Friday update! 240

Hey, yeah you... looking good.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1vlkT9bKtNNGkvR3OJ0DUh4iktXWMplftXn8vt1zESzk/edit?usp=sharing

--

The room beyond the black gates was nothing Nickels could have expected. He stepped through slowly, boots scraping against the stone, every sound sharper after the noise of battle with that gargoyle. The air still carried the faint sting of smoke and steel. His gaze swept the tall walls, counting cracks, noting shadows, the way a soldier might check corners after a fight. The light shifted, uneasy, as if the place hadn’t decided whether to welcome or warn them.

He stayed near the back, calm but alert, watching how the others moved. They carried themselves like people still waiting for another hit to land. The group shared a goal, but the air between them was thin, stretched by fatigue and suspicion.

Nickels kept his distance, not out of pride but self-preservation. Maxers rarely had friends; too many burned through every good thing they touched. He’d seen enough faces fade to know how that story ended.

The tunnel beyond the gates pulsed with a steady orange glow, like the stone itself was breathing. Every few seconds the light shifted, brightened, then faded again, making it hard to tell if it came from torches or something less natural. Nickels sniffed, getting a strange mix of singed dust and the metallic edge of heat.

Ahead, the others were testing the floor with anything they could throw, sticks, coins, leftover pride. They’d already lost two knives, a sword, and one finger to traps on the last floor. Everyone moved with the kind of care normally reserved for defusing a nest of bees, like one wrong step might unleash a hell no one was ready for.

Nickels stayed back, unfolding the Guildhall’s “official” guide, which was neither official nor helpful. The author had written it as revenge, filling every line with insults wrapped in half advice.

One passage read, “If you’ve reached this point, congratulations. The evil tree woman hasn’t killed you.” Nickels had to respect the honesty. The book was mean, but reliable, and that put it leagues ahead of most people he worked with.

He ran a thumb over the margins where earlier adventurers had added their own comments, each one more desperate than the last. By now, the thing felt alive, a patchwork of warnings, curses, and grudging wisdom.

More than a few nonsensical pieces of advice had saved Nickels from a close shave such as hiding his hair in the jungle from the little demons.

Another told him that the giant worm of nightmares could be bribed with meat.

There was real advice under all the insults and sarcastic praise.

It was, in its own miserable way, the best guide he’d ever owned.

‘Ahead is a model of the world under a lot of barriers. The map doesn’t do anything for those looking for treasure or to get further. It’s for the map nerds,’ he read aloud, half amused, half cautious.

He stepped into the chamber after the others, boots tapping against glass-smooth stone. The air was thick with orange mana, rich enough to hum in his teeth. It shimmered like heat haze across the barriers that wrapped around the model at the center of the room.

The “map” looked delicate and unreachable, a tiny world sealed under light.

Naturally, the Maxers took that as a challenge.

One swung a hammer that melted halfway through the swing. Another tried a knife that folded itself into a polite curve before drooping to the floor. Someone further back yelled about “precision engineering” right before their toolkit began smoking like bad incense, the smell was something between burning socks and regret.

The more creative types started improvising. One poured an entire healing potion on the barrier. The light fizzed, burped, and returned the empty bottle with better posture. Someone else threw a rope at it ‘just to see what happens.’

What happened was that the rope caught fire. Slowly.

Nickels folded his arms and let the spectacle play out. It was chaos with rhythm, a kind of natural selection for poor ideas. The room pulsed quietly, brightening each time someone failed, almost like it was applauding.

He admired the stubbornness, if nothing else. The map wasn’t helpful, but it was dignified, and in a room full of people trying to bribe it with pocket junk, that counted for a lot.

With nothing working, the group turned west as one. Maxers didn’t keep many rules, but the few they had were written in blood, soot, or something equally permanent. Staying together was one of them. It didn’t stop arguments, but it kept most of them alive long enough to have them.

Nickels watched as two figures drifted toward the eastern hall, doing their best impression of “subtle.” He didn’t bother stopping them. Ambition and self-preservation rarely shared a seat. They’d be looking for something valuable to pocket before the loot got split.

He gave them silent odds of survival: twenty percent if the traps were bored, ten if they weren’t. The smell wafting from that corridor, burned soup, rotten vegetables, and some chemical note of despair, suggested something was lively today.

He shuddered as they entered a hall that looked stolen from an old castle, complete with cracked pillars and stonework that seemed to glare back.

“What is this place’s theme?” someone muttered, and honestly, it was a fair question.

Caves and goblins made sense. Those were beginner hazards. A jungle was odd but still within reason. But a full castle, complete with gargoyles that looked one yawn away from moving? That was odd.

