CRACK!...CLINK!...CRACK!
Callum slammed his pickaxe home in the white quartz-like crystal.
"Okay Callum, lets re-analyse, everything you've, learnt so far..." he told himself between each swing of his pickaxe.
Marryvale: A kingdom nestled in the cliff-like cracks of the Shattered Desert. Their lush green cities sprawling between narrow veins of potent Earth infused stone. These cities are beautiful, superficially, but once one digs deeper, one will find the largest wealth-disparity of any Imperial state - because only some cracks, and some canyons, could sustain life-giving rivers, and therefore: crops.
Criminals are forced to labour in the dry, arid salt flats above the habitable canyons. Each prisoner is downtrodden, poor, thirsty, and tough as leather. Not many of them survive past tier 4, but those that do are sent to 'delve' Shekaron's Labyrinth. Its entrances are numerous in the deeper crags, always tempting people to enter. Most that enter would die, those that do not are heard of in tales from distant lands. Richer and more powerful than they had any right to be.
All this to say that some of the most powerful motherfuckers on all of Yggdrasil came out of Marryvale since they keep sending dangerous labourers into the Labyrinth.
Callum had heard the other miners’ stories, and knew them to be fact. Those fanciful stories, legends, were his only hope - because those who survive the deserts above are sent to delve into the depths below. It was his only chance to survive this captivity. All Callum could do was train for that moment. All Callum could do was learn, secretly study. His debt owner, Curt Marryvale – rich cunt that he was – had never bothered to read his family’s old records, Callum had.
Count Curt Marryvale was making moves on the Ellis holdings because he perceived them as weak, vulnerable. Marryvale was under the public purview of Duke Ian Silverguard, who passed their unfair, inhumane prisoner policies that ensured there were always people toiling the sands for one single thing: Mana-infused quartz.
It is useful in many practices. Brightquartz, as its known, is an especially crucial material to enchanters. Marryvale's monopoly on its excavation rights provide them a dune's worth of leverage when dealing with Enchanters. The Enchanters guild are their golden footstool.
Callum heaved his pickaxe to swing once more but was interrupted by a harsh gust of wind slamming sand into his irritated eyes, into his parched mouth.
The Shattered Desert. A kaleidoscope of white sand and black quarts that formed dazzlingly intricate patterns dictated by the flow of the wind. Each waving black line was its own little… pattern to follow.
The desert’s beautiful and unique composition was sharply thrown into contrast by the tortured souls working its sands. Life in the desert was miserable for every damned cultivator labouring in its prison camps. The high ambient Earth mana made small crystals form in random spots of the body, like a particular mix of gout and cancer.
Only the Marryvalian lordlings knew of a way to cultivate this Earth mana, improving the meridian mana conductivity and strengthening their bones to metallic levels of toughness.
Callum Halifax laboriously heaved the pickaxe once more, microscoping shards of Brightquartz prickling his armpits, the collar of his threadbare shirt, the nooks of his elbows.
*Clink!*
...
*Clink!*
His face, neck, arms, and large parts of his upper chest cavity would have actually glowed from the amount of Earth mana solidifying in his body. He would not have much longer now, curse those cunts!
*Clink!*
He carefully put his pickaxe down so that it didn't get damaged. Gods knew he couldn't afford for his debt to increase any further.
He removed his shovel from a very large cart and started, *huff* labouring incredibly heavy shards, *huff* of Brightquartz, *huff* into the already half-full cart.
He estimated that it would take another nine hours for this cart to be full enough to turn in, but that was for the best. The longer he spent deep in the desert, the higher the chance a beast would stumble onto him, allowing him to kill it and consume its beast core.
He was so close to tier 4 he could taste its sweet tingle across his body.
Unfortunately, prisoners aren't granted access to System temples. Callum would just have to roll the dice and discover whether this tier-up would finally be the one to kill him or not. It was a pretty grim thought but it was his decision to make. He would become tier 4, and when they took him to the Labyrinth to dispose of him he would seize his chance to escape.
The wardens promised that reaching tier 4 would be their ticket out of purgatory for the Empire’s cultivation prisoners, and at this point Callum would rather put his fate in the hands of the gods than spend the rest of his days mining fucking quarts!
He paused to catch his breath, a feat made harder by the miniscule, glittering fragments of Brightquarts drifting through the dusty air.
He rested his trusty shovel on the floor and tiredly massaged his hands. He eased down to his knees to give himself a moment, but did not sit.
Breathing is starting to become difficult, I need to move soon.
