Shadowcroft's Academy for Dungeons Chapter 12

Dinner was better for Logan, but only because the menu was leftover chicken legs. They were lukewarm and some pieces were about to turn. For a fungaloid, apparently, the extra tang was just what the doctor ordered. Logan traded his fresh pieces for Marko’s questionable ones and stuck a couple of chicken legs away in his satchel for later. True, some part of him felt more than a little mortified at the notion of eating nearly expired food, but then he reminded himself he was literally a walking, talking mushroom. Moreover, he’d just spent the morning in a class called Ethics of Murder, so he was withholding all personal earthly judgements for a while.

Treacle had a sack of hay on his tray, and he ate it, sighing the entire time—clearly not enjoying it. On the other hand, Inga had a jug of honey, which she poured on everything. Literally everything. Chicken wings dipped in honey, honey drizzled over broccoli, honey slathered thick as paste on butter noodles. The lady certainly had one heck of a sweet tooth. 

After dinner, with the various Treegees starting the cleanup, Logan made sure his cohort didn’t disperse. “Listen, I know today wasn’t ideal for anyone, but that doesn’t mean we should give up. We’re not the strongest here, just the opposite, but that doesn’t mean we can’t outwork everyone here. Strength and work ethic have nothing to do with each other. In my experience, it’s usually the opposite—the strong coast by on their natural ability. But if we put in the elbow grease we can make up for our lack of physical ability. I think we should head over to this Stairwell of True Seeing, Inga mention. We need a private place to talk. To strategize. And I’m thinking the library is perfect. Plus it should be dead this time of night.”

Reluctantly, the others agreed and Inga led the way to the southern part of the Golden Serpent Hall and down smooth stone steps, worn by time and the countless passing of feet.

One single unbroken mirror covered both walls and arched overhead. A few magical torches burned in sconces in the glass. At first, Logan didn’t think anything was strange with the mirrored stairwell. He saw his red-and-white toadstool head, bobbing along, short and dopey like one of those goombas from Mario. As he walked, though, he started to see changes in himself and others. By the time they reached the bottom of the winding staircase, Logan was seeing himself as he was seconds before the Reaper Box had eaten him.

He touched his face, but he didn’t feel stubble. He also didn’t feel his hair, only the gills of his mushroom cap. He moved back against the other side to get a better look. All four of them did.

Logan realized he was seeing a literal dead man in the mirror. He’d never be human again. In the mirror, his left leg was gone. Gone also were his landscaping business, his Uncle Bud, any chance of dating another human again. Realizing the finality of it all was a gut punch. He was dead. Or, at least, he had died and now he was something else. But then it dawned on him that he wasn’t the only one experiencing that loss.

Perhaps it was harder for him than the others because he knew absolutely nothing about this world. However, each of his teammates had likewise experienced the trauma and lose of the reaping. He stole a sidelong gaze at the other members of the Terrible Twelfth. In some ways, Marko wasn’t that different. In the mirror was a dark-haired human with a deeply tanned Mediterranean complexion, a wavy mess of dark hair, and an infectious grin. His eyes were the same color but didn’t have the weird goat pupils. And no horns. But basically similar.

Marko pointed. “True seeing. That’s me. That can’t be more me. But I have to say, I’m happy to be here with a tail. My old life was so… tailless. And I’m going to save a fortune on shoes. Hooves frickin’ rule.”

The satyr smiled that same friendly lopsided grin. So did the human in the mirror.

Treacle Glimmerhappy frowned, sighed and shook his shaggy head. Whereas Marko was remarkably close in appearance to his old self, the looming minotaur couldn’t have been more different. His reflection was only about two-feet tall. Tiny. The Treacle in the mirror was the classic gnome, with a big white beard, a red cap, wearing little blue overalls and big black boots. He could’ve walked off anyone’s lawn. And, yes, people still bought lawn gnomes.

Treacle moved his big minotaur head back and forth. The gnome echoed the movement. He stroked his bare bull chin. “No beard.” He opened his mouth. “And my teeth are different. I have more stomachs now. Lost my life. Picked up more stomachs.” He paused. Shrugged. “Might not be such a bad deal, I suppose.”

He pointed at himself in the mirror.

“You don’t miss being royalty?” Marko asked.

“On Plimpkinny, I wasn’t very popular,” Treacle said softly, still feeling for his absent beard. “I was a gnome lord, sure, but I found the money boring. Plimpkinny gnomes love money. I liked crafting things, not to sell, but to use. I made machines in my workshop. My wife always complained I spent too much time out there. My wife always complained. She was very good at it. She mostly complained because we were so poor for a lord and a lady.”

“We’re not going to talk about how we got here, are we?” Marko asked uncertainly, eyes squinting, forehead bunching. For once, he wasn’t smiling.

“We don’t have to,” Logan said.

Treacle though, kept talking. “How I got here? I had no idea I was being recruited, truth be told. Near Castle Candylick, that’s where I was the lord, though my wife did most of the lording work. We had an infestation of nickel chucks—these metal rodent critters, who would devour anything and anyone they could. Those nickel chucks sure were an itch in our beards, so I made a very fine chucktrap and took it to their cave, which now I understand was a Reaping Dungeon. Long story short? 

