Shadowcroft's Academy for Dungeons Chapter 11

Logan and the Terrible Twelfth hit the Golden Serpent Hall for a quick lunch—some kind of succulent roast in a thick gravy sauce—and then made their way to the Akros Coliseum, which was the northeast practice field. A dirt running track, packed down from thousands of feet, surrounded a grassy field filled with a variety of odd implements. Some of them resembled obstacles Logan had seen on the MCRD Confidence Course—such as the stone climbing wall and the enormous wooden ladder bars. Others, made of polished metal and engraved with glowing runes, were a mystery. Stone seats rose up around the arena grounds in a ring, just like a football stadium.

Luckily, no one would be watching because Logan and his cohort walked out to see the First Cohort already limbering up. Chadrigoth had his wings tucked back as he stretched his hamstring. “Well hello there, weaklings. Look at you, coming out here, with such bravery on your faces.”

Magmarty, rock arms crossed, flexed his stony muscles. Sludgy mud oozed out of the cracks. His eyes were just as muddy. “Yeah, Chad, bravery is probably their middle names.”

Lady Elesiel rolled her eyes. Logan had no idea how her skeletal face could be so pretty, what with the miasma of green, necrotic energy lingering around her. Her face was gaunt and rather angular, and her hair was so black, like liquid midnight. The combination shouldn’t have worked, but somehow she managed to make the combination look like an absolute ten.

Tet-Akhat, merely sighed, her green feline eyes so incredibly bored.

Marko laughed. “I don’t have a middle name. What about you, Logan?”

“Eugene,” he winced. “Though, I generally don’t tell people that.”

“Ennui is my middle name,” Treacle said. “Treacle Ennui Glimmerhappy. Life is so very heavy.”

Inga wasn’t saying anything, and so Chadrigoth asked, “Don’t you have quip to add?”

The moth woman frowned and hit them with a non-sequitur. “This class should test both our physical bodies as well as our Apothos cores. I am interested in learning more about the cultivation techniques that will allow us to increase our power.”

Magmarty wrinkled his rocky nose. “That wasn’t funny. Aren’t all of you supposed to be funny?”

“What was the question again?” Inga asked innocently, cocking her head to one side as though only now realizing there had been a question at all. That one was an absolute space-cadet—maybe that was why she’d ended up in the Terrible Twelfth. Because her head was so high up in the clouds she couldn’t bother with reality. 

As for Magmarty, it was clear that guy wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. He sounded about as dumb as a pile of rocks, which is what he was. Logan put the other cohort from his thoughts, focusing on the arena. This place really was different. And it wasn’t just the training equipment. The air here felt powerful, rich with Apothos, something he’d not noticed before. This was a place that was near the Tree of Souls—he could feel it in his core. The colors were vibrant, and the very air seemed to thrum with life.

Professor Rockheart came flying in from the blue sky, his great stony wings catching an updraft as he descended. He landed on the running track near them in a blast of dust, debris billowing up around him. When the cloud cleared, Rockheart shook his wings and rose up on his lion legs. He had a whistle around his neck like a medieval PE coach. “Welcome, cohorts, to Dungeon Core Conditioning. I am not going to waste my time explaining this class to you. Your understanding will come from suffering. And suffer you shall. Release the doomhounds!”

Several sections of the stone seats rose. Hellish dogs the size of horses rushed out snarling. They looked like an unholy mixture of wolves, bighorn sheep, and bonfires. They coughed dark flames and smelled like a dog kennel on a hot August day.

Logan wasted a precious second by asking, “What are we supposed to do, Rockheart?”

“Run, fight, or die!” Rockheart barked like just another slavering doomhounds.

Logan turned and ran because fighting and dying weren’t such good options. He started down the track, working his legs as fast as he could.

Inga was lucky. She took to the air on her resplendent wings, quickly gaining altitude to avoid the snapping maws. Treacle had such long legs that he easily tore ahead, hooves digging deep divots into the earth and throwing up tails of dust. Marko was right behind him, nimble and fleet of foot, even if not as fast as the minotaur.

They outpaced him in seconds and Logan could feel the doomhounds gaining on him, the pounding of their paws reverberated up through his feet as they drew closer. In moments he could feel the heat radiating off them in waves. There was no way he could outrun them—not in a million years. 

Logan had no choice but to use his Harden ability. Before he could thicken up enough, a doomhound had him by his toadstool cap, vicious teeth digging down, thrashing him this way and that. The demon dog spit him out once Logan hardened into a chunky gray lump. That wasn’t the end, though. The hound continued to claw and bit at him, trying to rip apart the calcified exterior. Logan felt like a chew toy.

