Shadowcroft Year 3 - Chapter Twelve

Logan used every minute of the three hours to craft the best dungeon possible.

He had ignored the scores of all the other competitors, especially Wintersylver, who was now the talk of the tournament. Everyone was chattering about her unprecedented, near perfect score. While Logan didn’t have the specifics, he knew that Wintersylver and Chadrigoth were at the very top. That surprised no one. Trying to match either of the top-tier contenders had accomplished wasn’t feasible, so Logan didn’t try. He focused on doing his best, knowing that would have to be good enough.

To add to the pressure, rumor also had it that Brandybutter and his dungeoneers had managed to get to the pedestals of a handful dungeon cores, and their cores had been shattered in the process. No one was very surprised by that either. What was surprising? There was a Crystal Duchess dungeon core from Saudrian’s School of Guardians that had scored surprisingly well given the school’s bad reputation. A testament to the fact that anything could happen in an event like this. Logan was definitely at a disadvantage, but he wasn’t out of the running just yet.

Before he put the finishing touches on his dungeon, Logan checked his Matrix, one more time, to make sure he didn’t miss anything:

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Logan Murray

Guardian Core Matrix

Base Race: Fungaloid

Current Evolution: Nightfell Monarch

Cultivator Class: Azure Branch Cultivator; B-Class, Rank 4

Primary Elemental Affinities: Morta/Toxicus

Racial Abilities:

- Digestion

Racial Skill:

- Domestic Fungi

Level-One Proto-Spore Cultures

- Opal Truffles, Mucal Film, Ghoul’s Snare, Blister Wart, God’s Eye Caps, Eyelash Stinkhorn

Level-Two Proto-Spore Cultures

- Braincaps, Gem-studded Puffballs, Skullcaps, Ashvein

Level-Three Proto-Spore Cultures

- Spore Wargs, Crimson Coral Fungus, Sunflower Pods

Level-Four Proto-Spore Cultures

- Kurrybooboo, Corpsebomb Fungi

Fungal Form (Active):

- Exoskeleton

- Pneumacity

- Mycological Rage (NEW!)

Fungal Form (Passive):

- Fungal Vision

- Disease Immunity

- Poison Immunity

- Blindness Immunity

- Deafness Immunity (NEW!)

- Replicate

Spore Halo:

- Pollinic Affliction

- Symbiosis

- Athlete’s Ailment

- Rapid Growth

- Narcotic

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Maybe he didn’t Hoarfrost Gaze Glaze, Glacier Tail, or Subzero Scales like Wintersylver, but he had some formidable skills of his own—even if they were a little less flashy.

Once finished, Logan hurried through his three-room dungeon. Each of the rooms was connected with a narrow set of descending steps, about twelve feet long, stuffed with mushrooms. Good thing he had Rapid Growth spores. He’d unleash his proto-spore cultures and then let the Rapid Growth leak out of his cap gills. Watching in real time, he’d see the fungal growths grow larger and larger until they narrowed the corridors between rooms into a tight passage full of Blister Wart and other dangerous spores.

One of the nice things about going last was that he could see what the other competitors had done and implement the most effective strategies. Wintersylver had chosen to keep it simple, and he was going to do the same thing. And like Marko, he had added a secret passageway that connected the first room to his inner sanctum.

That first room was a mushroom jungle with a single bridge spanning an oversized digestion pit that took up most of the floor. On southern side, he put the entrance to his secret passageway, covered in Ghoul’s Snare and Eyelash Stinkhorn, which smelled like rotten sewage to most people. For Logan, it was like comforting incense, spicy and warm. But his senses were working on a completely different level.

That digestion pit in the bridge room was going to be important. Since he was B-Class, he could generate three such pits. He placed one in each room; knowing he’d need all three to win. One of the highest weighted components was Apothos Usage, and if he could get any of the dungeoneers into his various digestion pits, he’d be able to reclaim a significant portion of energy.

He burned all of his Apothos to create his fungal traps and mushroom minions, including an excited Mariah Carey—a squeaky-voiced skullcap waddler, and the generalissimo of his mycological strike force. He’d upgraded her with Ashvein, Crimson Coral, and Pneumacity to create a Crimson Ash Shrieker, so instead of a cute little mushroom girl, Mariah was tall, willowy, and clad in bloody-red plate armor. She also wore a ruby witch’s hat and wielded a shepherd’s crook, glimmering with Ashvein mushrooms, a powerful narcotic.

