Chapter 8
A New Threat
Once again, I’m stuck in these infuriating circumstances. Each time I make one step forward in building my dungeon, some new irritating challenge shows up. And now a new crop of enemies had shown up to harass me.
My explorations of whatever a Cracked Rudimentary Core Shard was had yielded very little, as I didn’t gain anymore insights from my various sources of knowledge. No fresh memories unearthed, no dumps of knowledge through my Mentor ability; just nothing at all other than my own limited knowledge. Not even that damned Avatar had returned, I was truly on my own.
I may lack my previous memories, but that doesn’t mean I can’t prepare and explore; though for now, I had to prepare for yet another terrifying invasion. In the coming battle, every part of my dungeon had a role to play, and I would not be caught unprepared again.
I don’t have time to block off my entrance, but I have a simple plan. A spear of mana chisels out a huge chunk of stone directly above my main entrance. I leave just a small sliver of stone connecting the massive slate to the roof. With a flick of mana I can crush everything in the area.
The trio of adventurers track right for my dungeon as they trek through the muck and detritus of the swamp. Their glassy eyes seemed to stare at nothing, almost as though they weren’t present in the moment.
The mana swirled around them in a lazy, loose sphere. The three of them carried a variety of unique gear, giving each the dangerous look of an experienced adventurer. When they close in on my dungeon, I catch the interesting detail that each of the group carries the same logo on their armor: a green flying bird emblazoned on their chests.
A massive warrior wielding a gigantic sword made of a malignant black metal leads the pack. Following tightly behind them are a spellcaster in glittering red robes; and then there’s a ranger with polished leather armor tinged with olive accents. As they move, there’s no communication or reaction I can see. Even the kobolds had rudimentary communication. I assume the thought won’t serve me in the battle to come, so I push it away for now.
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The trio moves in a solid line down the stairwell and enters carefully into the main entryway. As they do, I can almost taste the mana rolling off of them in waves. I keep my new Mutant Clam minion back, as it would be too slow to take these things on right now.
The group spreads out around the space, coalescing around the portal to the next room. They don’t seem to notice my fern at all, as their icy gazes are entirely fixed on looking deeper into the dungeon. Lucky for me, that fits right in with my plan.
I send my Ferns tendrils in first, mostly to probe how they’ll respond. I need to lock them in place before I trigger my trap on them. The pine green vine slithering across the floor advances on its target.
But in a flash, the blitz of a flaming arrow zips through the darkness, slamming into the tendril and pinning it to the stone.
“Oh come on!“ I shout inside my mind. A flash of fiery anger zips through my mind.
I charge more of my mana reserve into my spawners, prepping a new wave of minions to reinforce. For now, I just have to slow these invaders down.
My nearby Mana Worms charge into the chamber, snipping at the heels of the heavily armored warrior. The warrior swings their sword, deflecting the Mana Worms with ease. But I am prepared. With a wave of mana chipping away at the lingering stone above them, my trap is almost ready to spring.
My Worms aren’t effective in such cramped quarters, so I pull them back into my main chamber. Meanwhile, the other tendrils of my Ferns continue their descent, advancing on the ranger as they advance through the stone arch last. Each violet flower flexes and bursts open, like a hungry mouth searching for its next meal. Thorns flex on the surface of each tendril, ready to strike.
The ranger senses the threat, backflipping out of the way and bounding off of the wall behind them. A smokey trail on their bowstring signals yet another arrow fired off, roasting another vine. At the same time, the spellcaster thwarts another attack with arcing lightning. Their movements are near-instant and my minions have few chances to respond in kind. Even so, my minions advance, unyielding in their determination.
They’re firmly within my main chamber now, advancing further ahead slowly but surely toward my final chamber and my core.
The warrior swings effortlessly, slicing another of my alabaster worms in two. An arc of holy fire burns a trail through the air, leaving a singed husk behind. I’m down to just a few worms now, it’s now or never.
A snapping sound signals the activation of my trap. A rush of air and the crash of stone silences the cacophony of battle in the chamber for a beat. Finally, the warrior lies motionless, crushed. I breathe a sigh of relief, my trap successfully sprung. But there is no time to celebrate. The battle is far from over.
The ranger and spellcaster remain, firing spells and arrows at my minions. Their spells are constant but haphazard. The air is alight with latent mana and the smell of charred flesh, intermingled with the stream of smoke from lightning and fire alike.
What few Mana Worms I have left are joined by a new wave, and I hope that it’s enough. The ranger leaps, twirling through the air, arrows raining down like a storm on their foes. Rage builds within me as I watch more of my precious companions get scorched and incinerated.