“My chucktrap worked too well. And I was reaped. And here I am. I chose to be a minotaur. At the time, I didn’t care much. When Shadowcroft suggested I might like a labyrinth full of traps it made a certain sort of sense.” He took a deep breath and sighed, deflating as though in defeat. “Suppose it doesn’t much matter, though. Not in the long run. I think I could’ve liked being a Guardian, but I won’t live long enough to see that happen, I reckon.” Treacle, the little gnome, smiled wistfully. “Of all the things I miss, my workshop is at the top of the list. I don’t miss the complaining wife.”

The cogs in Logan’s head clanked to life and he started slowly piecing it together. Treacle must’ve came from a world richer in Apothos than Earth, but the gnome lord hadn’t done much cultivating. That was why he’d wound up in the Terrible Twelfth. Marko and Inga, on the other hand, knew about cultivation and about the academy. So they were terrible in other ways.

Marko didn’t laugh at the wife joke. He was sweating a little. “So, nice story, we can keep going. Check out the library. Maybe stop talking about this forever because the past is the past…”

Logan patted Marko’s furry hand. “It’s okay, Marko, you don’t have to share.” He then caught Treacle’s eyes. “So, you didn’t sign up for this. Did you do any cultivating? Before, I mean?”

“I still don’t quite understand how my core and my body work together. Or the thirteen Apothine energies. Or are there fourteen?” The minotaur shrugged one shoulder, apparently unconcerned by the lack of knowledge. “I can’t imagine I’ll survive long enough to really understand how they work together. There’s this Winnowing, Professor Rockheart spoke of. It won’t matter once I’m Winnowed.”

Marko tapped Logan on the shoulder and pointed at Inga. She hadn’t said a word, but instead stared entranced at the image reflected back at her in the unnatural mirror.

Tall and slender, the moth woman’s antennae drooped. Even her wings seemed to sag as she regarded the monstrous bird creature in the mirror. In her former life, she’d been a massive owlish creature with a long golden beak encrusted with jewels. Her feathers looked a tad bit greasy, how they shined white, black, and brown. She had golden eagle eyes—just as intense. Those eyes filled with tears.

Logan recalled what Shadowcroft had said in their class that day… something about a beauty contest.

Inga sniffed and dabbed at her eyes. “This does nothing but bring back bad memories. The life I had is gone.” She reached up a delicate pale hand and wiped away the tears streaking down her flawless cheeks. “We should get to the library, otherwise known as an athenaeum. There are many kinds of libraries, you know.” She spoke matter-of-factly, clearly trying to hide just how upset she was by the changes in her appearance. Logan could sympathize—though, honestly, he thought she’d made a heck of an upgrade. “Different words mean different things,” Inga continued. “For example, we use the word undercroft for this section of the castle, though it’s somewhat inappropriate because this isn’t a church. Regardless.”

“Less regard. I completely agree! No bad memories!” Marko pushed them all the rest of the way down the stairway and into a wide lobby where a turtle fountain gurgled. Comfortable chairs surrounded the basin. To the left were two huge wooden doors, large enough to accommodate even the most formidable Guardians. The entrance to the Codex Athenaeum. The entrance to the Tartarucha Cells were across the way. Whatever that was.

They moved to go into the library, but the doors were locked.

The water stopped flowing, and the turtle perched atop the fountain spoke. “Library hours are eight a.m. to eight p.m. daily. Afterhours access is limited to advanced level cultivators—Azure Branch or higher. Thank you for your interest. Knowledge is power!” The stone head stopped talking and water flowed out once more.

“Like Schoolhouse Rock,” Logan muttered.

Inga stood with her arms crossed. “No books? How can I live even a single night without books? This can’t be happening.” She threw her arms up in obvious frustration. “It’s a nightmare—a genuine nightmare.”

“They don’t want us to succeed,” Treacle said, nodding slowly. “It’s open, but only if you have the school’s seal of approval. Only the strong should survive. The weak should just give up.”

Logan marched in front of them. It was easy since he was so tiny compared to them. Even Marko was far taller. “Treacle, this isn’t helping us. Yes, alright. Everything is against us. Yes, we’re the weakest of the weakest. But I keep thinking about the law of diminishing returns, and I feel like you guys just aren’t getting it. Rockheart made it clear that cores like Chadrigoth and the First Cohort aren’t going to level that much during their time here. But us? We’re going to level our asses off. Already, I feel stronger, tougher. Hold on.”

The gem in Logan’s belly glowed, and he was able to cast an image of his character sheet into the air. Yes, it was kind of like dropping his pants, but he was going to have to trust his cohort.

                                                                               <<< ۝ >>> 

Logan Murray

Guardian Core Matrix

Base Race: Fungaloid

Current Evolution: Toadstool  

Cultivator Class: Deep Root Cultivators; E Class, Rank 8

Primary Elemental Affinities: Morta/Toxicus

Racial Abilities: 

- Digestion

Racial Skill: 

Domestic Fungi

- Cultivated Fungi: Outstanding Allotment!

