Dungeon Core Academy: Books 1-7 (A LitRPG Series) Alex Oakchest (list of ebook readers .TXT) 📖

turn caused stones to dislodge and perhaps resulted in a cave-in, what am I to do? The mana contract would impose penalties on me through a sheer slap on the arse from mischance.”

“Fine. Make it so you can’t intentionally harm me, then.”

“A fine precaution, in that case! But I promise you; you’ll love me before the sun goes to sleep. Satisfied now, my gentleman gem? Or should I strip to my skin and prove I don’t have a crossbow wedged betwixt my arse cheeks?”

“You’re not telling me everything,” I said.

Truth was, I didn’t know if he was telling me everything, or if he wasn’t. But a trick I’d learned is that if you say to someone you’re not telling me everything, secrets may come spilling out.

“Fine,” huffed Gulliver. “You’ve wheedled it out of me. Your cores are renowned wheedlers, and you can consider me wheelded. Just twenty moons hither, I found myself in the employ of Duke Canbridshire. The duke’s reputation wasn’t golden, and he needed a scribe’s touch upon his legend. The usual stuff; I would follow the duke and write tales of his deeds, embellishing them to cast him in a good light. Pah. You might as well ask me to cast a swamp boar in a good light.

In my unfettered access to the duke’s life, I came to know his family quite well. His delightful children. His wife, Nalena, who was both beautiful and kind, with a soul as golden as sunlight. But the duke was a horrid toad; a vile man, selfish and cruel, with no respect nor love for anyone.

Nalena and I became friends, and soon, I knew I could not in all good scribalistic faith, use my words to bolster this prat’s legend. See, the duke was betraying his good lady almost nightly, inviting wenches and trollops into his bed, while his wife slept just down the hall.

I had enough when I had published one book of his life and asked for payment, only to be met with a sneer. Right, I thought. I’ll fix you.

So, I published a second volume. This was a tell-all of the duke; his cruelty, his complete betrayal of his lovely wife. I knew this could ruin me; a scribe lives on keeping the confidence of his subjects, especially if he is a scribe to the nobles. I knew that by helping the woman I would gut my own reputation, but what could I do? The lovely woman was being made a mockery, and people had to know.

The second I sent this new volume to Inky Mick, my days turned dark. The duke became both loathed and laughed at, and he swore to destroy me. He sent his men to find me, while circulating rumors about my character.

That was how I found myself both disgraced and in hiding, fearing for my life. My reputation ruined by the duke’s slurs, and a mark upon my pretty head. Soon after, I was in a tavern, disguised as a trader in need of an ale, when the doors were flung open and a teenager ran in. His face was white as cow’s milk, his eyes as wide as the moon. He started ranting about a dungeon in the wasteland, and a core who had murdered his friends. I smelled a story, and a way to lie low until the duke grew bored of persecuting me. And that, my friend, is how I find myself before you.

Now, can you trust me, core? Or as I said; should I strip to my skin and prove I don’t have a crossbow wedged betwixt my arse cheeks?”

“That won’t be necessary. Let’s try this out, Gulliver,” I said.

CHAPTER 3

And that was how I, a dungeon core trained to kill heroes, made a friend. The thing about Gulliver was that he had this manner about him; a sort of attentiveness and ease that made him good to talk to. I supposed that came with being a scribe; he was used to making his subjects speak.

But through our chats, I discovered a scribe who was genuinely interested in the subject of dungeons. In fact, he was fascinated with all aspects of dungeon building and in learning about the creatures who lurked within it.

Not only that, but he had no qualms about heroes meeting their demise down here. My monsters didn’t scare him, nor did my traps. I saw now how he had made a good warscribe; fear didn’t have a grip on him. Or was it the other way around? Had following an army into battle knocked the fear out of him?

It was on one morning, while we discussed the heroes I had recently dispatched, that I heard the infamous kobold scream.

Now, it isn’t a pretty sound. A kobold’s scream is similar to what you would hear if you walked past a punishment pit in one of the underworlds. A noise somewhere between a metal claw scraping down a slate, and a baboon having its tender parts dipped in burning oil.

I heard this sound four days after I had slaughtered four heroes in my dungeon.

Demons Below, what a day that was, when a bunch of simple-minded sword swingers had waltzed into my dungeon, swinging their hips and strutting around like they owned the place.

I hadn’t expected a party of heroes to find me all the way out here in the wasteland, but lo and behold, they’d discovered my lair, and I knew I had to make the most of it.

I had torn them apart like crusty bread.

Or, my monsters had. It’s important to give credit where it’s due, but small difference, I suppose. If a blacksmith uses a hammer to make a sword, you don’t give the hammer all the praise, do you?

At any rate, it was the most fun I’d had in a while. After slaughtering a rogue, ranger, knight, and a mage,