Bastian

  Bastian patiently watched as the adventurer carefully walked across the bridge on floor three. Each step sent the creaking of the wood echoing through the cavernous crevice spanned by the wooden bridge.

  “I bet you that he falls for it,” Perrywinkle whispered as she stared into Bastian’s core, its reflective surface showing a live feed of Bastian's dungeon.

  “Oh-ho-ho! No bet. He didn’t even notice the treasure chest earlier. I think he’ll step right into Cammy’s mouth.” Bastian countered.

  “Psshh, Cammy’s too impatient for that.” Perrywinkle countered.

  “You think she’s gonna grab him before that?”

  “Defos.”

  “Let's see.” If Bastian could grin, he would. Unfortunately, he was stuck as a crystal, resting on an elaborately carved stone podium; while he could only send mental impressions to his dearest Dungeon Fairie.

  The adventurer’s party had been killed a few rooms ago, but the poor guy they were observing had panicked, run, and gotten lost. Now, he carefully crept ever deeper into the depths of Bastian's 4th floor. Each person involved in the situation knew that he would die, but the poor adventurer still held on to that impossibly strong urge, forcing him to march on. He knew he would die, Bastian could see as much in his too-wide bloodshot eyes. They all knew that solo delving past the third floor was active suicide, but when his friends died off in a 'freak accident', all he could do was try to get out.

  The life of a dungeon core was an interesting one, Bastian found. He'd never thought that he would voluntarily hope for someone’s death in his previous life, but he’d come to understand that it was a natural part of life as a Dungeon Core. It helped that each dead adventurer made him stronger. Perrywinkle likewise died laughing each time a spoiled noble brat got iced, and whatever made her happy couldn't be that bad in his books. Three hundred years of living as a dungeon core later, he’d built twelve floors of complex trials and challenges meant to forge cultivators into their best versions…or kill them.

  Perrywinkle was with him the entire time. Keeping him company and keeping him sane as he was forced to sit in one place for all eternity. She gave him advice on interior decorations, always had input in naming his creations, and generally helped keep his mind in the present. Otherwise, he was likely to hyperfocus for years on end.

  She wasn't great at naming, but hey, sacrifices had to be made to keep his lady happy. An example of her excellent naming conventions was the camouflaged mimic, Cammy, currently priming herself to kill the adventurer. The helpless low-tier 4 adventurer didn't even have time to react as Cammy’s jaws closed around his foot, biting it clean off. He screamed in pain and fell forward as Cammy’s wooden-looking arms closed around him, trapping his arms against his sides. A few moments later, Bastian felt the adventurer’s Life essence flow into his core.

  A tier 6 existence, Bastian’s power had seen massive increases in the last few centuries, and yet his combat ability was nonexistent. Instead, his power lay in his ability to create creatures that fought for him. Traps, mobs, dungeon bosses, treasure, and loot. Each aspect of his existence contributed to his survival. Though at this point, he played such an integral part in the local economy that the Volun adventurers would never actually kill him.

  Bastian absorbed the poor schmuck's Life Essence, then set about preparing his floors for the next party of adventurers. Resummoning mobs, healing his bosses, sprinkling some enchanted gear here and there. The usual day-to-day grind of a Dungeon. He then refocused on Cloud Jumper, his newest creation, which, in his humble opinion, is the cutest ball of death this world has ever seen. A cloud panther the size of a large car, her hand-sized death-bringer claws hidden by the fluffiest white fur. She loved playing in her specially designed boss room, languidly lounging on the clouds swirling through the Jungle basin. She could literally walk on the thick clouds swirling through the simulated jungle, allowing her to pounce on adventurers like a hidden wraith in the mist. If Sebastian had been human, he might have been terrified of her, but he had used his own ‘hands’ to sculpt her. They shared a telepathic bond that let him see the giant fluff-ball death machine's playful nature. God-damn was she fluffy! He laughed each time Perrywinkle went to have a nap in her thick fur because she would say it was like 'having a nap on the warmest clouds'.

  It was right when Perrywinkle slipped into the realm of slumber that Bastian noticed the tier 8’s positively strutting into his halls.

