FINAL CORE : [A holy dungeon-core litRPG]

‘The make-up of our nation’.

Of note are five core cities in our nation. There is one in each cardinal direction. The north, east, south, and west. At the center of all of these is the central-city, guided by the central-authority, who governs us. The central-city is home to the world’s most notable landmark, the world-tree, a massive tree that spans up to the heavens.

Each of these five cities has a dungeon inside of itself, used as a source of economic prosperity.

The northern city, in the cold woodlands, is governed by the church and has a focus on internal commerce and religion. The dungeon there is undead themed and low-level. The north is where all priests receive their training at the holy cathedral.

The eastern city is a mercantile harbor across the great desert. This is home to the central port of the nation. Commerce and trade are abundant here, with ships regularly coming from other continents. The dungeon there is desert and water themed and is high-level.

The western city, high atop the distant mountains, is home to abundant magical energies and, as such, is renowned for the potency of the casters trained and found there of all schools of magic. The dungeon is ice-themed and mid-level. The western mountains are the last known natural spawning location of the species that we call ‘fairies’, which are now close to extinct.

The southern city, down in the plains, is a hub of abundant natural resources. The landscape is flush with minerals and a varied terrain, including ocean access, allowing the southern city to flourish as a node for adventurers, who are the primary source of finance for the city. The southern city is home to the infamous, generalist, greedy dungeon, known for being the only dungeon to never drop any obols as loot from any of its monsters or chests. It is a mid-level dungeon.

The central city, home to the world tree, is the most notable seat of power. Only those people who have cleared a dungeon all the way to level one-hundred, or their descendants born within its walls, are able to use the dungeon-tunnels that run through the roots of the world-tree to enter the central-city. Any unapproved attempts to enter via roads are strictly punished. The central-city is home to the world’s easiest dungeon, the nature themed dungeon.

In-between are many other villages and settlements, as well as dungeons. But these will be covered in the following compendium: ‘The intricacies of our nation’.

 

 

~ [Anderwal] ~
Human, Male, Scholar of the Witches' Sect Location: The road to the South, leading past the Central-City

 

Anderwal walks, hoisting the straps of his bag over his shoulder as he and his group march down towards the south. They don’t stay on the road, even if it would be faster. This would draw too much attention to them. They move as a group now, but for a long time, they’ve been split into pieces here and there.

 

Ever since the witch-hunts, the members of the Witches’ Sect who remained have scattered all across the nation. Some of them reside in prominent positions of power, having yet to be found out. Others live as simple people with forgettable faces. The clerk at an accountant’s station, the librarian behind the shelf, the baker pulling bread from his oven and scoring it with a knife.

 

— All of these people, and so many more, belong to the Witches’ Sect, but have not been able to live out this lifestyle for some time now, for fear of their lives.

 

The people of the cities don’t understand.

 

They don’t understand that they’ve been manipulated by the church into the witch-hunts. They don’t understand that this was just another tightening of the fist that holds all the power in the world — next to the central-authority of the central city.

 

Anderwal turns his head, stopping atop a grassy knoll in the middle of the night, staring towards the east, towards the thing that breaks the horizon.

 

— A giant heartwood tree, the size of the gods themselves, sits planted firmly in the center of the nation, as it has done for eras. Its crown scratches the sky; its base is so wide that thousands of houses, all part of the make-up of the central-city, sit rung around its base. Its roots run so deep that they stretch to every corner of the nation, from the western dungeon atop the high mountains, to the far eastern desert, to the cool north — from where they stem — the world-tree’s roots dig deep and far, reaching all of these places at depths far, far below the surface.

 

It is the most magnificent landmark in the world.

 

Yet, it is forbidden for the likes of them to touch.

 

“Brother Anderwal,” says a man from ahead of himself. Anderwal blinks, looking and seeing that he’s been left behind in his daydreams.

 

He hurries, running to catch up with the group.

 

In the central-city, only people of noble descent are allowed, that or those adventurers who manage to clear one of the four traditional, old dungeons by breaching floor one-hundred, are allowed to travel there.