The spellcaster’s lightning dances across the battlefield, striking my creatures with deadly precision. Each spell lands with a sizzle and a concussive wave of explosive force. Their armor shimmers with softly glowing runes as magic flares around them. I eye the mana swirling like a hurricane around them with growing hunger.
As I watch, something about their movements is distinctive. It’s the complete lack of visual reaction on their faces. Those damned glassy eyes remain completely stone-like throughout the battle. Even as they are harried by the tide of serpents and flora, their expressions are completely stoic. The kobolds panicked quickly when overwhelmed, but these two humans showed no reaction at all to their friend being utterly annihilated.
While I’m paying attention to the enemy, something previously gone unnoticed becomes apparent. With the storm of mana freely floating around my dungeon; The Ferns, in particular, look to be enjoying themselves. What previously was a simple, though messy mix of deep violet flowers and viridian plant life is now much more sinister. Dripping purple thorns have sprouted on some of their more bulbous lengths. The flowers have shifted hue as well, becoming almost black at their base, with flowers as deeply purple as Deathshade.
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There is an eerie beauty to their transformation, a dark allure that beckons the unwary. A sense of foreboding washes over me, as if the very essence of the dungeon is being corrupted by the threat of these new warriors. And now, that sinister beauty is being unleashed on these interlopers. Each swipe of a thorned bulb scatters doses of poisonous and acrid liquid across the stone floor, leaving a scent like burning hair behind.
The ranger ducks and weaves, narrowly avoiding a series of swipes, and it makes something else apparent about their movements: they attack nothing directly above them. Their attention seems almost entirely focused on what’s directly in front of them. For humans, they seem pretty single-minded.
The spellcaster’s eyes glow with intensity, casting spells that explode with fiery force, and though they keep attacking poisonous shoots, they too don’t seem to notice the activity above them.
The new mutation in my verdant friend gives me a grand idea, and I set to work immediately. I push mana into the flowers and thorns above them, mentally commanding the Ferns to concentrate all their energy on creating a large amount of this new poison. And my efforts bear literal fruit in short order, as midnight-black bulbs sprout by the handful.
After just a few seconds, the bulbs above them grow dimly with an evil light and have spawned large black spheres. As the bulbs above the Ferns pulsate with an eerie glow, the air fills with a faint scent of toxicity. The black spheres, resembling sinister orbs, vibrate with anticipation, filled to bursting with a corrosive concoction. I can almost taste the air, thick with the scent of decay.
My minions are few in number now, as I pull the last of my Worms back to avoid what’s coming. And for a beat, it looks as those these intruders sense it too. They turn towards the entrance, and look to be running away, just as my collection of noxious pods bursts.
The brilliant flash of purple and obsidian gas is a wonder to behold. The swirling tide of fumes rips and tears at flesh and armor alike; first discoloring it, before beginning to melt it away. Flesh boils and splits, unleashing a tide of rotting odors. Sparkling within the tide of death is latent mana, slicing away like a dagger at anything in its path. In rough chunks, their flesh falls to the ground in wet heaps.
The two remaining fighters take a few more steps, desperate for escape. Their desperation is palpable, and lights a fire in my mind. Hunger is my only thought.
But it is too late. The tide of ichor overwhelms them.
The ranger falls, exhausted and defeated, while the spellcaster’s body withers under the relentless assault. Magic pulls and snips at their rapidly decaying husks. Each strike snips at their bodies, ripping away flesh and mana in rich, meaty chunks. My dungeon is saturated with the metallic taste of blood as it seeps into the stone. The mana permeating the place adds its own rich, earthy flavor to my feasting.
Greed engulfs me, an insatiable hunger that drives me to slurp at the lingering magic, making me desperate to consume every last drop. It’s an indulgence that I can’t resist, as if I am savoring a rare delicacy, relishing every moment of this macabre feast.
I pull the threads of magic into my core, spinning and refining the threads into a delectable treat. With every thread of magic consumed, a surge of electricity radiates through me. I can feel the threads intertwining, spinning, and refining within me, transforming into nourishment. It’s a delicate process, requiring utmost focus, a focus that almost slips.
The rush of mana is intoxicating, and almost overwhelmingly so. But amidst the rush, a memory flashes in my mind, unbidden and unexpected. The taste of Dynastic wine, a luxurious vintage that once graced my lips, dances through my senses. For a moment, it threatens to disrupt my concentration, to pull me away from the matter at hand.
