Shadowcroft's Academy for Dungeons Chapter 10

Logan and the rest of the incoming freshman class were given a single day of orientation. Inga, the bookworm moth woman, was overjoyed when they were given their DCG, or Dungeon Core Grimoire. It contained the following:

· A very encouraging letter from the Headmaster, S. Shadowcroft

· Their class schedule

· A map of the campus

· Their cohort and clan assignment

· The leaderboard, which would be magically updated as their standings changed

Currently, Logan’s Terrible Twelve wasn’t just the worst cohort in the Freshman class, it was the worst team in the entire school—ranked dead last out of the forty-eight cohorts and the one-hundred-and-ninety-two students. Not the most promising or auspicious start to things, but Logan was still convinced that was an edge in its own way. Sure, they were at the bottom, but that meant everyone would discount them and underestimate their abilities. And it also meant that the only way to go was up.

As for the rest of the facility, turned out the Shadowcroft Academy actually existed in its own pocket dimension, on a sliver of a continent called Arborea. He recalled the map on Shadowcroft’s desk with the deserts to the north, the western forests, the vast eastern lake, and the island on Loch Endless. The academy proper was located in a castle on the island. The central keep held the Golden Serpent Hall, the majority of the classrooms, and the four Auspicious wings, each which housed a clan dormitory, a common room, and a practice hall.

Nestled in a labyrinth-like undercroft below the Golden Serpent Hall was the Codex Athenaeum—a grand library filled with endless manuals and cultivation texts. The Codex Athenaeum reached the cliffs over Loch Endless and boasted a spectacular view of the blue waters where dark shapes swam in the depths. Logan didn’t think they were guppies. If the monsters spoke, it would probably be with a Scottish accent.

Across the way from the library was something called the Tartarucha Cells. Not even Inga knew what they were.

Outside the keep itself, but within its towering walls, were the four practice fields between the three-story stone dormitory wings.

Monday Orientation passed by in a blur with Logan spending most of that time outside, on the grounds, checking out the practice fields, walking the walls, and finding his various classrooms. Marko had buddied up to him while Inga spent most of the time nose deep in a book, studying, while Treacle sleeping, which only made the minotaur more depressed.

Those two were still a mystery to Logan in many ways. It made sense that Logan would be in the Terrible Twelfth, and Marko also seemed to fit the bill. Logan couldn’t help but wonder, however, about why Inga and Treacle were in the worst cohort. Inga was incredibly smart and studious—she already seemed to know more about dungeon cores than anyone else combined—and Treacle bulged with bullish muscles. The words of the wizened Threshing Turtle drifted in the back of his mind whenever he thought about his new crew, There are no mistakes. None at all. Ashvattha decides as it will.

There was reason they were all together and he would figure out why come hell or high water.

The four of them ate in the Golden Serpent Hall. 

The hall was enormous and even with every student, from every year, clan, and cohort in attendance, there was room to spare. Like everything else at the Academy, the hall was sectioned off by clan, and further separated by year. The students ate at enormous oversized wooden tables, polished to a dull glow and edged in the clan colors. It felt a little bit like being back in high school—that or hitting up a chow hall. Everyone formed into little cliques, gossiping and chatting over steaming platters of food. 

For Logan, it was a harrowing experience. For one, no one wanted to sit close to them—as though they stank to high heaven and no one could stand the odor. Although, it was possible that Logan did actual stink—being a mushroom had its drawbacks. Two, the tables edged up long communal benches, and thanks to his small stature, he could barely reach the tabletop. He had to sit up on his knees, which certainly wasn’t great for his pride. And lastly, was the food itself. They had fresh chicken legs and salty rice. It didn’t taste right. It was too fresh and too cooked. He barely managed to choke the meal down.

Tuesday morning, bright and early, he walked down the central Azure Dragon hallway heading toward breakfast.

The Terrible Twelfth were together, all dressed in the Azure Dragon robes, magically sewn to fit them. Only like with his other outfit—and the table and just about everything else— Logan’s were a bit too small for him. Marko’s robes were fashionably big, and Inga’s had slits to accommodate her flittering moth-like wings. The towering Treacle, awash in blue, followed morosely behind them.

Marko could barely open his goat eyes. “Could you people walk a bit more quietly? Treacle, dude, your hooves are going to split my head wide open.”

“You have hooves,” Treacle pointed out, his bullish ears twitching in apparent irritation.