 

Anyone who tries from the outside to enter, even people of the same nation, will often be met with brutal and harsh consequences.

 

This is the order that the church imposes on society together with the central-authority. The keeping of the world’s sacred treasures to themselves, not by the right of gods or the natural order, but by made up laws that they themselves had written.

 

The witches were able to bypass such nonsensical things. Witches could easily overturn the social order, held in the golden-ring adorned, wrinkled fists of those in power.

 

— They walk by a village in the forest, standing outside for a moment, as several people with packs and torches come out to meet and join them. They are more members of the sect, having been living in secret for a decade.

 

The march continues towards the south as they walk day and night, collecting more and more of their rank and file along the way, who have all gotten the call.

 

The Witches’ Sect returns once more to haunt the world beneath the light of a crooked moon.

 

 

~ [Perchta] ~
???, Female, Witch Location: The Witches' Hideout in the City

 

Perchta takes a long draw of her smoking stick before exhaling the cherrywood smoke out over a small, sitting basin full of water, its vapors moving over her reflection.

 

She smiles.

 

It’s so simple and devious that this might be the best idea she’s had yet.

 

“Witch Perchta,” says a voice from next to her. Perchta turns to look at Spillaholle, who is sitting there reading another book. “Have you considered that smoking that thing is leading to your unhealth?”

 

“It’s fine,” says Perchta, wagging the stick at her. “I need this, Spilly,” explains the witch. “With all the stress in my life, this is all I have to calm me down,” she says, pointing at it. “The stress of my life will age me faster than this thing will.”

 

“Witch Perchta,” begins Spillaholle. “I believe you are responsible for the great majority of stress in your life.”

 

Perchta leans in. “Oh, yeah, sure!” she snaps, wagging the smoking stick around. “The way I remember it, I was living quietly until somebody provoked the humans and I had to move my retirement to the ass end of the world,” she explains.

 

“Witch Perchta. I feel as if your accusation is baseless.”

 

“Baseless?” asks Perchta incredulously.

 

“Witch Perchta,” says Spillaholle. “Are you not the most brazen of us? To change the shape of the moon so carelessly. Of course they grew fearful — you acted fearsome.”

 

Perchta leans back, taking a long draw of the smoking stick, narrowing her eyes as she stares at Spillaholle.

 

“Witch Perchta. Do not,” warns Spillaholle, looking at her over her book.

 

Perchta puffs out her cheeks, taking in as big a draw as she can, filling her mouth and lungs with smoke that she can blow at the woman.

 

— A large hand claps against Perchta’s back.

 

The witch lurches forward, coughing and spluttering as she loses control of the smoke, hacking and trying to breathe. A man laughs behind her.

 

“Now, now,” says Witch Gauden, patting a dying Perchta on the back. “Don’t say that it’s Pipi’s fault,” says the man. “It’s nobody’s fault,” he explains. Perchta holds onto the basin of water, spluttering and trying to get her breath back in as smoke pours out of her nose. “Sometimes, life just happens.”

 

“— Well why does it always happen to me?!” cries Perchta, turning her head to look at him, starting to cry.

 

Gauden nods. “Sometimes, life happens to some of us more than to others.” Perchta sniffles, nodding. The little green slime climbs around Gauden, clinging to the side of his head and eating the contents inside of his ear.

 

“Witch Gauden. I disagree,” says Spillaholle. “It was a mistake on our part to attempt to live amongst them,” explains the witch, closing her book. “The humans should have been made to live amongst us.”

 

“I understand your feelings,” says Gauden, stepping between them, placing a hand on Spillaholle’s arm to bridge the gap between her and Perchta for a moment. He looks down at the basin of water and pulls out a coin from one of his dirty pockets, fishing past the slime that wobbles around in his coat. “From where we are now, the past always looks so small, doesn’t it?” he asks and then holds the coin up. “But remember how big it is when you’re standing in it,” he says. Spillaholle nods and returns to her book. He looks back at Perchta. “Make a wish, Pipi,” says Gauden.