Fungal Form (Active): 

- Harden

Fungal Form (Passive):

- Fungal Vision

Spore Halo: 

- Pollen

- Symbiosis

                                                                              <<< ۝ >>>

Logan had the perfect example. “Listen, I know my Matrix isn’t impressive, but I started off the day as a Rank 9 Deep Root Cultivator. But after a single day, one day, I’m Rank 8. And I don’t even know how to cultivate properly. Those are massive gains. Chadrigoth and his buddies can get into the library after hours, but I’d be surprised if they stopped flexing in the mirror long enough to come down here. They don’t need to. Like I said before, they are gonna skate their asses off. Just coast along because they already know they have it made.”

Inga squinted. “E Class? Rank 8? You’re proud of that?” She looked aghast.

Marko had another question which was even harder to answer. “What’s Fungal Vision? Can you hallucinate at will? Also, follow-up question—can you give me Fungal Vision? That’d be trippy.”

“I don’t know,” Logan said. “I’m as clueless as Treacle when it comes to this stuff. We have a ton of stuff to learn, but we have Inga, who is not only brilliant, but she was an archivist of something impressive.”

Inga threatened tears again. “It’s true. I was so impressive. Terribly, terribly impressive.”

“Stay current, Ms. Moth,” Marko said a little desperately. “We’re not talking about the past. Ever. You’re still impressive. Believe you me.” He shot her a wink.

Treacle opened his mouth and closed it, snorting a puff of hot air from his oversized nostrils.

“What were you going to say?” Logan turned off his gem.

The minotaur shook his head sadly. “It wouldn’t be helpful. I am enjoying your motivational speech. Please, continue blowing sunshine up our butts. I think you missed a spot in my large colon.”

Marko burst into laughter.

Logan wasn’t going to let a dumb joke stop him. “In the mirror, you saw that I didn’t have my left leg. You know why that is? Because I lost it in combat. Roadside bomb, just north of Fallujah—which I know doesn’t mean anything to any of you, but it means everything to me. What matters is that I got off lucky, because I survived. Not all of us did. Not Sergeant Martian. All the doctors told me I would be lucky if I ever walked again, since there was also shrapnel lodged in my back. Which is when I decided I was done with luck—that I was gonna make my own luck. 

“No one believed in me, but I believed in myself and I put in the sweat equity. I put in the work. I went to rehab. I went to the gym. I worked and worked and worked until I could strap on a prosthetic, walk right out of that hospital, and take charge of my life. We can do this if we want it bad enough. We just need to work for it. That, and we need to be prepared. If my time attached to the 2nd Infantry taught me anything, it’s that prior preparation is the key to victory. Which is why I vote that we wake up at five a.m. tomorrow so we’re out in the Akros Coliseum at six. Inga gives us a private lesson on cultivation the rich Apothos out there.”

Marko pooched out a lower lip. “I don’t get it. What’s a five a.m.? I pretty sure that doesn’t exist.”

“Marko, our lives are on the line,” Logan said, somber as the grave. “This is the only card we have left up our sleeve. We’re going to outwork everyone else, level up, and we’re going to do it together as a team.”

That satyr wasn’t convinced. “It’s official. I hate this guy. So much hatred is in my heart right now. For this guy.”

Inga ignored him. “It really is the law of diminishing returns. Even if Chadrigoth and his crew worked as hard as we’re going to work, they wouldn’t show the same results. We are uniquely poised to advance exponentially.”

Logan tried to snap his fingers, but his finger nubs were too stubby and moist. “That’s right. Being the worst makes us the best.”

“Worst. Motto. Ever,” Treacle said, folding his furry, tree-trunk arms across his chest.

“Gah.” Marko burst out with a, “Fine I’m in!”

Logan quirked an eyebrow.

Mark grinned unabashedly. “Oh, I couldn’t stay mad at our little mushroom leader. He’s too cute. Also, I’m a joiner. I like to join things.” He poked the minotaur with an elbow. “Come on, Treacle. We can make all of your murderous labyrinthine trap dreams come true!”

“I’ll get up early. I’ll work. It won’t matter.” The minotaur inhaled doubt and exhaled sorrow.

Logan would have to work on him.

Inga smiled. “It will be a lot of reading. I like that part. And I like teaching. But it’s late, and I need my ten to twelve hours of—”

“Drinking,” Marko finished. “Ten to twelve hours of solid drinking. We’ll sleep for fifteen minutes, and then kick some butt.”

“Sleeping,” Inga said firmly.

Out of habit, Logan checked his wrist for a watch. “It’s past eight. If we’re getting up at fiveish, we need to get to bed.”

Marko complained the whole way back to the dormitory. At one point, Treacle huffed, ears twitching like mad. “Honest to gods below, but you’re starting to sound like my long-lost wife.”

“If only I could be that lucky, you sweet beast you.” The satyr had a quip for every occasion.

  Keep Reading Here: Chapter Thirteen