  Chapter 32: Gareth into the dungeon

  Gareth stepped through the ominously natural-looking cave entrance and onto the dungeon’s first floor.

  The place was faintly illuminated by glowing mushrooms, waist-high ferns with blue fronds, and small streams that promised a twisted ankle to anyone not paying attention. The entire floor was covered with a concealing, cool fog that licked across a thin dirt path leading deeper into the tunnel.

  The air smelled damp, but fresh, as if it had just rained. He used [Falcon Sight] as much as possible, but the waist-high ferns could have concealed anything. So, he employed something that had helped him countless times before; he stood there and watched for movement. It took a few minutes, but he started to notice small movements in the fern’s leaves that couldn't have been the wind. He drew his sword and crept forward down the path.

  He stepped carefully, but every few steps, a little ankle-breaker hole concealed by compacted leaves would catch him off balance. It forced him to step lightly, walk slowly, and keep his eyes down, not on his surroundings.

  About ten steps down the path, he came to a fern that had slightly luminescent blue water droplets coalescing on its fronds. It looked magical in nature, and he knew that alchemy ingredients were somewhat valuable to the right people. He looked at the dew for a second before moving on, because he didn't have a way to store it without contaminating his drinking water. He kept an eye out for iron ore but doubted he would find any by just casually looking; the concealing foliage was too thick. He would likely need to dig a bit, which is why he had a pickaxe strapped to his bag.

  It was only due to his keeping [Sense Hostility] active that he felt the piercing gaze suddenly boring into his back. He whirled around, his muscle memory bringing his sword up in a two-handed stab at chest height. Yet instead of piercing through an enemy, his blade glided along a ribbed horn on course to pierce through his throat. Seeing an opening, he let his blade glide upward along its horn while tilting his blade to glide across the back of its skull, cutting deeply. In the same motion, the horn got caught on his crossguard, protecting him from getting stabbed while also giving him a point from which to shove the hare back a smidge.

  His manoeuvre was effective enough to keep its dangerous horn away, but momentum kept its lower body coming. Its rear paws scratched somewhat ineffectually at his leather stomach armour, finding little purchase. It fell back to the ground, catching itself on its furry little toe beans.

  Gareth took in its appearance as a subconscious factor irrelevant to the current conflict. Yet it recognised the tan fur on an angular face. The fluffy, long ears. The squinting, oval, amber eyes that held so much personality he couldn't help but recognise it as sentient. It was about waist-high to Gareth and stood on two powerful jackrabbit legs. It had a long torso supporting two shorter, yet no less sturdy arms. Its hands had an opposable thumb and three thick fingers, each possessing a mean claw. Only the fur on its face, hands, and paws was short. Its stomach was safely protected by long, luxurious white fur, seamlessly blending with the long tan fur on its chest and underarms. His only clothing was a pair of tan hemp pants, which protected his modesty. Its crowning feature was the large, foot-long ribbed horn sprouting from its forehead. His skull now sported a short but deep cut along the back of its skull, right between its ears. It bled heavily, as all head-wounds do.

  This was the first time that Gareth had truly hurt an animal, since animals were all but extinct on Terra. He loved cats, dogs, bunnies, great cats, and cute little bear cubs. It reminded him that all those creatures were now extinct due to human actions, which forced him to hesitate in executing his blade form. He knew this was a dungeon-created creature, not a wild animal. Yet his mind still recalled ancient low-res vids of people playing with their dogs, watching their cats get into mischief, or a little girl squealing with joy as she hugged her birthday present... a bunny.

  He stopped the reflexive downward slash millimetres from its squinting amber eye. Its brown wittle nose twitched fwantically, and Gareth couldn't find it in himself to keep the fight going. It was just too cuuuuute.

  If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  He had the hare at his mercy. If he just straightened his arms, then the blade would plunge forth quicker than a blink and end its life. For how cute the little thing appeared, it had a warrior's heart. Once it realised that it was at his mercy, it squared its furry little chest and stared directly into Gareth's eyes, waiting, daring.

  Surprised once more by its sentience, Gareth kept his blade point levelled at the hare, but took a single step backwards to disengage. Then waited for the hare's reaction.

