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

He thought about a future that no longer involved being a hero.

He thought about a dungeon far, far away, one which almost ended his life but in fact, had saved it. For if he’d become a hero as he always dreamed, a dungeon would have got him.

Perhaps not for years, but eventually it would, for every dungeon trap springs shut eventually, and there’s a reason you don’t see many old heroes.

No, the hero's life was no longer for him. He had honored his word to the core and spread the news of the dungeon in the wasteland. He had already sent the Sider lady and her party the dungeon’s way, and no doubt there would be more to follow. His job was done, and he never wanted to think about a dungeon again.

Forget the life of a hero, for it is no life. The best life comes when a man can spend his time with his family or his dear friends, not traipsing through gloomy passageways. The lad finally understood that.

Now, he was overwhelmingly happy to live a life where nothing ever happened to him. Just a life of the sweet mundane for the rest of his days.

The end of book 3

Dungeon Core Academy: Book 4

CHAPTER 1

It was the hero’s birthday, judging by the serenade his brothers had given him as they entered my dungeon. A day to celebrate his passage into the world, a day of gifts and fun and well-wishes. The perfect day for me to slaughter him.

The problem was, he didn’t seem too scared. Not even after I had thrown everything at him in the hopes of snuffing out his life on the anniversary of its beginning, which was too ironic a chance for me to pass up.

He and his brothers had battled their way through the twists and turns of my labyrinth, disarming traps, fighting monsters, and solving puzzles until they reached the heart of my lair: the loot room.

As the largest chamber in my whole dungeon, this was the scene of numerous fights between my monsters and parties of heroes. A metal chest dominated the center, and inside was that which every hero desired: loot. Gold coins, beautiful vases, shiny antiques. Heroes might have many reasons to enter a dungeon, but the strongest was a desire to beat the dungeon core’s monsters and make off with his treasures.

It was here that we’d all thrown down our last cards, the hero and me. If the hero won, my dungeon loot was his. If I won, his miserable life was forfeit.

And things were looking good.

My three beetle warriors threatened his left flank. Gary, my giant troll-leech-spider hybrid loomed to his right, cutting off any chance of escape in that direction. Meanwhile, Brecht, my kobold bard, was hidden on the far side of the room, pounding his tambourine to release magic notes that filled his fellow monsters with even more courage.

Although I was in a chamber south of the loot room, I used my core powers to project my voice throughout my dungeon.

“You’re outnumbered,” I said.

The hero looked in the air upon hearing my voice, then glanced at his brothers. One had been incapacitated by triggering a poison dart trap, and Brecht had used his Fable of Fear song to paralyze the other.

“You can look at them all you like,” I said. “They’re no help to you now. It’s just you and I.”

“Interesting that you would say you and I, core,” replied the hero.

I had to give him that – he had never betrayed his fear in the numerous times he’d been in my dungeon.

He continued, “You and I. Heh. It’s funny, I don’t see you anywhere. All I see is your gaggle of beasts. A man might say that you don’t dare face me yourself.”

“A man might also say that fighting a dungeon core who doesn’t have arms isn’t a fair fight at all. Therefore, my monsters are my arms.”

He grinned now. Such arrogance, it was written all over his face. He had already beaten my dungeon, and I saw in his expression that he knew he could do it again.

“Well, limbs can be severed whether they are monster’s arms or not. I’m fairly certain I won’t die on my birthday. It would be such an affront to my mother,” he said.

He took a single step forward, towards the loot chest.

Click.

“Shit.”

He looked at his feet, and I saw a slight change in his expression. There were many, many sounds that a hero dreaded hearing in a dungeon, such as an evil cackle, the scraping of claws, the scuttle of feet. A click was down there with the worst of them.

“A pressure plate, I presume?” he said. “How droll. I suppose if I shift my weight from this spot, something nasty will happen?”

“You’re a perceptive one.”

“What is it, then? Pitfall? A bucket of acid overhead? A giant boulder?”

“I wouldn’t want to spoil your surprise,” I said.

He thought about it.

He thought some more.

I waited, expecting steam to leak from his ears and fog up my dungeon, he was thinking so hard.

“Well played,” he said.

Realizing that he didn’t have any desirable options, the hero did the sensible thing and stayed completely still.

Halfway across the dungeon, in the comfort of my core room, I allowed myself a minute to enjoy the feeling of imminent victory. But then even a minute seemed too long, so I cut it short. I couldn’t assume victory was mine just yet. I had to put the hero in his grave before I danced over it, otherwise I was just dancing over a hole in the ground.

I turned my attention to my core vision. This was a flickering frame of light hovering