FINAL CORE : [A holy dungeon-core litRPG]

Magical imprinting.

Natural ambient magics are present all around us at any time of our lives, whether at home or in the deepest dungeons of the world. Each living creature releases from itself a constant flux of light – magical radiation. This radiation stains a place over time, imbuing it with properties that may be considered magical to an extent. Some places in particular have been touched by magic influences in eras past, allowing them to become something unique that we call a ‘high magic zone’, one of the few remaining places in our world that is rich and flush with ambient magics at an otherwise unheard of level.

This release of magical energies from a person does not only apply to places, however. It also applies to the people they touch and interact with. The magic of a smile, of a warm gesture is as real as a cast fireball or a blessing in a magical sense. An interaction, a spark, takes place between a pair of souls, sending out magical residues that influence the way we feel about this other person, who has touched our deepest core for only a brief moment.

This, of course, applies to negative interactions as well.

Very importantly, objects can be affected in this way, too. Blessed swords have come into being, not through the work of smiths but by simply being crude blades held in the hands of those with virtuous intent.

Our ability to change the things we touch is very, very real. Every coin you hold in your fingers, every page of a book, every leather strap of a rein absorbs a little of the passive ambient magics from your own body.

Be mindful of your disposition, as your mood may very well affect the outcome of your current efforts, even if on an infinitesimally small scale.

 

~ A sorcerer’s guide to magic for the uninitiated, chapter one.

 

 

~ [Elpol] ~
Elf, Female, Merchant Location: The Southern-City, The Wishing-Well behind the Dungeon

 

“I just want to finally want to be loved,” whispers the woman beneath her breath, the coin shimmering in the moonlight as it flies through the lonesome air, catching a glint of pale luminescence as it spins down towards the water of the wishing-well.

 

A soft splash fills the night.

 

A ripple emanates outward from the coin and sinks down to the bottom of the fountain, leaving a trail of small bubbles clinging loosely to its edge for a time, before finally releasing to rise to the surface, letting the metal clink down against the cold stonework below by itself.

 

It’s a simple wish, isn’t it?

 

It’s a wish that hundreds, if not thousands, of people have made here at this exact, very fountain over the years, each person forming it in their own particular, peculiar way. In a sense, it may be the most common wish made at the wishing-well. Whether the wish made is for warm company, great wealth, or the treasures of incredible power, at the end of the night, it all boils down to the simple, clear desire to want to belong, to be accepted, understood, and wanted. It is a problem that, in a city of several hundred thousand, seemingly just as many people struggle with in their own ways.

 

Not all of them find their way to the fountain. But some do.

 

As she has done for nights before this one, the woman lowers her hands from her chest, which had been held in a form of pseudo-prayers, as she heads back home after another day of hard work.

 

And as she goes, she’s entirely unaware of the silhouette watching her from the alley, breathing heavily, holding the knife against its chest as the man’s eyes never leave her for an instant, fixated, wide, as he stares in true love at his treasure.

 

He leaves the shadows, walking after her in the night.

 

 

~ [Barnamen] ~
Human, Male, Fighter Location: The Southern-City, The Dungeon

 

Barnamen kicks the goblin back, the small creature dying as its head strikes the rocks behind itself. The little monster falls down at a sickly angle, lying motionless on the ground.

 

The man sighs, looking around the floor.

 

This dungeon is such a hard-ass. There’s never any loot. He’s sure the dungeon goes far out of its way to be a hardass about item drops and treasure chests. Forget any of the monsters dropping money. The only way to make a living is by harvesting the monsters for their parts, but even that seems to have been calculated by the ‘cheap’ dungeon, as it has a particular knack for fielding monsters like goblins that just don’t have much value to harvest to begin with.

 

He sighs, looking down at the goblin.

 

Goblin canine teeth are the only things worth taking. Each goblin has four, and they’re worth about four obols each on a good day. It’s a start, but it’s never going to be enough to pay back their debts to the adventurers’ guild.

 

“So?” asks his party member. “You gonna throw another coin in the fountain tonight?” she asks, laughing. “Maybe just throw one of the teeth in to save yourself the time.”

 

Annoyed, he looks at her. “When I strike it big and you don’t, I’m not giving you a cut.”

 

“Come on,” she replies, laughing and nudging him with her elbow. “I’d look out for you. This goblin’s yours. Hurry up so we can keep going.”

 

“Bullshit,” he replies, bending down to loot the goblin. They take turns pulling out the teeth and keeping them. “You’d leave me high and dry the first chance you get.”

 

She shrugs, leaning back against the wall. “Everyone has to look out for number one.”

 

He sighs, shaking his head as he flops the goblin over, yanking its mouth open. “Have you ever considered that the world is the way it is because of people with that attitu-” He stops.

 

“What?” she asks. “Does it have bad breath?” laughs the woman. “Come on. I want to finish up soo-” She stops, looking down at the goblin’s open mouth.

 

Its canine teeth are plated with what looks like gold.

 

“No way!” says the woman, dropping down to look.

 

“Hey, take a step back,” he says, holding out an arm to block her. “This is my goblin.”

