-[Chapter 009]-
As Basil entered the imperial palace he found the interior design to match his expectations. Every corner was brightly lit and gold trimmings had been lavishly applied to even the most basic of items. While the thick stone outer walls had few windows and open spaces to let the sunlight in, the hallways were generously furnished with sun-shard lamps to compensate for it. They gave off enough warmth and light that one could grow potted plants wherever they desired.
The dungeon keeper pulled up his manual and opened it with the intention of finding his bearings. In response to his unspoken desire the yellow parchment of the magical tome was quickly flooded by black lines of ink, drawing up the layout of the palace complex around him. Basil tapped his claw against the palace proper and the diagram grew more detailed, focusing and zooming in on the building. Basil then flipped through the pages of his manual until he found the layout of floor he was currently on. His precise location was marked by a thick dot at the center of the page. He oriented himself towards the throne room and begun walking towards it. The dot remained at the center of the page, but the map around it changed with the ink slowly flowing across the page to mark the walls, rooms and hollow chambers along his path. The map did not mark the position of hostile individuals in the palace, but it was only a matter of time until he stumbled upon someone.
As it turned out, the first people to encounter the dungeon keeper were a group of palace servants, who, for some bizarre reason had taken to patrolling the hallways—probably in an effort to ease their fears or, perhaps, driven by some misguided order from one of their superiors. In lieu of proper weapons they brandished silver cutlery and blunt tools, likely looted from the kitchens or some random storage room. The well-dressed and soft handed custodians of the imperial palace had probably not expected to actually encounter a monster roaming their halls. Their reaction to Basil’s sudden appearance was, therefore, a loud and undignified retreat. But the commotion they caused was bound to draw the attention of braver souls, so the dungeon keeper resigned himself to battle. There would be no glory in it, but, likewise, there was no dignity in being assaulted by pesky zealots and suicidal guards—it was best to grant them a quick death than to prolong their futile existence.
Fortunately for Basil, he would not need to resort to such meaningless violence. When the dungeon keeper glanced down in an effort to read his bearings, he noticed eight black dots that were on an intersecting course with his chosen path.
The dungeon keeper closed his book just as a message appeared at the top of the page. “We are drawing close to your location, Master.”
While he awaited the arrival of his minions, Basil took to examining the statues and paintings lining the hallway. He could appreciate their beauty, but he could not draw any deeper meaning from them, other than the skill and dedication of the artists. As far as he was concerned, there was no reason to spare art from destruction, because it would only serve to restrain the next generations from discovery and experimentation. For the people of Empire Solar these paintings and marble figures represented their heritage and shared history; their values and, in no small part, their vanity, but the dungeon keeper was an outsider to this realm and did not share in their adoration for their past glories. The dark side of legacy—one that he understood all too well—was that it worked to shackle the future generations to the often exaggerated accomplishments of their predecessors. Perfection, once achieved, was a curse that worked to rip the creativity and hope from the hearts of kith. There was no bright future ahead for a people enslaved by their past.
The arrival of his minions brought Basil out of his contemplations. Eight men, dressed in black leather armor, approached the dungeon keeper and kneeled before him.
The senior ranger among them gave his report, head bowed in a show of respect. “Greetings, Lord Doom! As per the orders of Lord Schwartz, we have arrived to escort you to the Emperor’s chambers. I apologize for the inadequacy of our strength, but half of or number has remained behind to safeguard the Emperor’s life—as you requested.”
Basil nodded. “You may rise,” he said. The dungeon keeper then gestured for the rangers to take the lead.
The eight men divided themselves into to two groups of four and took up a battle formation. The ones at the front drew their bows, but kept their blades within reach, while the rangers at the back loaded their siege crossbows—more cumbersome, but far more powerful weapons. The rest of their equipment was geared towards supplementing their specialization as either close range support specialists or long range snipers.
