Even the greatest of oceans has an end, and Lionel J’Khall’s patience was currently scraping its knees against the shoreline.
“I understand,” he said, his chair making a noise that furniture was never meant to make as he tiredly stood up. “A dungeon without heavy restrictions is dangerous. The ones you sell have rules carved in stone—sometimes literally—so no collapsing ceilings out of sheer malice, no surprise alliances between high-level bosses who suddenly develop a sense of camaraderie, and certainly no existential dread for the shareholders. I get it. But, you see, I’m afraid ‘guaranteed risk-free’ is just another way of saying ‘profit-deficient’ in my current situation.”
It wasn’t that Bac’s offer was bad. No, it was as solid and unremarkable as a well-constructed municipal bench. But the problem with safe, pre-packaged dungeons was that they did exactly what was expected of them. And Lionel had no intention of spending his career proudly owning the dungeon equivalent of a tax-funded park fountain.
“We can renegotiate,” Bac said, hastily repositioning herself between Lionel and the only exit of the small, temporary shop. “Instead of an empty wine cellar, how about... a closet? A closet with two highly interactive skeletons? That’s well within your price range! And I’ll even throw in a one-season guarantee with free maintenance!”
Lionel met her gaze for a full five seconds. He wanted to believe there was a joke in there somewhere, but Bac had the sincere desperation of a door-to-door insurance salesman who had just realized their quota was due yesterday.
“A closet,” he said slowly. “You want me to invest in a closet.”
“A highly interactive closet.”
“And how, exactly, am I supposed to turn a profit on that? What Delver would even bother with a closet, and more importantly, what audience would want to watch it?”
“Well—” Bac licked her lips. “You could join a conglomerate? Slap your closet onto a larger dungeon, make it an optional entrance instance, take a small cut—”
Lionel held up a hand. He was aware of the safe, sensible, piecemeal ways one could grind out an income in the Dungeon industry. But those paths led to titles like “Closet King” or “Skeleton Shed Tycoon,” and those were not the sort of honorifics he wanted hanging over his future.
He was young. He was ambitious. And he was running out of both time and patience.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” he said, smoothly sidestepping Bac’s last-ditch effort to keep him within her web of financial mediocrity. Before she could concoct another bargain that would leave him the proud owner of a slightly haunted broom cupboard, he slipped past her and back into the noisy Auction Hall.
Despite the semi-eternity he’d spent in her portable shop, the place was as busy as ever. Just a few steps outside, and he’d disappeared into a crowd where no stonemasons, as inflexible as their craft, could tether him down.
Lionel glanced down at the note in his hand. One chance left. Iv & Ix’s Stall of Good Deals!
“Let’s hope you’ve got something better than immediate rejections or over priced closets with a side of endless monologue,” he muttered.
It wasn’t like he was asking for much. Just something he could work with. Something with a bit of flair. A glimmer of opportunity. A dungeon with at least a modicum of potential.
***
Annabel was potentially in a lot of trouble.
And by potentially, we mean “a coin toss’ chance of survival, except the coin was already mid-flip, suspiciously weighted, and on fire.”
Then again, Annabel had a well-documented history of somehow coming out on top in these sorts of situations, which meant there was a nonzero chance she was in no trouble at all…
…even as the water beneath the grated floor rose at an uncomfortably rapid pace…
…and several sections of said floor had flipped over with ominous clangs…
…and the crocodiles in the aforementioned water seemed particularly interested in acquiring a small, crunchy gremlin-shaped snack.
Never mind. Annabel was definitely in trouble. A ton of it. Some of those crocodiles looked like they could be classified as armored personnel carriers with teeth.
“Alright, Wallace, what’s the plan?” she asked, swinging her loot bag over her shoulder as she strode over—because panicking was for people without flair—to where the bulldog plushie lay, miraculously intact despite recent events.
Wallace remained there quietly, face down in the metal floor as if seriously reconsidering what choices had left him with an owner like this.
“What’s that?” she asked, crouching down beside him. “Rock-papers-scissors to see who will have to distract the big murder-reptiles?”
Annabel glanced down, through the grated floor at her feet.
Beneath them, the water continued its determined ascent. And within it, large shadows moved. Some which occasionally broke the surface, causing the churning surface to splash and foam. Jaws snapped at the air, largely for dramatic effect, it seemed. It wasn’t like they could reach them yet.
“But how are you supposed to get away if I’m the one distracting them? You’re a plushie.”
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Wallace had no answer to this. Mostly because Wallace was, indeed, a plushie, and the best he could manage in moments of crisis was a deeply regretful silence.
With a resigned sigh, Annabel scooped her silly companion up and tucked him into her hoodie.
“Well, no need for that either way,” she said, stretching her legs as she glanced around the arena. “I’ve got something better planned.”
Which was an absolutely true statement.
She just hadn’t quite figured out what it was yet.
From her Bag of Boss-Slaying Goodness, she withdrew an empty bottle—the kind of empty that suggested it was either highly valuable or completely useless—and tossed it into the air with a flourish.
“Magic Bottle Go!”
It spun once. Twice. Thrice—
Clang.
It struck the metal grates with a force that would have shattered lesser bottles—
Surge of Inspiration! Activated.
—and, naturally, landed upright.
Because of course it did, leaving Annabel to now follow its neck—pointing straight at the ceiling—with a thoughtful look. “I see,” she said, nodding sagely. “What is an entrance, if not an unused exit in reverse? Wallace, I’ve found our way out.”