Logan triggered his Pollen ability, but that only made the doomhound sneeze a bit, the snot like liquid red-hot coals. It sizzled onto Logan’s armor. 

Why had he chosen fungaloid again?

The doomhound eventually got its fangs through the thickened skin around the thigh and it chewed off one of his legs clean off. Well, it was hardly clean. Oddly enough, Logan was getting used to losing limbs. The overgrown puppy ram took the leg and gnawed on the severed limb like a bully stick. All Logan could do was lay there, facedown in the dirt, hoping a leg was all he would lose to the monstrous creature. That and watch. At least he had a great view of everything else going on.

As for the First Cohort, they chose for the fight option. The four powerful guardians already stood over a mound of the doomhound corpses, though it looked like they were ready to add more to the pile at a drop of the hat.

Rockheart blew his whistle. “Enough! Ned! Zed! Can I get some help?”

Two huge rose bushes came scurrying out of the chambers under the seats like weird flowery spiders, creeping along on twisting roots. Seeing the living rose bushes come at him freaked Logan out. He tried to crawl away.

However, one of the rose bushes quickly scurried over, picked him up, and touched the gemstone on his belly with a branch. Fresh Apothos was injected in his core, and then, magically, the white rose doctor healed Logan.

“So I can heal any damage?” Logan asked, eyes wide.

The bush giggled, roses coming together to form a face—two eyes and one long multi-flowered mouth. It spoke in a high-pitched, cartoony voice, “Yes, silly. Your guardian form is only a manifestation of your core gem. As long as your gem is not destroyed and cultivated, you can heal any wound. It may take time, but such is the way of all dungeon cores.”

The shrubbery doctor set Logan down on his feet and gave him a friendly little pat on his toadstool head. Then, the bush—either Ned or Zed, Logan couldn’t for the life of his discern the difference—scurried back under the seats.

The other rosy medic, this one with red flowers, took care of Treacle and Makro, who’d also been torn up pretty bad by the doomhounds. Though no one had suffered like Logan.

“All of you, gather at the kill site of the First Cohort. I want to show you something.”

Marko rolled his shoulder as they walked over, the skin knitting together with fresh Apothos. “Damn dog nearly tore off my arm. It was a good workout though.”

Logan had to chuckle. “Yeah, I was very motivated. Too bad my legs are so short and squishy. It’s like running on pasta.”

Marko turned philosophical. “I like pasta. You know, it’s a simple dish, but satisfying. Back on my homeworld, we had this garlic and mussel sauce I liked with a fine white. I guzzled it by the gallon… the wine, not the pasta sauce.”

“Enough!” Rockheart roared. “Your banter is not cute. You both are ridiculous. If you knew how ridiculous you were, you wouldn’t speak a word, ever, for fear of becoming even more ridiculous. It is a shame on your head and a pox on our distinguished clan.”

Treacle raised a hand. “I know I’m ridiculous, sir. I’ll be quiet.”

Inga landed with a whisper of fluttering wings and her antennae were going crazy.

Rockheart glared at the minotaur, but held his tongue.

The First Cohort guardians tried to hide their smiles, except for Tet-Akhat, who was examining the black polish on her human fingernails. Cat head. Human hands. She did have a black tail, and it seemed as bored as the rest of her.

The professor nodded at the four dead doomhounds. “Even though those monsters are dead, they still have energy in them that can be cultivated. All life in the universe is filled Apothos, but there are different kinds of the mystical energy, each with an elemental affinity. Who can name me the thirteen different Meta-Affinities of Apothos?”

Inga raised her hand but Rockheart called on Lady Elesiel.

Fresh green fire burned around her midnight hair. “Ignis is fire. Magma is the earth/fire mix. Then you have Corrosivus and Toxicus. One devours the world and one poisons it. Fulgur aligns itself with the lightning. Glacies is ice. Aer is the gases we breath. Terra is in the rocky ground under our feet.”

“I like Terra and Magma,” Magmarty growled.

Lady Elesiel went on. “Aqua is the water. Mallus is raw kinetic force. Luminosus is light. I myself am drawn to Umbra, the shadows. Finally, there is Vita and Morta, life and death.”

Logan tried to keep track. He’d expected the classic four elements. This was far more complicated. “How many is that? And why do we have a corrosiveness and a toxicity? I’m not getting this.”

