Thrash had been skinny as a boy, with glasses on his eyes and legs that needed training wheels. Once he turned four, his father, Thron, had at long last settled down to raise him, his mother having died. Thron had spent half a century fighting his way across the Starr Galaxy and reaching the top of the galactic leaderboard, where he remained to this day. All eyes had been on him, just as all eyes would no doubt be on his son.
It hadn’t taken long for Thrash to show his apparent weaknesses. Just like his father, he had been a poor learner, so after a single year he was sent to train with the best on Starr Training Base 1, where his own father had trained. Thron, of course, went back out to the Starr Galaxy, returning to fight for his title as the leaderboard’s number one champion. He succeeded.
As it turned out, his father had been the single detriment to Thrash’s learning. From the age of five, Thrash had risen through the ranks of the training base with ease, each of his stats reaching heights never before seen. Every training system was passed with flying colours, every fight and level-up filmed and broadcasted to the world. He was the brightest star they'd seen - brighter, even, than his father.
Thrash's consciousness rolled into his body, awakening him. He couldn't open his eyes, but his Starr Chip was active, his interface visible. There was a new achievement, and a notification or two, but he ignored them. With fear in his heart, he pulled up his stats.
Level: 1
Health Points: 100
Mana Points: 50
Charisma: 30
Strength: 10
Dexterity: 12
Intelligence: 10
Thrash wailed, falling back into his subconscious.
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Thrash stirred again. Any number of hours could have passed, but his interface popped up.
Time Unconscious: 263,598 minutes
He groaned, his whole body foreign to him. Maths had never been his strongest subject, but that number was far, far larger than it should’ve been. His senses started to return to him. He could smell damp walls and rusty iron, and a singularly annoying drip kept plopping beside him. He was not going to open his eyes. He was going to sit until his death.
‘COMMISERATIONS, THRASH!’ a charming, feminine voice shouted, the walls around him vibrating.
Thrash shot up in terror, clutching his ears and keeping his eyes shut tight. There was a brief pause as his ears rang, the silence in the room horrifying.
‘YOU ARE SO LUCKY TO BE HERE,’ the voice bellowed again. ‘I WELCOME YOU WITH OPEN ARMS!’
Thrash squirmed in agony, wrestling his eyelids open and glaring at whatever it was making such atrocious noise. He continued to hold his ears, scanning the room. It was dark, and his eyes took a long time to adjust, the majority of the room a dull shadow to him. His head pounded, making it hard to think straight, and although his energy levels felt higher than he anticipated, his whole body creaked and groaned in a tired ache. He came to a sudden realisation; if he’d been unconscious for six months, someone must have been interfering. He wouldn’t have survived otherwise.
For a moment, there was silence. Then, a blinking white dot appeared directly in front of him.
‘Commiserations, Thrash,’ the voice said, barely loud enough to hear. It adjusted itself, accommodating Thrash's sore eardrums. ‘I apologise for my increased volume. Brigwell was uncharacteristically deaf. I have adjusted my range.’
Thrash leant forwards, finally identifying the creature as Brigwell’s AI. He was unable to catch what she had said, his ears ringing, but nodded. His voice was dry. ‘Are there any lights to turn on?’
The AI chirped and moved to a wall. To Thrash’s relief, he heard the sound of a match being struck, echoing through the room. Within a second, the walls were flickering with shadows as small candles lit up around them. The AI immediately whizzed to Thrash’s side, chirping happily. Thrash stood slowly, his mind cloudy and painful, his knees popping as he straightened them. As he reached his full height, he felt a wave of emotion rush over him, the memory of his dismissal so fierce that his eyes started to swim once more, his throat swelling with unexpressed fury. However, his mind was immediately numbed. He felt almost… relieved?
He jumped as a hand touched his back. With a turn, he realised it wasn’t a hand. The AI was rubbing his shoulders with pointy, metal spikes, almost massaging them.
‘Your fragile human body is so soft, Thrash. Your skin is bouncy like jelly.’
Thrash jumped away, glaring at the floating robot. It was incredibly outdated. Initially, Thrash presumed that it was made out of a patchwork of orange metals. On closer inspection, he noted that it was simply rusted beyond repair, its panels having been dented, scratched, and corroded over time. The edges of its metal plating were jagged, and some parts seemed ready to fall off with the slightest touch. Thrash couldn't believe something so decrepit was still functioning.
It was small and round, with two long, spindly robot arms extending from a panel beneath it. It whirred in the air, its display screen cracked and red eyes distorted across it. A white light continued to blink in the corner.
‘No touching,’ Thrash ordered. ‘Do not touch me.’
The robot whirred sympathetically. ‘Brigwell had beastly muscles. Brigwell liked to be touched. Hmm. Humans are kinder than dwarves, but this AI system preferred Brigwell. Definitely. She likes men with muscles.’
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Thrash suppressed a growl, rubbing the back of his head and looking around. He needed to know what surrounded him, but his eyes were still uncomfortably sore. ‘AI, describe the room.’
The AI whirred. ‘This is the entrance to Starr Eternal, Mines for the Everyday Hero. To the left, you might see a hole in the wall. That’s my hole. Brigwell made it for me. Only Brigwell was allowed in my hole.’
Thrash murmured acknowledgement, noting the small recess in the stone and rubbing his eyes. ‘I have no interest in your hole.’
