Overpowered Pawn - 3 - Hell-Difficulty Pawn Dungeon

“Feel my wrath! Stab! Stab! Stab!”

Arthur was greeted at the door of his home with swift thwacks to his calf courtesy of his seven-year-old sister and her new obsession, a wooden sword their brother had gotten for her. His sister was in a rambunctious mood this evening, attacking him viciously with her sword in a zig-zag pattern she’d probably learned from the street boys playfighting outside. 

Arthur didn't bother dodging her attacks. While the enthusiasm was there, she was sorely lacking in damage. 

His mother stood at the stove in her nicer frock and her hair uncharacteristically combed into a neat bun at the top of her head. The scent of charred cinnamon lit the air, and it was so familiar that he’d nearly sobbed the first time he’d smelt it again, years ago.

That, combined with wheat and herbs, gave the air the distinct smell of home.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, darling. How was the choosing ceremony?” She spoke as she took the pie out of the oven. “Were you chosen by the Ravens like you wanted?” He could hear the anxiety in her voice. She'd been anxious all week that he wouldn't get chosen and that he would be relegated to a life as a serf. He'd told her she was silly to worry about that, considering his qualifications.

Look who's silly now.

There was a freshly made pie, potatoes, and a variety of steamed vegetables on the table. His mother had a rare day off today, especially considering that famine season was peeking around the corner.

Arthur still couldn't get used to the changes in their life over the last five years.

His mother, once a baroness, now worked as a farmer for the Westons, and while their lands were more bountiful than any other duchy, they still suffered from the threat of famine every year. In the months preceding it, farmers worked tirelessly to ensure there was extra grain to tide the citizens over.

The farmers didn't have a choice. Most were serfs, like his mother, bound to the land forever working.

She would continue like that unless he could buy her freedom. If not, she would work herself to the bone and eventually die from servitude. 

“Arthur?” When he didn’t answer, she glanced at him over her shoulder. "Did you get Chosen?"

Arthur swallowed. He didn’t have it in him to crush her heart and her optimism. Disappointing her was even worse than disappointing himself. 

“Uh-huh.” He turned around. “I’ll tell you about it later. I need to finish some homework first.”

“Oh.” She sounded perplexed. “I thought you would–"

“Later. I promise.”

“But I came home early and cooked–”

“I know, I’m sorry. I’ll tell you everything later.” The words came in quick succession as he headed for his room. Of course, he couldn’t make such a clean escape because his sister chose that exact moment to whack him again.

Her sword went under his foot, tripping him and sending him sprawling on the floor. 

“Shit,” he cursed, after his elbow hit the edge of the wall.

“That’s a bad word,” his sister warned, whacking him in punishment. “You’re not supposed to say that, big brother. Bad Arthur! Repent or feel my wrath!”

“Arthur, apologize to your sister so you can stop feeling her wrath.” His mother sounded tired and amused all at once.  

“Sorry, Melissa. I repent.” He got to his feet, ruffled her hair, and finally went to his room and closed the door.

He heard their mother coming toward him before she got distracted by his sister, who needed to use an outhouse so much so that she was whacking the couch. 

Good girl, Melissa.

So, now, he had a few minutes alone before his mother came back in to find out what had happened. He needed a plan before that.

His mind first drifted to the Inquisition and the conspiracy.

There were likely more convenient times to kill the headmaster than in the middle of an afternoon lab session. They could have done it when he was alone, maybe on the toilet, where people would be less likely to see who it was. The Headmaster's tower was also not hidden or secluded in the slightest, so it would be difficult for an assassin to get in and out without being spotted.

The fact that they'd gone through the trouble of doing it this way meant that whoever had done it had gone out of his way to pin this on Arthur.

And that pissed him off.

He had to think of the why. Of course, whoever did this might have a personal vendetta against him. Or it might be someone from the future trying to get rid of other future-knowers?

That last one would be the worst-case scenario, but also it didn't make sense because it would be easier to just kill Arthur than it would be to frame him for the death of a much more powerful man.

He scratched his head.

He had time to think about this now. If someone was indeed plotting against him, there was nothing he could do about it. He wasn’t powerful enough to stop them. He wasn’t even powerful enough to keep himself out of prison or to protect his family. 

That was what he needed. Power. 

With the normal system of acquiring such power closed off, Arthur had to consider an option that was often described as one that only a fool would take. 

The Hell Difficulty Dungeon.  

There was debate about where the first dungeons came from. 

Some believed it was the remnants of the great Silcan Empire, which had colonized the land and the people in the centuries past. After the Silcan Empire had eventually fallen to the smaller tribes that made up the native Maradonians, the story changed, and the dungeons were then seen as Maradon's blessings from the gods, which finally gave them the tools to fight back.

