Dungeons of Strata (Deepest Dungeon #1) - A LitRPG series

by G. D. Penman

  Regardless, he needed to do something to get through this day, so he lurched to his feet and made a beeline for the bathroom. He could feel Gillian’s eyes on him every step that he took until he was finally out of sight.

  In the sanctuary of the bathroom cubicle, he pulled out his smartphone and started searching around for information about Strata. There were a few forums dedicated to the game, but they seemed to be sparsely populated. He’d seen more players in Beachhead last night than seemed to be posting regularly.

  The only website he found that seemed to be showing just how many people were actually playing Strata was an auction site.

  There were no images, just descriptions. He had a quick glance through the listings to see if there was anything that might be helpful, and his eyes almost bulged out of their sockets.

  Items from just a few deeps down were going for hundreds of dollars – not even magical items, just regular equipment. The few magic items that were listed cost more than his rent.

  Martin stared down at the numbers for a long moment before something clicked in his exhausted brain. In a normal MMO, not everyone was racing for some finish line. They were exploring, they were completing quests, they were crafting.

  Equipment in Strata must have all come from the crafting systems, and everybody was ignoring those in favor of rushing ahead as fast as they could. No wonder people hadn’t made it to the end of the game yet; they were trying to face nuclear bombs with peashooters.

  It was a self-fulfilling prophecy. The more of a rush people were in to get to the last deep, the less likely they were to be equipped to deal with it.

  The more people failed, the more it encouraged others to keep barreling forward at full speed, because that carrot on a stick was still dangling right in front of their faces. The grand prize was still there for anyone to take, just out of reach.

  He filed that little titbit of information away and went hunting for stat blocks again. On some obscure blog a dozen pages through his search results he found what he was looking for: somebody else doing the bare minimum of statistical comparison between the different race and class combinations.

  Whoever it was hadn’t taken the size differential into account, so Murovan of all classes were ranked at the bottom across the board, but it didn’t take long for Martin to do the math himself.

  None of the other combinations were better. It didn’t matter how he calculated it; the stats were the same. He’d have to dig into the specific abilities of the – still tempting – invoker to be completely certain, but stats-wise they all seemed to be on par. Except Murovan, who had the same comparative stats, but were harder to hit.

  If he restarted as something else, not only would he lose the level he had gained last night, but he’d lose the mechanically best race.

  The pre-alarm warning popped onto his screen and he thumbed it off. Time to grab a caffeine top-up and get back to the grind.

  The coffee must have made some difference to his pallor, because apart from one more appraising look from Gillian, he was left in peace on his return to his desk. Without her hovering, he was able to split his attention between the order processing program and a hastily assembled spreadsheet where he input the different stats from memory, adding in his own percentage adjustments based on size and the value of their racial abilities.

  Given how easy player-versus-player combat was to initiate – and how well put-together the game seemed to be – he was sure that the classes would be balanced. Changing class wasn’t important anyway. Changing race was what this was all about.

  One night as a Murovan had been enough to convince him that he didn’t want to be treated that way again. It was bad enough being treated like garbage in real life; he didn’t want to endure it in his free time too.

  “What are you working on there?”

  Gillian was right behind him. Close enough that her breath tickled the small hairs on the back of Martin’s neck. He jumped involuntarily, one flailing hand slapping the dregs of his coffee across the desk. There was nothing on the screen but numbers. She didn’t know he wasn’t working. He could lie. He just had to think.

  The brown sludge started creeping across towards his keyboard until he slapped his arm down and let the worst of it soak into his shirt sleeve. Damaging company property would have been just the pretext Gillian needed to initiate disciplinary procedures and finally get rid of him. The coffee was lukewarm by the time it reached his skin, and he rolled up his sleeves without thinking.

  “Sorry, Gillian. Just trying to work out an improved algorithm for the automatic order queue.”

  It was the perfect combination of jargon and reminder that he’d upped office productivity.

  She smiled tightly at him, eyes darting down to his bare forearm.

  “No need for that. Just worry about what’s in front of you. I’m sure the tech support guys can handle that back-office stuff.”

  What was she looking at? Martin glanced down and spotted the shimmer of metallic ink on his skin. The tattoo. She was trying not to stare at it. He had forgotten all about it; it was as familiar as a birthmark by now and the metallic sheen was starting to fade.

  Lindsay had drawn the Iron Riot guild crest back when they were just starting out in Dracolich Online, and after they’d finished the world’s first successful Anguish Keep raid, all the senior guild members had gone out to get their allegiance branded onto their skin.

  Martin didn’t know if any of the others had actually gone through with it – the slight downside of having friends that you never physically met – but ultimately, he didn’t need to know because that tattoo was about his commitment to the guild, not anyone else’s.

  Gillian obviously wanted to say something about it, some comment about the dress code or some simpering invasive personal question. He had to fend it off before it came. There was no way he was going to spend the rest of his day trying to explain VRMMOs to his boss.

  “Sorry, Gillian, you’re completely right. I shouldn’t let improving the process that handles hundreds of orders a day distract me from my work. I know how important productivity is to you.”

