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

armed with a sword and a bad attitude, and they headed toward the archway at the end of the tunnel.

“Hurry,” grunted Milark, not knowing that in a dungeon, caution trumps speed.

There was a clicking sound. It was a sound that no hero, no matter their species or class, wants to hear when they are in a dungeon.

One kobold yelled in surprise.

Another grunted.

Back in my core room, I smiled to myself.

Whack! Whack! Whack!

Three great scythes swung out from the walls, cutting one kobold in half, disarming – literally - another, and leaving a third kobold stranded as the blades swung back and forth, their metal flashing in sequence.

The troll, his armor covered in kobold liquids that had splashed onto his chest even ten feet away, stomped forward.

The scythes swished backward and forwards, each rotation leaving a mandatory scythe-free period where the passageway was clear. This was another of those silly trap rules, similar to riddle doors always needing a logical riddle, and traps being solvable. Pah.

Milark watched the blades swinging, and he counted the seconds in his head.

He tensed his free hand, and he shifted his foot…

Watching him, I almost let out a cackle. A troll in metal armor? He had no chance of making it through in time.

He swung his hammer, smashing one scythe so hard that it bent backward and flattened against the wall. He took a step and hit the next one, halting its momentum with blunt force. He hit the third scythe with a furious underswing, bending it so it was pressed against the ceiling.

Near him were a dead wight-kobold and an armless one who hadn’t been spared the scythes’ justice.

“Shaman,” grunted Milark.

A gremlin shaman who was the size of a goblin, just as ugly, and twice as hairy, stepped forward and pounded the base of his staff on the ground three times.

“Ta doro da tep!” it said.

The kobold’s arm wounds sealed, staunching the blood. It got to its feet, seemingly free from pain. Its sword-wielding days were over, but it could carry on.

I quickly altered the list of alive monsters in my head, reducing the number of Milark’s flight-worthy wight-kobolds from five to three.

*

The Collector and his half dozen cores had traveled through the maze of tunnels in the center of my original dungeon. It was a complex route even for the best of heroes, but the Collector barely struggled. He took no dead pathways, and his core’s little imp helped him avoid all my pitfalls and other such traps of doom.

“If I was paranoid,” I said, “I’d swear that he knew the way.”

Tomlin looked at me for a few seconds, barely blinking in that unnerving way with which kobolds hold your gaze.

“A traitor, Dark Lord? Tomlin doesn’t believe that.”

“Neither do I. As my creatures, none of you could betray me. Gulliver and I signed a mana contract, so he couldn’t have spilled about my tunnels. That leaves Overseer Bolton or one of the clan. And neither Galatee nor Reginal would do it, given my job is to protect them. Which leaves just one shiny-domed overseer.”

“Overseer Bolton is an honorable man,” said Tomlin.

“He’s a man, let’s agree on that. We can table the honor part for now.”

“Overseer would not do this. He likes you, Dark Lord. When we chat in the essence room, he always praises you.”

“Stop, Tomlin. You’ll make me blush. Perhaps I’m just getting carried away.”

As it happened, the Collector did blunder. Presented with a tunnel that forked in three directions, he picked the one that, normally, I would have been pleased to see him take.

Following the passageway, he soon emerged into the poison chamber.

“Great!” said Tomlin, hopping foot to foot with excitement. “Almost done! Collector and his friends will suffocate on fumes.”

“Sorry, Tomlin. Cores can’t die from poison, for one,” I said. “And this Collector bugger probably has a dozen livers buried under his patchwork quilt of a body. He’s probably stolen livers from giants, dwarves, old women who sit in the dimly-lit corners of taverns. You know, all those folks who can hold their booze. Poison won’t hurt him.”

I wasn’t wrong. Then again, I rarely am.

Well, aside from numerous examples my kobolds could supply.

In any case, the Collector and his clan stepped into the poison chamber, watched the door slam shut behind them, and were faced with a room that was empty save for mana lamps on the wall.

“Imp?” the Collector said.

The little imp completed his wall-running routine, leaving behind a spray of glowing dust that easily unmasked the clue to my lantern puzzle.

Unlike the last heroes, the Collector solved the puzzle properly, lighting the correct lamps to signify the right number of eyes.

“He might look like he was born in a soul flayer’s worst nightmare, but he knows how many eyes a west-sands crustacean has,” I said. “In fact, he’s probably got some himself. Maybe on his back, or something.”

I was annoyed, but there wasn’t much I could do. Not every puzzle will hamper every hero. The trick was to fill your dungeon with a good balance, and just trust that different puzzles will stop different dungeon divers.

In any case, the laws of dungeon fairness dictate that a trap well solved is adequately rewarded.

As such, a door opened in the poison chamber. A door that led to my loot room, and thus, could only lead to a battle.

*

Milark led his comrades deeper into the eastern dungeon, walking through its dimly lit halls and past gruesome statues and carvings. With each step, the troll seemed to gather courage, and by now, the fear affliction of my dungeon hardly affected him.

He barely blinked when some of my new traps caught him out. He was blasé when two of his jackal-blights scampered straight into a pitfall. He stayed