Inga brightened. “I created pneumonic phrase that helps me remember the thirteen Apothine energies. ‘I make coffee and tea for Grandfather Tiberius and make lemonade under the Velveeta moon.’”

“How do you know about Velveeta?” Logan asked, glancing at her askance.

Inga tilted her head. “The real question is how do you know about the goddess of dairy products?”

“Dairy products—” Logan started.

Rockheart cut him off. “Ignis. Magma. Corrosivus. Toxicus. Fulgur. Glacies. Terra. Aqua. Mallus. Luminosus. Umbra. Vita. Morta. Those are the thirteen Meta-energies and each dungeon and dungeoneer has a predilection for specific energies. For example, Chadrigoth is clearly an Ignis cultivator.”

The demon prince opened his palm and fire burst forth.

The gargoyle-griffin nodded. “The doomhounds are also rich with Ignis Apothos, though it is tempered by Umbra Apothos. Chadrigoth is a creature of like nature—a balance of fire and shadow—so he can cultivate the energy more effectively than Lady Elesiel, for example, who is a Morta cultivator.”

“Can I show them, Professor?” Chadrigoth asked, sounding for all the world like the teacher’s pet he was.

Rockheart nodded, a small grin curling his lips. “Yes, but first, all of you open your internal eye.” He glanced at Logan. “Even you should be able to do this. Just focus on your core as though your accessing your Guardian Core Matrix. But instead of pushing that thread of Apothos into your core, direct it up, into your eyes, and then out in an arc.” 

Logan did as instructed, channeling a small portion of the energy flowing through him upward, infusing his eyes with a spark of power. He gasped as all around him, the world came to life with added color and texture. He felt like he’d been playing one of those old PS1s, only to suddenly upgrade to the newest model. He watched as Chadrigoth bent and touched the skin of the doomhound. The dead creature shriveled as the Abyss Lord’s nostrils flared and a haze swirl of purple and orange light bubbled up, swirling around Chadrigoth—seeping into his skin and clawing at his nose and mouth.

Rockheart described what was happening. “Chadrigoth is absorbing the Ignis and Umbra Apothine energies into his core. He can process it almost immediately since he is aligned with both the fire and shadow energy. If this were Aqua Apothos, it would take him twice as long to cultivate the energy. He would be able to absorb it directly, but then his core would need to refine it, banishing the elemental affinity over the course of minutes, hours, or even days, until it becomes pure Apothos, which is usable by any Cultivator. During that time, the energy wouldn’t be accessible to him.”

“Like this one seaweed beer I once drank.” Marko nudged Logan with his elbow. “My stomach is not aligned with kelp-based alcohol. There was a lot of refining involved—though the less generous might call it puking, I suppose.”

The professor ignored the satyr and continued with his lecture. “Any cultivator can harness and absorb any energy, but that energy must be processed in the core and converted into the primary strand of energy that the cultivator utilizes. This process is slow and takes time and focus. Dungeoneer cultivators are drawn to Celestial Nodes that already ‘bleed’ the right type of Apothos for them to cultivate without needing to convert it. That inherently makes some Apothos types more valuable than other, based on how common or rare they happen to be. Ignis, Aqua, Aer, and Terra are the most common elemental affinities amongst dungeoneers, while Mallus and Vita are comparatively the rarest among cultivators.”

Logan had to ponder the different energies for a minute. So each of the dungeons protecting the Celestial Node had their own specific flavor—maybe even a couple types of flavor, since Chad was both Ignis and Umbra—which probably came from the guardian of that dungeon. Logan pulled up his Guardian Core Matrix and saw that his primary elemental affinities were Morta and Toxicus. That made sense, since mushrooms took advantage of decay. And many mushrooms were highly poisonous. He didn’t quite understand how all this worked. He had so much left to learn.

Rockheart shoved his beak into Logan’s face. “Oh, look, the Urothling is trying to think. It’s adorable watching you attempt higher logic. Do you have questions then?”

Logan grinned. “I have a ton of questions. First off, can you make beer out of kelp?”

The professor withdrew, scowling.

Inga antennae drooped as she adjusted her hair. “Don’t worry, Logan. I can help you with cultivation theory. You’ll get the hang of it.”

Rockheart stood with his arms crossed. “He’d better get the hang of it and quickly. Finals will be here before you know it, and he is a weak Deep Root Cultivator—hardly more than a simple dirt digger. Now, Prince Chadrigoth, on the other hand, is already a Jade Leaf cultivator. He is only here to sharpen his skills and to be a shining example of what all dungeon cores should aspire to.”

