Cyrus stopped himself. While the literature had mentioned vaguely of this God-like system, seeing it in person shook him to the core. He performed a stuttered bow, knees buckled slightly as if having a mind of their own, "Is he supposed to kneel?" In a scenario such as this, a sacrificial sheep or bull would have placated the God but the roman didn't have one. Cyrus regretted not taking up Augury or Hepatoscopy for that matter, it would have greatly helped with preparing him for such heart-stopping surprises. He was getting too old for this. Although considering his current predicament of being stuck in a cave with only dead tree skins for company, it wasn't plausible in the slightest. The other unusable items were just that, unusable and cannot be called company, dead weight would be the correct designation.
Unsure of how to proceed, he cautiously directed his will at the word, creating an image of a handshake in his mind and restating that he meant no harm. Seemingly satisfied with his meagre offering, the words switched and transformed into new ones.
Greetings Dungeon-Wanna-Be! For your soul-tormenting hard work in creating a dungeon worthy of the system, you have been granted Socci (Lowest rank) access to the System! Please contact the nearest administrator for assistance! (Overruled)
YOU HAVE BREACHED ToS IN ACCORDANCE TO Article B Section 1, "the murder of a system employee results in the termination demotion of system access to Rank I. All special privileges and achievements are to be revoked." (Overruled by CENSORED)
Please enjoy your stay!
Race: Hybrid - Standard/Field/Tower Dungeon Core/Human [ERROR] Subrace:
[SYSTEM RANK REQUIREMENT: Civitas]
Ranking System:
Personalised ~ *&%#@* Style
Current Rank: Decanus (I)
Available Creatures
[SYSTEM RANK REQUIREMENT: Civitas] (Overruled)
All Basic Creatures
Speciality: Ro@#&an Leg@n0(7ri^es & Gla(*^$##
Mob Troop Capacity: 0/250 Mobs Troops (Only 25 in dungeon: (0/25) 0/3 Mini-Boss/Boss Officers (Only 1 in dungeon: (0/1) Mana:
Regen: [ERROR]
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Total: [ERROR]
Skills:
[SYSTEM RANK REQUIREMENT: Civitas]
Cyrus's lips were dry, his lower jaw was propped up by sheer muscle tissue. A thin coat of sweat covered his body. While he had expected backlash from the guild or perhaps the mysterious management, a punishment from the Gods themselves had never been present in his mind. Thanking them for not smiting, whipping or fining him and showing utmost mercy, he bowed deeply. Straightening his back, the roman, now dungeon core, proceeded to gently swipe the translucent, floating paper away.
Once again dropping to the floor, he gently picked up his shield and sword, looking them over. His eyes were blank, his brain was fully occupied with two things, the Gods and the "troops."
----------------------------------------
Far, far away to the north, across the sea of emerald treetops, through the towns and villages of the grassy plains, a single city towered above the landscape, Everhaven, the capital of Evesia. The glistening, polished marble bricks and red tiling melded together to form a pattern of red and white.
Through the narrow, snake-like streets, filled with the vibrant atmosphere of merchants advertising their goods, the clinking of coins and the thunderous murmur of a thousand voices. Across from the open stalls, an 18th-century town hall stood proudly, its white sheen dazzling the eye.
Posted on either side of the large, wooden door were two pairs of flags. One was a ring of intertwined rope encircling the silhouettes of two axes interlocked in an X shape with a sword piercing through the middle, the adventurers' guild. The other had a background of contrasting strips of dark blue and yellow. The centre of the flag held a shield, planted behind a pair of hands holding up a crown.
On the 2nd floor of this grand building, the faint figures of 2 men sitting across each other at a table could be seen through the cloudy glass window.
Both men sat back straight, eyes firmly locked in a combat of wills. The tension was palpable. A folder of paper sat between the two, a page or two were slightly visible. The blood-red words "immediate" and "withdrawal" peaked over the edges of the leather covering. Sighing, the older gentlemen admitted defeat and slouched over, grabbing a bottle of mead roughly. Tipping his head upwards, he took one long draught of the liquid before slamming it down and wiping away the residue with the ragged sleeve of his suit.
The younger, clean-shaven man raised an eyebrow, "How have you not gotten rid of that habit of yours old man?"
Snorting, the elder merely shook his head and shuffled through the parchments, grumbling, "Annoying researchers, this is the 3rd time they have requested this." Poking at the miniature stamp that mimicked the real-life flag outside, "How did they get the crown's support?"
Gazing at the hand-bearing crown, the young man shrugged, "Whose to say, don't you trust me on this matter?"
Tilting his white-haired head upwards, the old man smiled gently, "I trust you, boy," his voice rose an octave, "but not those damn fools who call themselves researchers nor the guy that has a crown on his head who agreed with them!" Grabbing yet another bottle, he ripped the cork out with his teeth before chugging the liquid.
The well-dressed man's smile drooped into a grimace as he glared at his mentor, "Beware of who you speak of Nicholas! In anyone's ears, that would be deemed treason!"
Standing up and walking over to the shelf-packed scrolls, authur's fingers wrapped themselves around several with practised ease before returning to his seat with the literature. Gently placing a hand on the old man's slumped shoulders, Arthur whispered, "Recall the dungeon assessment parties, they are currently of no use," leaving much unsaid.
Worry had begun to seep into his mind, this was the 3rd time that his mentor had declined the mage's guild, any more so and it could damage the reputation of the guild, not to mention that this "suggestion" was backed by the crown, to say the least. A decline would mean heads would roll. Arthur quickly ripped the terrible image out of his head.
Massaging his face with scarred hands, the guild master managed the barest of nods. Knowing that he had overstayed his welcome, the messenger walked out. Looking back at the defeated form of his old mentor, Arthur sighed once more and pulled the door closed.