Now escorted by the dark rangers, Basil continued his advance through the imperial palace. The soldiers of Empire Solar were bound to try and rally their forces to defend the imperial seat of power once it became clear that the palace had been invaded. The dungeon keeper had expected them to focus on defending the city, its walls or the fortifications of the imperial palace, but it turned out that quite a few had been held back to guard the palace complex.
Along the path to the throne room Basil’s minions encountered several groups of guards, all of them clearly aware that someone had invaded the palace. In the end, it mattered not how determined or numerous the defenders were—the dark rangers made short work of them. While not that dissimilar from butcher’s work, given the scale of the slaughter, their methods, precision and swordsmanship left no doubt as to their dedication the art of warfare. Bows sung and arrows whizzed; blades shimmered, drew blood and disappeared back into their scabbards only to strike again when another enemy got close enough to take a swing at them. All that was left in their passing was a scene of carnage and ruin. Sundered bits of armor and broken weapons; guts and blood from a hundred slain imperial knights and servants soon covered the ground.
The scene felt all too familiar to Basil, who watched his minions slaughtering wave after wave of imperial defenders as they poured into the hallway. The imperial troops were almost suicidal in their attempts at holding back the advancing intruders, but the advance of the dungeon keeper was not slowed.
Empire Solar is a mere shadow of what it could have been, Basil thought. Knights with power levels no higher than 15 and mages who can’t even cast third tier spells—they have no chance at holding off Elnora’s assault. Yet they still charge Schwartz’s men without hesitation... At least they go bravely to their deaths.
A group of four imperial paladins and a single support caster emerged from a passage up ahead. The holy warriors raised their shields as they charged the black armor clad intruders. The lone priest that had followed them into the hallway was immediately struck down by three arrows. Even as the man fell to his knees and gasped his last breath, four more arrows buried themselves into his chest, piercing his lungs. The unfortunate priest was a priority target because of his ability to cast advanced magic, so the rangers made sure that he could utter no words of power.
“Empire Solar—empire eternal!” one of the paladins cried out. He then levied his sword against his enemies and channeled a divine spell: “[Holy Blast]!”
A wave of golden light struck the ranger standing closest to the paladin. The man recoiled from the impact and fell back in line with his dark brothers.
The paladins drew closer. With their defensive auras stacked on top of one another they actually managed to resist the first volley that was fired at them—the arrows were deflected and the blots cracked their armor, but did not pierce it. Once they had gotten within melee range, the front row of rangers set aside their bows and drew their blades. It had been the intention of the paladins to clash with the line of their enemies; to scatter the rangers or push them back, but they ended up running right through the gaps in their loose formation. Having traveled past the rangers, the imperial paladins collapsed at the feet of Basil, who stepped over their carved up corpses.
The dungeon keeper pressed on without giving them a second glance. The dark rangers had cut apart the gilded armor of the paladins in an instant, killing the men within. Basil’s minions holstered their blades—glowing red with magic enchantment and dripping with blood—and continued down the hallway, deeper into the palace, towards the throne room and the Emperor.
Basil paid little mind to the bloody slaughter as it carried on around him. Soldiers in their dozens rushed the advancing minions of the dark lord, but few got close enough to threaten them. And even if by some crazy chance one of these low-level kith laded a telling blow, it failed to cause any significant damage. Clad in some of the best armor known to both monster and kith, the rangers shrugged off the blades and spears of the imperial troops like they were nothing. With more than twenty power levels separating the best of the imperial knights from the worst of the rangers, their forces were horrendously outmatched.
This world should have been cleansed a hundred years ago, Basil thought. Back then its defenders would have had more of a fight in them, but now… it’s just sad.
The dungeon keeper brought up his arcane manual and checked the live feed of information that was constantly trickling in. A few status updates concerning his dungeon appeared here and there, but the majority of the alerts and reports were related to the ongoing siege. None of it really required his input, but Basil kept skimming through them just in case.
A new message appeared in the dungeon keeper’s manual that caught his eye. The book identified the sender as one ‘Sister#142’, one of Scarlet’s minions. She was the one in charge of advising Elnora.
