FINAL CORE : [A holy dungeon-core litRPG]

The fate of heroes is a topic that is often not discussed in the grand stories that we tell of them. Roughly a third of all recorded crises have resulted in the need for a true hero to be summoned from another world, or for one to ascend from within our own, in order to provide direct intervention and to save us from the darkness of calamity.

However, once the crisis has been destroyed and these heroes have served through their finest hour, little awaits them in the future. Many have spent their entire ‘new’ lives in our world hounding after an enemy, yet what happens to the pursuer when the hunt is finally over?

What does a hero do when the threat is no more?

We don’t talk about it.

Most often, they will simply vanish into obscurity. They live out their lives as quiet celebrities, entirely unknown to the newer generations who were born after the end of their mission, their heyday perhaps having been decades ago. The old might remember them, and they receive token allowances and live as nobles in their own right. But the young ignore them, as they would ignore the actors and musicians of their parents’ day and soon, once the threat is gone and the crisis is over, so is the love for the hero.

Them being pivotal to our continued existence is quickly forgotten and what good is a once hero who now has no cause?

Often, these creatures will lose their will to go on and either fall back into the same despair that had plagued them before traveling to our world or they will find a new mission, such as charity. But it simply never has the same bite that it once had when they were young and full of purpose, and it shows.

Of those true heroes who survived their final battle with their crisis, none have succeeded in creating a lasting, multi-generational legacy. Not one.

It is the cruelest irony of the world and the gods, perhaps.

Heroes are disposable.

 

~ Top ten reasons you should enlist into your local guard regiment!

 

 

~ [Jizalia] ~
Human, Female, Master Herbalist Location: The City, Family Home

 

It feels bad.

 

Jizalia sits there in the dark room at the foot of the bed that her younger sister is fast asleep on, holding onto the pillow as if it were the only thing stopping her from flying away into the night.

 

Money is getting tight.

 

As a herbalist, she can certainly make a living. But that requires her to be able to leave and go places. If she stays within walking range of the city, she won’t be able to gather any plants of significant value. But if she leaves, her sister won’t be able to survive on her own. The girl just isn’t that capable yet. She’s older, into adolescence, but she’s a soft creature that hasn’t been tempered by the world yet. At least not until now.

 

The woman lets out a long exhalation through her pursed lips. Her black hair is tied back into tight tails that she hasn’t opened in days now, since she hasn’t had an opportunity to really clean and unwind.

 

She rubs her tired eyes and lays down too, and her sister, despite being asleep, quickly exchanges the pillow for her, clinging on even tighter than she had thought she was doing.

 

Jizalia stares towards the ceiling. Something needs to happen. This can’t work like this. But what?

 

Their only choice is to leave the city together for a few days now and then. If she takes her sister with her, they can rough it in the wild and she can teach her to gather herbs. It’ll be rough. But it’ll be better than starving quietly to death here.

 

She stares up towards the ceiling, finding some sleep, but not as much as she wants to.

 

It just… it feels bad. It all feels bad.

 

 

~ [Witch Perchta] ~
???, Female, Witch of the Blackwater Location: The City, Dungeon-Plaza

 

Foggy dew surrounds the witch as she stands outside in the middle of the city, out on a plaza. The pressing starlight, shining down from the sky above, is unable to pierce the heavy veil of mist. Instead, it sets it aglow, filling the alleys and the streets of the city with a presence akin to a herald of ghosts.

 

She stares, looking up at the dungeon-gate in the middle of the city.

 

Each of the five core cities of the nation here has a dungeon at its heart. In essence, the dungeon is what allowed the city to grow to begin with. All of the city's resources and materials stem primarily from the dungeons and from trade. Things like forestry and mining still exist, of course. But dungeons are the primary economic driver in these regions.

 

The witch steps into the blue fog that separates the outside world from the inside of the dungeon.

 

Each dungeon is a living construct, guided by a living entity. In terms of the system, this entity is known as a dungeon-core. However, in human-jargon, these living, breathing entities are known as ‘dungeon masters’, but it amounts to the same thing.

 

The blue fog of the dungeon-gate dissipates as she finds herself on the other side of it, on floor one of the dungeon in the heart of the southern city.

 

“RAGH!” screams a voice immediately as a goblin lunges at her from the shadows. The southern dungeon has a particular anger against human-kind and, as such, acts rather aggressively.

 

(Perchta) has used: [Malignancy]

 

It only takes a second. A festering bulge bursts out of the side of the goblin’s neck as it flies through the air, still mid-jump. The tear widens and, an instant later, a puddle of goop sloshes down at her boots, together with some rags and a crude dagger.

 

She tsks, looking down at her shoe and shaking it off. “I’m not here to play,” says Perchta to the total darkness of the dungeon floor. Cave water drips and there is a creaking somewhere far off in the distance, down on the next floor. “Yovel,” says the witch, looking to the side.

 

— There is the sound of boots running up a step. She looks, watching as a stone wall swings open like a door on hinges. Behind it stands a small, glowing figure the size of a human child. They have sharp ears. But their body is entirely featureless and white, looking like a glowing porcelain doll.

 

“Perchta! You old bat!” says the entity, the dungeon-core of the southern city. “I thought you retired?”

 

“So did I,” she sighs, walking forward. The two of them shake hands.

 

“Come on, you goon,” says the dungeon-core, walking down a flight of secret stairs that it had come from. “What’s new? You never come to town.”