He placed her in the final room as a last line of defense along with three spore wargs, all upgraded to Blister Wart Spores. The giant fungal dogs—Noodle Doodle, Booker DeWitt, and Princess Peach—were also decked out in razor-sharp Crimson Coral. And what wasn’t coral was concentrated Blister Wart. If their fangs didn’t give you a disease, and if you weren’t impaled on their spikes, then you were going to get a rash that just might kill you.

First was the bridge room, followed by a sparsely populated cavern bristling with stalactites and stalagmites like the teeth of a slumbering dragon. He’d built a hidden trap into the ceiling, inspired by a slime dungeon he’d seen compete earlier in the competition. He added a few of his floating Sunflower Pods which, when triggered, would send the rocky teeth careening down onto the dungeoneers below. He added creeping colonies of Ghoul’s Snare to the ground, but also mixed in patches of mucal film, which he normally used to cover a pit trap, but he’d been experimenting, and it could also be used to make surfaces treacherously slick.

Logan had coated the floor of his secret passageway trap with the same substance—they were even worse than the sheets of black ice he’d used to encounter back in Colorado.

Lastly, was his throne room, the crowning achievement of The Fungal King’s Mushroom Mangler. That was the name he’d come up with for his dungeon. The backstory was that a crazed fungaloid monarch had packed his throne room with a variety of expensive mushrooms. His Opal Truffles would aid in creating delicious sauces, prized by the chefs of kings. His Ashvein was a powerful fungal narcotics. But the greatest prize of all was the legendary God’s Eye Caps—mushrooms that glowed with an otherworldly blue light.

Logan’s mysterious alchemy class had come in handy on that front. With the costly knowledge he’d gained, he could now brew Blue Philter Divine, a  potent potion based on the Five Elements Theory that could help advance a C-Class dungeoneer by several ranks.

Two parts powdered God’s Eye Cap, dissolved in a concentrate of Apothos-Infused Aqua Fortis—Marko had helped with that bit—further mixed with dried Rockhatter Dung, a tincture of Bulbous Creeper Ivy, and strained unicorn hair, all brewed under the waxy light of the worm moon, while continually cycling Morta Apothos through the solution for ten hours. It was a brutally painful process that had nearly killed Logan half a dozen times, but by god he had endured and produced two vials of the stuff.

Blue Philter Divine was worth a hundred times its weight in gold and would be more than enough to lure in the Sir Brandybutter and his band of dungeoneers, since most of the raiding party were C-Class. Sure, there would be at least two B-Class thrown into the mix as well, but they could sell the Philter for a small fortune even if they couldn’t benefit from its effects personally. Logan could only hope that he wouldn’t have to face an upgraded Morty Mercutio Mimsy. If the Magnificent Mimsy had access to nearly unlimited amounts of fire-based attacks, Logan’s fungal nightmare might be in real trouble.

The three hours allotted for dungeon prep flew by in a blurry haze.

In no time at all, Logan sat on his throne, his core gem floating above him like a small, burning star. His third digestion pit surrounded his kingly seat like a moat—a last line of defense, though hopefully the raiders wouldn’t ever make it that far. Other than the God’s Eye Caps and the glowing vials of Blue Philter Divine, Logan didn’t have a lick of light anywhere in his dungeon. He didn’t need the light, thanks to his Fungal Vision, but the dungeoneers certainly did. Fighting while wielding torches was an awkward business, and hopefully he’d force one of the magic users to waste valuable energy casting orb of continual light to dispel the perpetual gloom.

While he waited for the conjured dungeoneers to arrive, Logan quickly reviewed what his digestion pits could do:

· Digestion Pits convert 15% consumable mass directly into additional Apothos

· Digestion Pits instantly converts 70% of all Apothos with an Elemental Affinity into Pure Apothos.

· Reclamation/Reconstitution. The Fungi can consume inorganic matter such as weapons, armor, metals, and fabrics, breaking them down and reclaiming the items as base usable crafting components. Reclaim 50% of the item into raw material!

· Muscle Memory. As the saying goes, You are what you eat, and this has never been truer than for a Fungaloid. Gain a 2% chance to randomly learn a physical skill or ability from a digested foe!

Logan was fairly certain that the Muscle Memory wouldn’t apply to the simulated dungeoneers, but it might—weirder things had certainly happened while at Shadowcroft. And, in some crucial ways, the Arena Suprema was even stranger than Arborea. Who knew what might happen?

A voice boomed through Logan’s dungeon, making his mushrooms shiver. “Welcome, ladies, gentlemen, and dungeons of all ages, to the last round of the Interschool Tournament of Collegial Dungeon Excellence’s Crucible contest! Are we ready to damage dungeoneers!?”

There was a thunderous chorus of yelling and applause.