“My Lord, the wall has been breached at multiple points and we have pressed into the city. Remaining enemy forces are falling back towards the palace. The streets are running red with their blood. Lady Elnora is leading the vanguard. Friendly casualties are mounting faster than anticipated in the face of suicidal tactics employed by the enemy mages. In spite of this, I believe we will reach the palace gates within the hour.”
Basil carefully considered his reply before sending it. The black letters appeared in the page of the manual as he willed them. “Carry on with the cleansing of the city,” he wrote. “Let Elnora expend her forces in the face of determined defenders and learn from the experience. Only offer advice on critical issues, but allow for minor mistakes to play out. You will make note of them and deliver a written report to her after the battle.”
He closed his book just as the sister’s reply came in: “Understood, Master.”
Across a river of blood Basil had arrived at the entrance to the throne room. The golden gates stood closed shut before him, guarded by a pair of bronze golems with the white sun crests of Empire Solar displayed prominently across their chest. The ruby gemstone eyes of the golems looked down upon the approaching intruders with silent contempt. As Basil stepped forward, jets of white steam begun to rise from their joints as the metallic guardians came to life, ready to defend the throne room.
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One of the rangers drew back the string of his bow an unleashed an attack on one of the bronze golems to measure its defenses. The arrow—glistening red with magic enchantment—struck the construct in the face and exploded with vicious force. As the dust settled it was revealed that one of its eyes had been destroyed, but the bronze constructs now responded by lowering the armored visors of their helmets to protect their faces and took up a guarded stance. They were not about to let the intruders pass without a fight.
Basil opened his monster manual and skimmed over the information on the enemies standing before him. Meanwhile the rangers spread out across the hallway. They were about to launch a coordinated attack on the golems when Basil stepped forward and signaled them to halt.
“We don’t have the time for this nonsense,” he said as he closed the monster manual. He placed the book into his pouch and adjusted his bandolier. “Those are level 40 arcane constructs,” he explained. “They were designed to soak up damage. Those ruby eyes serve no practical function. The bronze golems have no real vital points to cripple or weaknesses to exploit with ranged weapons, therefore brute force must be applied.
“Step aside, minions!” Basil ordered and pulled two arrows from the quiver of a ranger as he walked him by. “I will handle this myself.”
The rangers fell back as the dungeon keeper charged towards the bronze golems with an arrow in each hand, tips poised for the strike. In response the metallic sentinels raised their swords towards him. As Basil clashed with the towering bronze constructs their weapons grazed his body, but failed to pierce the thick skin of the infernal monk. His defensive abilities were more than a match for whatever sharpening enchantments their magic weapons possessed.
Now that Basil had successfully closed their distance he threw a single punch at each of his enemies. The dungeon keeper activated one of his combat abilities to empower the attacks.
“{Thunderstruck}!”
The motion of his lightning-quick punches were followed by the sound of roaring thunder that reverberated throughout the palace halls. The bronze heads of the sentinels blew apart in a shower of debris as the dungeon keeper pushed the arrowheads straight through them at a speed that sent shockwaves rippling in all directions, cracking the marble floor beneath them.
The headless sentinels reeled and shook from the impact, but remained standing. They then retaliated by cleaving the demon with their swords from either side at once. Basil caught the blades under his arms and pressed them up against his rump. A trickle of blood ran down his torso from where the edges of the blades touched him. For a moment it almost looked like he was going to be sliced in half. What ended up happening instead was that the demon prince held fast to the weapons, pushed himself away from the struggling sentinels and thus pulled the swords from their grasp. He then flung the bronze blades—each the size of a grown man—down the hall like they were twigs.
Disarmed, the silent sentinels took a moment to readjust, but soon renewed their assault with bare fists instead. Basil retaliated in kind. The palace now echoed with the sounds of thumping metal the likes of which a thousand blacksmiths could not reproduce. Piece by piece the guardians were torn asunder. Punch after punch served to heat and fold their metal bodies until their singular shapes had been reduced to warping hot bronze slabs.