“And I’m good with the ladies,” the Abyss Lord said with a confident grin. He towered over Logan, who felt like a football about to get kicked.

“But levelling gets more difficult as you go, right, Inga?” Logan asked.

“It does,” Inga agreed. “Going from Deep Root to an Iron Trunk Cultivator is far easier than going from Iron Trunk to Azure Branch. And even gaining ranks is easier the weaker you are.”

Logan smiled. “Glad to hear it. This is good news for us, actually. I mean sure, we might be on the low end, but that means if we train harder than everyone else, we could grow by leaps and bounds while everyone else is plateaued. After I lost my leg back on Uroth, I had this physical therapy trainer who called them newb gains. He said even if you had no idea what you were doing in the beginning you could make crazy progress just by showing up and doing the work.”

Laughter rang out, starting with Rockheart, but then Chadrigoth started guffawing as did the rest of the First Cohort. Everyone in the Terrible Twelfth looked dejected, even Marko.

The professor motioned to the two cohorts. “You are being daft, Mr. Murray. There is no such thing as newb gains. And the difference between your two teams should be clear, though it seems  you don’t truly understand how outclassed you are. What a worthless piece of dirt you are. Some of the Guardians on this field are the epitome of strength and power, while the rest of you are cooling dog turds.”

Marko waggled his hairy eyebrows. “Aww, Professor, how did you guess my mom’s pet name for me?”

Not like Rockheart was going to pause. “Perhaps a tangible example of how far you have to go is in order, Mr. Murray. Prince Chadrigoth, I would like you and your cohort to subdue Logan and his team. Don’t kill them. But, please, hurt them.”

Inga didn’t pause. She, turned and leaped in a single fluid motion, desperately trying  to fly away, but not before Chadrigoth’s fiery rope pulled her from the sky. Logan bolted in her direction but then ran right into Magmarty’s big rocky fist, mutated into a hammer the size of wheelbarrow. Logan went flying and lost an arm in the process—another limb seared off his body by Margmarty’s red-hot rocky skin.

Treacle lowered his head to ram his way out of the trouble, but skeletal hands reached from the ground and tripped him. Lady Elesiel danced forward and stabbed him in the chest with a dagger made from green fire. She pulled the blade free only to plunge it back in over and over again, turning the former gnome into a bloody pincushion.

Marko backed up and raised his hands as Tet-Akhat approached. “Who’s a good kitty, heh? You are, Tet, you’re a good kitty. You wouldn’t scratch a half-drunk goat man, would you?”

Tet didn’t scratch him. She punched his lights out.

In seconds, the Terrible Twelfth were on the ground, bleeding, burned, bludgeoned, and all just a hairsbreadth from death’s door.

Rockheart clapped. “Yes, yes, you see? That is the power of mature dungeon cores working with the Apothos inside them. Let this be the true lesson. Class dismissed!”

Tet helped Marko up then went over to Logan. She was carrying his arm. “I think you lost this,” she said, handing it over with a thin grimace. 

“Thanks.” Logan took the limb and held it awkwardly. Already Ned and Zed were racing out onto the field to help with injuries.

Tet gave him a long look. “Sorry we had to kick your asses. This really is about saving the universe, though. Better you buy it at this school then in a dungeon failing to protect a Celestial Node.” She nodded and sauntered away, tail twitching. Her words were cold, but they carried no malice. 

Marko, Inga, and Treacle drew near.

The minotaur winced, then sighed. “I was stabbed in the heart. Also the kidney, lungs, and stomach. It’s so depressing. Stabbing. Hearts. Organs. Losing.”

“I never should’ve left home,” Inga said morosely, staring down at the dusty ground beneath her feet.

“I never should’ve stopped drinking,” Marko dropped his head.

“But you were drinking this morning,” Inga pointed out.

“Yeah, I never should’ve stopped.”

The Terrible Twelfth were down in the dumps.

Logan, though, didn’t feel too bad because he’d grow himself a new arm and he knew what he’d told Rockheart was true. Being at the bottom was hard, sure, but it didn’t mean they had to stay there. He just needed to convince his ragtag crew of misfits that winning really was possible. “You guys, after dinner, we need to talk about the law of diminishing returns. Our situation is bad, but we can make it better. And I’m wondering what we’ll learn in our other four classes.” He swung his severed arm around like a baton. “Will there be more dismemberment involved?”

“Likely,” Treacle muttered. “Very, very likely.”

Well, at least he had that to look forward too. 

 Keep Reading Here: Chapter Twelve