Logan made the mistake of glancing up. Through the transparent ceiling, he could easily see trolls, dragons, fairies, and flying slimes floating above him. Wintersylver was among the dragons, and he could see her wink then smirk at him.

The viewing deck overlooking his dungeon was packed to the gills. Suresh might not like him, and Wintersylver might have a bitter grudge against him, but it shocked Logan a bit to realize he had a following. There were scores of monstrous creatures holding up signs saying “Let’s Go Logan” or “Fungaloid Life Forever!” or “Team Terrible Twelfth!”. Wilder still, only a few of them were from Shadowcroft! Apparently, their antics really had been making quite the stir. Right at the front of the pact were his friends from the Terrible Twelfth, flanked by Chadrigoth, Tet, and most of the Ninth Circle.

Logan felt the pressure—it wasn’t just all the spectators, but it was the very real fact that while the dungeoneers were simulated, this little exercise was for keeps. His dungeon had better be good. He also wasn’t confident that any of his friends had scored well enough to get them into the Semi-Finals. Other than Chadrigoth, of course, but the abyss lord wouldn’t need Logan’s Symbiotic bond ability.

“Dungeon Cores get into position!” the voice boomed.

Logan leapt off his fungal throne and pushed through the Ghoul’s Snare and Eyelash Stinkhorn curtains that covered both hidden entrances. He wasn’t about to repeat Marko’s mistake. He effortlessly sped up the slimy mucal film covering the slippery slope. The ground was fungal. He was fungal. It was a love at first fung.

A dungeoneer wouldn’t be so lucky, however, and there was a deadly surprise waiting at the end of that mucal slide.

Standing at the secret door, Logan opened a series of slots in the stone. They weren’t so he could see. No, he switched his gaze back to his dungeon core gem, so he could view the bridge room. Unlike Marko, Logan didn’t have never as much wow-factor to work with—his dungeon was relatively plain, and mushrooms weren’t exactly known for their flash and pizzaz. If anything, most mushrooms liked to hide and stay away from the eyes of the world. The fact that his dungeon was completely dark didn’t help matters either. He’d done his best to compensate by crafting an elegant and ornate bridge that could’ve been ripped straight out of the Lord of the Rings.

These people loved Tolkien even more than Thor: Dark World, and even Treacle would’ve been proud of the craftsmanship on display.

Zhen Ikgix’s creaking voice sounded overhead. “And now, brave dungeons, we have ten seconds before Sir Rosencrantz Brandybutter and his team of brutal raiders are generated. Nine seconds. Eight…” the countdown continued until the Venerable Threshing Turtle croaked, “May the blessings of the Tree of Souls be yours! The final round of the tournament starts now!”

Logan didn’t exactly breath, nor did have a heart, but he found himself breathless, while an anxious heartbeat thudded in his ears. Not that he had ears either. Some experiences went beyond mere biology, though.

He heard Sir Rosencrantz Brandybutter at the entrance, which was just bare stone and an unadorned archway. Nothing fancy, except the smell. That stench was a symphony of awful.

“Egads, ol’ chaps,” Brndybutter said, pinching his nose between two fingers. “Do you smell that? I’m sure my sinuses shan’t ever be the same.”

Arfgar of the Hill People yelped. “By the dawn’s early light, that stench! Me thinks me in the realm of the dead! Me see if me can see smell.”

Logan grinned. Arfgar had never been the brightest tool in the shed. The barbarian wore big metal plates lashed to his body by leather thongs. He gripped a stupidly large single-bladed battle-axe. He also had a series of gleaming daggers sheathed on an oversized belt. He stepped forward. “So dark! So smelly! Maybe me see bridge! But hard to tell!”

Lindarval Lanathandyx, a.k.a. Feathers the Cleric, joined him. Everything about the cleric screamed bird, from her hook-shaped nose, to her feathery red and yellow cloak, which made her look like a Las Vegas showgirl. But unlike the showgirls on the Strip, her skin was covered by enchanted golden plate mail, lovingly crafted with phoenix motifs. Her ebony cudgel glowed dimly, doing little to dispel the murk. Logan hadn’t seen her with that club during the other runs, which meant that the dungeon auditors had tweaked Brandybutter and his party specifically for Logan’s dungeon.

But if his time as a Dungeon Core had taught him anything, it was to be ready for the unexpected. He’d planned accordingly. On the far side of his ornate bridge was a small legion of waddlers, lying in wait to ambush the invaders. But they weren’t alone. If he had any chance of winning, he had to stack the deck in his favor, and that included using his own personal spores, his Spore Halo.

