FINAL CORE - Chapter 13 (Patreon)

One has to remember when dealing with dungeons, that they aren’t just simple things like a cave or a bear’s den.

A dungeon is a living, breathing place in and of itself. A dungeon has monsters inside of itself, but the dungeon itself is also to be viewed as if it were a monster too.

Never trust the walls. Never trust the floors. Never trust a door, a chest, a mechanism. Everything has been perfectly designed by the makers of those places with one intention in mind.

— That is to keep the dungeon safe.

The best way to keep a dungeon safe, apart from it simply never being found, is to kill any who find it.

Particular dungeons have gone overzealous in their lethality, especially when they begin to creep out in the landscape and fill the surface-world with monsters.

In these extreme cases, destruction teams are sent out to pacify the threat and to return natural equilibrium to the places that the dungeons have found their residence in.

That isn’t to say that every dungeon must be destroyed, just because somebody died there. After all, dungeons are useful and it is important to weigh a balance between their economic boons and the lives lost in pursuit of them.

If those who die are simply adventurers, plunderers and so on, then there is little argument in favor of the total destruction of a dungeon-core. These people made their own free choice to go there, after all.

However, when innocent bystanders are put at risk by the ambient monsters present outside of a dungeon, or when economic routes are hindered, then more drastic measures are wise to be considered.

Per year, professional destruction teams permanently destroy about one to two dungeons and exactly this many seem to arise in the landscapes around the world, shortly thereafter.

It would seem that the divine will has an intent for there to be a specific amount of dungeons present at every given moment.

This number is forty-nine.

~ Maldrock’s note to his apprentice adventurers

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Rorate sits there, not sure if she ought to feel terrible or not.

On one hand, her body had craved the food that she has now eaten, so desperately, that she didn’t even think about it as she wolfed it down. There was rich, fatty fish and boiled rooted tubers and a drink made of clean water and fresh, sour berries.

On the other hand, this has, in five minutes, defeated the suffering and work of her entire last week.

Night has fallen.

She looks around herself, watching the glowing lights fly through the air, always setting to some task that she can’t really identify. They remind her of fairies, but they’re more -

Her eyes wander back to the creature, the entity known as Isaiah. It sits on a collection of broken branches and wood atop the giant tree, which sits atop the tower.

- They’re more like it.

It sits there, quietly looking out over the landscape. Its pose, its demeanor, its quiet, solemn way all hint to something peaceful, serene and wise.

It really has to be something divine.

She never had much interaction with the faith in her adult life. But she recalls the days when her family had dragged her to the church and the temple as a girl. She recalls the tales and the imagery, woven by words and old tapestries and tomes. She recalls the silhouettes, drawn in glass of many colors.

Isaiah spreads its wings out wide. They brush against the tree.

A moment later, it flies away. But she doesn’t know to where.

Rorate looks back down at herself, still not sure if this isn’t some strange hallucination brought on by the mushroom-brew.

Her eyes wander to the bottle, resting by the tree.

They then wander back to the bottle of berry juice, just before herself.

She lifts it, taking a long drink, feeling the nourishing, refreshing liquid enter her body.

It feels good to drink.

Maybe this really was divine intervention?

But why?

Why would the gods intervene in the life of someone like herself?

She doesn’t matter. She has never mattered.

So why now?

Rorate doesn’t understand.

She lifts her head, gazing at the blanket of stars which covers the world and takes another long drink.

Maybe there’s a reason for her to be here after all?

She can’t explain it any other way.

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[New Area]

Shrine {Level 1}

A small shrine, made out of a foundation of large stones and a body of strong wood from the forest.

Level {1} Effect: You can pray at this shrine to receive a random [Minor Blessing]

Secret: Every prayer will give +1 EXP to the dungeon-core

Isaiah nods. “Good work,” it praises. Green and Crystal are fast at what they do. If the materials are in the stockpile, they seem to be able to build structures like this within the span of an hour or so, which is clearly very impressive.

The shrine is a simple thing, placed outside of the tower, down the road. It’s an open faced structure, with an altar in the center. Behind the altar is an ornate statue of some nondescript man, lifting his arms towards the heavens.

To the side of the room is a small, wooden box for donations.

