by Dante King
I turned my mind to my Physical Essence but didn’t have enough to build anything useful except for a few more traps. They would take time to position and craft, but I could summon Hellbats almost instantaneously. I still had 400 Infernal Essence but didn’t want to pour everything into a horde of minions.
Before I could make a decision, I felt the first raider step into the dungeon. My consciousness reflexively fluttered away from the essence, as though it had suddenly become out of reach. Snarling to myself, I tried to catch hold of it, but it was lost to me. The corner of my jewel that could excavate, build, and shape things from essence was shut off. The abilities I had come to rely on were imprisoned within a metaphorical concrete bunker.
Then I realized what had happened: I couldn’t change my dungeon or summon more minions after a visitor entered my gates. It was something instinctive and integral to my nature as a dungeon core.
I felt more feet on my entrance steps and refocused, dismissing the limitation in half a second. They filtered down, one after the other. I spotted the half-orcs instantly—huge, blunt tusks jutted out of their grey faces and narrowed eyes below ridged foreheads also gave them away. They weren’t exactly Gavin’s level of ugly, but what might a human being have fucked to create one of these guys?
They were cautious as they proceeded down the staircase, pausing with each step and waiting almost a full thirty seconds before continuing. Their wary movements gave me time to inspect their equipment. Some carried torches flickering with pitch, ugly but useful additions to decorate and illuminate my dungeon.
Their weapons formed a motley collection, but they were all goldmines to a dungeon core. Curved swords of dull metal with leather-wrapped hilts hung down from their sides. I couldn’t even build a sword at this point to decorate my dungeon or give to Von Dominus. There were short spears with wide blades that would make perfect dungeon spikes. One half-orc, shorter and slimmer than the others, carried two slender daggers, completely different from Bertha’s cleaver. Some of the weapons glistened with Infernal Essence, and I suppressed the giddy thought of absorbing more of them to create new weapons with differing effects. The time would come for that; right now, I had to focus on dealing with these fools.
The amount of Soul Essence swirling down the staircase from my entrance was enough to make my mental mouth water. I needed that delicious, golden buffet to create, to transform, to make more and more minions.
My jewel flickered in anticipation as the raiders continued their descent with measured steps. The tendrils of my consciousness hovered near the Hellbats as they hibernated, utterly unaware of my intention to call upon them. I could already imagine the chaos, but I needed all of the raiders inside my dungeon’s antechamber before I awoke the first minion. I’d pull the trigger and start a shitfest to stir the bats into a frenzy, and I almost yipped with the joy of it. If I wanted clean kills, I’d need four times the number of Hellbats I already had. With only five in the Antechamber, I’d need to move a few from the Pretzel to make a good first impression.
As I issued the command to the dormant minions, the last pair of raiders entered my dungeon: the humans. The first was a young man, fit from hard work, carrying a weapon glowing with an Infernal sigil. The whole weapon was shimmering with essence; it was not merely a conduit. The second I saw it, I attempted to consume the weapon, but I came up against that same mental wall that had prevented me building traps while my dungeon had visitors.
I might not have been able to eat the weapon now, but I would later. The guy carrying it was dead. I’d have to save the other human as my dungeon’s primary advertiser.
The old guy behind him carried a staff shining with a steady, guiding light. Carved into the wood was another Infernal sigil, but as I could see no residual essence floating off the light source, I assumed the staff illuminated without the need for fuel. Torches would require constant upkeep, but this staff could be a more permanent, resource-sparing solution to Zagorath’s lighting problem.
The old man’s robes brushed across the steps as he moved down. They were definitely the robes of a priest, and the symbol on the garment’s front reminded me of Lilith. Was he devoted to Lilith? I supposed it didn’t matter; Lilith hadn’t ordered me not to kill her priests.
He was practically glowing with the characteristically red-edged, golden aura of Soul Essence. Was it his age, his years of channeling Essence into weapons, or did he possess some kind of potent, hidden power? I didn’t know how exactly adventurers harvested and manipulated the energy of dungeons and monster. It was all a mystery to me.