That theory would hold more water if the dungeons didn’t also show up in the Espera Empire, Maradon's enemies, a few years later, and it showed up in at least ten other nations as well.

That sprang the theory that Tanuk, a great conqueror from an island across the Great Sea (also known as the land of the fairies), had performed incantations that brought the dungeon to him when he visited the mainland. He did this because he saw the pitiful state of Maradon, a small Kingdom surrounded by endless enemies, and he took pity on them. So, instead of conquering them, he used his fairy magic to give them a way to acquire power for themselves. Then he traveled and did the same to all the nations that he liked or pitied.

While the origin story differed, it hardly mattered where the dungeon came from. All that mattered was that it gave people magic. Dungeons appeared in several woodlands, and anyone who touched them would get the name and nature of the dungeon. If one held there for six seconds, they would be transported inside the dungeon to face a series of tests that would determine the path of their magic and also grant them magical skills. 

Each dungeon was named according to its path.

There was the King dungeon for the King path, Queen Dungeon, Bishop Dungeon, Rook Dungeon, Knight Dungeon, and Pawn Dungeon for the Pawn path.

Once one completed all the trials for a certain path, one would leave the dungeon with an accompanying class and six great magic skills that one could then level up and grow to become the base of one's powers.  

The problem was that there were practically no dungeons anymore. Once humans realized that they could gain divine powers by simply completing trials, they rushed in droves, raiding the dungeons endlessly and acquiring skill after skill. Governments and Nobles hoarded the ones in their domain, only allowing those closest to them to utilize the dungeons. Wars were fought over them, and they were raided until there was nothing left, and the dungeon simply died out or disappeared. 

The remaining dungeons then developed a defense mechanism to keep pillagers out. After every raid, the dungeon would raise the difficulty of the tests within it, until it was practically unpassable. Nearly all of the dungeons still remaining in this era were termed as hell-difficulty, since they were practically unsolvable. Every few years, about sixteen to twenty fools would attempt the hell-difficulty dungeon in search of power, and only two or three would make it out. 

Arthur never wanted to be one of those fools. 

But as he thought about it, he knew that he might not have a choice. Fear knotted in his stomach, but it was a sensation he was used to. He knew what he had to do.

Desperation beat out the fear.

If I don’t do this now, everyone I love will die anyway.

In just a year, the draft will begin, and history will repeat itself. M

om will be dead.

I will be in the army.

In eight years, Sage will be imprisoned, and Melissa will be wed to that disgusting old pervert. 

Arthur's mind moved faster than his will. A plan began to form, and a way forged through the darkness. He could pass the dungeon. He'd lived through hell once. He could do it again.

But first, he needed to prepare. He needed his father’s journal. 

His father, though a mostly physical warrior-mage, was very scholarly about the magic in this world. He was also fascinated with dungeons and wrote about all the things he'd seen and heard, both from his adventures in the Knight Dungeon and from what he'd heard from others.

It was partially thanks to him that Arthur was so good at making potions. So at least that was one good thing his father had done for him before he betrayed his kingdom and his family, then disappeared into the night.

Arthur turned the page, going through the archives he'd made to find the parts that discussed the pawn dungeon. While there, he paused on the line:

MAGIC ITEM 1.10.03 - INQUISITION BANDS

From what I gather, the Inquisition bands act the same way a polygraph would in my world. They're not entirely accurate, but they basically read your reflexes to tell if you're telling the truth or not.  They can be beaten by simply dulling your responses. Neat.

Hm. His father often spoke and wrote as if he were from another world. Arthur never took it seriously and saw it as just another of his many idiosyncrasies. Arthur remembered how Morgan would sometimes look out the window wistfully, as though longing for something he could no longer have.

Perhaps that something was why he did what he did.

Arthur shook himself from his melancholy and continued flipping pages. Unfortunately, before he could get to his destination, he heard his mother's footsteps approaching.

He shut the book and thrust it under his pillow right as his door opened.

He folded his hands in his lap and smiled at her. 

She blinked at him. "What?"

Arthur cocked his head. "What?"

"You're behaving strangely."

"No, I'm not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m your mother, Arthur. I know when you’re acting strangely. Or stranger than normal anyway.”

Arthur shrugged. “I’m not trying to be strange. I'm just…happy to see you.”

She frowned quizzically, and Arthur smiled wider, more innocently, hoping that would convince her. His smiles always used to charm her when he was a little boy.

His mother touched his cheek, worried. “Don’t smile like that, my love, you look like one of the lunatics you care for."