The scattered remains of the melting sentinels were soon splattered all across the place. Basil’s minions had to take shelter behind pillars and overturned furniture so as to avoid getting hit by flying shrapnel as their master went on punching the bronze golems down into their base components.
Once the sentinels had been reduced to nothing more than smoldering piles of metal, Basil stepped back from his defeated foes and wiped the molten bronze from his fingers. Having done away with the throne’s guardians, the dungeon keeper now pressed on towards his prize. The rangers fell in around their master, mindful not to step into the searing hot puddles of metal now littering the hall.
Basil felt slight resistance on the other side when he tried to push open the throne room door, so instead of fiddling with the obstacle he elected to smash the lock with his fist. As the strike landed the massive gates sprung open, crashed into the adjacent walls, jumped out of their hinges and fell to the ground with a terrible ruckus.
When the dust had settled an ivory white throne room was revealed. The entire length of the majestic chamber was illuminated by two rows of sun-shard chandeliers that hung from the ceiling. They radiated a warm glow that was akin to real sunlight, which seemed to trouble the dark rangers, since they were quick to pull up their hoods to hide from the falling light. It was much more prevalent in the throne room than it had been throughout the palace, so they must have reached their threshold of resistance against the holy element.
Covering the path leading up to the throne was a red carpet, interwoven with gold patterns and motives depicting the sun and stars. Every painting, every mosaic and every stained-glass window along the way to the throne was a sight to behold. They told stories of past glories, conquests and heroic deeds of Empire Solar and its divine guardian, the elemental that Lord Doom had imprisoned, Maiden Solar. The motif of people groveling or begging before her was repeated in several murals and paintings spread throughout the chamber. She was depicted as both, a mother and a jealous lover—an idol to be respected and sometimes feared, should one falter in their devotion to her.
Basil paid little mind to these foreboding decorations. He had already reduced countless such halls of vanity down to rubble in his long career as a dungeon keeper. This throne room—the heart of Empire Solar—was no different from the rest. This world’s history was already known to him. In spite of what the foolish kith might believe, it was not unique.
History had a tendency to repeat itself, especially when played out across countless worlds over untold eons. After a while the names of heroes begin to overlap, their deeds become mundane and their deaths a mere statistic to be tallied. A dragon slayer here, a master craftsman there—none of these achievements were unique when measured up against the greater history of the universe as Basil knew it, and that was not a pleasant truth to carry. That is why the truth of their existence was kept from them.
The black-clad rangers moved into the corners of the room and took cover behind the marble pillars that held up the galleries above. The Emperor’s court was even larger than Basil’s own throne room and judging from the number of seats on both sides of the chamber it could host several thousand attendees at once.
Soon enough Basil’s minions had set up their ambush positions throughout the room. They remained on the lookout for the imperial troops while their master advanced on his target.
Finally, it is within my grasp. Basil climbed the steps of the Emperor’s throne and eyed the throne with a hint of childish glee.
“Now this is a chair fit for a ruler,” he proclaimed as he pressed his red body into the cushioned seat. The emperor’s throne was just large enough to accommodate the burly demon prince. “It will make a fine addition to my collection…”
The dungeon keeper’s moment of frivolous celebration proved to be short lived, however. An intrusion, while far from unexpected, still drew his ire as it manifested.
An angry voice carried strong across the room, chastising the dungeon keeper. “Remove yourself from this holy place, you foul beast!”
The rangers snapped their bows towards the ruined entrance of the throne room as a lone figure emerged from the hallway beyond. A lowly squire limped into sight. His armor was sundered and his face bloodied, but the young man pressed on, willfully ignorant of his injuries.
“You will leave this place at once!” the squire demanded. With considerable effort, he pointed his sword at the rangers spread out across the room. “All of you, by the light of Maiden Solar, will be banished!”
Basil leaded back into the throne and rested his head on his hand. “Banished?” he asked. “By you and what army? Your goddess already failed to defeat me. Who are you to promise me a good fight?”
The squire failed to reply in a prompt manner, so Basil continued.