“Uh yeah. But my hooves slide across the stone like butter on toast. You have a definite clomp to you.”

“Well, sorry for clomping.” Treacle sighed and slowed his pace.

Marko then turned. “Sorry, my bullish bro, rough night last night is all. I tied one on with the Gelatinous Knight. That guy is crazy. And hey, he had a question. The welcome letter in our DCG was from an S. Shadowcroft. What does the S stand for?”

“Sappy?” Treacle grunted. “Stupidly hopeful? Sinfully optimistic?”

Inga’s antennae wiggled. “Not sure, which is frustrating. I simply hate not knowing things. I wanted to study up on our dear Headmaster, but when I eventually found the library, the doors were locked. So I still don’t have an answer on that account, which is depressing.” She paused, antennae twitching. “Though not nearly as depressing as Stairwell of True Seeing, which leads to the library.”

Logan went to ask why but Treacle moaned. “This whole place is depressing.”

Marko shrugged. “The wine is good. And I got my friends. We’re going to have so much fun in our first class. What’s our first class again?”

“The Ethics of Murder,” Inga replied. “I’m very excited to be taking a class by Headmaster Shadowcroft himself. He is as sweet as honey.”

Logan chuckled. “I wonder if honey comes from bee dungeon cores.”

“It could be,” the moth woman muttered, oblivious to the joke. “Insect dungeons are very popular. Not as popular as undead cores nor dragon cores but still, a bee Guardian would be interesting.”

“Honey is too sweet for me,” Treacle complained. “Makes my teeth hurt. Or at least it did, back when I was a gnome lord. I suppose it’d be different now that I’m a minotaur, but my gut says I’ll have an allergic reaction and die from tongue swellage.” 

“Good to see you’re as chipper as always,” Logan said. “So we’re starting off with the Ethics of Murder this morning, huh. And this afternoon it looks like we have Dungeon Core Conditioning in the northwest practice field. Hey, Inga, why was the Stairwell of True Seeing depressing?”

Inga’s antennae wiggled. “You know the class I’m most excited about on our schedule?” she said. “The History of the Soul Tree. It’s taught by Professor Bartholomew Nekhbet. He’s a legend, I mean…” she snorted and grew breathless…“and, if I’m being entirely honest, more than a little attractive. And dynamic. Did I mention dynamic?”

“You didn’t.” Marko rolled his eyes.

Logan noticed Inga hadn’t answered his question. She was the queen of non-sequiturs. Ask her about breakfast, and she’d talk about how respected she was on her world, a place called, Toriopa, where there were vast libraries at the top of massive mountains. 

“Hey, Treacle, what class are you looking forward to?” Marko sneaked a hand into his robes and pulled out a little silver flask and took a sip.

Marko might have drinking problem.

Treacle had a sighing problem. “None of the classes are really going to help us in the end. I mean, they would, if we survived long enough to take advantage of them. As it is, we probably won’t make it through finals. You know, if we fail, terrible things will happen to us. Terrible.”

Logan stopped and let Treacle catch up. “Let’s pretend we won’t flunk out—big leap I know—but say we all survive. Which classes look good to you?”

The minotaur had an immediate answer. “Well, if I dared to hope, I would say I could be excited about Traps, Pits, and Pendulums 101. Rockheart is teaching us that one. But the class that I’m going to love, as much as I love anything, is going to be Fiendish Fabrication: Craftsmanship 101. Everyone knows that Ronnalg Crucible is the finest craftsman in the universe.”

Marko pulled Logan along. “Of course, you knew that, Logan. Right? I mean, back in the day, I couldn’t go five minutes without talking about Ronnalg Crucible.”

“You’re being sarcastic,” Treacle sighed.

“You’re not wrong, Treacle ol’ buddy, but I’m also waking up and feeling better,” Marko said. “As for me, I am really looking forward to Underground Feng Shei: Maximizing Your Dungeon for Murder. It’s taught by some teacher named Arketa the Hellgazer. Where I come from, Arketa means pretty. As for Hellgazer? Oh yeah. I’m in. Give me hell, baby.”

They walked into the Golden Serpent Hall where a collection of plant people of all shapes and sizes were serving breakfast and removing dirty dishes. There were flower women only about two feet tall. There were big leafy oak men well over seven feet. Inga knew all about them—they were the Treegees, and they did all the cooking, cleaning, and janitorial services at the school. Who didn’t like the Treegees?