 

With a flick of his thumb, he launches the coin up into the air. The obol chimes with a clear ring as his nail strikes against it, spinning in the air and catching the light of the home on its polished, pristine surface, before it flies down into the fountain — the little wishing well.

 

Perchta purses her lips and makes her wish, the very first wish that will be used in this prototype — before they bring it out into the city in secret.

 

It is a wish that one day, she’ll be able to live with her friends in peace from the world in a place that is happy and warm and whole.

 

 

~ [Isaiah] ~

 

“I remember much of it,” says Isaiah, standing atop the roost. It lifts its golden sword into the air, looking it over in the moonlight. “War was my trade. I stood clad in the banners of holiness,” says Isaiah, turning the sword. “But I was anything but. I was just a man, playing pretend, as would a young boy play pretend to be that man, who he might aspire to be one day.” Isaiah shakes its head. “Folly.”

 

The wind blows atop the roost, billowing the short hair of the monk that has grown over her time here. Her previously, essentially bald, head has now grown to be covered in the fires of red hair that is, while freely and naturally growing, somehow fitting to the person she is now. It is like a patch of wildflowers, growing in a once overly proper and trim garden.

 

“We’re all always playing pretend,” replies the monk, sitting in her meditation. “I pretend to be a monk, but below that, I am a woman.” She opens her eyes. “I pretend to be a woman, but below that, I am an animal, scared and fearful of the hissing teeth in the darkness.” The monk rises to her feet, the heavy beads on her arms rattling as she stands. “— I pretend to be afraid of those hissing teeth in the night, but the truth is that I am them.” She lifts her head to the sky. “So when the stars die out and the moon goes dark and all that is left down here on this world is a void in which I hiss — I will instead pretend to be a light that others can come to.”

 

— She assumes her stance. Isaiah turns to face her, lifting the sword for their next session.

 

The monk looks at it. “Folly is to think that your pretending doesn’t matter,” explains the woman. “It does.”

 

(???) has used: [{07} River Impact]

 

— Isaiah barely has time to widen its eyes as a fist flies its way, massive wooden beads rattling just next to it. It dodges to the side, feeling a scrape just past the skin of its face as she lands. Instinctively, Isaiah flaps its wings, striking her with a powerful strike against her back as it lifts the golden sword.

 

She, not losing her footing as expected, swings around and grabs Isaiah’s ankle, holding her fist back and the two of them stand, locked in stalemate.

 

“Will you tell me your name?” asks Isaiah.

 

The massive beads on her arm rattle. “Pretend I don't have one,” replies the monk, her expression never changing beneath the ember-glow strands of hair on her head. Isaiah's eye go wide as it predicts her movement to come and quickly takes a new ability from its free points.

 

NEW - (HOLY) ABILITY -

[Repulsion Barrier](Active)

Creates a reflective barrier of magical energies between yourself and a target. It does not reflect damage, instead, it reflects force.

The impact of an attack against the barrier will be applied as knock-back to the aggressor.

 

(???) has used: [{04} Savannah Crush]

 

(Isaiah) has used: [Repulsion Barrier]

 

— Their spells collide, the great, orange, dusty wave of energy from her fist striking against a glassy, strong wall of prismatic holy magic that appears between them. Isaiah flies back and she flies off, masterfully controlling herself in the air as she gets thrown across the roost from the knockback. The two of them return to their starting positions to try once more.

 

It lifts the sword.

 

Isaiah may be strong now. It may have power in abilities, perks, and in the dominion of its dungeon. But power and skill are two very different things. Just as it has learned that it can not solely rely on its nurturing instincts from its life as a blackbird, it too sees that it can not solely rely on its fighting instincts from its human life.

 

There is a lot of ground to cover in these training sessions before the stars fade and the hissing darkness comes to cover the world.

 

It would be good not to pretend that it has a lot of time.

 

They push forward to meet each other again.

 

 

~ [Beulah] ~
Human, Male, Thief Location: Floor eighteen of the tower — The Shrine

 

Beulah sweeps the floor of the shrine free of ash, humming to himself as he works.

 

— An explosion rings out in the distance. He lifts his head. Adventurers.