The drainpipe that had unceremoniously dumped them into this deathtrap was right above her head. The only problem was that, even for a freakishly tall person, the ceiling would have been impossible to reach. And Annabel was not a freakishly tall person. She wasn’t even a moderately tall person. At best, she was perfectly Gremlin-sized.
The rising water, now lapping at the grates beneath her feet, did not seem interested in giving her a height boost either.
“Now, the question is: how do we get up there, Wallace?” she mused.
As if in answer—not a particularly good answer, mind you—the water beside her erupted.
An enormous crocodile launched itself through the open grate, slamming onto the metal floor with a crash that suggested it had both the mass and deeply unhealthy attitude of a certified murder reptile.
“Oh,” Annabel said, backtracking away from the menacing creature. “No stress, Wallace, but it seems I need the answer sooner rather than later. You know, before we are torn limb from limb in a most gruesome—”
She did not get to finish her sentence.
Because the monster—perhaps annoyed at being described in future tense—had just decided to do something about it.
It charged, tail lashing, claws scraping, and, most distressingly, over sized maw wide open in a way that strongly implied she was about to become an hors d'oeuvre.
Annabel, who had a deeply personal attachment to remaining on top of the snack-chain, instinctively cartwheeled out of the way—
Just in time for a second crocodile to explode out of the water. Hissing. Even bigger maw snapping her way.
She barely had time to skid to a halt before she rolled straight into its belly, the rising water now splashing around her ankles.
Her sudden change of direction left one of the zombies, abandoned with no direction after the boss fight’s unceremonious end yet still glad to participate, tanking the sudden reptilian onslaught in her place.
The zombie itself was somewhat split on the fairness of the matter. Thoroughly. Right down the middle.
Annabell did not stop to apologize.
Annabell was already running in the opposite direction as fast as she possibly could.
Which, to be clear, was not particularly fast at all.
Besides a water level that was already reaching up to her knees, she was still, well, Annabell. And although a few system-supported bonuses might have nudged her out of the “couch potato” bracket, she was still firmly lodged in the category of soggy fries. Speed and endurance were about as much her forte as underwater basket weaving, and by this point, she had been scrambling around more in a single day than she had in the past year combined.
So, when a third undead crocodile exploded out of the water directly beneath her right foot, Annabel had exactly three thoughts in rapid succession:
- Oh, come on.
- There wasn’t even an open grate there!
- Well, this is about to be someone’s problem, and I have a terrible feeling it’s mine.
A scaled snout and glowing red eyes shot up beneath her heel with speed. The kind of speed normally reserved for highly trained dolphins executing a carefully choreographed water-show.
Except there was nothing carefully choreographed about this.
And the dolphin was a giant, undead crocodile.
And the trainer was Annabell, who was currently achieving altitude in a manner best described as unintended.
For one surreal moment, water cascading around them, she and the crocodile soared through the air together in what might have been a beautiful display of cooperation, had one not been trying to eat the other.
Between Annabell, who was violently flailing, and the crocodile, which was snapping with single-minded determination, it was difficult to say which one looked more surprised by the arrangement.
All in all, their performance would have likely scored a solid 3/10 in the regional Dungeon Games.
Too much free-styling. Too little coordination.
And the finish? Utter nonsense.
As a particularly panicked and wildly miscalculated swing of Annabell’s arm sent her loot bag sliding from her fingers and hurtling into the air, a sequence of highly unlikely events unfolded. One that most reasonable observers would classify as either:
- A blatant violation of probability, physics, and good sense, or
- A flawless demonstration of skill, strategy, and forward-thinking,
—though, notably, nobody reasonable was present at the time.
And since the only observer was the universe itself—an entity known for having a deeply questionable sense of humor—the jury was very much still out.
Because, really—what were the chances that Annabel somehow flung her loot toward the ceiling at precisely the right angle? That she perfectly timed her Pounce ability to launch after it, using the force of a very disgruntled crocodile’s jaws as an impromptu launchpad? That she, in a moment of sheer brilliance (or blind panic), activated Shiny Acquisition mid-air, pulling the loot toward herself, and—thanks to the wonderful, ridiculous mechanics of Newtonian physics—yanking herself toward the loot in the process?
Was she actually familiar enough with the fundamental principles of motion to have planned for such an outcome? Or was she simply scrambling after her stuff like a feral magpie, with absolutely no thought toward physics, trajectory, or the consequences of her own actions?
These were the questions the universe asked itself as Annabel Smith completed a single, decidedly ungraceful aerial tumble, somehow caught hold of her loot, and then vanished with an audible thwump into the same drainpipe that had dumped her into this mess in the first place.
Had there been witnesses (and, fortunately for her dignity, there were none), they might have debated whether the look on her face, in that split second before disappearing, was one of carefully measured intent…
…or merely the expression of a Gremlin experiencing the unique combination of panic, momentum, and sudden unexpected flight.
Ultimately, whether Annabel Smith’s escape from the reptile-infested pit was an act of tactical brilliance or sheer, improbable luck that made fate deities grind their teeth was up to personal interpretation.
What was certain, however, was that she was currently careening through a cramped drain pipe, navigating an obstacle course of existential crisis, frantically flailing rats, misplaced sewage, a rickety grate, and—at last—a rusted bend in a pipe that led her right back to the chaos she’d left behind not long ago.
Just, you know.
With a little more loot this time.
Which, at the end of the day, was the only metric that really mattered.