Shoot. He was overdoing it. 

He fixed his smile, got up, and kissed her on the cheek. “I love you too, mother.”

But it only made her appear more worried. She came closer, examining him as she brushed his hair back. 

“Are you staying out of trouble?” she asked.

"Of course," he lied.  His mother had been worried enough when he'd told her about Janus' death and how he was kind of present for it. She would have a panic attack if she knew that he'd been questioned as a suspect in the matter.

Hopefully, the trial would remain secret for some time, at least for long enough for him to figure his way out of this mess.

She peered at him, and Arthur nearly swallowed. His mother was better at sniffing out fibs than any truth band. Had she been on that jury, he never would have gotten away with the lies. 

Right now, he needed to distract her, tell her something adjacent to the truth without being the complete truth. It was the only way to deceive his mother. Cover up the truth with a less harmful truth.

Tell her you didn't get chosen by the House you wanted. She'll then assume that you got chosen by a House you didn't want.

She spoke before he could spit it out, though.

“You didn’t get chosen at all, did you?”

Arthur dropped his gaze, feeling some embarrassment crawl on his neck. 

“Oh, Arthur,” she said. "I can speak to Duke Weston. I know it’s not the Ravens, but perhaps he can teach you and give you the potion….”

“No,” he said. Duke Weston wouldn’t. He only had a few Choosing essences left, and they were reserved for his sons.

The Duke had a lot of sons.

At his mother's crushed expression, he comforted her with a smile.

“It’s okay, Mother. I have a plan.”

"What is it?"

"I can't tell you yet. I still have to work out the logistics in my head. But I'll tell you tomorrow when I do." That should give him time to come up with a better lie.

She sighed. "Alright. This plan of yours isn't dangerous, is it?"

Damn it. He quickly came up with a non-lie. "Life is dangerous. But I'm being as safe as I can."

"Is it illegal?"

"No. I'm not Sage."

"Don't speak badly about your brother." She smacked his shoulder. 

“Even if it’s true?”

“Especially if it’s true.”

Luckily, his sister needed her attention and called her away once more.

Once she left, he went back to reading his father's journal. After briefly skimming over his father's experiences with a dragon in the Knight dungeon, he finally came upon the pages that discussed the Pawn Dungeon:

Today, I met a man named Florian. He's the last known person to defeat nearly all the levels of one of the last remaining hell-difficulty pawn dungeons. He's now half mad as a result, but I was able to glean a thing or two from the things he said.  

As we know, the Pawn Dungeon is separated into stages of increasing difficulty, beginning with the Farmer, the Blacksmith, the Clerk/the Weaver, the Merchant, the Medic, the Inkeeper, the Guard, and finally the Gambler. Once you reach the level of the Medic, though, you can escape the dungeon without needing to complete any more trials. Florian, however, got greedy and attempted to get to the Guard level to acquire more powerful skills, and that was how he lost his mind. The more we discuss it, the more erratic he becomes, and continues to repeat this phrase, 

"The Dungeon is a Lie. It's all a trap. Do Nothing. Say Nothing. Be Nothing. Take Nothing."

Anyway, here are all the known quests one must complete for each level, in ascending order (more details on the next page):

The Farmer: Guard your flock and crops from wild predators through the night.

The Blacksmith: Craft weapons to sell at the village center.

The Clerk/Weaver: Either recording court proceedings and drafting legal documents for a given case/ creating a tapestry for the Queen's birthday party.

The Medic: Solve the mystery behind a disease outbreak and draft a possible cure.

The Inkeeper: (He refuses to talk about this one, but it seems to traumatize him the most.)

The Guard: (Something about keeping the city safe at night? I'm not sure, he was delirious at this point.)

The Gambler: (This one remains a mystery. I do not know of a single pawn who has reached this level)

That's all I could get out of him.

NOTE: While all these tests seem very basic and mundane, Florian warns me vehemently that they are not at all what they appear to be.

***

From the Journal of Morgan Vale, Baron of Porthandy, Great Knight Supreme, The King’s Hand.

The newest magic system in this world arrived with the dungeons, and the paths seem to be derived from a game people in my world call Chess. Unlike Chess, though, the paths here imply certain levels of subservience and deterministic value, measured by fate points.

For example, a queen, even one technically more powerful, would never have enough fate points to dethrone a King, or she would ensure the nation's collapse. The pawn can only topple a Knight, Rook, or Bishop with great difficulty, but almost never a queen. 

And even the highest-level pawn will never be able to defeat a King. 

Or at least that it was what they would have us believe. 

AN: Hi all! Sorry, I completely forgot to upload last weeks chapters!