  It wasn't long in coming as Gareth saw surprise in its brows, then confusion spark in its eyes. Finally, a begrudging nod as the hair gently tinked its horn against his blade - a sign of respect.

  That single moment stretched into infinity as Gareth's eyes flicked rapidly from its horn to his blade, then back to its amber pools, as understanding bloomed behind his own blue windows. If this creature is smart enough to understand respect or surrender, then it is smart enough to befriend. It begs the question, why is it attacking me?

  Without taking his eyes off of it, and without lowering his sword, he spoke quietly, “You can have that blue water on the plant.” He tilted his head towards the fern he'd been inspecting.

  The hare showed clear signs of intelligence because it looked from the fern, back to him, nodded, and licked some of the blue water off the leaf with a short pink tongue. Once it finished, it looked him up and down again, as if assessing him one last time, before dashing off into the ferny undergrowth.

  The rest of the floor was surprisingly peaceful. No other hares attacked him, and other than tripping a few times, he successfully made his way through the bends in the long tunnel-like cavern. At its end, he found a large metal door barring his progress. In front of it, a pure silver chest the size of a large shipping box. The silver chest was carved and etched to resemble a natural wood-grain for some reason. It was one of the traditional hinged chests he'd seen often enough since he'd started living in Volun.

  It swung open as he approached, and he thought it wise to peek inside from a distance. This first floor had been easy, too easy. It reeked of a trap. There was simply a red velvet lining the fancy chest. Resting in its centre was what appeared to be a plain fur pouch, about the size of a large purse. A soft golden cord was used to cinch it closed.

  “A bit ostentatious, but fuck it.” He shrugged and removed the collapsible 15 ft pole from his backpack. He then extended the pole and caught the pouch’s cord with the hook, easily pulling it towards himself in safety.

  He still didn't touch it. He held it close and sniffed to see if there might be poison or something else on it. It smelled like freshly laundered clothes, the type that cheap laundromats use - which is to say it smelled divine.

  He held it close, but couldn't see any creepy-crawlies or shimmers of magic.

  Maybe it's just a pouch?

  The moment he untied its top loop, a minimised icon popped up in the corner of his vision, but he ignored it for now.

  He tried to look inside, but either the lighting around him was too dark, or it was the pouch that sucked in all light because he still couldn't see inside…even though he had [Dark Vision]. Very suss.

  He tightened the loop and checked the notification, not willing to put his hand into something he couldn't see.

  You have completed the first floor of Vormire Dungeon.

  Requisites: Survive until you reach the door to the next floor.

  Secret clear condition achieved: The Horned Hare is a proud species that honours its opponents. By sparing its life, you have won its respect and increased the chest reward from Common to Rare.

  Reward:

  Silver chest: Holds 5 cubic litres.

  Hare pouch of holding: A spatial bag that can store up to 30 cubic Litres.

  “Well, that's nice.” Gareth turned back to the ferny tunnel and could barely see a pair of amber eyes observing him from beneath a fern frond.

  He nodded in respect and wondered, "Are there other secret quests I'm missing?"

  He was nothing if not a completionist gamer. It irked him immensely to leave some loot behind, potentially. Hoping to make the most of the dungeon's generosity, he then turned around and successfully stuffed the silver chest into the pouch, its lip stretching unnaturally to accommodate the girth.

  Once he was done, Gareth once more canvassed the room.

  He laughed lightly, “Haha, well that wasn't so bad.”

  Unfortunately, Gareth didn't know that dungeons, and specifically Fate, might take his statement as a challenge. Terra had long since forgotten ancient jinxes, and Gareth had grown up on the streets. He didn't know how to ‘touch-wood’ to ward off bad luck. He didn't know not to tempt Fate.

  Gareth took a step toward the doorway, then felt the ground shudder beneath him.

  He frowned, “That's weird.” He hooked the pouch to his hip and drew his sword when it happened again.

  Shudder. Crack-CRACK!

  The ground heaved below him, tilting to the right as a massive crevice split the ground to his left.

