Dungeon Core Academy: Books 1-7 (A LitRPG Series) by Alex Oakchest (book suggestions txt) 📕

- Dungeon fame increased. More heroes will now come to plunder your lair!

On the scale of things, Average III wasn’t much to brag about. Then again, no core started with a dungeon worthy of the lords of the underworlds; you had to earn it.

Overseer Bolton’s dungeon, the Necrotomitlita, was rated as the best dungeon ever, and it remains the only one to achieve the ranking of Mythical III. Did Bolton’s dungeon start as Mythical-rated?

Nope!

He had to begin with a rating of Pathetic I, before taking the step to Pathetic II, Pathetic III, then Average I, and so on. The rating system ran as follows: Pathetic, Average, Hard, Challenging, Tormenting, Nightmare, Legendary, Mythical.

I wanted to match the Necrotomitlita one day. I had a long way to go, and I didn’t have the full backing of the academy that Bolton did when he was a core, but that wouldn’t stop me.

This was a small step, but it was one taken in the direction I wanted to go. It was a sign that my dungeon was becoming more murderous, and that is all a core can ask for.

I focused on the message again now that my excitement was settling down. I was pleased to see that more heroes would come to the dungeon soon, because more heroes meant leveling up, which meant more essence, more creatures and traps to craft, which in turn meant increasing my rating further.

But the most important part of this increase in rankling were three words; Ability unlocked: Core Control.

This was a fantastic ability that not every dungeon core unlocked. I supposed I had earned it thanks to the closer bond that I had with my creatures than most cores.

Who said making friends was a waste of time?

Oh, I said that once. Never mind; I had seen the error of my ways.

Now I had core control, and my dungeon had been recognized as a higher rank. I enjoyed these thoughts, while listening to the whoops and hollers of my clanmates as they celebrated the news.

CHAPTER 11

Chief Reginal

Should I get rid of them?

That was what Chief Reginal wondered as he watched the missionaries from the Drowned-Messiah church. They had arrived days earlier and ingratiated themselves by handing out various sweet treats and salted meats, before erecting tents near the clans’ camp.

Now, they were in the process of constructing a wooden hut with some wood they had brought with them. As much as their gifts were welcome, Reginal wasn’t sure he wanted religious missionaries bothering his people while they worked.

Then again, the church had gold. That was clear as sunlight. And if, perhaps, they stayed and spent their gold by bartering with the clans, then it would be a welcome boost to the treasury.

As well as this, removing them by force would be distasteful, and lower Reginal’s standing in some of his peoples’ eyes, because they were sick of violence and bloodshed after enduring generations of it.

No, the missionaries could stay for now. They could build their little wooden church and talk about their drowned messiah until they were blue in the face, as long as their gold trickled down the right channels.

“Chief Reginal, sir, I’m sorry to interrupt you,” said a goblin.

It was Beall, a young clansman with no scars on his body, unlike most of the Eternals. His complexion was a minty green rather than the darker hue that a goblin’s skin took on as he got older.

Reginal hoped it would stay that way. Not his skin color, since there was no point fighting Mother Age, but his lack of scars. Reginal’s own body was a tapestry of war wounds that reminded him of all the lives he’d taken and clansmen he’d lost, but maybe their battles were finally over.

They were home now. They had claimed back the land that was theirs, and even though they had to share it with the Wrotuns, this victory was something all the Eternals would treasure. If they ever wrote songs about Reginal, he hoped they would mention that.

Given that the closest thing the Eternals had to a bard was that damned kobold in Beno’s dungeon, the songs were more likely to be about spiders and traps.

Devry, Reginal’s son, was sitting next to him in his wooden wheelchair. He would certainly never see any battles. Since his physical limitations were not his fault, the Eternal clan cast no shame on him. If he was simply a coward, it would be different.

 So Devry would never feel the weight of a sword, but would he see feel the pressure of leadership? Reginal worried about that. It was clear Devry wanted to be chief one day, but the Eternals were a democracy, and Devry would have to win his seat. They would never shame him, but would a clan of fighters would respect one who couldn’t?

Just then, there was a snapping sound.

A clear orb was floating beside Devry, and with a sharp crack it sucked black smoke from his son’s mouth, and the orb filled with a spray of black.

This orb was almost full. Soon, it would have to be switched with a spare and then cleansed in the mana spring in the damned dungeon. Reginal insisted on doing it himself, which meant he had to suffer the core’s dark sense of humor.

Forget it. Not a problem for now.

“Beall,” said Reginal, addressing the young goblin. “A progress update, please.”

“Problems in quadrant 5x,” answered Beall. “4B is short of iron and steel. We’re getting nothing but dirt on 1c, 2c, and 3g.”

Beall looked at him expectantly. Thoughts rushed through Reginal’s head too fast for him to hold on to.

5X?

4B?

How was he supposed to remember quadrants and soil value and cores and settlement planning?

It had been so much easier when he was strategizing about how to seize control of