She continued on. ‘To the right of your entrance portal, stone stairs lead down into the dungeons. Opposite, the master’s counter stretches across the room, separated by a small opening. Behind the counter, there are barrels for materials, currently empty, of course - and a padded bedroll. On the wall above the bed is a golden clock that accurately tracks your local time. Does this description appease you, Thrash?
He listened, but ignored her question, his patience slowly decreasing. ‘What about me? Describe me.’
The AI flickered, facing him. ‘You are the new Dungeon Master. You are five feet and ten inches tall. Upon arrival, you were dressed in a brown cotton tunic and tattered dark trousers. Your hair is dark and long, and your face is covered with a light beard. You are singularly unattractive.’
‘A light beard?’ Thrash exclaimed. He’d never had a beard in his life. Sure enough, he could feel it, scratchy and harsh. He turned in place, desperate for a mirror, but found nothing that would help.
‘Indeed. It is a poor attempt at a beard. Brigwell’s beard was three feet long; much larger and much more satisfying. Much more attractive.’
Thrash wanted to cry, but his brain was still numb. This was going to be a nightmare. ‘I’m going to need you to refrain from the Brigwell comments, AI. What else can you describe?’
The AI waited. Thrash waited. It chirped ahead of him, steadily blinking.
Thrash, leaning on the counter, raised his arms in a shrug. ‘Well?’
The AI retracted its hands. ‘Will you be offended, little man-child?’
Thrash swore at her. He took a deep breath and braced himself for the horrors of change, running his hands over his chest, stomach, legs, and arms. All of them were much finer than he’d expected, but his stomach was particularly larger than before.
‘Indeed,’ the AI noted, as though verbalising Thrash’s thoughts.
‘Shut up,’ Thrash ordered, angry. He supposed that with this AI now linked to his Starr Gear, it would verbalise his thoughts. ‘I can’t do this.’
Thrash felt a tear form, wiping it away before it could fall. He let his hands cover his face, breathing in and out to calm his heart. He remembered his expulsion, he knew that he’d been forced to come here, and it was all he could do to not collapse into nothingness. Still, he didn’t feel as bad as he wanted to feel.
There was a poke on his ribs. He looked down, the AI holding out a small, rusty orb. ‘Perhaps this will lift your spirits?’
Thrash took it, a notification appearing in his interface. He sighed. This would be a distraction. He opened up the interface panel. It looked different to how he remembered it, but the inventory bar was still at the bottom. The item hovered in the middle of his screen until it was accepted, so he prompted it.
Commiserations! You have been awarded: Dungeon Master's Pickaxe
Item Rarity: Legendary
This essential item is a must-have for all aspiring Dungeon Masters. This is non-negotiable. If thrown, it will return to you. If dismissed, it will secure itself to the holster on the back of your shirt. Don't have one? NOW YOU DO.
Carry this tool at all times to mine with ease and express your absolute authority.
Reward: This item has no current effects or boosts to stats.
The voice that described the achievement was identical to his new AI’s, only subdued and more mechanical. He winced as she shouted the part written in all capital letters, voice rolling through his skull like a chugging engine. Thrash saw the item flicker into his bottom bar. He selected it, and it appeared in his hands. It was long and rusted, its body far too similar to the AI in front of him. He felt down the back of his shirt, finding the spot where a holster had indeed formed. He didn’t care.
‘Why am I constantly being commiserated?’ Thrash asked the AI.
It seemed confused. ‘It is a compliment of your achievements.’
Thrash frowned, shaking his head in exhaustion. ‘No, I think you’ll find that ‘congratulations’ is the word that you’re looking for.’
The AI shook its head. ‘Incorrect. I recommend you proceed through your interface. You will have a guest arriving shortly.’
Thrash’s attention was intensified. ‘A guest? Who? Is it my father? Or my old crew?’
The AI beeped, but was otherwise silent. Thrash turned his attention back to his interface. On the centre of the right hand side a small, golden star sat, spinning every now and then to signify that there were new achievements to open. He selected it with his intent.
Commiserations! You have earned the achievement 'You're in Charge!’
Did you really earn this title, or are you simply a nepo-baby? Either way, your life is now forfeit to the dark, the damp, and the gloomy, forever watching those adventurers succeed where you didn't.
Reward: You have earned the title 'Dungeon Master'.
This title provides an additional 5% boost on your maximum base Charisma.
Thrash sighed, glaring at the notification. A 5% boost on Charisma? His Charisma used to be in the hundreds; this reward felt more like an insult. He’d gone from being the most promising Adventurer ever to being some glorified caretaker. Flicking to his next achievement, he could feel the frustration simmering - this wasn’t the life he’d earned.
Commiserations! You have earned the achievement 'Tool of the Trade’
You have started a new venture.
Your very first mining tool is a memorable one. Let's make it even more memorable.
NO EXPERIENCE GIVEN.
Thrash swore at the description, looking around the room once again. There was absolutely nothing of value. He peeked behind the counter, and looked in each of the barrels. He couldn’t quite remember how it had looked before, but he knew that there had been doors, items, food, and windows. It was as though it had been stripped bare just for him. He snorted. That was likely exactly what had happened. A sound formed, the entrance portal whirring.
An Adventurer is on their way. Please close all interface windows and await arrival.
‘AI?’ Thrash asked, quickly moving behind the counter of the room. ‘Who is coming?’
The AI chirped happily. ‘A representative of the Starr Galaxy Entertainment Corporation. Buckle up, you small-bearded man.’