FINAL CORE : [A holy dungeon-core litRPG]

What the hell do you think evil is?

Do you think there’s some garish, brazen entity out there, lurching through the shadows and snatching up children from their beds at night?

There is.

Do you think that there’s some fuck-face out there, running through the streets with a knife, killing and stabbing indiscriminately at night?

You bet your sweaty cheeks that there is.

Do you wonder if there’s a horrific, screaming maw of an entity that lives submerged in the total void of lovelessness that shambles, creeping and crawling with more teeth than there are stars for supple, soft bones to bite and to gnaw on?

Because that’s real too.

But what’s also real is the corruption of men, denying food from the mouths of the hungry. What’s also real is the strike of one person across the face of someone they claim to love in the confines of their four walls. What’s out there together with you in the skittering darkness doesn’t have to be some abstract monstrosity, no, it’s not out there outside of you. It’s you, jackass!

Get your shit together and stop making things worse!

 

~ A motivational speech, heard being recited by the Sin-Eater of the Demon-era, while pointing at a mirror.

 

 

~ [Kalifii] ~
Human, Female, (Fighter Advanced Class) - Fencer Location: Floor Fifty-One of the Tower

 

Raging winds surround Kalifii as she stands out on the exterior of the tower, the fabrics of her loose pants billowing up past the tight bounds of the thin, knee-high leather boots she’s wearing. Her hair, tied back in a tight knot, holds stiff, apart from the few strands of it that drifts past her eyes in the heavy winds, as if pretending to be harpies on the edge of her vision.

 

— Something screeches, interrupting the giggling winds, and she spins, her thin, rapier blade cutting through the air.

 

(Kalifii) has used: [Pattern Thrust {Chrysanthemum}]

 

A pattern emerges in the air behind her, her arm moving by itself, seemingly as her silver-threaded sword thrusts outward, encapsulated by a magical illusion of dozens more appearing next to it.

 

The screeching harpy that had dived her from above, flies straight into all twelve swords at once.

 

[Whitefeather Harpy] has taken {72 (6 x 12)} damage! [Whitefeather Harpy] has been killed!

 

The blades vanish as she turns to look back ahead of herself, the dead harpy dropping down into the distance as dozens more circle above their heads. Floor fifty-one of the tower, after the boss-fight on floor fifty, is an odd change. It’s a staircase that moves out along the exterior of the tower’s body, wrapping around the cylindrical tower’s body. There is no railing, leaving only a horrific drop down below.

 

— Something giggles. She turns her head, trying to identify the source.

 

“Come on!” calls her party-member from up ahead, already a few steps higher than she is. They’re about halfway there.

 

Kalifii holds her sword ready and runs after them, rising up a few steps.

 

— Her boot shifts.

 

Kalifii looks down at the brick that her foot is on, resting just a little lower than all of the other bricks in the staircase.

 

The brick giggles, oddly enough, a mischievous pair of eyes looking out of the stone for an instant.

 

An instant later, Kalifii screams as the brick breaks open and a maw with jagged, sharp teeth clamps down on her shin, holding her tight.

 

[Mimic] has bit (Kalifii) for {11} damage! Applied status: [Broken Leg], [Grappled]

 

The ground shifts as the brick that she’s standing on and that has bit her slides free from its confines, falling straight down through the free-floating staircase and taking her with it as they both hurtle towards the distant ground below.

 

(KALIFII) HAS DIED!

 

 

Applied status: [Mercy]

 

The woman hurdles out of the dungeon’s front gate, tumbling over herself rather gracelessly.

 

— Cheers come out from the sides of the tower’s entrance and the road below.

 

Kalifii sits upright, blowing the strands of her ruined hair out of her face as she looks at the crowd below, who return to their business in the town that has begun to form here, outside of the tower.

 

They call this ‘the roll of shame’.

 

Every time someone dies in the tower and they fly out, it’s always a rather graceless experience — like being thrown out of a tavern for being too drunk and rowdy. Most often people will tumble over each other if it's a whole group, or if it's just one person, they will at least roll a little.

 

For some reason, when this place was starting, the other groups would sarcastically cheer when another adventuring party failed in their attempt to assault the tower, to rib their competition. This has developed so far into a social tradition of sorts that now everybody cheers when anybody flies out of the dungeon.

 

She sighs, getting up and looking at her leg as she hobbles down the staircase. Her party will need a little more time without her to finish up for the day.

 

As for her leg, it’s not broken. She’s not really dead. But it still hurts. Not in her body, but in her mind that doesn’t forget the very fresh, very painful memory. A staircase mimic? That’s just mean.

 

Kalifii holds a hand against the white stone railing of the tower staircase as she makes her way down into the town. Maybe she’ll go to the hot-springs and then buy some dinner?