The more I focused on the priest, the more I felt there was more to him—or, at least, more to his equipment. I centered my consciousness on a pouch hanging from his belt, sensing something that changed the game entirely.
It was a consciousness not unlike my own, buried behind a container of some kind. It deafened her voice, but I knew she was pleading for help. I could tell the voice was feminine, but I couldn’t quite say why. Something reached out and connected with me, a dull cry that electrified my heart. The jolt of energy further roused my curiosity, and I spent almost a full minute mentally dissecting the object within the leather pouch.
Then I found it.
A small, azure jewel was hidden beneath the leather folds, an egg-like shell covered in binding magic keeping her from breaking out. Each time I flickered over her, she recoiled, hardening her mental defenses. But I could sense her there as she trembled, and I knew instinctively what she was: another dungeon core.
But how? How was there another core here? Had they torn her from her own dungeon and forced her to travel with them? Is that what I would’ve become, if not for Bertha and Puck?
Too many questions, not enough time. I had to rescue her.
Now I had two priority targets: the kid and the priest.
“I thought you said this dungeon was in its infantile stages, old man,” a half-orc screamed at the priest. “What do you call this? The walls are decorated, and I can hear the hum of power. It should have taken decades to get to this stage.”
“I thought it was a new dungeon, but clearly Lilith has given this one much guidance. Or perhaps it has stumbled upon greatness itself? There are legends of an incredibly ancient dungeon that once ruled from Zagorath.”
“Legends? I don’t give a fuck about legends. I want loot, and I’m not willing to die in the process.”
“Will you quit being so gutless?” another half-orc said before he kicked Renkish in the back, sending him tumbling down the final steps and crashing to the very door of my antechamber.
The rest of the raiders roared as they charged inside it. They paused all of a sudden upon noticing the room was entirely empty. They must have been expecting chests filled with treasure, and I could feel their disappointment seep through my dungeon’s floors.
“Where’s all the loot?” Renkish asked after he scrambled to his feet.
“Must be further down. There’s stairs over there.” A half-orc gestured behind the wall bearing the bat mosaic.
As the raiders ventured toward the staircase leading to the First Floor, I pulled the trigger on the Hellbats, reaching into their minds and feeding their hungry desire for blood. I sent four from the Pretzel’s hallways and blasted them up into the antechamber vents. Then nine of the red-eyed, white-fanged vampire bats set upon the raiders all at once.
The fools were thrown into chaos, and I watched with glittering satisfaction as a half-orc fell, his throat torn asunder by a Hellbat. Blood fountained in the air before my minion shot toward the next target.
I winced as my connection with one of the Hellbats severed; the kid with the incredible sword had torn through it easily. The human stood over the corpse and stole the Infernal Essence, pulling it into a tattoo on his shirtless back in a similar manner to when my jewel absorbed it.
Of course; that was how the tattooed-sigils worked. It was the key for adventurers to grow their own power by consuming Infernal Essence. Dungeons and adven
turers, the two elements of this world went hand in hand.
The kid sliced a wing off a bat, and his face set into a grim line as he crushed its skull with his boot. Another raider howled as a Hellbat smashed him into the wall and pinned him there while it tore at his eyes and face. The half-orc’s head and neck soon became a waterfall of blood. When the others attempted to rescue him, my Hellbat took flight and evaded their clumsy swings.
“All for you, Lilith.” I grinned as blood bathed my obsidian floors.
My bats were a brilliant minion for the shadows—the raiders could barely make anything out in the blood-red light filtering through the obsidian bat’s eyes and wings. The raiders’ confusion didn’t last long, and they eventually regrouped and formed a tight circle. My Hellbats couldn’t withstand the rekindled passion, and I called them to retreat. They vanished up into the vents, out of sight, and I did a quick headcount.
Four left. Fuck.
Five had fallen, absorbed into the raiders’ tattooed sigils. The kid had killed at least two of them.
