FINAL CORE : [A holy dungeon-core litRPG]

Razmatazz

There's a new art gallery before RR chapter 1 where all of the story's official art is collected

 

 

Durability.

Each piece of equipment, every piece of clothing, every sword and staff, and every tool has, as one of its guaranteed values, ‘durability’, alongside its ‘weight’ and often ‘value’.

Durability determines the current physical status of an item. A broken, battered, or rusted object will likely have low durability.

When an object’s durability reaches zero, the item will be destroyed and left in a useless state.

However, most objects, such as weapons, are made of individual parts. A simple sword, for example, may have a threaded-blade, a hilt, a grip, and a pommel. Each of these individual components has its own durability value. But the sword itself also has a durability value, which is a result of all of its components' durabilities calculated in combination.

If for example, a sword’s threaded-blade is attributed with a [Rust {1}] status, because of improper care, then the sword as a whole object will receive a reduction in its max-durability.

In contrast, components can also be attributed with a positive status, which will affect the weapon as a whole. Depending if the process is a physical or a magical augmentation, we either call this process 'modifying' or ‘enchanting’.

 

~ A look into base values and items, An adventurer’s guide to being anybody

 

 

~ [Taishi-Shi] ~
Vildt (Rabbit), Male, Classless Location: The far off Eastern Continent

 

The young boy stands at the coast-line, staring off across the waves. His body is that of a human, but intermingled with the features of a rabbit.

 

His kind, the Vildt, are a remnant — a left-over of a long-distant era in which the gods and the people of this world intermingled. They only now live on this continent, in the far east of the world. Everywhere else, they have been decreed as unwanted by the homogenizing doctrines of the human church.

 

Voices come out from behind him, carrying across the swaying, golden grass as the others are at play on the yellow field. But he doesn’t join in one of the games. He just stands at the coast and stares across the water, as he has been doing for a time now.

 

— It ticks.

 

His long, rabbit-like ears twitch as he hears the sound carrying over the vast ocean and feels the deep vibration moving through the core of the world, up through his sensitive legs.

 

It is the heavy ticking of a massive, final clock, counting down to…

 

— The ball that the others were playing with hits him against the head, and he cries, falling over dramatically.

 

Sitting in the grass and scowling, he rubs his sore head.

 

The others can’t hear it. They don’t have the sensitive ears and body that he has. It’s far too far away for them to notice.

 

It ticks.

 

Taishi-shi turns his head again, looking back out over the ocean with wide eyes, like a rabbit on the search for the shadow of a hawk, as he senses with his animal senses the presence of something massive to come — The heartbeat of Isaiah tells him as much.

 

The clock ticks down again, moving a second closer to the final moment that it forebodes.

 

 

~ [Gadrian] ~
Human, Male, Swordsman Location: The Settlement outside of the tower

 

The deserter soldier Gadrian lays outside in the adventurer’s camp, or, well… the settlement. One of his legs is held up in the air.

 

People have begun establishing homes here on the grounds around the tower. It all started with a merchant, apparently, who had a little house built for himself. The idea spread quickly after that, and new little houses quickly started sprouting up around the island. Most everybody is here, near the entrance to the tower. But others have veered off, moving to the village on the south-west corner of the island or somewhere into the forests.

 

The soldiers who had been saved, including him, have opted to stick together as a band for the most part. They aren’t adventurers. They’re trained to survive in numbers.

 

The man, laying in the green grass — still damp — stares up towards the tower that reaches the sky with wide eyes.

 

He has never been a spiritual person. But… after what he saw and felt, how could he not be?

 

The soldier’s eyes wandered around the tower.

 

— It had spoken to him. It had spoken to all of them. They’ve been chosen, selected… saved.

 

But for what purpose? He doesn’t know.

 

Why would the entity save them? Grace? Compassion? He can’t think of anything else.

 

Ever since the visions had overcome him, he’s just been unable to do much else, except look at the tower.

 

When you’re laying down flat on your back, like he is, it looks just like a bridge.

 

— Gadrian moves his raised foot, holding it against the silhouette of the tower.

 

From here, from this angle down on the grass where he rests, it feels like he’s taking a first step on the bridge to the heavens.

 

 

~ [Isaiah] ~

 

Absolution of pain.

