Esteemed Journal,

  In a place positively infested with thieves, scoundrels, and entrepreneurs (which are, let’s face it, just thieves and scoundrels with slightly better bookkeeping), what are the odds of running into the one merchant with a conscience? Lionel J’Khall considered himself a man of reason, and reason told him that they should be astronomically low.

  And yet, here he was.

  “Look,” Lionel said, in the slow, deliberate tone of a man attempting to herd an exceptionally stubborn donkey with nothing but the power of suggestion. “I’m here to browse whatever dungeon rights you have for sale. I am not here for a moral dilemma, a philosophy lesson, or a heartfelt discussion about the nature of commerce. So, do you, or do you not, have what I’m looking for?”

  Achim Makov, a broad walrus of a man—and that was not a metaphor so much as a generous description of biological ambiguity—scratched his head. Beneath his bushy mustache, two very real tusks gleamed in the lantern light, lending him the air of a sea creature that had somehow ended up in retail and was just trying to make the best of it.

  “I’m sorry to say, young sir, but I don’t think I do,” he said, his tone oddly gentle for a man built like a sentient boulder. “I’m not sure what family you’re from, but I merely—”

  Lionel raised a hand, pinching the bridge of his nose with the other.

  Of course. He should have expected this.

  He had expected this, but there was only so much he could do about it without rather drastic procedures.

  Between his ink-black hair and unnatural pallor, even in a plain shirt and black trousers, Lionel J’Khall had the misfortune of looking exactly like someone who was either very wealthy, very cursed, or both. The sort of person who stepped into a room and immediately made everyone wonder if they should be bowing or calling an exorcist.

  He should have put more thought into his wardrobe—more creases in his shirt, hair that was more ruffled, and a pair of thick glasses would probably have done the trick.

  “I’m not here representing any noble family, or some big company, or a shadowy cabal of old men who make ominous pronouncements about the future,” Lionel said, enunciating each word carefully. “I’m here as me. Money in my pocket. Looking to buy a dungeon.”

  “Then that’s all the more reason to refuse you, young sir.” Achim sighed, the politeness draining from his voice. “Dungeon Mastering isn’t some hobby you pick up on a whim, like stamp collecting or legally questionable alchemy. It requires planning, dedication, and, more than anything, care. Unattended cores are dangerous things, and whatever sorry Nexus employees get saddled with cleaning up the mess afterward are seldom happy about it. And trust me, young sir, a Nexus employee who isn’t happy is a terrifying thing. I don’t want any part in that.”

  Lionel flicked a glance to his right, where an elf clad in tight leather was in the process of nearly losing his head to some furry, many-toothed creature up for sale. His muffled screams were drowned out by the hall’s general ambiance, which included the wet snarls of the very thing that was trying to eat him from top-to-bottom.

  To his left, two young kobold customers—who couldn’t have been older than eight—were eagerly rolling dice to determine the price of their purchase. The sign above the stall read: "Potions! One Roll Decides Your Fate! (Ranging from Lethal Poisons to Love Tinctures!)" in cheery, well-crafted lettering. One of the kobolds pumped their fist as the die landed on a skull-and-crossbones symbol.

  Lionel didn’t even bother looking toward the center of the hall, where the cutthroat auction was still on going with more than a little pushing, elbowing, and spiteful bidding.

  “Interesting place to set up a morally conscious business,” Lionel observed, raising an eyebrow.

  Achim gave a strained smile. “It’s not about morals, young sir. It’s about self-preservation. Even if the Nexus doesn’t care too much about what happens on the Surface Layers, everything bad that happens up there eventually comes trickling down here. And the dungeons I sell aren’t some fun romp through a lakeside castle with suspiciously placed skeletons. They’re prideful things. They need a strong hand.”

  “I—”

  “You don’t, young sir. I’m sorry to say it. Not for the things I sell here,” Achim said. “So, I hope you find better luck somewhere else. Good day.”

  Lionel gave the man a long, hard look. He could feel the frustration bubbling beneath the surface, but losing his temper would’ve been as embarrassing as it would’ve been a waste of an opportunity. “Could you at least tell me why?”