“Don’t kill him yet,” he ordered his minions. “I’m in a good mood today, so I will hear the boy out.”
The squire stumbled towards the throne. “You cannot crush our spirit,” he spitefully proclaimed. “This city might fall, but our forces will go on fighting. Go and tell your master that!”
He thinks me a lowly minion, Basil realized to his great amusement. I will let this play out…
“Go and tell him of our valor!” the squire continued. “Tell that beast in his deep dark corner of the world that we will fight him to the last man.”
Basil grinned. “Yes, yes… you will fight me in the fields and in the forests; and in the mountains you will fight me and from beyond the grave you will haunt me. I’ve heard these kinds of defiant speeches before. But the last man to give it was not even half as close to death as you are right now, so why should I be concerned?”
The bloodied expression of the spiteful youth warped in anger. “Don’t you dare mock our determination, you demon filth!”
The noise of a bowstring being drawn back could be heard in response to the insult that was leveraged against the dark lord.
Basil raised his hand. “Do not kill him,” he said. “Let the boy speak his mind. Show some appreciation for his valor. Misplaced as it is…”
“Our blessed Emperor will strike you down,” the squire declared as he drew closer to the steps of the throne. His legs finally gave out and the boy ended up on the floor before the dungeon keeper.
“You will see…” he mumbled through his labored breathing, “we are not defeated yet…”
The valiant squire remained lying at the bottom of the steps, struggling for his life. His injuries had finally overcome his resilience and his final moments were at hand.
Basil looked at the information present in his dungeon keeper’s manual as he held the book towards the squire: “Human. Male. Age 16. Power level 5, [Common]. Near death.”
Your courage is admirable, Basil thought. You remain defiant even as you fight against overwhelming odds. If only your zeal had not been wasted in defense of a doomed world…
“You are a brave man to have come all this way to defend your Emperor,” Basil said as he closed the manual. “But bravery alone is not enough to save your realm in the late stages of a civilization.
“Because of the way that the universe works, you never had the chance to reach the heights of power that your ancestors achieved. And now you never will. Be proud of what you accomplished—I will remember your bravery here today.”
The boy said nothing. He could say nothing, holding onto what little life remained within him.
Basil pondered the squire’s predicament for a moment longer before deciding to intervene, if only to entertain his own curiosity. The dungeon keeper reached for his bandolier and pulled out a small glass vial from his magic pouch. It contained a purple liquid that glistened slightly in the falling light. He then descended the steps and kneeled next to the boy.
The squire’s breathing was ragged and his eyes stricken with fear as he felt his death creeping ever closer, but his hand still gripped tight the hilt of his sword. The poor fool even tried to raise it against the demon as it approached, but he blade never left the ground from more than an instant.
“This is a restoration potion,” Basil said as he placed the vial within the boy’s reach. “Drink from it and your worst injuries will be mended. It won’t make you feel any better, but it will keep you from dying.”
The dungeon keeper left the squire lying at the steps of the throne and walked towards a spiral staircase that was embedded in the corner of the throne room. His minions had already gathered at the mouth of the stairwell and now begun their climb in order to scout the path ahead for their master.
“I am going to go and find your blessed emperor now,” Basil announced.
The squire stirred at the mention of his ruler, but was too frail to stand up.
Basil stopped a few steps short of the stairs and addressed the boy one last time. “Reject the potion and you will die a glorious death, defiant to the last. Or you can accept my gift of life, follow me upstairs and witness my audience with your divine Emperor. But know that only misery and dread will be your reward. You will learn too much.”
Basil pulled a red healing potion from his pouch and placed it on the first step, beckoning the squire to follow. He then disappeared into the stairwell.
Having struggled with his conscience for a while, the squire eventually reached for the restoration potion. He placed the vial to his lips with a trembling hand and drank deep from the bitter chalice of defeat. Either driven by the selfish desire to survive or the noble goal of following the demon upstairs to have one last chance at striking him, the boy had accepted the dungeon keeper’s gift of life.