 

This is something that Isaiah had not known before on a scale such as this. Others, such as Rorate, have been hurt in ways the entity hasn’t quite understood before, ways of the spirit. But a hurt on the level of the primal soul that has been pulsating through this creature is more than what it is familiar with.

 

The dryad, finding her way to some sort of sense through her endless screams, flails, and cries.

 

Isaiah walks back out of the basin to set her down. The waters have healed the pains of the body, but they remain nonetheless as lingering memories and feelings. It is a thick, oozing pus of rotting ink, painted over a snow white canvas.

 

She howls, her sunrise eyes hidden beneath her woodland-green hair, flashing as she returns to a state of presence.

 

Two hands grab hold of Isaiah, and she lunges, howling like a fearful animal.

 

(Isaiah) has been bitten by (Dryad) for {06} damage! 94/100

 

- [CRITICAL DUNGEON WARNING] -
The dungeon-core has been damaged!

 

Isaiah winces, looking at the creature that has sunk her teeth into the base of its neck. Red blood runs down porcelain skin, dripping into the hot-springs.

 

“Chief!” yells Red, blasting in from the side, from up the side of the tower.

 

— Isaiah lifts a hand, stopping her mid-flight. The other uthra fly in behind her. The entity lowers its hand again, placing it on the back of the head that latches on to its body, like a suckling infant. Its fingers run through the creature’s hair and over its head. This is a new lesson, one that it has learned from Rorate. There is more to bearing life than simply bearing and feeding it. There is a nurturing required — an absolution of the pain caused by the deep, dire uncertainty of existence.

 

Boots run up the staircase as Rorate, dragging a swarm of sweaty, out of breath people behind her, sprints up to the roost.

 

Isaiah smiles, shaking its head at the denizens of the tower, telling them that there is no need to worry.

 

It is touching that so many people would come in grave concern and at such speed for it. What a good collection of souls it has begun to make here. They all carry the essence of spring in their hearts, don’t they?

 

Isaiah looks over its people, its children of many flocks and feathers, content, and this contentment goes a long way towards the absolution of the pain of its own failings.

 

The dryad continues to latch down with her teeth against its neck, digging in. But Isaiah does not let that bother it and continues, and then, after a minute and realizing that no retribution is to come,, she stops. Her teeth release. The blood running down Isaiah’s neck begins to wash away as a new absolution comes, the release of tears flowing like so many graceful waters. The hands of the dryad move.

 

Isaiah sighs, continuing to comfort the creature as she moves on to her next stage of life.

 

— After an infant is born, through the horrific, gruesome process of natural birth, what comes next is crying.

 

Isaiah watches its many children around itself, who it considers its own cherished progeny.

 

This latest one was by far the most painful birth.

 

But every one of them is a different person and thus requires a different process.

 

 

~ [Jizalia] ~
Human, Female, Master Herbalist Location: The city

 

Jizalia hums to herself, holding a basket in her arms. It’s full of flowers.

 

The herbalist stops, staring at them.

 

— They’re beautiful.

 

She lifts the basket to her face, smelling the efforts of her work and, most importantly, looking at them with eyes that finally work.

 

Jizalia sniffles, rubbing her wet eyes with her free hand as she begins to cry again. Flowers are so beautiful. She had been collecting them all of her life for her work, but she’s never really gotten to appreciate them like this. Everything was worth it. The dangerous journeys, the long days and nights out in the wild-lands, finding and undergoing a deal with a witch of all creatures…

 

However, despite the frightfulness of the situation, the witch held her bargain.

 

Jizalia can see perfectly. Before, the world was always just the vaguest jumble of blurs. But now… now it’s all so clear.

 

– Trees have leaves.

 

Why didn’t anyone ever tell her that you’re supposed to be able to see the individual leaves on trees? Sure, she always knew that leaves were their own thing. But she just never made the connection. For her, trees have always just been green blobs.

 

The woman smiles, walking back to her family home. She’s not expected there, but she’s going to stop by and stay for a few weeks, she thinks. She’s looking forward to seeing them for the first time in months. Jizalia smiles as bright as she has been smiling for days now as she walks down the familiar old streets and knocks on a familiar old door, expecting to see a familiar old face.

 

— The door opens and nobody is there.

