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

another. In between each steel door, I put pressure switches on the floor. When they were triggered, the little chambers would fill with gas that would knock intruders out. I didn’t want to kill the town guards. That would not have been a good look for me, given they were under Riston’s influence.

Usually, anyone who entered my dungeon was fair game for murder. After all, I was resurrected to kill heroes, and the Dungeon Core Academy's definition of a hero is: ‘One who is not a core or monster, and finds their way into the core’s dungeon by their own means, for their own motives.’

But there was a problem here. Not only did I not want to murder Yondersun townsfolk, but they weren’t entering the dungeon under their free will. Riston was messing with their minds. Forcing them to come down here.

So, I had to use non-lethal means to stop them.

After creating steel doors and sleeping gas traps on both entrances, my essence was down to just over a third of my capacity. Not ideal. Still, at least I was in my dungeon. My essence vines would slowly regenerate it.

 There was no point blocking up the hidden emergency routes. Nobody knew about them except me. I hadn’t even told my monsters about them. We might need them later, so I didn’t want to obstruct them.

“There,” I said. “If the guards want to get into the dungeon, they have to get through eight steel doors, and they have to do it while being gassed to sleep. Come on, Jahn. Let’s find the others.”

The loot chamber was back to its gruesome best, which comforted me a little. After the failed trader dinner, we’d taken the nice table back to the meeting room. We’d spread a few fresh bloodstains on the ground. Wylie had hung his paintings back on the walls.

He’d started painting as a way of expressing his more sensitive side, and he used his dungeon wages to buy canvas. The medium he used was heroes’ blood. Although it came in only one shade, it was free, and we usually had a lot of it to spare. It had seemed appropriate to take the paintings down while the traders were here, but otherwise, I was proud to have my friend’s work on display.

The chamber was the most crowded I had seen it in ages. In fact, the last time it had been so full was the surprise rebirthday party they’d thrown for me.

There was Gulliver. He had a roll of apple skin in his hand. Say what you will about my dungeon creatures, but Gull was the most monstrous of us all. The freak loved to peel apples, throw away the actual apple part, and eat the skin. And people say that I’m the evil one.

Wylie and the miner kobolds were resting by the chamber wall. Exhausted. Covered in sweat and dirt. When I looked at them, messages pinged in my inner core and told me they’d all leveled their mining skills several times over.

Brecht sprinted over, his tambourine swinging around with each step. Bards were usually skinny specimens, but Brecht had two things going for him. He was a kobold, and his wolfish ancestry meant that though his frame was slight, it was packed with muscle. He’d also developed giant neck muscles from going absolutely everywhere with his tambourine slung around it.

“Where’s Gary?” Brecht said.

“Still in the cells.”

“You haven’t gotten him out yet?”

“We’ve been on the back foot all morning. Just be patient, Brecht.”

“Patient,” he said, pacing in a circle. “Patient. Okay.”

I knew why he was so on edge. Brecht was a bard, and Gary loved to sing and play the lute. The two were in a band together and would often perform in the Scorched Scorpion, either as a duo or with the fire beetles Fight, Death, Kill as a backing chorus. Though Brecht’s and Gary’s arguments over creative differences were legendary, a friendship had developed.

Eric stomped over to me. He held out his hand, remembered my lack of hands, then just nodded.

“Thank you for getting me out of that place,” he said. “I’ve been in plenty of cells in the past. Dirty places than that, to be sure. Places where even an underworld demon might refuse to spend a night. But the bloody sun out here. Heating the walls. Shining down all the bloody time. Thank you, Beno. Even though it’s your fault I was in there in the first place.”

“You came to me looking for work, Eric. You’re a bloody barbarian! Your job isn’t going to be dancing and having tea parties.”

“Sometimes a fella just wants a nice, cushy gold-spinner. That’s all I’m saying. That one day, after spending my life getting battered and bloodied, I might get a nice job that pays well and doesn’t wind up with me getting my arse kicked. But as long as you’re paying, and as long as that brute Razensen doesn’t come back, then I’m your guy.”

“Thank you. We’ll need your help.”

Cynthia, Maginhart, and Warrane were standing together. Since he’d become her apprentice, Cynthia and Maginhart were inseparable. It wasn’t just a case of Maginhart looking up to his teacher. Cynthia seemed to take a lot of comfort from her friendship with him. I supposed that being the only ratbrid in Yondersun, being one of the few of her kind in Xynnar not forced into slavery, made her bond with a creature like Maginhart.

“Right,” I said. “First, thank you all for your help. Wylie, you and your lads did sterling work tunneling under the cell. I know we didn’t plan to make them cave in completely, but it was a nice touch.”

Wylie was too exhausted to even reply. He half-heartedly raised a hand. His miner coworkers were already dozing.

“You lads go get some proper sleep,” I said. “The rest of us need to talk.”