He shook his head, sheading a massive, swirling cloud of Narcotic spores from his gill flaps. He willed them through a snaking network of crevices worked into the walls and ceiling—dungeon HVAC at its finest. Invisible spores rained down on Arfgar and Feathers, unbeknownst to the rest of the party. Spores were insidious that way. Maybe they weren’t as powerful as dragon’s breath, but they were also harder to fight.

There was no dodging the attack, no countering with a lightning quick parry or avoiding the blow with a towering kite shield. They worked their magic slowly but surely with every breath.

Logan caught a burst of movement. There was Daggers McFinn, in his roguish leathers, creeping through the fungal growths, obviously looking for traps and secret doors. He’d missed the entrance to the secret passageway entirely, probably because of the horrendous stink and the mass of Blister Wart clinging the thin vines. Unlike conventional traps, Blister Wart couldn’t be disarmed and had to be endured to progress.

Daggers had his knives and short sword sheathed, but on his back was a quiver of black arrows and in his hands was an obsidian short bow.

He could prove to be a nuisance in the long run, so it was best to whittle him down quickly if possible. Logan released a swirling tsunami of Pollinic Affliction, directing it toward the thief. A second later, Daggers sneezed—a thunderous sound that shook the room.

Perfect. Logan wanted to take out Daggers and the Magnificent Mimsy first. Without the rogue the party would never find his secret passages. As for Mimsy, he was an existential threat thanks to his powerful fire magic. If he could kill those two, he would switch focus to Feathers—after all, nothing was as depressing as dishing out delicious damage only for it to be healed seconds later.

Pollinic Affliction had started off as such a weak power, but now that Logan was an Azure Branch Cultivator, there was a chance that it could do some serious damage:

- 30% chance of causing shortness of breath

- 15% chance of causing blindness

- 9% chance of anaphylactic shock

- 5% chance of mortal sneezing.

Even if Daggers failed to catch an unfortunate case of mortal sneezing, there was a high probability that he would develop at least one of the other afflictions. As for Arfgar and Feathers, if all went well, they might just be overtaken by Logan’s Narcotic spores. At C-Class, the spores merely intoxicated those inflicted. But at B-Class? There was a slim chance Logan could usurp  their will with a well-timed suggestion.

Arfgar, swayed a bit, already intoxicated. He lifted his ax. “Me have such big ax. Is me compensating for something?”

Feathers normally scowled but instead, she gathered up her cloak and started to pet the feathers. “My cloak is so soft. I bet Illumina Pate has soft feathers. God feathers must be soft, don’t you think?” It wasn’t at all clear who she was talking to.

But Arfgar responded anyway, petting the cleric’s cloak with thick, calloused fingers. “You right. Is soft,” he marveled in awe.

“Ho, there, comrades. Why do you tarry?” Brandybutter bustled into the room. He was all plate mail, sword, and shield. The visor of his helmet was open, revealing a very full moustache. It was BJ Hunnicutt from M.A.S.H., Season 8, 1978, all over again.

The Magnificent Mimsy and Hallsee the Sad both came in, clad in wizard robes. Hallsee had circles under her eyes and had long, stringy black hair in need of washing. This time, she had a staff with a fist-sized ruby perched at the top. Logan had seen that before—it enhanced her magic missiles.

Honestly, Mimsy looked more like someone’s creepy uncle than a bonafide wizard. He had a wispy hair and a sheathed dagger at his belt, which tried valiantly to restrain his paunch. He lifted his hands. “Hmm. Let’s clear the air of some of this foulness, shall we?”

Jets of red-orange flames burst out, frying some fungal growths clinging to the ceiling and wiping out at least some of Logan’s spores. That was unfortunate, though not exactly unexpected. The auditors weren’t going to go easy on him it seemed. But that was fine, Logan didn’t plan on going easy on them either.

The flames died, leaving a charred stink in the air, and Mimsy looked quite pleased with himself. “There, that’s better already,” he crowed, tucking his thumbs into his belt.

Logan ignored the sorcerer and sent a creepy whisper floating through the air.. “Kill Mimsy.” His voice was little more than a ghostly murmur. It was a trick he’d picked up from Marko, and boy oh boy did it work wonders. “Kill Mimsy,” he whispered again, the ethereal voice of seasonal depression speaking dark tidings. “Kill Mimsy. You know you want to…”

“You know?” the hulking barbarian said, blinking heavily lidded eyes. “Arfgar do want to.” He turned with a roar and swung his ax as hard as he could, aiming his blow right at the Magnificent Mimsy wispy beard. Instead, the barbarian’s wicked ax sailed right through Mimsy as though he were nothing more than a shadow and right through Sir Mediocritus’s neck.

Huh. That was unexpected.

Well, one dungeoneer down and six to go.