  “What the fu-!” His yell cut off as the once-solid ground beneath him fissured and split. He didn't have time even to attempt running before gravity dragged him into a fissure, disappearing further beneath the depths of Vormire Dungeon.

  Guanji

  Two hours earlier

  Guanji used his spiritual senses to track his disciple as he finally made it to Vormire Dungeon Fortress. To facilitate such an endeavour, he had split a part of his vast consciousness into many parts. Each sliver of self, tracking each essential part of his operation. His charge and his family are at the top of that list. Followed by a shard at Vormire Dungeon, to keep an eye on both Gareth and one of the city's most significant economic contributors. Another shard was at his personal abode, and the last was his physical body, which exuded a passive awareness for any large mana fluctuations across the city. This would ensure he knew of any attacks before they became a problem.

  Yet, his attention was split even further as he sensed a guard hastily running towards his property, where he was sitting on his porch, contemplating life. Guanji frowned at the irregularity, then rose to meet the guard at the small gate to his house.

  Shi Jen, their local military messenger, performed a deep but hasty bow once Guanji let him through the gate.

  “Honourable High Elder, this one begs permission to deliver an urgent message!”

  Guanji slightly tilted his head in acknowledgement, “Report.”

  Without rising, Shi Jen spoke softly, “Frontier scouts report a large caravan approaching Volun, High Elder…” he was silent for a moment, working up the courage to utter his following words, “They fly the colours of Marryvale.”

  “WHAT!?”

  -

  Guanji solemnly stood behind Margrave while messengers, advisers, and servants streamed through his office. They came in, received their orders, and then left to execute those orders. Margrave ran a tight ship, and each staff member knew their duties well, as few words as possible were exchanged. They all knew that this was crunch time.

  “Triple the guards around my family… Prepare all known antidotes… Find a priest, I do not care which one!... Prepare the dining hall… The main dish shall be smoked pork like the swine they are… activate all spies and have them be on high alert...I want a guarded escort to meet them at the gate; they Do Not leave their sight.”

  On and on the orders barked, each one an expectation that will be executed to perfection.

  They had five hours before the caravan would arrive. Not nearly enough time to prepare, yet they would find a way. Their enemy was approaching in the guise of diplomacy. Typical politics.

  When at last the servants stopped coming, and only Margrave and his family were left sitting in his office, Guanji spoke, “Do we have any idea of their motivations?”

  Ellismera spoke in short clipped sentences, cold anger seeping through her normally-controlled facade, “It could be any number of factors. None are concrete enough to be actionable. To act preemptively would be to reveal our weaknesses. We must frame our largest weakness as our greatest strength.”

  She locked eyes with her daughter, “You must agree to the Poluski betrothal.”

  “What!?”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.”

  “I do not think that is the best course of action.” Ellisandra, Margrave, and Guanji said simultaneously.

  They were all silenced by a look, “The threat of Titanslayer retaliation would force these cowards into inaction; they would not dare attack us.”

  “They are not here to attack us, my lady. If that were their intent, they would have come with an army. They have not shown open hostility, and without a casus belli, they risk the wrath of the Emperor himself. They are here either to implant spies, to plant an enchanted bomb, or to serve some other nefarious purpose. We should NOT expect open combat.”

  Ellisandra anxiously looked between her guardians. Her father’s fierce frown concealed his ruthlessly cold drive to protect his family. Her mother’s stony expression hid her tempestuous anger, and Elder Guanji was utterly unreadable, though no less trustworthy.

  “Could it be because Gareth left?” Ellisandra asked.

  Her mother narrowed her eyes before dismissing it with a brief shake of her head, “I doubt it, but it is a possibility. Elder, can you sense his state?” She looked at Guanji.

  He closed his eyes, focused on the parts of his perception that tracked his disciple, and shook his head. “He is currently sleeping. If they wanted to take him, that would have been the perfect time. I will, however, keep an eye on him.”

  They spent the next few hours discussing the Marryvalian’s possible motivations, then methods to counteract whatever plans they might have, then strategies if those plans failed, then contingencies if even those strategies failed.

  At long last, Margrave sighed and rose from behind his desk, his tone even more grave than his name suggested, “It is time, we must greet the devils at our door.”