 

“Mm,” replies Perchta. “That happens when people chase you out of it with torches, Yovi,” says the witch, closing the door behind herself. The two of them walk down the flight of stairs, all the way to a strange, hidden void somewhere below the dungeon. Inside of it sits a small, quaint little house. But everything, just like the dungeon-core, is simply both feature and colorless. The walls are white and smooth, like milky glass. The furniture is perfectly crafted out of geometric shapes that have no texture. Everything is like this down here.

 

“Sit!” says the dungeon-core, pulling back a perfectly smooth chair that Perchta sits down on, sliding a little. She catches herself, planting her boots against the just as smooth floor, as she does her best to hold herself up. “Ah, I never have visitors anymore,” says the dungeon-core, looking around the house. “Well, ones I want.”

 

“Work is busy, then?” she asks.

 

It looks her way with a grim expression.. “Perchta. I hate my life. Everyday I want to die a little more.”

 

Perchta tilts her head, puffing out her cheek. “Don’t say that Yubles,” says Perchta. “Or do you want me to be sad when you’re gone?”

 

It plants its hands on its hips, leaning in towards her. “You don’t know what it’s like. Every day, humans in, humans out,” says the dungeon-core. “Forever. That’s all there is for me.” It sighs, looking at its hands. “I miss it, Perchta. Being young. Being free.” It looks up longingly towards the ceiling. “Back before any humans found me, I was just a little core, out in the world all by myself. There were so many possibilities for me.” It sighs, shaking its head. “Now, here I am, stuck. I’ve reached the end of the road.” It sits at the table. “So why’re you here?”

 

“Why?” asks Perchta. She looks at the dungeon-core. “Because I wanted to retire and someone ruined that.”

 

“Oh, yeah, I heard about that,” says the core. “New guy, huh?” it asks. “I’d be mad about it being near me, but honestly, I’m glad that it’s getting the humans instead of me.”

 

Perchta hits her hands against the table, leaning over it. “Yoveeeel~!” she whines, leaning over the table, her lip starting to quiver. “It destroyed my house!” explains the witch.

 

“Ah, right,” says Yovel. “Sucks. What can ya do?” it asks, waving her off and kicking its feet up onto the table, leaning back. “So, did you have any chickens?”

 

“Chickens?” asks Perchta, narrowing her eyes.

 

“Yeah, you know, bakaw,” says the dungeon-core.

 

Perchta and Yovel stare at each other. “Yovel,” says the witch.

 

“What’s up?”

 

She looks at it with a deadpan expression. “You know that I hate chickens.”

 

Yovel shakes its head. “And I hate humans, but they’re still crawling all over me,” says Yovel. “What can ya do?” it repeats. “Come on, give it a try,” says Yovel. “It’s fun. Bakaw!” says the dungeon-core, gesturing for her to try bakawing too.

 

Perchta frowns, sitting back down and crossing her arms. “I will not.”

 

“Come ooon,” says Yovel. “You used to be the life of the party, Perchta. Where did it all go wrong?”

 

Perchta opens her eyes, staring at the ground, her arms still crossed. “I think I died inside, actually.”

 

Yovel rolls its eyes. “You drama queen. Come on.” Perchta purses her lips. “Come oooon.” The witch twitches an eyebrow. “Bakaaaw~” says the dungeon-core.

 

Witch Perchta clears her throat, sitting up straight. She turns to look at the creature, sitting with its legs over the table. “Yovel. I’ve come to talk business,” says the witch. “We have a plan that’ll help both of us. Me with the tower and you with your humans.”

 

Yovel nods, pointing at her. “Sure, sure, but -”

 

The two of them stare at each other in silence.

 

“I’m not going to do it,” remarks Perchta.

 

It’s quiet.

 

“Just one.”

 

“No,” replies the witch.

 

“It’s been years. Have a little fun,” says the creature. “Ready?” it asks. “On three.”

 

“No.”

 

“One. Two-” it counts down, lowering its fingers.

 

“FINE!” Perchta clenches her fists in annoyance, her eyes twitching as she screams at the entity. “BAKAAAW!” she yells.

 

The dungeon-master claps its hands together. “Hey! There she is!” it says in delight. “Look at that face, you look happier already.” Perchta grumbles, sitting back down. “Come on, you gotta live a little. You sour-puss,” says the entity. “Or are you going to let the tower guy steal your fun too?” Perchta slowly looks back towards the dungeon-master. “You’ve changed, and not for the better,” says Yovel. “But that face there, I see a smile that takes me back to when we were young. Eh?” it asks. “It’s hard to be sad while making chicken noises, right?” it asks. The entity taps its head. “Every time you’re sad, just make a chicken sound. I learned that trick from a human I killed, actually.” It stares at the ceiling. “…That was a weird day.”

 

Perchta grumbles, still doing her best to hide the awkward smile caused by her embarrassment at having to make chicken noises. Sure, she does feel a little better, if only because the goofy aloofness lets her get some of the stress out of her system.

 

But she has to relent and lowers her head, sniffling as her eyes become wet. “Thanks for being a good friend, Yoves,” says the witch.

 

It nods, pointing at itself and at her. “You and me forever, you sad schmuck. Now what can I help you with?” it asks.

 

Perchta wipes her eyes dry. Having friends you can come back to, even after a long time of total silence, is a treasure that she doesn’t cherish often enough. The witch sniffles, starting to cry.

 

“I… I…” says Perchta, trying to hold herself together. Yovel tilts its head as she starts howling, reaching for it over the table. “I want to k- kill all humaaans!” she cries, water running down her face as she grabs her friend, who consolingly pats her on the back.