Logan had to choke down the eggs—the taste vile, the texture somehow too slimy and overcooked at the same time. And again, they were too fresh. Upstairs, they found their Ethics of Murder class. It was your typical classroom with desks, windows that showed blue sky with wispy clouds, and a lectern next to a desk in front of a chalkboard.

Sitting at the desks were another menagerie of dungeon cores including the First Cohort gang, Chadrigoth, his rock monster buddy, the undead queen, and the goth-y cat woman, who looked beyond bored. Inga had explained that the school rotated the cohorts through classes, so everyone would eventually work with every single student at the school.

Shadowcroft stood at the front, curling his massive tree form around the lectern. On the chalkboard was the name of the class: The Ethics of Murder with Professors S. Shadowcroft.

The Headmaster’s expressive eyes brightened. “Ah, excellent. Welcome, welcome. Come in. We are going to talk about murder today, killing in the name of goodness. It’s a remarkably interesting subject. And my heart sings at the idea of getting to know you all better. It goes without saying that I’m also glad you weren’t killed in the Threshing. You live! Which means you are still able to do wonderful things.”

Taking his seat, Logan heard Treacle grumbled under his breath. “His sweetness wears me out. I need a nap.”

“Too many naps aren’t good for you,” Marko whispered.

“I’d like to see the research on that,” Treacle returned.

Shadowcroft cleared his throat. A few flowers bloomed on his dome. “I know, many of you are wondering, how can murder be ethical?”

Inga’s hand shot up.

Logan grinned. Why didn’t that surprise him?

Shadowcroft was genuinely delighted. “Yes, Inga Thosa Therian. Yes, you would know since you were the Grand Archivist of the Eastern Aerie Archive and former sorceress of the Far Cloud Mountain Palace. Also, you were a renowned beauty on your world of Toriopa, unless I’m terribly mistaken.”

Inga’s mouth dropped open. She blushed, a gentle purple color creeping into her pale cheeks. “Well, I was the Grand Archivist, yes. The beauty contest wasn’t… I mean, I inherited my feathers and my beak. My wings… well, I worked on those, but I enjoyed the exercise.” She swallowed, blinked, and her antennae drooped. “I’m sorry, but what was the question again?”

Shadowcroft chuckled, as did the classroom, except for members of The First Cohort.

Logan wasn’t sure what kind of world Inga had come from, but she must’ve been some kind of bird creature. They all had new bodies after all.

Shadowcroft smiled at the moth woman. “I suppose my question was rhetorical, my dear. But yes, here, murder can be ethical. We are here to stop dungeoneers from destroying the universe one Celestial Node at a time. We murder for the greater good, since wouldn’t it be better to kill a few villainous people than let all life die? For life is precious, wouldn’t you agree?”

“The trolley problem,” Logan found himself saying.

Shadowcroft snapped his wooden fingers. “Yes, on your world, moral philosophy professors have pondered this issue before. If you are driving an out-of-control trolley, should you throw a lever to kill one person or refuse to do nothing at all and kill five?”

“How drunk am I?” Marko asked, eyebrows scrunching as though he were seriously considering an answer.

The Headmaster waved a finger at him. “Sober as a judge, Mr. Laskarelis. And the answer, of course, is that you throw the switch and doom the one. As plain as the wooden nose on my face. You see, my friends, we here at the Shadowcroft Academy have a very utilitarian view of our work. Yes, in a perfect universe, we would convince the dungeoneers that what they are doing is inherently wrong. We have even tried that a time or too. Why back in the 60s—that would be the early 600s of the Age of Harmony, mind you—I even advocated for a nonviolent solution. Give peace a chance, and all that. Fruitless.” He shook his head, mossy beard swinging. “These raiders will not stop—will not be deterred. They do it for money. They do it for power. And, in the end, they are searching for immortality.” 

He shrugged and spread his hands, as though to say, and here we are.

Logan nodded. “I can see that. The more powerful they become with stolen Apothos, they higher they climb in their classes. An Immortal Crown dungeoneer would be immortal. Are there any dungeoneers who’ve become immortal.”

Shadowcroft lifted a finger to speak. He then closed his eyes. “That is a difficult question and better suited for Professor Nekhbet’s course on the Tree of Souls.” The Headmaster inhaled. “Yes, a long story, and a sad one. Suffice to say, Mr. Murray, some raiders are driven to plunder by their fear of death. That which we cling to can kill us in the end. You are an example of the opposite.”