While my guests laughed and congratulated each other, I counted their number. I’d narrowed their party down to twenty-six, wounding others, but still leaving them able to fight. The four corpses were barely offered a prayer by their comrades; instead, the survivors pilfered the corpses and argued for a few moments over who would inherit what.
“Enough!” the priest yelled, and the half-orcs all looked to him. “The dungeon is not yet complete. You’ve earned only spoils taken from the bodies of your dead brothers. Do you wish to celebrate over defeating a handful of bats, or do you desire the treasure that most certainly lurks deeper into this dungeon?”
The half-orcs shared a few glances and then nodded their agreement. My jewel practically burst with excitement—I’d worried that the first wave might have scared a few into leaving. Their essences and equipment were too precious to allow them to leave, and I probably would have sent my champions racing after them if they’d tried. I checked in with Puck and Bertha and found them waiting in the First Floor. They would be ready as soon as these raiders entered through the corridor.
Well, not all the raiders; my traps would almost certainly whittle down their number.
They spread out, investigating the chamber as they inched closer to my spring-loaded Bladed Fan trap. I needed them confused and less careful with their movements, so I sent my Hellbats back into the antechamber. The minions exploded from the ceiling vent again and surged into the ranks of adventurers.
One hapless adventurer fought off a bat with his sword but made the mistake of stepping on my trap’s trigger. A loud click echoed through the antechamber, and I commanded my Hellbats to take flight, out of the path of the fan blades. All the half-orcs seemed to realize the folly of their comrade immediately, but their realization came too late.
My perfectly-shaped projectiles of razor-sharp troll iron hissed free of the trap and launched from their hidden place in the wall. The blades rippled through the air at chest height, and the shortest of the half-orcs lost his head instantly. The decapitated head spun through the air and showered his friends in blood and gore while severed muscles and spine trailed behind it. The truncated corpse toppled over, bathing my floor in red, sweet, delicious blood.
Another raider caught one in the back, and I watched as it sank straight through his leather armor, cracked his ribs, and slid deep into his vitals. Another blade took off half of another’s jaw, ripping it from his skull and sending it spinning to the ground like an afterthought. The blade continued spinning and bouncing off bone until it found another half-orc. It pierced straight into his groin and opened up precious arteries before cleaving away what he valued most.
The fourth fan blade severed an arm, its sword still clutched in spasming fingers as it tumbled to the ground. The last blade wedged itself into a collarbone, cracked it like an eggshell, and sprayed the contents of the half-orc’s veins over his friends.
Satisfaction boiled in my jewel; I almost wished I had a mouth, so I could grin. My bloodthirstiness was a little surprising, and I wasn’t sure whether it was a result of my vampire-like avatar, my dungeon instincts, or my affinity to the Infernal Realm. Maybe all three?
The Hellbats stirred into a frenzy from the sheer amount of spilled blood. The minions became heedless to the raiders’ attacks, diving through the ranks despite the blades cutting them down. Just to score a taste of the precious scarlet substance leaking from wounds and running through veins, they latched onto limbs, throats, hands, and anything else they could find. Still more blood splashed onto my sable floor and ran in rivulets along the channels separating the tiles.
The priest with the glowing staff moved with surprising strength as he swatted one of my Hellbats from above him. The monster tumbled along the floor before lifting itself into the air again, only to be met with its end by the kid’s Essence-infused longsword. The human pair drank in the Infernal Essence with their sigils, and I retreated my consciousness into the walls to watch them. Their skilled movements actually entertained me, and I was left admiring the sigils on the kid’s sword.
I needed them.
I instilled the Hellbats with fear, and the emotion caused them to retreat back into the safe confines of the vents. I couldn’t order them as easily as my champions since they weren’t very intelligent, but a good dose of emotion did the trick.
While the raiders paused to tend to their wounds and loot over the corpses of their comrades, I surveyed the damage I’d done to their numbers. The blades of my trap and the Hellbats had claimed nine of their lives, but there were still twenty-one left.