Low tier 3 vultures circled high above, but it took a mere flex of intent for Callum to chase them off.
When he had first started working for the Marryvale family, he had actually quite enjoyed it. They paid well, had great benefits, and it felt like a home away from home. It wasn't until he reached tier 2 that they started giving him more responsibility, more work. Then, once he made an expensive mistake, they forced him to pay it off.
It would have been manageable but by a landslide of coincidences, that Callum had long since dismissed as ‘coincidence’, he was made an indentured servant.
After that it was just a downward slide from serfdom to being outright imprisoned, to slaving on the hellish upper plateaus.
It had been almost impossible to survive, at first. Callum saw many of his fellow prisoners get devoured by beasts that stalked the landscape - beasts that were at one with the Earth ambient energy. Surviving was tough even for them, but they managed it more successfully than the labouring cultivators. They would often drag men off into the sandstorms, screams swallowed howling winds.
Now, decades of successfully skulking beneath the noses of foremen, he could not only fight the beasts off, but actively hunt them for their cores. After tier 4 it became a grind of slowly accumulating, then infusing his body with their Earth attributed beast cores – an extremely rare type of beast core that Callum didn't even think the Marryvalians knew about.
When he or his fellow ‘Brightquartz gatherers’ actually ran into a tier 4 beast, then he had to kill it as quickly, and quietly, as possible, so that other prisoners didn't try to steal his kill.
Callum felt a vibration at his throat and immediately moved to satisfy the motion sensor. The foremen didn't care what the prisoners got up to so long as they filled their quotas, and kept moving. If he didn't move at ten feet every five minutes, then they would electrocute the shit out of his soul.
Shaevalur’s shiny mounds! It hurt worse than sand under the foreskin when the collar activated.
So, even though he was stained by years of dust and sweat, he once again heaved his pickaxe, and swung into the towering monoliths of quartz.
*Clink*
Curt Marryvale tried to take a calming breath…for all of five seconds before he released it explosively. Along with this huff of breath he activated his [Flame of punition] spell. Bellowing flames roiled harmlessly across the marble floor of his penthouse and set fire to the luxurious curtains of his spacious ziggurat.
His sex objects screamed and trembled on the bed as the flames briefly licked their skin, leaving the room smelling of burnt hair. Yet, through his magnanimous control, that was all that burned. He cared too much for the other objects in the room to hurt them.
He leaned back on his palanquin, his human seat supports keeping him steady.
“She actually met with that brute? I always knew that Ellis woman was a whore. Slut.” The depraved concept of their animalistic rutting briefly excited him and he casually opened his robe for his favourite sexual object to run over and pleasure him.
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Just then, a knock on the door interrupted his ruminations of the acclaim he will receive once he successfully wiped out the Ellis line, and absorbed their lands. His fucking father would finally respect him, his damn elder brothers would not look down on him. Once he had the resources of two kingdoms backing him, he would be unstoppable.
“Enter!” He called imperiously, best to practice now for when he overthrew Galain and became emperor one day.
His messenger object carefully opened the door, his silver collar gleaming in the bright light of Curt's open, terraced room. It hurried forward and instantly prostrated itself, as it should.
Curt proudly rose and placed his foot upon the back of his messenger's neck, as was his right, “Speak.”
“Master,” the slightly muffled voice of his messenger, “Prince Richard has left the capital along with 100 Old Monsters. He-...he left for Volun, Master.”
Curt saw red. The royals have chosen their side?! The Ellis cold ones are weak!!! How dare they steal my favour!? How dare they oppose my plans?! I need to prove a point! To both of them! I need to cut off the capital from our enchantments. Until they pull back their soldiers, I will bleed them Dry!!
When he returned to himself, he realised that his foot had gone through the messenger's head, Oh well, that's one way to keep spies scared. He casually flicked his foot dry of brain matter.
“Cleaner…lick it clean.” He held out his foot for his cleaner object, and it complied. Its lips already trembling as tears spilled down its face.
Connor strutted through his penthouse at the Crystal Canopy Hotel, situated near the heart of Volun's upper-class residential district. His bare feet barely made a sound on the soft bamboo flooring as he made his way towards his modernly appointed minimalist living room. Though, when he turned the corner, he did not find it empty.
There, sitting casually on his dining table, a sheathed nagasaki blade resting against his shoulder, was none other than Elder Guanji.
"You did not think I would know? You did not think I would deduce, that it was you who broke into my home?" Connor felt all the blood leaving his face, leaving his stomach week, his body unresponsive. His arms tingled as he frantically thought of potential options, but when face with a tier 7 old monster, there really wasn't much one could do.