The taste of Dynastic wine comes to my mind unbidden, bringing a memory flash that threatens to throw off my concentration on the matter at hand. But as quickly as it came, it falls back into the aether of my mind. I regain my focus, my willpower determined to harness every ounce of power within my grasp.
And so, I continue to snip, rip, and devour, reveling in the grotesque symphony of flesh and mana, knowing that with each bite, I grow stronger, more formidable.
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Bullin Goldtooth strode through the Catacombs, rushing to keep pace with his much larger companion. Beside him, the burly form of Ushan Bloodmoon walked hurriedly. His facial features were fixed in a stern gaze, while his muscles flared with explosive tension. Every word spoken carried with it a wave of spittle—and each word spoken carried a layer of barely restrained anger—all while his muscled arms flared wildly.
“You know full well what I require, dwarf,“ Ushan spat out before continuing. “The report of a new dungeon on our border is a threat, one that must be dealt with.“
Bullin fought the urge to roll his eyes, the Tigerman always had a way of overstating every problem this dungeon and its denizens faced. Bullin knew from experience that the Tombs itself would likely assist them in whatever way it could.
“Fine, fine,“ the blue-skinned dwarf retorted, exasperation creeping into his tone. “I’ll take the quest, but I get to pick who goes out on it…“ Bullin tried to say, before he was interrupted.
“I know your game, Dwarf, your little pet pile of bones isn’t the only project the Tombs is working on.“ Ushan spoke barely above a whisper, the words slithering from his toothy maw.
Bullin’s muscles tightened at the jape. He knew full well that Varren and Ushan were pretty chummy, and they always looked for ways to undermine him. And there was no way in the name of the Gods that he would let them ruin his one chance to get some revenge.
Ushan had always held a grudge against him, despite them both supposedly having the same goal: serving the dungeon of the Tombs and achieving its goals. More and more these days, his hostility was more confusing than anything else. The tightening swirls of mana reflected the heat building between the two of them. But for now, some tact was necessary.
“Tell ya what, Ushan, I’ll let ya in on the loot,“ Bullin said plainly. He knew that Ushan’s greed was his one weakness, so he tried to play into it whenever he could.
A heated glance between the two seemed to settle the matter. Especially when the glittering white teeth in Ushan’s mouth showed through in a predatory smile.
The last few days had been refreshing, and it looked like things were about to get much more interesting.
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Shadows danced around the room, dueling with the purple firelight from the magical torches. Tall spires of shade clung to the walls, digging their proverbial claws into the refined stonework and darkening the surface. Reliefs throughout the space held visages of dark gods both living and dead, all of malignant aspect. Screaming faces of Yugul’s twisted maw competed with the bleeding daggers of Nazusheb for prominence, dominating the space and choking at any notion of comfort. A thick layer of crushed bones and dust permeated every other open inch of the sprawling rooms. The air was heavy with a musty scent, a combination of ancient decay and lingering magic. A grim fate awaited all who entered these cursed halls of the dead.
But here in the Ossuary, Bullin strode with confidence and purpose. One who saw him would swear there was a spring in his step as he walked into one of the side rooms through a ratty red curtain.
The three undead before him would be the fodder for tackling this new dungeon, and Bullin could not help but resent them. As Bullin stepped closer to the undead, their decaying forms were incredibly pathetic. Their hollow eyes stared lifelessly ahead, devoid of any spark of intelligence. Despite the glowing crimson eyes, they held no hope of more powerful magic.
His dwarven eye knew the beauty of power well, and these sorry things did not even come close. He couldn’t help but compare them to June, someone who he had developed a bit of a soft spot for.
In stark contrast, memories of June’s magical abilities flooded Bullin’s mind. He could still feel the warmth of her fire spells as they danced in the air, illuminating the darkness. The sight of her graceful gestures and the power she commanded with ease filled him with admiration. The eagerness she displayed in learning magic kindled the fire in his belly.
These three were little more than tools to be used and discarded—something Bullin had grown accustomed to over the years.
The hope that swelled within Bullin’s heart was a flickering flame, a glimmer of possibility amidst the gloom. He longed to witness June’s magic grow once again, to stand by her side as they faced the challenges of the dungeon together. And in that hope, he found a spark of happiness at the prospect of helping her grow.
No one could replace what he’d lost, but being able to find his spark in training her had helped more than he realized.
And now he had to decide; was she ready for a true test?
Several other undead with Class Gems could lead the mission, but Bullin had fought hard to ensure June got the opportunity. June’s prowess in combat proved that she was the most effective choice.
He just prayed to Yugul that she was ready.