could hear Crixa skitter away across the Training Grounds. Soon he was alone again.

  He sat on the bench and retrieved his Basic Sword from within the pocket dimension of his spacial ring. The sword was ugly, but its weight was good. He took a few experimental swings. He was getting used to this new body. By the time he died, Xanthus had been so fat and gout-ridden he could barely walk, the product of too much time spent gorging himself at lavish banquets.