This is very sneaky. The humans might think they are donating to the gods, but really, they are donating to the tower. The same goes for their prayers, which will serve to strengthen Isaiah and the tower further.

“We’ll get started on floor three then,” says Crystal.

“Is the dark-elf staying?” asks Green. “We should make a quarters downstairs for outsiders, if she is.”

Isaiah shrugs. It hasn’t really had a recruitment talk with her yet, deciding that it is best to simply let her ground herself and her emotions first. This is surely a very strange situation.

“Do it,” says Isaiah. Even if she isn’t interested, it’s a good investment for the future. If people come here to pray, surely there will be one or two who wish to pray for longer times?

This is of course a very desirable prospect for the tower. More prayers simply means more power.

It watches as the two of them fly off and then turns back to look at the statue of the man behind the altar.

Respectfully, Isaiah bows its head to it before leaving.

It doesn’t know. But it feels right to do so.

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Isaiah returns to its roost and looks around. The dark-elf is gone.

It blinks, before closing its eyes and looking through the different floors of the tower.

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But it can’t find her anywhere inside of the tower.

It changes its vision to the hot-spring, expecting to see her floating there. But she isn’t there either.

“Uh, boss?” asks a voice. “There’s a problem.”

____________________________________________________

Isaiah opens its eyes and looks at Red.

Red points down to the side and Isaiah follows, seeing the silhouette of a woman drifting down the river, limply floating face down on her stomach. A shadow drifts beneath her, as the melusine swims after the dark-elf.

“RED!”

“Yeah, I figured,” says Red, sighing and flying after her.

Isaiah rubs its head. How does she keep ending up like that every time?

It looks down over the side of the tower.

— Five floors is a very high drop, even into water. Is she even still alive?

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Rorate coughs and splutters. Several colorful orbs fly around her, lifting her back up to the top of the tower.

They drop her down on the platform and she sits again before Isaiah. She’s dripping wet and her long, white hair sticks to her face.

Isaiah tilts its head. “Are you well?”

“I think so,” she says, looking around. “I fell off the tower,” she explains, wiping some hair out of her face. “I was just looking and whoops! Over I went.”

Isaiah tilts its head the other way.

Rorate feels herself being watched, examined.

It seems that the gods, that the creature, really know what her true intentions were. Was this question a test? Did she fail? Most likely.

How else could it be that she’s still alive, after such a long fall? The gods are preventing her from dying. There’s no other explanation at this point.

Knowing that it knows and knowing that it knows that she knows that it knows, Rorate lowers her head.

“…I jumped,” she admits.

Isaiah examines her and rises to its feet. “This is dangerous to do without wings,” says the entity.

Is this some sage, divine wisdom? Some whisper of the gods that she needs to decipher?

Most likely.

Rorate stares at the messenger of the heavens as it lifts her up to her feet a second time.

“There is work for you here,” it says.

So it is true. The gods really do have a purpose for her still being alive. It isn’t all just dumb luck and happenstance.

“…What do you want me to do?” asks Rorate.

Isaiah holds out a hand to her. “I want you to pray.”

Rorate, not understanding the will of the divine in any manner, doesn’t really know where to start with this offer. But certainly there is a reason for it. Certainly, there is a crimson string of fate strung to her soul and pulling her this way, towards the divine, for a reason.

There’s a purpose for her life. For her existence.

For the first time, there’s proof of a reason for her to be alive.

After all, the gods wouldn’t have just kept her here for nothing, right?

“…I think I can do that,” says Rorate, grabbing its strange, taloned hand with her wet grasp. “I’m Rorate.”

[New Defender]

Rorate

• Level: 11
• Race: Dark-Elf
• Class: Fighter
• Sub-class: Healer
• Rank: C

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Isaiah croons in delight.

[Max workers +1]

Red has taken the dark-elf away, to get her situated in the new quarters being built downstairs.

(Isaiah) used: [Summoned Worker {1}]

Cost: {4} SOUL

SOUL: 15/19

A new uthra with teal wings appears.

“Pleasure.”

Isaiah nods. “Go to the forest. Make fabric, make clothes.”

“Of course,” says Teal, flying away.

Isaiah smiles.

The tower, together with its power will grow. It will be there when its eggs hatch. It will make sure of it, no matter what. Isaiah lifts its gaze towards the sky, lifting a hand to try and touch it from here.