Logan felt a shiver on his neck. “Me?”

The Headmaster nodded. “Yes, you come from Uroth.”

Chadrigoth’s desk near the back smoldered from his flames. The Abyss Lord laughed. “Uroth? That place is a myth. No world could be so weak. It would fall from the Tree a blackened cinder.”

“Yeah, Chad,” Jimi Magmarty agreed, his voice the sound of churning cement. “You tell ‘em.”

Shadowcroft motioned to Logan. “Not only does he come from Uroth, but his reaping was unexpected and a bit extreme. He leapt at the chance to fight raiders, save dungeons, and his performance during the Threshing impressed us all.”

“Even Professor Rockheart?” Logan asked.

“Impressed most of us,” the Headmaster conceded, bowing his head a fraction of an inch.

“Here’s what I don’t get,” Logan said. “Do the dungeoneers know they are destroying the Tree of Souls?”

“That is the central question,” Inga agreed. “I have part of the answer.”

Shadowcroft gestured for her to continue.

The moth woman blushed, glanced around, and then drew her wings in close. She touched her hair, as if to make sure she still had it. What had she said about feathers? She talked in an awkward, slightly choked voice. “The lesser raiders are either clueless or are in terrible denial. They tell themselves they’ve never seen a world die, so people are probably overreacting. Or they convince themselves that some worlds should be destroyed because they’re weak. Like Uroth. Who would want to live in such a weak, pathetic place in the first place?”

“Easy there,” Logan said with a sharp smile. “That’s my hometown. It’s not much, but we do have Netflix and nachos.”

“I apologize,” Inga said, still nervous and quaking a bit. Again, her hand went to her hair. “Or, the raiders say that the universe is so vast that it can’t die. Some dungeoneers think that destroying Celestial Nodes actually helps the Tree of Souls grow. Like pruning a grape vine—you clip off some branches to help it grow. That’s not correct. The Tree doesn’t work like that.”

The Headmaster nodded. “Very good, Inga. You are, of course, correct. You see, my friends, everyone is born with an instinctive knowledge of the Tree of Souls. We know we are connected. However, the Iron Trunk, Azure Branch, Jade Leaf dungeoneers all convince themselves that the Celestial Nodes, the place where the Tree meets worlds, aren’t real. They think dungeon cores are evil monster, deserving of destruction. 

“This changes, however, when raiders move from being Jade Leaf cultivators to S-Class cultivators. Heartwood, Crown, and Immortal Crown raiders know exactly what they are doing. To advance from Jade Leaf to Heartwood is no easy feat, mind you—it requires both a massive amount of energy and a divine connection to the tree. What we call a Revelation. They know all right, and they don’t care. They simply don’t care.” Again, Shadowcroft got choked up, eyes watering at the mere thought of it all.

Chadrigoth’s aura of flame exploded. “Those villains think that if they become Immortal Crown cultivators, they can create their own realities and who cares about anyone else? We need to stop them, all of them. Even the fools,” He growled, fiery claws digging into the desktop.

“We do need to stop them,” Shadowcroft agreed softly. “As I’ve said, the raiders, even someone as weak as a Deep Root dungeoneer, instinctively know that what they are doing is wrong. Still they do it. And we have no choice but to stop them. If we lose too many Celestial Nodes, the Tree of Souls will wither and die. If the Tree dies, then all of reality will die with it. How many will lose their lives? Countless souls will be lost. Countless animals. Countless people. All of reality will be gone like tears in rain.”

“The ethics of murder,” Logan muttered to himself. This made the trolley problem seem so small in comparison. What was a few thousand dungeoneers when compared to the impossible number of all possible lives strewn across the multiverse?

Still, it was hard. He’d fought in an active combat zone, even killed. He’d pulled the trigger, because it had been him or the man behind the wheel of the car-borne IED barreling toward his convoy. He’d done what needed doing, but it had haunted him. 

This, though, was war on another level—on a bigger scale. When Logan created his dungeon to protect a Celestial Node, he wouldn’t be killing pixels … he’d be cutting down real people. Still, there was also a sure knowledge that this was a war that needed fighting. There were no politics involved here, no uncertainty. They were defending the universe itself from annihilation and he would gladly pull the trigger again when the time came. No hesitation and not a moment of doubt. 

However, he had to make sure he didn’t die first.

He hoped his next class, Dungeon Core Conditioning would help with that.  

 Keep Reading Here: Chapter Eleven