 

The man looks around himself. Shit. He hates this. He knows that the shrine-maidens are homunculi and that they respawn, but it’s not a good feeling when they get involved in the fighting. He supposes that he’s become clingy, but you tend to take it personally when your roommates get killed, even if they can come back from the dead.

 

He looks down at the floor.

 

He just swept it too.

 

The thief sighs, rubbing his hair. The panel door next to him slides open. “Beulah,” says one of the shrine-maidens, the oldest sister, as he’s dubbed her, as she’s the largest and most mature of the three.

 

It was all kind of shocking at first. They haven’t really learned to talk. But they can say his name. That’s nice. He appreciates that.

 

She makes a shushing motion over the tail that covers her face and then grabs him, yanking him inside of the room and then closing the sliding door.

 

“What’s up?” asks Beulah. “There are people coming. You guys have to get ready to fight.” The room that they’re in is the hidden room of the shrine, which the shrine-maidens use to retreat and rest. It’s where they sleep.

 

She shushes him.

 

Two hands grab him from his left and two hands grab him from his right, as the other two appear from their hiding spots and begin shuffling him away, each of them fighting the other to shuffle him away in their direction.

 

— The oldest one shakes one of her nine tails at the sliding door.

 

Beulah, being kidnapped, watches as the door turns into a solid wall, sealing the room off.

 

The two shrine maidens sit down next to him.

 

Footsteps come from the other side of the wall as a group of adventurers walk through the floor, talking to each other in confusion as they have no idea where the usual enemies of this floor are today.

 

They’re simply nowhere to be seen. Very strange indeed.

 

Beulah and the shrine-maidens all turn their heads as the group wanders through the shrine, checking everywhere but finding nothing.

 

He sits there, somewhat confused, as the middle and the youngest sister of the three each tug on his arm, trying to get him to move their way. He’s noticed that the three of them always seem to find something to fight over. Last time, he saw them standing there, comparing their tails for an hour without ever saying a word.

 

The oldest one returns, sitting down across from them.

 

— She reaches into her robe and pulls out… a rock.

 

She sets it down and slides it towards him.

 

Beulah blinks.

 

{Beautiful}(Excellent)[Rock]
A small, beautifully shaped rock. It is pleasantly smooth to the touch and carries several tones of amber that streak through its form. It feels heavy despite its size, indicating a high mineral density. Excellent Quality: Contains trace NATURE elemental properties Beautiful: +10% VALUE Weight: 0.22 kg Value: 12 Obols

 

Damn. That’s a nice rock. Rorate got a rock the other day that beat his old rock, but this one, it’s even better than hers. “Wow. Thank you,” says Beulah, picking it up. “This is a really great rock.”

 

The eldest shrine-maiden waves with her tail, revealing a flash of a very smug smile that he can’t help but feel isn’t meant for him.

 

— The middle sister next to him gasps, offended.

 

Beulah can’t help but think that his last rock was a present from her then. She’s been beaten. It looks like all three of them like to quarrel.

 

Something tugs on his other arm. Beulah looks.

 

Ah. The smallest one must be the smart one. She didn’t even try to find a rock. She circumvented the game. “I really liked your piece of wood too,” he says, remembering his present of a slab of wood with the words ‘thank you’ carved into it. “And your rock also, see?” he asks the middle sister, pointing over to the corner of the room where he’s gathered his very few possessions, the rock and the piece of wood are among them.

 

The shrine-maidens all look at each other, their tails whipping as they exchange a series of competitive glares with each other.

 

— There’s a puff of smoke, and, just like that, all three of them vanish.

 

“Eh…?” Beulah looks around himself, scratching his head and waving the animal-smelling smoke out of his face, as he now sits alone in the secret room. He shrugs, walking over to the corner to put his new rock away into his collection, wondering what that was about.

 

He turns back to look, realizing that the door is still gone. He’s stuck in a room with no entrance or exit. “Ah, hell.”

 

He puzzles, wondering what to do now.

 

 

Razmatazz

Beulah's living the clueless isekai protagonist life while everything else around the tower is on fire. What a world