 

Jizalia blinks, having expected to see her mother.

 

“- Zali!” yells an extremely excited and relieved voice from down low. Jizalia lowers her gaze, looking at the strawberry-brown haired child there, standing with an exploding, wide expression of joy.

 

The herbalist barely has time to defend herself before the violent, horrific creature that is her cute little sister savagely leaps at her like an apex predator on the hunt. The basket of flowers flies down, a few scattering in the wind, as Jizalia lands on her bottom down on the street. Thankfully, she’s tough from living her life outdoors. But the cobblestones are still a bit hard.

 

— She sighs, wincing but smiling contently as she rubs the head of the girl, who is squeaking and, presumably, attempting to burrow into her core like a desperate worm.

 

“Hey, Sili,” says Jizalia, tilting her head, greeting her sister with her pet name. It’s not unusual for her little sister to be excited to see her when she comes back from a trip. But she’s never been this desperate before. “You home alone?” asks the herbalist, looking around. “Where’s Mom?” she asks, petting the girl’s head.

 

— Her sister looks up at her, her small fingers not letting go of the fabric of her robe.

 

She never noticed how green her eyes were before, and… wet?

 

“…Tulsi?” asks Jizalia, looking at the young girl’s ragged and rough appearance that is really unlike her. Her hair isn’t brushed, her clothes are dirty, and so is she. Her face is pale and unwashed, and the signs of hunger are starting to show behind its sharp cheeks. “Where’s Mom?” repeats the herbalist, looking past her younger sister and into the dark, unkempt house that nobody seems to have been tending to for a while now.

 

 

~ [???] ~
Dryad, Female, Wood-Mother

 

She can’t look at it.

 

It’s too bright.

 

It’s like staring into the sun on a hot summer’s day.

 

It’s too warm.

 

Her mind is buzzing, crawling with the sensations of ten-thousand crawling feet, creeping and skittering through her veins, moving down her throat and nose, and eating through her eyes. She can feel shards and bits of her bone grating against themselves as wet, mushy soil leaks in all around her, crushing her.

 

She can feel the snapping, breaking, and gouging. She can see the eyes staring at her from above. They are the eyes of a thing of horror from beyond the natural order.

 

All of these things she experiences in her head over and over, despite the fact that her skin tickles and pricks in the light of the sun. Her hair blows, strands of it flying loosely in the summer gale — those pieces of it that are free to do so. Her heart beats and vision freely fills her eyes, and her body is whole and of absolute sanctity.

 

All of these things might be true.

 

But she still feels the old feelings — the terrors.

 

The dryad fights against herself to lift her head and her eyes to look at what has mended her.

 

— But it’s just too bright for her to look at.

 

Her eyes, sensitive from weeks spent undergone, simply can not bring it into clear focus, despite the fact that she is nested in its arms.

 

It, the thing of saving grace, is not of the natural, primal order of the world. She knows this much; she can sense it — feel it. It is a presence elevated beyond the spirits of trees, foxes, and old, enchanted places. It is the presence of something more refined and polished. It is the river-rock, down below the flowing stream of an ancient current, polished and perfected and smoothed out into something pristine and jewel-like.

 

Divine.

 

She can’t look at it to speak, so she opens her mouth instead. But nothing comes out except for a wordless spasm from her throat.

 

They rise up out of the warm, comforting waters, the steam of which has been dewing on her sun-child skin.

 

She can not speak the human tongue or any other tongue of the peoples of this world. She is a dryad, a creature of the deep forests. She tends to it. She nurtures and fosters the woodland and its creatures, and so she can only speak to them.

 

“What are you?” she asks nonetheless in the language of the forest, managing to find some strength to speak in words that are feeble and weak.

 

The entity sets her down onto a patch of soft, warm grass that feels kind as it touches her legs. It looks at her and tilts its head, two piercing, golden eyes boring into her core. They’re too bright. She winces, holding a hand up over her eyes to obscure her vision of it.

 

“Isaiah,” whistles a voice into the air, speaking in the tongue of a blackbird.

 

She lowers her arm, watching as it steps back and away, leaving her some space.

 

In her blurred, sun-ray filled vision, she can only watch as the silhouette of the entity that spans from the bounds of the natural order to whatever lies beyond vanishes into whiteness and sunlight.