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

the clan above, and you can spend the next few days making sure all tunnels, chambers, and rooms are structurally sound, and that there is no chance of an accident happening in the dungeon.”

“We have to do the work to ensure our own safety on the job?” asked Karson.

“Unless the safety fairy comes along and sprinkles magic dust, yes. What, do you think all miners in Xynnar get this kind of lovely treatment? Do you think that there’s a bunch of rules that miners have? What a laugh. I suppose these magic rules are called safety standards, or something like that. And in your imaginary world where nobody gets hurt, there’s an officer in charge of enforcing these rules. Ludicrous.”

“That’s exactly what I think, Dark Lord.”

“Well, I have a narkleer to liberate, so I won’t argue. I’ll give you time and materials, and that’s it. Can’t say fairer than that. Now, everyone, it’s time to go to work. Chop chop. Wylie, you and your crew are to start improving dungeon safety. Gary, I’d like you to loot the dead heroes. But leave their clothes on, please. Last time you looted heroes for me, I came core-to-face with a hero's bare arse, and I didn’t enjoy it.”

“A pleasure, my good gem.”

“Great, then let’s get busy. And again, a big 'well done' to you all. You did the dungeon great honor today, every single one of you no matter what your role in the battle. I know I don’t say it enough, but I am proud of you all. There’s a lot of hate in the world these days, but there is no room for it in my lair.”

CHAPTER 18

For cores, killing a hero is like eating a pie. Just as some folks enjoy the pie’s pastry while others delight in slurping the gravy, different cores enjoy different parts of hero slaughter.

That’s because there are many satisfying things about killing a hero. For some of us, it’s the act of murder itself. The feeling of besting a sword-swinger or wand twirler in combat. It refreshes your soul, it’s the reason combat is glorified in so many poems, stories, plays. For other cores, it’s the knowledge that defeating heroes levels you up, bringing with it increased essence capabilities and new crafting options.

For me, it was all special, just as I am sure that when I was human, I probably enjoyed all the parts of a pie. But my most favorite part was messing with the heroes’ belongings and corpses and using a little inventiveness on them.

Now, I know how that sounds. Talking about enjoying playing around with dead bodies too much gives people the wrong impression. But consider this; hero corpses have fascinating powers.

With my clanmates sufficiently praised and motivated after our meeting, I needed to turn my attention to this kind of thing, with one eye on strengthening my dungeon, and the other on preparing to defeat the narkleer’s master.

A few hours after our loot room gathering, I was back in the alchemy chamber, with its colorful walls and rune symbols painted on the floor. This part of the dungeon was silent save for the echo of Wylie and his crew’s voices drifting from a distant tunnel, and the shifting of mud and dirt in a part of the lair I couldn’t see. Many folks liken natural dungeon sounds to those of an old house settling in the evening, the ancient wood creaking and groaning away. It is beautiful, in many ways. Peaceful yet threatening, like an ocean under a night-time sky, black as tar yet rhythmic in the swaying of its waves.

Beside me was a pile of dead heroes.

Two were the humans who succumbed to the kiss of death before they could use their wolf pendants. The other three were werewolves, stuck fast in their animal bodies now that they’d met their end.

Gulliver was with me, scribbling in his book as usual. He had changed his outfit since the meeting, something he did twice a day if he was in a slobbish mood and four times as common practice. Now, he wore mustard-yellow trousers and a cape, complemented by a salmon-pink shirt so hideous I could have tied it to a wooden pole and used it as a flag to scare away heroes.

“I have some good news,” he said. “I finished the first volume of your story.”

This didn’t just prick my attention, it stabbed it. “Finished? Already?”

“I publish serials, Beno, not epics. Fighting the wolves was a fine climax to my time with you so far. I’m ready to use artificery to send a copy to my printer Inky Mick, so he should receive it instantaneously. Then, it will circulate through Xynnar like clap through a brothel. Your reputation’s about to get a big boost, my friend.”

I was familiar with the practice of using artificed books to transmit words across vast spaces. It was an unwieldy method; an artificer would need to create two books using paper made from the same tree. These books would be twinned by a naming rite and then dipped in mana, before having a spell woven into them. Done properly, two people could possess a book each and when one wrote in his book, the words appeared in the others. An expensive practice, but useful for scribes like Gulliver, I suppose.

“That was quick work, Gull,” I said. “The battle only ended this morning. Let me see your book.”

“A scribe never shows his work before publication. Would you ask to visit the bride on the morn of her nuptials?”

“No, but I bet you’ve seen many brides before they tied the knot.”

He grinned. “And those memories are for my enjoyment only, you saucy core. Fine, since it’s going to Inky Mick anyway, you may as well get your peepers on my work.”

He opened his book and held it up, no doubt in an approximation