Shadowcroft's Academy for Dungeons Chapter 18

Professor Yullis Rockheart stood on the iceblade grass of the Akros Coliseum. A light snow covered the ground. Winter had come and while it meant fires and hot cocoa, it also meant snow, and Rockheart crossed his arms, a tad chilly.

Logan went screaming by on the dirt track, waddling as fast as his legs could carry him. It wasn’t fast enough. A doomhound pounced on him. Golden spoors leaked from the fungaloid’s gills, which caused the devil dog to sneeze. A burst of flame hit Logan which scorched half his face and a good portion of his toadstool head.

“Yes, Logan, I’m sure if you keep giving the doomhound a runny nose, you will be able to repel A-Class dungeoneers.” Rockheart shook his head and shooed away the doomhound before it could again dismember the pathetic dungeon core.

The rest of his students in the Core Calisthenics class had already handled their doomhounds. The satyr had produced a flute and was piping a song that had his dog on the ground, paws over his ears, wining. The astral moth had wrapped in her dog in a silky chrysalis. And the minotaur had used some of that thread to bind his own dog on the ground. The minotaur’s muscles bulged nicely as the doomhound threw Rockheart a pleading look.

The First Cohort had already graduated from doomhounds to actual hellhounds, which were bigger, hairier, and could hurl lava with their tails. Even then, Chadrigoth and the other three master students were sitting on the stone seats waiting patiently. There was some laughter and some eye-rolling as the Terrible Twelfth struggled with the level-one monsters.

Logan got up on his feet. He wiped some of the soot off his forehead. “You know, Professor, I’m never going to be able outrun your puppies. I’m not going to outfight them either. However, I’m two ranks away from getting my next evolutionary form. Then we’ll just see how we do.”

Rockheart knew exactly where Logan was in his levels. The gargoyle griffin had been tracking both the Terrible Twelfth and its leader, the worst student in the school. However, Logan had jumped from being a Rank 9 Deep Root Cultivator to a Rank 2. Yes, he’d move into his next body when he reached Iron Trunk.

Six ranks in two months was impressive. Rockheart couldn’t help but be moved by the dedication and the work ethic of the fungaloid. He and his cohort were waking up early six days a week, practicing their cultivation techniques, and spending each evening in the library before it closed. Then, on Monday nights, Logan and Inga had their usual time in the Tartarucha Cells. Two cores working together? It wasn’t natural. However, it had become a phenomenon at the school. All of the professors—from Shadowcroft to Arketa the Hellgazer to John Toothbyte—all of them were fascinated by the antics of the two.

Rockheart had his own opinions. 

Yes, the astral moth had promise, yet she lacked focus as well as social skills. She was not well liked. And yes, perhaps the minotaur, Treacle, wasn’t so bad—he had managed to get some time in the simulation dungeons, and he was progressing quickly in his crafting class. But their satyr friend was unbearable. He did the bare minimum unless it involved trips to the Wayfarer Inn or boozy adventures in the town of Vralkag.

Rockheart was scowling when Logan approached, walking on the Iceblade Grass making any number of annoying sounds. “Oof. Ouch. Ack.”

The toadstool came up and put his hands on his little hips. “Listen, Professor, I hope to do better when I go from a Toadstool to a Shroomian Acolyte.” The fungaloid seemed cheerful despite the burns, missing limbs, and the heinous slashes courtesy of the bladed grass.

The gargoyle griffin sniffed. “Yes, yes, your progress is amusing, and I do appreciate your efforts. In fact, the entire Azure Dragon Clan is mildly impressed. At least you haven’t actively lost us any points. However, the same can’t be said of your satyr friend. He is late, he is obnoxious, and he takes nothing seriously. Any points you have won for the Azure Dragons have been taken away by the satyr.”

“I’ll talk to him,” the mushroom man said solemnly. “But my progress is weighed in the ranking. I’ve been doing my part.”

“And you’ve studied hard in all your other classes,” Rockheart agreed begrudgingly. “Too bad you are failing in this one. Which is the single most important class of all, Mr. Murray. As a dungeon core, it’s critical that you be living weapon. In the real world, you won’t have your astral moth friend to help protect a Celestial Node.”

Logan shook his head. “Maybe not, but I’ll find someone to partner up with. Here’s the thing, I don’t want to do this stuff alone, and I don’t have to. So I’ll suffer through your class, Professor, because in the end, I will pass it. No matter what. I’m not going to be Winnowed out during finals.”

Rockheart bent down on both eagle knees, so he could lock eyes with the fungaloid. The gargoyle griffin kept his voice low. “Oh, but you will fall to the Winnowing. And you shouldn’t blame yourself. The Reaper Box should’ve known better. You don’t have the Apothos to succeed here, and you never should’ve been selected. And if you were to succeed? It might encourage others of inferior stock to attend this fine school. Rest assured that I will not allow that to happen. Not under my watch.”

The fungaloid had the audacity to laugh in his face. “Professor, I didn’t ask for this, but now that I’m here? I like it. And I like the idea of protecting the Tree of Souls. I’m going to fight to stay, so you better get used to the idea of me being here.”