Nickels understood their confusion. Most of them hadn’t bothered to read the Guildhall’s guide, claiming it was “childish” because of the crayon maps and the smiling stick figure on the cover being sold by one of the happiest kids Nickels had ever met.

For five coppers, though, it told the truth: this Dungeon did have a theme.

It was mushrooms. Mushrooms in caves, mushrooms in the jungle, and now mushrooms in the castle.

They weren’t shy about it either. Clusters sprouted in every dark corner, shoving bricks aside like tenants expanding their lease. A few had forced tiles upward at jaunty angles, and one ambitious patch had claimed the stained-glass windows, blooming along the edges without ever blocking the light. If anything, the glow made the glass look smug.

Nickels stopped to watch a cap slowly open, scattering faint golden dust that glittered before fading. Another vibrated with soft hums, echoing a dozen others that made the entire place hum with an organ of all things, the heavy notes crawling along the walls like a piece in a theater play.

The Dungeon was proud of its theme, no question. Why else would these things be everywhere?

The guide said the next floor was all islands and water. He couldn’t help but wonder how mushrooms planned to make that work. Probably beautifully, and at someone’s expense.

“The library is up next,” one of the veterans announced, voice carrying over the sound of boots and echoing mana hums. “Rare tomes, high value. Some worth a fortune to look at, let alone touch. Remember, infuse your mana, pocket it, confirm the glow. I don’t want another haul of worthless dungeon dust.”

He wasn’t the official leader, but no one minded. His gear was scarred, his cloak dull from years of burns, and that lent him authority. You listened to someone who had lived through enough mistakes for everyone else.

A few of the newer Maxers, eager to prove themselves, immediately began wasting mana on chipped relics and half-broken containers. Sparks fizzled, faint smoke drifted, and one unlucky adventurer yelped as his pouch caught fire from overloading. The veterans didn’t even look up. Everyone learned once.

Nickels didn’t move yet. He watched, counting who’d still have mana by the next fight. Caution wasn’t glamorous, but it worked. Other Dungeons had a habit of making lessons expensive, and he’d already paid his tuition in blood and burned fingertips.

He didn’t want to know what the cost of failure in this strange place was.

He adjusted his pack and waited for the smell of singed leather to fade. There was no point loading yourself up with treasure if you wouldn’t make it to the exit.

The door to the library creaked open, releasing a wave of stale, papery air mixed with the faint sweetness of old ink. The smell hit Nickels first, dry, metallic, faintly charred, like the memory of a candle that had burned out years ago.

The light inside didn’t help; oil lamps guttered against the walls, their flames coughing through bad fuel and casting more movement than clarity. Shadows swayed across the aisles, and every gap between the bookcases looked deep enough to swallow a man.

“Ceiling clear, floor trap free,” one of the scouts whispered, her voice tight with habit.

Nickels stayed back for a breath, letting his eyes adjust. Rooms like this had patterns, and he’d learned to wait for them.

He still remembered a similar room years ago, the same damp chill, the same uneven hum in the walls, where the fourth step had triggered an entire ceiling of spears. He could still feel the echo of the noise that came after.

He scanned the shelves. Books leaned in crooked lines, spines cracked, pages occasionally fluttering though there was no wind. The air had that strange tension, the sort that pressed against the ribs before something happened. A tension that had only gotten stronger the more ‘stages’ they had gained.

“Shadows are too thick between the rows,” he murmured, half to himself. “If it’s not traps, it’s company.”

The others started moving, careful and slow. Somewhere deeper in the dark, a lamp hissed out.

Spikes, Nickels thought grimly, weren’t the only thing Dungeons liked to repeat.

The library itself wasn’t somber like Nickels expected. Other libraries had appeared in Dungeons before, manifestations of swallowed knowledge, drawn together like bones under the earth. Too many tomes had been devoured over the years, their fragments pooling into places that remembered being read. But what a Dungeon considered a ‘library’ was never quite sane.

The Ruby of the Desert was one such case, a name that still made seasoned Maxers wince. The books there hadn’t been bound in leather but in something tougher and more… malleable.

Their covers shifted, whispering when touched, the text bleeding and reforming like it was alive. The contents weren’t recorded fiction, more the echo of dying minds, last thoughts scrawled again and again, etched into the skin of a page that refused to forget.

Even the room that contained the books was something out of a fever dream, twisted sand into black glass, one would sooner cut themselves on the black material before pulling a book free.

Nickels remembered the story told in half-joking tones around tavern tables. One explorer had reached for a book that gleamed under its own light. When he pulled, it resisted, trembling like a creature caught between fear and anger. Then the book began to leak something cold.