 

“What?!” She points at it. “This isn’t a normal goblin. Treasure-chest rules apply.”

 

He points at her. “Like hell they do!” argues the man. “This one is mine. If the next one has gold too, that’s yours. Those are the rules.”

 

She swipes his hand away. “What a load of crap!” She points at it. “Two each.”

 

The man points at himself. “This is clearly my wish coming true. Not so funny now, is it?” he asks mockingly.

 

“Get a grip. That crap isn’t real. Scoot,” she demands, budging in. The man pushes her back, and she falls to her side, getting back up and then jumping at him.

 

The two of them get into a fight.

 

 

~ [Countess Avoria] ~
Female, Pure-Bred Elf, Noble (Countess) Location: High in the Air, Just North of the island

 

It has been days.

 

She’s been running for days and nights, sleeping aloft in the air, suspended on the magical bridge that shimmers in the starlight, as if she were cradled like a feather held in the hand of god.

 

Her elegant gown has become ripped by her misuse of it, that being engaging in any sort of real physical activity at all. Her skin, pale as winter’s snow from being locked in the castle for most of her life, is red like a cherry from the sunburn she has gotten, even now in autumn. Her feet ache, and she hasn’t had anything to eat since her escape, her stomach, spoiled by a life of regal decadence, complains noisily.

 

However, Avoria continues on along the endless bridge, never having lost sight of the pinprick in the distance. After many days, the light became brighter and clearer, and the star that is the tower of Isaiah came into focus. She can see the island now — a massive landmass, a kingdom of heaven that quite literally has ascended in physical form from the world below.

 

The soldiers who had been pursuing her below, down on the distant ground, continue their efforts but are unable to get close to her and have now themselves run into difficulty. The landmass has changed. Now, instead of hills, forests, and roads, down below on the ground below the island is an encampment. It looks empty. It looks like hundreds, if not thousands, of tents and shelters that have been left behind, as if all of their inhabitants had just gotten up and left, wandering off without a trace.

 

She can’t help but assume that they are there too, just ahead of her, having been beckoned to Isaiah much the same as she herself has.

 

She’s so close now.

 

The air around her flows, the starlight night shining with such haunting intensity tonight, as if the stars themselves were watching with excitement the happenings of the world down below.

 

As she runs, she can’t help but notice that the bridge on the edge of her vision seems to come to an end, shortly before reaching the island. At first she assumes it is simply an illusion, a trick of the night and her exhaustion, but as she approaches, never slowing down, she sees that indeed it is simply not there anymore.

 

There is an empty gap between the end of the bridge and the island.

 

Terror fills her heart at the prospect. What could this mean? Surely Isaiah wouldn’t just bring her all this way, let her run all of this way just to mock her, just to dash her hopes and dreams, to make her walk all the way back in shame to the castle for having dared having hope that it would take notice of such a small, insignificant creature like herself. Who is she? She’s nobody. She’s just a woman wearing a dress she hadn’t earned, living a life she hadn’t had to work for. Why should Isaiah pay her any more mind than a bug on a flower or a single drop of rain in a heavy storm.

 

All of these are valid questions, but Avoria doesn’t stop running. The woman holds her dress, closes her eyes, and jumps as far and as fast as she can, her arms reaching out and flailing to grab hold of anything, despite the fact that the island is much too far away for her to ever hope to reach.

 

Gravity takes a hold of her, a heaviness lurching in her chest, pulling her down to the distant soil below and as she falls, she can’t help but wonder in a moment of odd delirium, if the cause isn’t the physical laws of the world, causing her to plummet, but rather, if it is not the weight of her sins that cause her to crash towards the darkness below.

 

She feels, as she falls, like she should have been lighter. She feels like her soul should have been lighter than it is, if she was really a good, virtuous person who sought Isaiah, and not just someone who wanted to escape for the sake of their own selfish desire to experience life.

 

And as this realization comes to her in a moment of terrifying clarity, she stops falling.

 

Avoria opens her eyes, looking around herself as she is torn, wrenched free from the darkness of the world below, as she is carried upwards by gentle hands of so many colors. She is held aloft in the grace of what can only be angels, her head turning back ahead of herself to look up as they ascend, rising up towards a blindingly white silhouette with black wings the size of sails and a body of purest alabaster.

 

A creature, a being, awaits her with open arms, a presence to welcome her to what must be heaven.

 

— Isaiah.

 

“Welcome,” it says as the colors of a rainbow carry her to it. “I have been waiting for you, Avoria.”

 

Her eyes go wide as her heart flutters at the mention of her name – something that it could never know, could it? If it were not what she holds it to be. This miracle of her flight, the miracle of the bridge, of her prayers being answered.

 

It takes her, gently setting her down on the grass of the island, where she fails to stand, as would a new-born doe, too weak to use its legs just yet in this first second of life.

 

“Are you a god?” she whispers, looking at it.

 

It tilts its head, golden eyes that surpass the work of the finest jewelers and smiths of the nation stare towards her and then it nods.

 

“Yes,” it replies, looking up towards the sky above them, as if waiting for a response to come from above.

 

But there is only silence, the sounds of the night, and the heavy striking of her own heart that never seems to come to rest.