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

what they call inturition. So, we know that to balance these scales, we need to fill the empty one with blood. Now, what did we work out the depth of the scale to be, lads?”

“17 inches, Cap’n.”

“Right. And how many gallons fill 17 inches of space?”

“Gallons? I thought we were talking liters.”

“When I’m baking,” said another man, “Most recipes don’t talk about gallons or liters. They measure stuff in cups.”

“Cups? But cups can be made in different sizes. That ain’t a uniform method of measurement. And when does a cup become a mug?”

“Enough!” said Endliver again. “We’re trying to escape before this place fills with poison, you land mammals, not bake a jam roly-poly. How many gallons, liters, cups, or bloody tankards of blood will we need to fill this scale so we can get out of here, and how many people need to heroically sacrifice themselves to fulfill that?”

The green mist continuously hissed into the room as they spoke. It made them cough and gag, and it had already made Straw-Stomach Milroy vomit, though the man vomited thrice daily anyway.

That said, though it was indeed poison, it was slow working, and Endliver had worked out why. The dungeon core wanted to give them time to make this horrible decision. It’d be no fun to just kill them quickly with poison, would it? The master of this dungeon was a sick, sick freak.

Pete Leaf, the quietest lad of the bunch who barely ever said a word and never, ever joined in when they sang sea shanties, cleared his throat.

“I worked in a slaughterhouse when I was a boy,” he said. Words from Pete Leaf’s mouth were so rare that everyone listened. “I saw lots of blood. That scale? Well, to my reckoning, it’d take a couple of cows to fill it.”

“How many humans?” said Hogwash Jenkins.

“Three, maybe four regular folks,” said Pete Leaf. “Or maybe just one regular-sized man…supplemented with a big old Hogwash Jenkins.”

The implication was like a cutlass cutting through a sailing rope. Glances darted Hogwash’s way. The lovable, poor, witless brute, hadn’t soaked up the implication yet.

“He’d barely even feel it,” said Pete Leaf. “A big, stupid oaf like him? Look. Barely even knows I’m talking about him, even when I look him in the eye. See? All I have to do is speak with a smile on my face, and he thinks I’m joking with him.”

Hogwash grinned at Pete Leaf.

A few men sighed. Others stared at Hogwash.

Endliver felt a deep stirring in his gut. He’d seen things like this before. Times when one crew member took more than his fair share of the air and spoke poison to the others. Though nothing had been directed at Endliver yet, it smelled like the beginnings of a mutiny to him.

And not just that. For the sneering little arse-face to talk about poor Hogwash like that?

No.

Endliver pulled his dagger. Before the rest of them could even blink, he slit Pete Leaf’s throat.

“There’s one for the scale. Come on, you scabs! Hold his neck against it ‘fore we lose all the blood. Hogwash, come stand here, next to me. The rest of you? I suggest you forget everything our little friend just said. Every damned word.”

Redjack and Jopvitz hacked away at the tunnel, swinging their pickaxes in rhythm so that no sooner had one bitten into the stone, the other followed. The result was a clink-clunk-clink-clunk rhythm that kept them going and reminded Redjack of Brecht the bard and his tambourine. Klok, meanwhile, was dozing against a rock, eyes shut, spit bubbles gently forming and popping as he snored.

Redjack had made the supervisory decision to allow him to have a nap. Klok was the lowest-skilled miner, clearly not as good at it as him or Jopvitz. The work wore him out, and Redjack didn’t see the point keeping him working while he had no strength to swing his pickaxe.

“How comes Wylie and Tarius get to rest?” said Jopvitz, his whiskers dripping with sweat.

“Rule of seniority,” said Redjack. “Wylie is the enforcer. Tarius has been here longer.”

“But you’re the boss now.”

“Boss in training, but I won’t succeed if I make enemies of kobolds who should be my friends. You know how much the Dark Lord likes Wylie.”

“Speaking of bosses and friends. How about you be a pal and let me go get a few shrooms from the larder? This work is sapping my energy.”

“Go on then, but only if you bring me some.”

“I always said you’d be a good boss, Redjack.”

While Jopvitz left to get shrooms and Klok slept, Redjack decided to have a rest of his own. Only for a minute.

He’d only just sat down when a kobold walked toward him.

He couldn’t believe it.

“Shadow?”

“Redjack!” she said.

It was her, alright. The rogue kobold. The one who usually had her dogs with her, who was always sneaking around, and who half the dungeon seemed to have missed in her absence and half had been glad she was gone.

“Where you been, Shadow? When did you get back? Have you been to see Lord Dark yet?”

She walked toward him. “Just on my way, actually, but I have a few things to do first.”

“Wait. What’s wrong with your eyes? Why have you got that strange look on your-”

Searing heat spread through his belly. He looked down and saw Shadow’s fist next to his stomach. He couldn’t see the dagger, because she’d buried it all the way in his gut.

I was starting to really enjoy the scene with the pirates and the sacrifice scales when I got a deep, dull feeling in my inner core, and a message appeared.

Redjack [Miner, supervisor in training, kobold] has died!

“What?”

My mind started spinning like the wheels of a wagon careening down a mountain slope. How in all hells had