Slippery jerky motions combined with pointed glass-shelves made for a poor time.

That wasn’t even mentioning the glass guardians that patrolled or the sinking shelves that liked to drag the unaware to their silent doom.

This library looked normal, which was more worrying. He moved with the others, careful not to get within grabbing distance of the shelves in case Book Worms were about. Those things had opinions about being disturbed and sharper teeth than most librarians.

He paused before a shelf displaying what looked like neatly chopped firewood balanced on little brass stands. Out of habit, he gave one a cautious poke with his knife. The log shuddered, hummed once, and began to play a tune that sounded like an apologetic flute trying to remember a song.

Blinking, he leaned in to read the small tag above it.

‘Audio Logs’.

He stood there for a moment, listening to the wooden melody trail off into awkward silence. Somewhere behind him, someone sneezed, and the log politely changed key.

“Whoever built this place,” Nickels muttered, “had too much time and a sense of humor.”

Still, he found himself oddly soothed. The glow of the lamps softened, the dust floated lazily in the air, and for once the Dungeon felt like it was taking a breath. Even the danger seemed to pause to admire the absurdity of it all.

This place was strange, but for a heartbeat, it was peaceful too.

He continued to look around, increasingly baffled at how well-kept everything seemed. The books were lined up like soldiers at inspection, spines polished, pages crisp, none of the usual Dungeon corruption creeping in with claws or teeth. The lamps even had the decency to flicker on cue, giving the place a cozy, mildly ominous charm.

Most of the words made sense, which already put this library ahead of most. None of the pictures tried to move or scream, which Nickels counted as progress. The variety was impressive too: magic theory, alchemy, economics, and several lengthy arguments about hats.

Then came the stranger sections.

Metal birds? Machines in people’s hearts? Peanuts turned into butter? He turned a page and frowned.

“No way,” he muttered, as if the book might defend itself. Ideas like these could only come from madmen or Dungeons with too much imagination and not enough supervision.

He moved along the shelf, eyes drifting over the titles. ‘Practical Levitation for Idiots’ sat proudly beside ‘Hobbies for the Afterlife.’ Both looked recently read, which raised more questions than it answered.

Further down was ‘So, You Wanna Be a Hag?’ accompanied by an entire self-improvement series: ‘Grow Your Own Warts,’ ‘Fifty Shades of Green,’ and ‘Smile Less in Seven Days.’

Nickels caught himself leaning closer, drawn in by the sheer absurdity. He forced a step back, exhaling softly. Nothing magical pulled him, only curiosity, which was far more dangerous.

“Does it think we’re children?” someone complained, their voice echoing strangely off the high shelves. Pages fluttered in reply, faint as laughter. The man hurled another book behind him, and it landed open on the floor, its painted sword still smiling.

The others kept browsing, muttering, the rustle of paper mixing with the creak of the lamps overhead. The smell of ink and candle oil thickened, sweet and metallic.

Nickels felt that tension ratcheting to unspeakable levels, like he had injected a morning cup of tea straight into his heart. The air vibrated with a quiet energy, the kind that came right before a room decided to stop behaving.

The newest Maxer, still shiny from overconfidence, stood out like a misplaced coin. His boots were too clean, his grin too sure.

He held up a thin book titled ‘Miss D Teaches Art’, the cover painted in cheery pinks and yellows that didn’t belong underground. The pages inside were filled with what could only be described as optimistic scribbles, the sort of drawings that begged for polite applause.

He tore one page out, then another, as if the act might uncover some hidden treasure. The sound of ripping paper echoed longer than it should have, and every lamp in the room flickered once, like a heartbeat deciding what to do next.

A sound started up a moment later, faint and uncertain, like someone slowly exhaling. Then another joined it, and another, until the air itself began to rustle. The noise spread from shelf to shelf, books opening on their own, pages turning in a fevered rhythm. The scent of ink thickened, dry and sharp, stinging at the back of Nickels’ nose.

His instincts kicked in before reason did. “Retreat!” he yelled, already moving. His legs launched him forward, boots thudding against the uneven floor as the sound behind him swelled. Paper whirled in the air, snapping against his shoulders and face like biting insects. He didn’t look back.

He dove through the doorway, hitting the ground hard enough to rattle his teeth. The others piled after him, breathing hard, hearts hammering in sync. He turned in time to see the last of the light vanish behind an orange film that slid down the frame, stretching like molten glass.

Inside the library, the sound kept going, pages flipping, voices rising in dry chorus. Nickels could feel it vibrating through the floor, the echo of every word he would never read.