He'd though his stealth skills enough to not be detected, his [Intangibility] Talent too powerful for them to even notice his presence. He had touched nothing, not even dared to breathe as he snooped around Elder Guanji's house. He hadn't even found his quarry, leaving without even stepping into the material plane. How had he found me?
Connor tried to activate his Talent, to turn immaterial and hopefully escape as he had done countless times in the past. Yet, as he tried, a mental attack shot fiery spears of pain through his psyche. He collapsed to his knees, shaking in terror and pain. Two sandaled feet filled his vision.
"Tisk, tisk, tisk, Mr. Grimsbane. You think I would let you run? No-no-no, do not cry, do not beg. You have information that I require. Co-operate, and you might live to see the Dawn."
Dungeons started appearing as the result of the System’s first independent action. Up until that moment, Dungeons were nothing more than doomed explosive rifts between the planes. Unlike stable rifts that could be closed, these Doomed rifts would catastrophically tear the fabric of the plane, causing large-scale destruction as realms intersected, clashed, broke, crumbled.
Some places, such as the living planet Yggdrasil, have more dimensional stress fractures than most others. Yggdrasil, a planet on the verge of ascending realms, was experiencing immense dimensional stress on every facet of its surface, crust, deep road, and ley line. These stresses manifested as tears i.e. Rifts in reality.
Doomed Rifts were extremely dangerous to a stationary agricultural society. Unlike normal Rifts, they could not be cleared. They would rupture, causing an explosion of high tiered mana, expelling wave after wave of high tiered monsters. Both of which would be devastating to a low-tiered city or town.
Thus enters our protagonist: a pre-eminent scholar of interdimensional studies; a firm man with firmer beliefs, who let his studies take him too far. He reached into realms a mortal mind should never touch, and found insanity waiting. He started wreaking havoc.
A valiant warrior arose to stop him. As they clashed the realms trembled, feeling the weight of their level 160 actions. These were gods among men, able to survive tribulation, after tribulation, after tribulation. The lower plane of existence needed aid. The System answered.
As the scholar archmage was defeated, he tried to flee by tearing the realms.
A creation of the Elder gods, beings who have been around since before sentient life graced the various planes of Utgard, the System chose to stop him. One little tier 16 would not destabilise a plane under the System's purview. For the first time since its creation, uncountable eons before, the System directly interfered and captured the scholar’s soul within a complex prison of empowerment, and captivity. It designed...the Dungeon.
A Dungeon core would latch onto a rift and repair that hole in reality. It does so by consuming the abundant high-tiered essence leaking from a rift and forging it into a series of traps, rewards, or challenges to protect itself...or challenge those brave enough to enter.
The scholar could create with impunity within his dungeon. He could craft, play, and decorate to his dungeon heart’s content…but never move from his pedestal. He could kill as much as his insane mind demanded, but never land the killing blow himself, as he was forced to act through his summons. Nor could he escape when retribution inevitably came.
Dungeons have started popping up since. Some countries worship them, others hunt their cores for complex crafting, and more still worked alongside these complex creations of the System to better themselves.
Few know the true extent of Dungeondom, and fewer know how they have adapted in the centuries, millenia, eons, that they have existed since.
Ivor Hansen was charged with a very important mission, just three days after delivering Gareth Elson to Volun.
“First Ranger Ivor Hansen, your report on Oni activity alarms me greatly. They are portents of a much larger threat. I must beg your apology to once more leave Volun post-haste. Finding the source of Lazfeld's silence is of utmost import.” Margrave rubbed at his temples, even though his cultivation was of such a level that he was physically incapable of experiencing mortal ails.
“That is not necessary, my lord. This one will trust any instructions given without question. I am your compass, light in the dark, and Trailforger. Your direction, is my will.” Ivor Hansen intoned with solemnity, the words of his original oath to his lord. It also helped that he couldn’t hide the adventurous glint in his eye, in his cocky smirk.
Margrave smiled softly at one of his oldest and most loyal followers, he had grown so used to others lusting after his power, position, money, to get close to him for political gain. For serving him because they thought being near him would grant them status and position.
Margrave trusted Ivor Hansen implicitly, due to his character, his spine, his loyalty, his sharp mind, and his unwavering spirit.
“Lazfeld might have been a rival kingdom at one point, but they have proven politically neutral. They are a country whose strength is on par with that of the Empire. We have still not made contact with them. This news of an Oni on the cliffs, a Broodmother no less, might be a sign of their corruption. I would ask you, which would be quicker: a sent message that would take six months to arrive, and six months to return; or, if you would be able to deliver this message yourself, and report back using a talisman?”