 

She pats her bag. She still has all of her loot.

 

“Thanks Isaiah,” says the fencer, sarcastically rolling her eyes.

 

 

~ [Gadrian] ~
Human, Male, Swordsman Location: The Island, North-Western Forest

 

Gadrian wanders the edge of the island, his men walking behind him as they patrol the forest.

 

“— Here’s one!” calls a voice from the side. Gadrian turns his head to look at his man, who points over to a clearing. He walks over towards it, looking inside. Here is a plant — a most unusual plant, the likes of which he’s never seen before in all of his years of military travel, at least not before today.

 

Today, however, this is his fourth one.

 

They need eight.

 

“Great work,” says Gadrian, setting his bag down and pulling out his sword. The men at his side ready their pikes.

 

The three men approach a tiny, dainty flower with deep, rich purple petals and healthy green leaves that are whisper thin.

 

As they approach, the vibrations of their steps trigger a movement in the flower.

 

The ground erupts, the small, delicate thing ripping out of the soil that had been hiding its intricate, deep root network of thousands of glowing, small, bulbous orbs.

 

They have gotten a quest from Isaiah to hunt these today. Isaiah always gives them work, quests of various natures that keep both their hands and bellies full.

 

He can’t help but notice, though, that every day, the quest has them exploring a little more of the island and that only he and his troop of fellow soldiers get them.

 

If he didn’t know better, he’d say that they’re secretly being trained to know the island and all of its locations under the guise of menial labor.

 

~ [Hyabulbous] ~
Class: Monster Element: NATURE / HOLY Type: Growth Category: Plant Rank: A Level: 67

A Hyabulbous.

Hyabulbi are rare, exotic plants that are only found in extremely pure stretches of quiet forestland. They collect large amounts of passive, ambient magic from the world, storing it in bulbous, orb-like growths beneath the soil. They will use these as reserves for hard seasons of life, when such things grow scarce.

Hyabulbi are extremely sensitive to disturbances in their close vicinity and will become exceptionally violent towards anyone who encroaches too closely on them, using an array of HOLY spells to defend themselves, despite being fully stationary entities.

They are extremely weak to physical attacks and resistant to ranged and magical spells. However, given their defensive nature, they are hard to approach.

They bridge the gap between plants and monsters.

HP: 19/19

SOUL: 107/107

 

It’s good to have some honest work.

 

Gadrian says a quiet thanks to Isaiah under his breath, and they move in forward to make their mark.

 

 

~ [Scion] ~
Female, Elf, Priestess Location: Small House atop the Roost

 

Scion sits down in her room, knelt in prayer as she often is, outside of her duties to feed the monsters and clean the odd arena here or there.

 

— There is a knock on the door behind her.

 

The elf blinks, looking over her shoulder in mild confusion. Nobody ever knocks on her door. “Coming,” says Scion, walking to the door. She cautiously opens it, peering out to see the dark-elf, Rorate standing there. “Oh! Hello!” greets Scion. “Is there work?”

 

“Hey,” says Rorate, leaning to the side and looking past her, inside of the home.

 

“Oh! Uh.” Scion steps to the side, holding the door open. “Would you like to come inside?” asks the elf, scratching her cheek and looking into her home. It’s small but well furnished in a cozy way that makes the fullest use of the limited space. But she likes it this way. Large rooms like the arenas and all are fine to work in. But she prefers something tight to live in. It’s a place where it can’t all get away from you.

 

“Thought you’d never ask,” says Rorate, walking in and elbowing her lightly in the ribs. Scion nervously laughs.

 

“So, what’s up?” asks Scion, standing by the open door. “Is something the matter?”

 

“Huh?” Rorate sits down at a chair by the table, looking at her and tilting her head. “No, why?”

 

“Oh, nothing. I just wasn’t expecting you to come by, is all. I was just praying.”

 

“That really is your favorite thing, huh?” asks Rorate. Scion nods. “We’re friends, aren’t we?” asks the dark-elf. “Can’t we just hang out?” She looks around the room.

 

Scion blinks, staring for a confused moment as the word rings through her head.

 

She worked with people, lived with people, trained with people, and fought with people. As a priestess, she is used to being around people all day and every day as her work. She heals them to earn her keep, under usual circumstances, at least.

 

But these are all transactions of a mercantile nature. They are survival-based.

 

‘Friends’? The word rolls through her head for a while, back and forth as she stares at Rorate, who seems to have an even more confused expression than she does at her idle quiet staring.

 

“You wanna pray together?!” asks Scion excitedly.

 

“We could,” says Rorate, laughing. “Oooor -”

 

“Or?” asks Scion, unsure of where this is going.

 

Rorate pulls out a small box and shakes it. “Or, we could eat these garbage street snacks I bought down at the town, do each others’ hair and gossip about the others? Eh?” She shakes the box. “Then we’ll go to the hot-springs until Red yells at us.”