  The tight smile got even more pinched. They both knew he’d carried the whole department through the last annual review with his little process automation widget. It didn’t matter how much she hated him. She had to tolerate him because of his results.

  He smiled right back at her, much more genuinely. There was something perversely enjoyable about being trapped in this office with both of them painfully aware of how much better he was at his job than her.

  Without looking, he deleted his worksheet and turned back to the order processing UI. Gillian made a little huffing noise, but the conversation seemed to be over. There was still an hour left in the day and spite was a powerful motivator.

  Despite the mid-afternoon slump he was still going to beat everyone in the office. It was like they weren’t even trying to be the best.

  Martin didn’t even recognize his own reflection when he was riding the train home that night, in no small part because a smile was still hovering on his lips. Anticipation of the night ahead was finally outweighing his exhaustion.

  Every time they blasted past the bright lights of a station and his face reappeared Martin did a little double-take. He was half expecting to see Skaife’s ratty little face reflected back at him.

  He flicked through the general news feeds, searching for anything about Strata, but beyond the impressive number of players it boasted and its position on the bestseller charts there was nothing at all. Usually every MMO had some bad press by now, some luddite screaming that gaming was dangerous and holding it up as an example, but on Strata they were silent. Even the usual poop-socking stories about people staying online for days at a time were absent. Weird.

  Usually when he was this tired, he would load up on sugar and buzz through until a crash at about midnight, but tonight he found himself craving protein. He stopped in at the station convenience store on his way out and sur
faced with more decent food than he’d normally eat in a month.

  With no need to budget for a game or an upgrade to his computer, eating like a human being had become a viable option again; that was kind of exciting in a sad, grown-up kind of way.

  By the time he’d wandered up to his apartment, Martin had already devoured half a roasted chicken, well aware that the moment the NIH came into sight, he was going to want to put it on.

  He forced himself to go through the motions of putting his groceries away and washing up as best he could before turning on his computer.

  Lindsay was already in the game. Whatever thoughts he’d been entertaining about restarting vanished in an instant when the prospect of getting back into the game was in front of him.

  So the whole town of Beachhead hated him just for existing. So what? All he had to do was what he always did. Outshine them all.

  Nine

  The Key of Culvair

  It felt like falling again the second time that Martin came to Strata, but this time it was just a sensation before he slammed down into Skaife’s wiry rodent frame. It was already waiting for him in the same spot he’d left it.

  He opened his eyes and grinned. The bustle of the town around him was full of purpose and energy, not like the aimlessly drifting strangers he had just passed by out in the real world. How could it already feel like coming home?

  “Oi, tourist. Stop gawking. You ain’t here to take in the view. You’re here to quest.”

  He spun around looking for Tesra before realizing the guild crest on his chest was glowing again. She must have been somewhere nearby.

  He touched the crest to reply to her, still wondering where she was, when suddenly a speck of silvery light appeared at the periphery of his vision. When he released the crest, the glow vanished.

  Interesting.

  With his paw flattened on the guild sign once more he turned in a slow circle until he spotted the light outlining a figure lurking on a rooftop just outside of the torches’ reach.

  “Aren’t you a little short to be Batman?”

  The dark figure popped up from its crouch.

  “Cheeky. What took you so long? I’ve been waiting ten minutes.”

  “Waiting, or...?”

  Martin was entirely too familiar with his brave leader’s deficit attention span. He could see her bouncing on her heels, even from this distance.

  “All right, so maybe I already picked up the next quest from Culvair. We have to go hunt some dark rabbit or whatever.”

  “A dark rabbit,” he replied flatly.

  Lindsay paced back and forth along the roof.

  “Dark rabbit? Night rabbit? I don’t know. Some bunny monster or other.”

  Martin scratched his head. “Is it some kind of rabbit-man?”

  She dropped down off the roof, out of sight, and her outline was replaced with a spark of light to mark her position.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Will you just get your ass in gear? I’ve got places to be and people to see.”

  Martin rolled his eyes. “Yeah… I’m going to go see Culvair. Maybe he’ll know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “Ugh, come on,” she wheedled. “Let’s go kill something. It’s been a crappy day. I want to get my murder on.”

  He was entirely too used to Lindsay for her complaining to have any impact.

  “Five minutes. You can go check the marketplace for new weapons or food or something.”

  “But… but… murder.” She sounded despondent.

  “Soon. I promise. All the murder you can eat. I just need to find out what kind of rabbit we’re after.”

  He was smiling again. This was the most fun he’d had all day, and all they were doing was arguing.

  Was it possible to pout with a beak? If it was, Lindsay was almost certainly doing it.

  “Fine, but if you take a minute longer, I’m trading you in for a younger, prettier rat-man.”

  “Five minutes,” Martin sighed.

  “Five minutes. Or else.”

  The watchtower where Captain Culvair lingered was still right beside him, so Martin scrambled up the stairs as fast as he could. It was a funny little detail, but the steps were just slightly too high for him, like they’d been made with longer legs in mind. What would have been a stroll for any other race cost him stamina.