  “Because I know your kind,” Achim said, in the same tone used by men who have seen too much of the world and found it disappointing. “I get it: You’re ambitious. The new season is just around the corner. You want to climb ranks. Now. Fast. Before your hairs turn gray. You want to make a name for yourself. And you think dungeons are a convenient tool for that. A means to an end.”

  His mustache bristled. This was not a metaphor.

  “You’ve seen the high-rank broadcasts—we all have—the top productions and meticulously planned adventures that only gets aired once or twice a season. Loved by the masses and advertisers alike, they’re the dungeons that make children dream, that keeps grown ups glued to their screens, and that consistently pull unfathomable viewer ratings.

  “That last part you’ve probably paid extra attention to. You’ve thought about the revenue and fame involved. How you would like to get a piece of that cake yourself. And maybe you’re a smarter young sir than most, and you’ve realized the logistics required for such a dungeon. Besides the writing, planning, and sheer resources required, such investments are only worthwhile for as long as seasoned Delvers are attempting them. And to lure them in does not come cheap.”

  He spread his arms wide.

  “But maybe you are slightly more humble than I give you credit for, and you’ve been aiming for the gauntlet or arena-type dungeons instead, perfect for an audience to bet on their favorite Delvers or to get momentarily invested in a heart-wrenching underdog story. But these require a sufficient amount of participants to be worthwhile, which means good networking, and trust me, young sir, nothing in this world is more cutthroat than the Delver Guild’s social calendar.”

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  He leaned forward, eyes narrowing.

  “Then there are the whimsical romps through exotic lands, of course, the creative escape rooms, the cruel trap chambers, the funny carnival dungeons that break all the rules in ways that should, by rights, be illegal but aren’t because nobody has yet worked out how to make them so. I’m sure you know all about these, young sir. You’ve done your research and now you think you can navigate them perfectly. I can tell from the way you carry yourself. The confidence.

  “A little favoritism here, perhaps. Let a few Delvers win in the right places, earn favor with a Guild or two through promotional streams. A well-timed crushing defeat to build suspense. Gradually draw in the viewers, raise the stakes, cultivate the drama. And you—” he poked a broad, sausage-like finger at Lionel’s chest, “—think you’ll be the one pulling the strings.”

  Achim shook his head, tiredly. It was the kind of gesture that suggested he had once tried to explain fire to a moth, only to have it argue back that it was different from all the other moths.

  “But the thing you don’t realize, young sir,” he continued, “is that such things are not up to any Dungeon Master to decide. They are up to the Dungeon. And not once, since you stepped before me, have you asked what kind of Dungeons I’m selling. That’s how I know selling what I have here, to you, is a bad idea.”

  The shopkeeper folded his arms. “You see, there are some particularly nasty Cores out there, the kind that do not like being treated as props in a game of marketable entertainment. The kind that will hunt down any Delver who dares touch its loot until either it is destroyed, or the Delver becomes one with the local ecosystem in a very permanent and possibly photosynthetic way.”

  He exhaled through his nose, which, given the sheer presence of his mustache, made it look like his entire face was steaming. “And if someone accidentally sells you that kind of core, I can only pray you manage to warn any poor fool who attempts your Dungeon before they get turned into an interesting new species of moss…”

  ***

  Meanwhile, in a completely different part of the Underfold, at it’s doorstep, if you may—

  Annabel was having a good time.

  No, Annabel was having a great time.

  Suspended three stories above ground, the wind rustling through her hair and nothing but the open skies before her, she was soaring. Which, to the casual observer, might suggest that she was engaged in some sort of extreme sport. The kind with helmets, safety harnesses, and legal waivers.

  Alas, no. What Annabel had—as gravity took over and sent her hurtling back towards the ground—was an impromptu rope made from bed sheets and shower curtains, tied together in a way that could charitably be described as optimistic. This, in turn, was secured to a crude, self-made rod—constructed from floor lamps, table legs, a few propane tanks (surely empty…right?), and several chairs—held together by an ungodly amount of tape, sheer audacity, and possibly divine intervention.

  And yet, somehow, it held. (Gremlin Engineering. Best not to think too hard about it.)

  And so, for any shambling undead who arrived late to the swarming street below, the sight that greeted them as the evening sun cast long, eerie shadows could hardly be done justice with mere snarls and gurgles. A more articulate individual—had there been one present, and had they not been busy screaming—might have described it as:

  "A cackling lunatic strung to the ugliest fishing pole I have ever seen."