“That was tough,” the kid said, speaking for the first time. “Did you know it would be this difficult, Alaxon?”
“Ah, this is just the beginning, Ralph,” the priest answered as he leaned on his staff. “This dungeon is far more powerful than I assumed.”
The half-orcs barely paid attention to the pair of humans, so I figured they weren’t actually the leaders but likely late additions to the party.
“Zagorath will not stand to our combined might, nor the might of the Dark Reaper!” Ralph brandished his sword and lifted it up high like a beacon of power, while the half-orcs looked at him like he’d just grown a second head. Some stifled chuckles under their breath, while others gazed at the sword as if just waiting for my dungeon to claim the kid so they could take away his weapon.
I might have wondered how Ralph had learned of my dungeon’s name, but I was too busy trying to curb my own laughter. Not only was Ralph confident, but he was also great at fulfilling a bunch of tropes. A named sword, a lame declaration, and a mentor that looked like a wizard; was he going for the epic fantasy hat-trick?
Had he also been an orphan farmboy not too long ago? I didn’t plan on letting him complete his chosen-one destiny, and his Dark Reaper would be mine after I dismantled and absorbed it. The two-handed sword would look particularly formidable in the hands of my elf avatar.
My first party had entered my depths, and I was only just getting started.
Chapter Twenty
“They’re getting closer,” I warned my minions. “Twenty-one left.”
“Then let them come.” Bertha’s fingers tightened around her poleaxe.
“In the name of the Goddess!” Puck added.
I turned my attention back to the dead raiders. I couldn’t build or transform essence while they stood in my dungeon, but the precious Soul Essence floating above their corpses was right there for the taking. Before I could draw in the essence, the raiders who were alive sucked it into the heart of their tattoos. They seemed to grow stronger, and I wondered why they didn’t just kill each other to gain in strength. In fact, they probably did it all the time—a ruthless society in the Sinarius Realms I’d need to adapt to.
The surviving guests crept down the steps, away from the glowing red eyes of my menacing wall feature. They were moving far more cautiously now, eyes sweeping from side to side and weapons ready to strike at a mome
nt’s notice. Ralph and Alaxon stayed at the back, happy to let the avarice of the others spur them into the deaths I had planned for each of them. This pair was smart, but they’d soon be dead, their essence and equipment added to my growing repertoire.
“What the fuck is this place?” one of the half-orcs muttered, tightening his grip on his spear.
“If the traps are that strong, the rewards will be worth our toil,” the half-orc called Renkish told him, his eyes glittering with greed.
Renkish’s promise of spoils was infectious, and they cleared the steps three at a time, reaching the Pretzel in mere seconds.
“Looks like there’s a few alcoves with treasure in them,” a half-orc commented.
“Should we all go together?” another asked, his overhanging jaw trembling with fear. “There’s no telling what surprises might be in there.”
“Nah,” Renkish said, and it was clear he wanted to share his treasure with no one. “We’ll split up. Grab what you find, then regroup at the entrance to the next corridor.”
After they reached an agreement, they filtered off into the hallways.
“This seems too easy,” Ralph whispered to the priest. “Why simply leave equipment here?”
“It’s the nature of dungeons, lad. They need to provide an incentive for folks to enter them.”
“Could it be a trap?”
“Most certainly,” Alaxon replied with a sly smile. “Which is why we wait for these half-orc fools to trigger them.”
As the raiders filtered into the alcoves, my polished obsidian walls reflected the flickering light of the torches they carried. With a cry of triumph, the first half-orc to the altars scooped up his spoils. A similar cry rang from the raider beside him as he wrapped his hands around a replica of Bertha’s cleaver. The two now sported weapons infused with Swiftness sigil, so they would be more difficult to fight, but I wanted to boost their confidence a little more. It wouldn’t serve me well if they turned tail and fled my dungeon; I needed them to remain in order to wring their corpses dry of essence.