He dropped to one knee, pressing both hands against the orange barrier. Idiots deserve smacks, but he hoped to at least spare them whatever came next, but to his surprise, mana bit at his skin, snapping like static, and his tools jerked out of his grasp before they could bite into the surface. The magic wasn’t blocking him, it was fighting him like a dozen little bugs.

Inside, the last few Maxers drew weapons as they failed to run, their faces caught between awe and denial. The shelves groaned as they shifted, dragging deep scars into the floor, aligning into a perfect ring. Dust burst into the air, and the lamps flared white.

Books lifted in clusters, swirling with purpose. Their pages turned to blades, their covers slamming together with the force of shields. Each collision boomed like thunder, the noise growing until the air trembled. The smell of burning parchment filled the corridor as the first shape began to rise from the whirlwind, something massive, stitched from bindings and fury.

The Maxers trapped inside now faced a towering creature of paper and rage, its form made of whipping pages and snapping bindings. The thing moved with a strange grace, like a storm pretending to have bones. Each step sent loose sheets swirling through the air like angry birds.

“Evasive!” Nickels shouted, his voice cracking as the idiots finally got the message. They scattered, tripping over chairs and each other, but at least they moved. The creature swung an arm, a cascade of tomes smashing into the floor where they’d stood a heartbeat before.

There was never a good reason to clump together when a monster appeared. Sure, some fool always claimed spreading the impact helped. Maybe it did, for the Dungeon. All it ever made was one large pancake instead of several small ones.

The creature was a golem made from books, a walking editorial nightmare. When one of the Maxers sliced through its arm, the limb didn’t so much fall as politely separate before reattaching itself, the torn volume ‘So, You Set Off a Trap’ swapping out for ‘So, You Can’t Learn.’ The golem seemed pleased with the update.

It stared down at its attacker and raised a massive hand, the palm opening to reveal a bright blue book titled ‘Marine Life of the Deep.’ The cover flipped itself open, and saltwater immediately began to pour out, splashing across the floor with alarming enthusiasm. The smell of seaweed filled the room.

“Water! Is that all you’ve got? Ruining your own books?” the swordsman shouted, charging again with more confidence than sense.

Nickels stayed at the barrier, helpless and dry, watching the scene unfold like a man forced to spectate bad theatre. The golem, apparently insulted, twisted its wrist.

From the fluttering pages, a pale white snout pushed through, long and jagged, scarred as if it had fought its way out of the story itself. The rest followed, a creature with fins that shimmered like thin blades, rows of teeth set in a grin that promised refunds were unlikely. It hung halfway out of the book, thrashing and snapping, a sea monster summoned by cracking open a book.

The golem swung its arm, and the beast lunged with it, clamping down on the Maxer’s sword. Metal screamed, then snapped clean in two. The Maxer stared at the hilt like it had personally betrayed him.

The golem withdrew its arm, the sea creature dissolving back into text. The book snapped shut, gave a satisfied thump, then drifted away, replaced by another eager volunteer from the shelves. It was multitasking chaos, and Nickels couldn’t decide if he was terrified or quietly impressed at the efficiency.

“That’s a new tale for the tavern,” someone said, voice faint and shaky.

“A shark tale…” another added.

“Use the books! Read!” Nickels shouted, palms pressed to the barrier as he watched their flailing attempt at teamwork. He’d seen better coordination in food fights.

The noise actually stopped for a moment. Even the golem tilted its massive, unreadable head, as though waiting for an intelligent response.

“I can’t read,” the now swordless Maxer said after a beat, shoulders lifting in a helpless shrug.

One by one, the others echoed him, like it was a confession circle. Nickels closed his eyes, took a slow breath, and counted to ten. It didn’t help.

“Wonderful,” he muttered. “A monster made of books versus a group allergic to letters. That’ll end well.”

Inside, the golem obligingly opened another tome, titled ‘On the Care and Feeding of Idiots.’

“If nothing else, this will sell well back to the guild for info,” Nickels said and got a few winces and nods in return.

He wondered how the other two got on in the east tunnel?

Surely, better off than this?

---

Jeb happily dunked another hummie into the pot, head first, humming a little tune that might once have been a lullaby if you ignored the bubbles and screaming.

“Plenty of soup for the guests!” he announced proudly. The pot burped in agreement, thick steam rising in greasy curls.

Nearby, Gnashly sat on the lid of another cauldron, kicking her legs and pretending not to notice the occasional hand that tried to push it open. It was, to him, a game of stay down the longest.

“Please… please… s–” the man managed before Jeb dunked him again with cheerful efficiency.

“Please more soup!” Jeb corrected, beaming. His grin was wide and hopeful, delighted that he could predict…no, predi… predu… yes, guess exactly what the man wanted.

He was very considerate that way.