  But even that wouldn’t fully capture the sheer spirit of Annabel’s latest flight of madness.

  And fly she did.

  Back and forth across the street she swung like an overly enthusiastic pendulum, just out of reach of the rotting limbs clawing at the air beneath her. In her hands, she clutched a pillowcase filled to bursting with coins, zombie teeth, and assorted bits-and-bobs that might charitably be considered loot. Anything that her Shiny Acquisition vacuumed from the ground went in, more on the way, leaving a constant trail of coins chasing after her.

  It was brilliant. And, for a full minute, Annabell laughed—loud, manic, sugar-fueled laughter, the kind of laugh that suggests consequences are for other people.

  Then, inevitably, gravity got involved and such consequences began to catch up.

  As her momentum—born from a graceful dive through the third-floor window—waned and the sheer weight of her growing pillowcase began to add up, Annabel’s expression gradually shifted from wild glee to creeping realization.

  Somewhere above her, either the sky was creaking, or her make-shift construction of tape and prayer was starting to speak out in protest.

  And below, the clawing undead hands were starting to get a bit too close for comfort.

  Before long, Annabell was no longer a soaring poltergeist, delighting in her aerial superiority. She was a dangling piece of bait, and the snarling, eager horde below was very much aware of this fact.

  Her legs, which had once kicked playfully for effect, were now tucked up against her chest in a valiant effort to remain uneaten.

  “Hey—hey, Wallace?” Annabel called out, the first traces of concern creeping into her voice. She had at last slowed to a halt, bobbing gently up and down like a bungee jumper who had not entirely thought through the whole ‘getting back up’ part of the experience. “Pull me up, would you?”

  Silence.

  “Wallace?”

  Nothing.

  “Well, this is awkward,” she said, mustering her politest smile as she peered down at the seething mass of undead beneath her. Snarls, snapping jaws, and frothing hunger glared back at her. “Do you lot mind giving me a minute? It seems my friend is—”

  The horde responded with a chorus of growls. Not a nuanced chorus, mind you—more of a one-note arrangement in which every singer was deeply committed to the "AAAARRGGH" section of the sheet music.

  Expected, perhaps, considering that most of them, the ones with the level 1-4 tags above their heads, were fairly standard-issue zombies. Your classic, budget-friendly, shuffling-about-and-smelling-horrific type of undead. They waved their hands in her general direction, operating on the faint hope that she might, through some divine act of incompetence, suddenly drop into their waiting grasp.

  If that was all she had to deal with, Annabell might have been fine for a while longer.

  But through the sea of mindless mobs, a figure was pushing forward with purpose, all elbows and condescending grunts when it came to his lacking peers.

  Vengeful Jim (Level 5) was not, by any means, larger than the rest. But he was better dressed. His ensemble was smart casual, complete with an undone tie and an extra bit of rotting gut tastefully peeking out from beneath his dress shirt.

  Where the others merely waited for Annabel to descend—for the inexorable march of time to do its work—Vengeful Jim took unlife into his own hands.

  With a grim determination that suggested he had once been the kind of man who cut in queues and took the last biscuit from the office tin, Jim climbed atop a fellow zombie’s shoulders in the same way he’d once climbed over colleagues to reach the top of the corporate ladder.

  What they had all lacked in reach he overcame in an instant, and alongside it came a well-earned promotion: Vengeful Jim → pling! → Jousting Jim.

  A slap to his new mount’s bald, mottled head set things in motion.

  With a triumphant sneer, the newly appointed jouster spurred his rotting steed forward, straight toward the living loot pi?ata that’d entered his domain.

  Unfortunately, hanging on by a string that wasn’t just metaphorical, Annabell was in a constant state of slowly spinning in the air. As all of this was happening, she was looking the other way, politely waving toward an old neighbor.

  The only clue she got toward what was happening behind her was in a cinematic banderoll that flashed across her vision:

  Battle…

  Annabel Smith vs. Jousting Jim

  Begin!

  “Jim?” she asked out loud, swaying back and forth. “Who is that?”

  The answer to that question was galloping at her with the determination of an “Employee of the Month” who had never once missed a deadline.