Margave carefully searched the emerald eyes of his First Ranger, looking for any hesitance, any doubt. His eyes shone only with pure bravery, and when he brazenly winked at him Margrave felt the last of his tension melt away.
Margrave relaxed his hands and felt a slight burning in his stomach, which he had only subconsciously noticed, gradually simmering down. He was really stressed about this whole Marryvale situation.
“It would be this one’s pleasure to perform his duties. The wilds of a foreign kingdom are ripe for exploration. Lazfeld lies two thousand miles beyond the precipice of the cliff, it should take me a mere twenty cycles to reclimb the cliff, then a further ten to reach my previous location. For the sake of diversions I will add an extra ten cycles. As this one does not know the current state of Lazfeld Kingdom, I hesitate to guess when my lord can expect a rapport… If two years passes, and this one has not sent a message, then this one humbly asks to have his will and testament be read.”
Ivor slapped a fist to his chest in a bow, his short-cropped dark hair swinging forward over his brow, hiding the fear in his green eyes.
Gareth is in good hands, I have done what I can. Now it is time to hone my craft, ply my trade: to venture into the unknown, see the unseen, hear the unheard of, and find the unfindable.
Ivor Hansen dodged left – then right – as hound sappers dogged his heels. His breath was coming in gasps, weariness dragged at his eyes and legs.
His movement technique was one of the best in Volun, or the broader empire, but even he, the great Ivor Hansen, sometimes needed to rest.
The hound sappers had kept on his scent for three weeks now, and Ivor Hansen was gradually starting to feel the strain. He could not stop and engage them in a fight, as that would give their own rangers enough time to catch up and eliminate him. If he somehow managed to defeat them, the ranger fight would stall him long enough for their soldiers to show up, then their heavy fighters, and at that point Ivor Hansen would be dead.
So, he ran on.
His excellently cunning forethought would occasionally allow him to lure hounds into fights with wild beasts, but they were single minded in their pursuit.
The moment he left, they would sacrifice one of their own numbers to stall whatever beast was trying to kill them, then return to his trail. A trail that would become more obvious as his fatigue grew.
It also wasn't that they were fast. The red skinned demonic hounds were thin and lanky, greyhound-like in their slender speed and grace. Yet, they were corrupted beauty, with slightly longer forelegs with ambulatory joints with long talons, meaning that they could climb rock walls without breaking stride. Their biggest strength was their endurance. They just refused to get tired!
He'd tried to engage them once and barely escaped with his life when their rangers ambushed him. He'd tried to lose them by disguising his scent, but that hadn't worked. He had no clue how they were tracking him.
He had wanted to deliver Lord Margrave's letter into the hands of Lazfeld's Rangers, but had found a massacred capital city instead, overrun with demonic creatures.
Not one to give up so easily he stealthily traveled through the city until he reached the palace, which was surprisingly intact.
He found a court enslaved.
Nobles in tattered clothes crawled on all fours to please demonic sergeants clad in obsidian armour melted into flesh. Those that resisted the takeover could be seen as heads, torsos or other impaled body parts where flags had once flown. The agonised screaming of humans were evident throughout the city, as death would mean their plaything is would stop screaming.
The person who he was supposed to deliver the message to was easy to spot…a head mounted at the precipice of a tall throne. Upon which sat a strangely beautiful demon. Her legs clad in human leather, high heeled, cold-iron studded boots. Her outer thighs wrapped in black leather, engraved with lines that glaringly drew the eye to her exposed womanhood.
Ivor Hansen did not let his eye linger for demons were foul things, he told himself....
Her breastplate was a skintight steel with holes for her areola and nipples to peek through seductively. Not great protection, in Ivor Hansen's mind.
He nevertheless had to adjust his pants and as he did so the demoness’ flaming eyes cut to him like a laser. Which should have been impossible as he was looking through a looking glass, miles away, hidden in the attic of an abandoned building, concealed by stealth enchantments. She should not have been able to detect him.
Yet as her gorgeous red eyes locked onto him, Ivor Hansen chose that moment to flee. The person he was to deliver the message to was dead, he had gained as much information as possible, and his cover had been blown.
Since then, he'd been dogged by hounds.
It would take him another two weeks of running to reach the cliffs. He could do it if he pushed himself, but the cliffs did not necessarily mean safety. He needed rest…and soon.
