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

placed a boulder trap directly above them. One pull of the lever and they’d be splatted into little trader patties. It was nice to dream, but I couldn’t afford to flatten them.

Not when I had to convince them to help me.

Of the four influential merchants, only one had stayed silent. Baby Blakemore. A tubby dwarf with huge biceps that could crush an apple with one flex. Which he often did when he had enjoyed too many ales in the Scorched Scorpion tavern. I still didn’t know why they called him Baby. Nobody did. One of my friends, Eric the barbarian, had once met a stone troll called Baby, named so because he had a very particular favorite food. I didn’t think this Baby got his name the same way. Judging from his gut, he looked like he was carrying one.

He spoke for the first time. “It’s reducing trade, is what it’s doing. Folks won’t travel to a town where they’re just as likely to go missing as to reach the gates. A travesty! A travesty that nobody has done anything about it. Our chiefs…what do they do? Barely lift a finger.”

I saw a chance for political point-scoring. “You need a man…a being…of action. Someone who was trained to kill and would make the town safer.”

The other three traders looked uncomfortable.

Mentioning the word ‘kill’ was a mistake, and a voice in my head confirmed it.

“I thought we said you wouldn’t draw attention to the fact you’re a bloodthirsty dungeon core? It makes them uncomfortable.”

The voice was Gulliver’s, who was in an adjoining chamber. He was watching the scene through a core vision projection I had made for him. We were talking using my core hearing and core voice, senses vital for running a chaotic dungeon that usually had dozens of things going on at once.

“You’re right,” I said. “I need to draw attention away from the fact I’m a killer.”

“Be more like them. People need something they can empathize with.”

“Okay. Empathy.”

I turned my attention back to the traders.

How could I play up the fact I’d be a strong chief, while also being more like them?

I had to show them two sides. The killer and the…uh…puppy.

“When I’m not out in the streets of Yondersun feeding the poor…” I began.

“Feeding the poor?”

The grimaces on their faces said they found that distasteful.

Why?

Ah. They were traders. They didn’t give a crap about the poor.

I needed to think not just like a person, but as a trader person. A very subtle difference.

Empathy was hard.

“I meant, when I am not finding a way to monetize the poor, I am considering ways to deal with our wasteland problem. With the people going missing.”

At least they’d stopped scowling now. That was more like it.

“And?” said Baby. “I assume you’ve thought of a solution?”

“Never assume,” said one trader. “It makes an arse out of you.”

“Shut up. Core Beno?”

Here was the problem.

I didn’t have any idea why people were going missing, or who was causing it.

I supposed there was always something I could fall back on.

“I plan to scour the wasteland, find whoever is responsible, and pound them into the dust until they’re a bloodless slab of meat,” I said.

Silence.

Shocked faces.

They wanted a confident chief, but I had overstepped the mark from confident to insane.

“For Gods’ sakes, Beno,” said Gulliver. “Tone it down! These people are traders. They love money and they hate violence, except when the violence provides a way for them to make money. Pounding things flat doesn’t present a gold-making scheme for them. It just makes them feel sick.”

“Right. I went too far.”

“You’re losing them. Look at their expressions.”

Baby got to his feet. Taking their cue from him, so did the other three. As things stood, they were going to use their influence for another candidate. Maybe Riston, the git. He was one of my rivals, and he was more popular than me. Mostly because he wore a well-styled beard, had a friendly smile, and was a human being and not a dungeon core.

“I think we’ve heard enough, Beno,” said Baby.

“You’ve only just eaten the first course.”

“We are looking for a chief, not a chef. We need someone who will make us richer, not a bloodthirsty maniac.”

“Maniac?”

“Your talk of pounding and blood and slabs of meat…” said one trader.

“I was speaking figuratively, that’s all. If I was chief, my priority would be to make lots of gold. Obviously.”

“What are you saying?” said Gulliver.

“Whatever it takes to get these chumps to endorse me,” I answered.

“You don’t care about gold! Why is being chief so important to you?” said Gulliver.

“Because the town is right above my dungeon. That means whatever happens up there, affects me, my dungeon, and every monster living in it. At least if I’m a chief, I can look after my interests.”

“And you’re willing to say anything to get it?”

“Do you know me at all, Gulliver?”

“I’m beginning to wonder.”

Baby settled back into his seat. He untied a pouch from his belt, opened it, and took out a coin. He began rolling it across his knuckles.

“This is the first coin I ever earned,” he said. “When I was six years old.”

“Touching,” I said. Now that they sat back down, I knew that I had a chance. I just had to play it safe.

Be more like them. Talk more about money. Talk less about slaughter.

That shouldn’t be too hard.

“Now, gentlemen,” I began. “I’ll ask our waiter to fetch the second course. Desert vole thigh roasted in nut butter and garlic. I’m told it’s delicious. Lacking teeth, a tongue, or taste buds, I’ll have to take their word for it.”

As soon as the words left my mouth, I scolded myself.

I had to stop talking about my lack of biological features.