“And you better get used to beatings.” Rockheart straightened, smoothing out his stony feathers. He turned and walked on eagle talons and lion claws back to the track where the First Cohort sat.

Logan yelled after him. “I’ll do you one better, Professor, I’m getting so I like the beatings. Because they’re forcing me to really improve at directing my Apothos through my meridians. I can heal myself now.”

Rockheart grumbled, “But you still need Ned and Zed to put your limbs back on,” He growled over one shoulder, irritated at gall of the little fungal. And also at himself for allowing this miscreant to get under his skin.

“You’re not wrong,” the fungaloid said with a sigh. “But once I hit Iron Trunk Rank 5, I’ll unlock Replicate and then we’ll see.” 

“Assuming you make it to Iron Trunk,” he sneered. “Now, who here wants to give Logan his next beating?” Rockheart asked the First Cohort.

“I’ll do it!” the satyr yelled happily. The others of the Terrible Twelfth had come forward. The doomhounds and the full hellhounds had run back into their kennels.

Logan titled his head at his friend. “Really, Marko?”

The satyr gave him a big toothy grin. “I’ll be gentle in my beatings, almost loving, in the way I’ll tear you limb from limb.”

“Really?” Rockheart asked a bit too eagerly. He let his hope show because the fungaloid would surly fail without the support of his cohort.

“Ha, gotcha!” the satyr laughed, slapping at his fur-covered knee. “No way. Logan is my buddy, the funnest fungi to ever fun it up in an attic. You should see his room. It’s a mushroom mansion.”

“No puns!” Rockheart thundered.

Chadrigoth stood. “I’ll give him his daily pounding, Professor. Poor guy. I kinda feel sorry for him, and then, like magic, I don’t.” He paused and stared coolly at each member of the Terrible Twelfth in turns. “I could care less about any of these dweebs.”

Inga’s wrinkled her forehead in thought. “A dweeb is a boring, studious, or socially inept person.”

Treacle raised his hand. “Boring.”

Logan followed. “Studious.”

Inga sighed. “Socially inept.”

Marko laughed. “Ha! I’m not a dweeb! Just a drinking goat with a party problem. Or is that a party goat with drinking problem? Heavy drinker with a goat problem?”

The fungaloid stepped forward. “How about I choose my opponent.” He walked in front of the First Cohort.

Tet-Akhat licked the back of her hand and fastidiously smoothed the fur on her cat face. “Don’t choose me. I’m not in the mood to tear you apart, mushroom guy.”

“Hey, Tet, do you know my name?” Logan asked.

“I don’t. Sorry.”

“I shall eviscerate this little person,” Lady Elesiel offered. The green fires in her hauntingly dark eyes flared.

“Here’s my problem,” Logan said. “Chadrigoth is too flame-y. Mushrooms don’t like fire. Tet is too fast. Lady Elesiel is too undead for me. Or is it not undead enough? Either way, I want Magmarty. I think under the right conditions, I might be able to take him.”

The earth elemental got to his feet, shedding a few pebbles and leaking mud from the cracks in his body. “My pleasure.” He opened his mouth and let out a roar of fire. “You forget. I’m both Terra and Magma, stupid shroom.”

Logan shed a weak rain of pearlescent spores and hardened his exterior form. Magmarty paused for a second, eyed the cloud, and then walked right through it. Nothing happened. However, it did buy Logan the second he needed to draw the rusty dagger from the sheath on his little belt. Logan darted in low, hoping to drive the hilt into the behemoth’s knee. 

Not a chance. The fight was over before it began.

Magmarty reached down and grabbed the fungaloid in one meaty hand, scooping him into the air and shaking him like a ragdoll. Instead of stopping—having made his point—the earth elemental ever so casually tore the arms off the mushroom man, like a sadistic toddler with a daddy longlegs. The elemental hurled what was left of Logan to the ground. 

The rosebush medics came running to fix him up.

Rockheart went and stood over him. “You might succeed in your other classes. You might be impressing people with your antics in the Tartarucha Cells. But if you can’t win a fight, alone, with only your own powers, then it would be better for you to fall prey to the Winnowing. Not better for you, personally, but better for the universe.”

Logan laughed weakly, a somewhat crushed mushroom lying in the dirt. “You keep telling me that. And I keep coming back for more. Wait until next week, Professor. For a second there, I had Magmarty right where I wanted him.”

Rockheart didn’t find this weak creature amusing in the slightest. If he had been in any other clan, Rockheart wouldn’t have cared. But Logan was part of the Azure Dragon, the finest clan at the school. The gargoyle griffin wasn’t about to suffer four years with this annoyingly plucky nuisance. Four years of him and his lackeys smearing their good reputation and costing them points and leader board position.

No. Even if somehow Logan survived his Freshman year, Rockheart was determined that he would not be coming back to this esteemed academy. The universe needed wandering monsters, too, and that fate was all that the inept toadstool deserved.

Rockheart might not wait that long. Could he somehow get rid of the Terrible Twelfth on his own? It had been done before. 

He turned away from the students, rubbing his rocky chin, pondering his options.

Keep Reading Here: Chapter Nineteen