  Culvair was still in his place atop the tower, staring out into the endless darkness beyond the reach of the town’s torches. Blind to everything that Martin’s Murovan vision could make out easily.

  Here in town, everything had been designed with Wulvan, Sythvan and Corvan in mind, but in the other parts of the dungeon – the natural parts that the Crusade hadn’t colonized yet – he was starting to suspect that those places were made with Murovan like him in mind.

  “You’re associate has already passed through here,” Culvair said, his back still turned to Martin. Martin could have sworn he’d been quiet coming up the stairs and that the strange reptile hadn’t even cast a backwards glance.

  Culvair’s tongue darted out again. Tasting the air. Martin grinned; he’d assumed it was just an idle animation. It hadn’t even crossed his mind that the NPCs could smell things too.

  “Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but she can be a little… flighty. I just wanted to check what sort of pest you have us chasing after this time.”

  “Pest?” Culvair’s head snapped around, his dead eyes boring into Martin. “Did that fool tell you nothing at all?”

  Martin rubbed his temples, wondering if it was possible to get a headache inside a game. “Let’s just assume that she didn’t and start over.”

  “For the past month, I have been losing patrols. At first it was just a stray guard here or there. It was assumed that they were deserters, or that they had pressed on to deeper settlements.”

  Culvair leaned against the waist-high balustrade and stared back out into the darkness. He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts.

  “I did not assume this. I know my men. Eventually, they returned to us from beyond the veil of death. Cast back down into Beachhead. Each one of them terrified and broken.”

  Martin stepped up next to Culvair, resting his chin on the barrier. “They came back from the dead?”

  Culvair scoffed.

  “I forget how fresh you are to this hell. I forget how little they tell you before you descend. Once you have entered the Dungeon of Strata, you cannot leave until the evil at its root has been defeated. We are all prisoners here. Even in death we cannot escape. The dark magic of this place will not let our souls ascend to Aten.”

  Martin tried to look up at Culvair’s face without moving.

  “Well, that’s a good thing, right? They can’t deplete our numbers.”

  “It is another of Strata’s wicked tricks. Another means of corruption. How can the crusaders fight with all their passion when they know that the only reason they live is thanks to Strata? That the evil in the heart of the darkness is the wellspring of their existence?”

  The fine leather of the captain’s gauntlets creaked as his hands curled into fists. For someone cold-blooded, he certainly seemed to have a temper.

  “Okay, I guess I can understand why that might make you feel a little… conflicted.”

  Culvair moved, twisting and craning his long neck until he was nose to nose with Martin.

  “You understand nothing,” he hissed. “Standing there with your fur still warmed by the touch of holy Aten’s glorious sun. Some of us have been here for years. Some of us have fought and died for this crusade a dozen times over.”

  Martin edged away slowly. “I’m sorry. That sounds awful.”

  “We endured. Just as you shall endure. All of us safe in the knowledge that someday the Crusade will end.” Culvair’s dead eyes turned back to the shadowy void of the cavern. “Someday we will be able to return to the surface, with the darkness here defeated once and for all.”

  Changing the subject seemed like a good way to keep the k
night away from the screaming edge of madness.

  “So… something was picking fights with your patrols?”

  “There was no fighting. Only slaughter.” Culvair’s tongue flicked out, like he was still tasting the blood on the air. “My guards are good men, brave enough in their own way, but there is a reason they linger here as close to the surface as possible. They have delved deeper into Strata, faced the darkness beneath us and found themselves to be wanting.”

  He reached out with one weary hand to pat Martin on the head. Like he was a pet.

  “There is no shame in knowing your limitations,” Culvair continued. “They did not fall to corruption and turn on their own. They did not try to shirk their duties to the Crusade. They merely recognized that the things that dwell in the deeper dark are beyond their ability to best. With that recognition, they returned here, where they can defend our supply lines in relative peace. Once you have defeated the first Archduke, Strata will no longer return you here. If you face him and defeat him, you will return in his place, just as slaying the next Archduke will deliver you back to life even deeper into the darkness. You may not find being swallowed into Strata to your liking. You may wish to stay here once you have seen what is beneath us.”

  That lit some tiny spark of defiance in Martin. He wasn’t like these losers. It didn’t matter if he was a detested Murovan or a detested office worker. He was never going to be like them. Clenching his jaw, he bit back the worst of his reply.

  “I doubt it.”

  Culvair’s ability to sneer without lips was fairly impressive.

  “You are all so brave when you first arrive. Before Strata breaks you.”

  Martin resisted the urge to roll his eyes at all the dramatics. Time for another nudge in the right direction.

  “What was killing your guards?”

  “A Night Ravager. A demon of the darkness.” A shudder ran down the length of Culvair’s body. “You won’t see it until it is already upon you. They are twice the size of a Wulvan and three times as strong. Their claws rend armor like it is paper. It should not be here. They are lone hunters, stalkers of the lower deeps. They have never come so close to the light before. Never.”