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

all injured, that meant most of my combat-worthy monsters were hurt. The last five raids had really pummelled my dungeon mates, and I didn’t have anyone else I could send in to fight.

Brecht stomped into my core room, unslung his tambourine, and threw it against the wall.

“Demons’ arses!” he said. “They have an answer for everything! Make new monsters, Dark Lord. Make them now. As many as you can. Do it now, damn it, Core Beno! What are you waiting for?”

“Brecht, there’s a time for anger, but there’s never a time for insolence. You will not speak to me like that.”

“It isn’t you fighting them out there, is it?”

“Don’t forget that I made you, Brecht,” I said, “And I can unmake you easier than you can blink. Don’t test me, not now when I’m ready to snap.”

Brecht didn’t say a word, though his lips moved like he was chewing on poisoned oak. Finally, he looked up at me. “Sorry, Dark Lord. I beg your pardon.”

“You don’t need my pardon. We’re all stressed, and I appreciate what you’ve done so far. Just do not push my understanding too far.”

“I would still ask,” said Brecht, “that you don’t let them leave with the loot this time. Create more monsters and stop them before they escape.”

I sighed. “If only I could. I need essence to create new monsters, and the last five dungeon raids have drained me dry.”

“Send Shadow to fight them. Or Gore, Needles, Peach, Rusty. Send anyone, Damn it! I mean…if you please, Dark Lord.”

“Shadow’s still recovering from last week’s raid. Same with Needles, Rusty, and every damn creature in this miserable dungeon. No, Brecht. Sometimes you have to chew on defeat and swallow it down, even if it makes you sick to your guts.”

Brecht collected his tambourine from by the wall, rubbed dirt from the skin, and slung it back around his neck. “With your leave, I will check on Gary, Fight, Death, Kill, and then I will have some rest.”

“Very well, Brecht. Thank you for your efforts today.”

And so, I could only watch as Brecht left my core room at the same time as the Pickering brothers departed from my dungeon for the fifth time.

Two of them still had their swords drawn, while Cael had sheathed his, and instead carried a vase in one hand and a silver heirloom plate in the other. The eldest brother whistled a cheery tune, while Cael and his younger brother chatted to each other.

The youngest brother was a wiry lad who his older brothers relied on to disarm my traps. As with any hero who spends enough time fiddling with traps, he was missing a finger on his right hand.

“We should give this dungeon a rest for a while don’t you think, Cael?” he said.

Cael shook his head. “Nonsense. I want to enjoy a few nights in a tavern with an ever-flowing supply of ale and women, and then we’ll be back to loot it again.”

 “You know what they say about drawing too much water from the same well,” said the eldest.

“Aye, you just dig another hole and then everyone’s happy. Look, if we keep hitting the dungeon before the core gets a chance to fill it with new monsters and traps and other horrible stuff, he’ll always be weak. Easy prey. Easy loot.”

“Or he might stop providin’ loot. They can do that, you know. The core might shut its dungeon.”

Cael ran his hand through his scraggy brown-grey hair, briefly showing a pointed ear that hinted at elf ancestry. He was the leader of the bunch. Tall, still quite young, and in possession of all his digits. He was heavyset but in a strong sort of way, rather than seeming out of shape. His coat trailed to his knees, and he always had the collar turned up so that it covered his cheeks. No doubt he thought it made him look mysterious, or something. On his waist were two swords that I had come to know very well: a short dagger for close-quarters fights, and a sword for more traditional combat.

They say you can judge a hero’s experience by the scars on his face. This implies that the more scars a hero has, the more experienced he is. I found that to be ridiculous and nonsensical. A man with burns all over his skin might have plenty of experience with fire, but that was hardly something to be praised.

A better way of looking at it was that heroes with wounds all over their faces were careless, and careless heroes die in dungeons eventually. Cael’s scar-free face, however, didn’t hint at carelessness.

“Every time we’ve come back,” he said, “the core has had fresh traps, monsters, and loot waiting for us. You know why? Because he’s vainer than a peacock in mating season. We’ve got him on the hook. This core wants to beat us, and he’ll keep fighting until he does. How does he ensure that we keep coming back? By keeping that lovely loot chest filled with gleaming treasure. Plus, every time we return, he’s a little bit weaker, which suits us, doesn’t it? We’ll keep coming back and plundering loot until he’s got nothing left to give, and then we’ll be off.”

“The heroes’ guild won’t like that, Cael. It’s frowned up to run a dungeon dry.”

“They can frown until they’re blue in the arse; I don’t care. We pay our guild levies, and what do we get for it?”

“They tell us when new dungeons get made. An’ they let us use their smithy and apothecary.”

“Aye at a cost. I suppose they say the discount is the benefit of being in the guild. Pah.”

“All the same, there’s a reason we let dungeons have time to restock. An’ there’s a reason we never kill a core. If we squeeze the dungeon too hard, it’ll run dry.