 

“… Is that…” Scion looks around herself, unsure. “- Is that what Isaiah wants us to do?”

 

“Yes,” replies Rorate with full confidence, not missing a beat.

 

“R… really?” asks Scion, unsure.

 

“What does your heart say?” asks Rorate. Scion thinks for a moment. Rorate lifts her finger, setting the box down on the table. “Isaiah tells us that the brief seasons of life are meant to be enjoyed. Hard work is good, but a decade spent nurturing an apple tree is bitter, if you never eat any of the fruit.”

 

Scion, fully convinced, feels her face glow alight as a smile comes to her. She leans out of the door to her house, waving to the very, very big tree on the other side of the roost. “Thanks, Isaiah!” calls the priestess, and then shuts the door behind herself as she excitedly tries to figure out what exactly having a friend means.

 

 

~ [Isaiah] ~

 

From up atop the very-big-tree, Isaiah turns its head, looking at the door to Scion’s home that had just closed from up on its roost. Its hand is on the head of Orange, who is laying over the branch, scratching her hair. The twitchy uthra, who is usually hyper-active and unable to sit still for long, compromises by keeping her head still but lifting her legs into the air and kicking back and forth as an outlet for her energy.

 

“The hell was that?” asks Red, sitting on another branch, swinging her legs. The other uthra are here too, all of them dotting the very-big-tree like colorful ornaments.

 

All of them sit and watch the sun set far over the distant horizon, its crimson rays peeking up towards the hazy sky, like the fingers of a hand waving goodbye.

 

“It is what life is all about, Red,” says Isaiah. It turns back to look at the sunset. “Ah, watch. This is my favorite part.”

 

“Chief,” says Red from the side. “It looks just like it did a second ago. It’s the sun. It does this every day.”

 

“Shh!” shushes a voice from above. Black. “Don’t ruin it, Red. I’m trying to watch the sunset.”

 

“Did you just ‘shh’ me?” asks Red.

 

“Oh, look!” says Gray.

 

“What?” asks Red, squinting and looking back at the sun. “It looks exactly the same as before!” she says. “You people are messing with me, right?”

 

“Wow…” says Crystal in a hushed voice. He looks over at Red. “Give it a chance, Red.”

 

Red sighs, loosening her expression as she stares off towards the sunset in the distance, as it lowers itself further and further. All of them together watch the world change and bring the end of another day that had once been new. It brought a lot with it. People felt hurt, despair and pain. They felt excited, heartfelt pride in their existence and they felt a rare, confusing glimmer of joy in this odd life. Everything from horrific distress to the reaches of ecstasy had been experienced today by someone, somewhere in the world.

 

All that anyone can do is to treasure the moments of the present, brief as they are.

 

Isaiah turns away from the sunset for a moment, as the only one, looking at Red, who has quieted now.

 

She too simply stares off into the distance, watching the spectacle of life unfold, having seen what she is meant to have seen in it, within the confines of her own definition of this matter. What she sees in the sunset is only for her to know.

 

— Isaiah stares at them, somewhat ashamed of its own deceit. It watches the many faces of many colors lose themselves in their awe of the natural spectacle.

 

In truth, it had only pretended that the sunset was what it wanted to see together with them all.

 

What they do not know, however, is that this view of them is the prize that it has gained today. The sunset is indeed here, every day. But sights like these – they are rare and fleeting.

 

 

~ [Grand Crusader Invili] ~
Human, Male, Grand Crusader LEVEL: 100 Location: Outside of the Central City

 

The banner of the crusade flies high, silhouetting against the ruby light of the sky. The crimson light paints a grim omen of the world that their boots march onward, yet this is the march that must be made.

 

Invili’s eyes are filled with the spectacle of the heavens, bestowing upon them a brief sight of the future to be – red.

 

Soil crunches beneath their boots, together with twigs that snap like small bones as they move in resolute silence towards the monument that sits at the heart of the nation – the world-tree.

 

The crusade is gathering here, readying themselves for the onslaught of the corrupted region of the southern lands, a piece of the god’s world that has been befouled by devilry.

 

The man rests his hand on his chest, watching the cardinal sunset leave them for yet another day.

 

Bishop Zacaries Montero, Cardinal Erzael of the West, and Cardinal Lass of the South have all been killed, torn from this mortal coil by the horrific corruption that calls itself Isaiah. It is a malignancy of their faith, rotting away all things that are good and whole in order to instill itself as a legitimate part of the form of their spirituality. It is a tumor, growing as if it were a natural, desired limb of the body.

 

It and all traces of its wretched presence must be excised by any means necessary, before it is too late for them and their world and for those good souls who remain tethered to it.