Epic 243/friday update

Hello wonderful folk, another week, another update! Glad you're all sticking around for the chapters cause i think I'm getting back into the swing of making them! Anyway, hope you all enjoy

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1CPFaDbBVBy8DLuQYmxT74oiukLuAZW96mc0d9_tbjCM/edit?usp=sharing

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“We need to leave.”

Nickels disliked stating things that any sensible person should already know, but the Maxers had marched so long that common sense had wandered off to nap somewhere. They kept going because stopping felt like admitting the Dungeon had outsmarted them, and few people enjoy losing to what was technically a hole in the ground.

A few of the group nodded at Nickels, the way someone nods at advice they intend to ignore. The rest looked at him as if he had accused their mothers of cooking bland stew. Suggesting an exit apparently counted as treason.

He understood the real problem. Leaving meant accepting that survival counted as a win. It also meant facing the long walk home with nothing shiny to show for the trouble, which some people considered worse than death.

“The door still works and so do our legs,” Nickels said. “Both seem like advantages.”

“And wanting to leave teleports us out,” someone said with a shrug.

“Then we should do the boss. No one knows what it could be on this stage,” another offered, brightening as if the Dungeon owed them a surprise gift. Nickels tried to avoid showing his reaction.

Knowledge carried value. Some adventurers paid more for a good report than for a sack of coins, especially when secrets could be traded later. These Maxers knew that, but they kept treating the place like it was a stubborn cupboard instead of a Dungeon that had shown far more patience than they deserved.

“This floor has a slime boss,” Nickels said. “Or something that behaves like a slime. Sometimes it turns into a knight. Sometimes a beast. People swear they saw worse shapes here.” He paused. “No one ever provides clear notes. Mainly because they were too busy grabbing loot to say please or thank you.”

“Ain’t thanking a Dungeon for loot. It’s like thanking a tree for air,” someone scoffed.

“Then you’ll feel very foolish when the trees get tired of you and let you suffocate,” Nickels replied. That started another argument, the kind that circled the same point while tempers warmed. A vote followed, full of raised voices and low muttering.

Nickels closed his eyes when caution lost by a narrow margin. The group turned toward the boss door. Sharp grass reached their boots, the cracked walls pressed in, and the shadows stretched in ways Nickels disliked. 

He glanced at the door and let his thoughts drift about the stages they were on. What could it all mean in the larger scheme of the Dungeon’s intent. What made each Stage change? Maxers talked about the system as if they understood it, but none of them could state what each stage truly meant. 

They treated it like weather: something to comment on but never study. Just push the number higher and see what crawls out of the shadows.

This Dungeon had put up with far worse than them. 

It kept offering chances. It kept warning. It kept trying. 

That level of patience felt almost human.

They stepped forward and the statue above the door cracked apart. Stone fell in clean sheets, dropping away from the figure inside. The creature landed in a deep crouch, one fist planted on the floor, wings unfolding to form a firm barrier between the group and the door. 

The last pieces of stone slipped from his shoulders as he rose to his full height. He stood close to eight feet, built like someone who treated strength as a daily habit rather than a boast. A greatsword rested across his back, the kind of weapon that encouraged good manners.

“Weapons!” someone began, already raising a hand.

The gargoyle lifted both palms in a calm stop gesture.

“I seek only one of you for combat. The rest may pass,” he said. His voice rolled through the room with steady weight, not loud for effect, only firm enough to show he meant what he said.

Nickels recognised the tone. It was the sound of a creature who could level the room in a few seconds and preferred not to. A ripple of uncertainty spread.

No notes covered this. No guides. No helpful scribbles from past adventurers who might have bothered to write something down instead of bragging about loot or complaining about the Dungeon.

They had found knowledge, which had been the goal, although the knowledge now stood in front of them with arms thicker than fence posts and a sword that could split a wagon. 

Several Maxers tried to look thoughtful. It only suited a few of them.

“Just one? Not to the death?” someone asked, already juggling risk and reward in a way that suggested neither side weighed much for them.

The gargoyle offered no expression, only a steady evaluation. His eyes moved across the group, then stopped on Nickels.

“I wish to fight you alone. Will you surrender your way of passage for the others to continue?” he asked.

Every face turned to Nickels. Some hopeful. Some relieved. Some pretending they would have volunteered if given more time. 

Nickels sighed inwardly. Of course the powerful sentinel wanted him. Of course the group wanted him to agree. His day had been going far too well for this not to happen.

But… he decided he had put in enough effort. He had tried to keep the group organised, tried to keep them focused, and tried to keep them alive. 

None of it had landed. They followed his warnings for a few minutes, then drifted back to bold ideas that ignored every clue around them. He felt no urge to correct them again. The limit of Nickels’ patience had arrived and he accepted it with steady calm.

That was fine. Their choices were their own burden. They were a problem, but they weren’t Nickel’s problem to solve.

‘These people aren’t mine to guide’ he thought, settling his stance and steadying his breath.

“I accept. You can continue. Go be legends,” Nickels said. His attempt at a smile stalled halfway and settled into a tight line. The others edged around the gargoyle with slow steps, eyes forward, hands ready for trouble that never came. 

The gargoyle stood in complete stillness until the last of them crossed the threshold. Its presence filled the room without threat or hostility, only patience.

The door closed behind the group. Nickels stayed where he was, facing the sentinel in the quiet that followed. The air felt steady, neither hostile nor welcoming, simply waiting for the next move. The gargoyle shifted his weight, the faint scrape of stone marking the motion.

“I do not think I can match you in direct combat,” Nickels said. He kept his voice even. He wanted the truth stated cleanly so the sentinel would not assume delay or excuses.

“You underestimate yourself. You have speed and a mind that adjusts. Those traits decide many fights,” the gargoyle replied. His tone carried respect without flattery. His hands remained lowered and his stance stayed controlled, the strength in his frame held back rather than displayed. For a moment his eyes dropped to the ground, a small sign of unease that did not fit his size.

“I may have misled you and your group. I was not planning to harm anyone. The Dungeon asked me to delay your advance. Nothing more,” he said. The honesty carried its own weight, simple and direct.

Nickels felt his thoughts slip sideways. He had expected demands, challenges, or some form of dramatic ordeal. This admission did not match any of those. His mind paused, searching for clarity.

“Huh?” he managed.

“Delta is grateful. She noticed you trying to adjust and learn how things work here. The problem is the system. It keeps a whole group in one stage. No one gets lowered on their own. The only workable option was to hold you in place and let the others move forward,” the gargoyle said. He shaped each word with slow care, offering nothing that could twist into another meaning.

It felt strangely thoughtful. Something a person might do.

“This Dungeon isn’t normal, is it?” Nickels asked. He already knew the answer from the rumors outside.

“I cannot say. This is home. It has always been home. But the people who enter bring trouble. Many arrive with rude habits and no respect,” the gargoyle said. His wings pulled tight for a moment before he settled again.

He shifted his stance, almost uneasy. “Delta tries to guide them. Some listen. Many do not. She hopes for better outcomes, but hope only reaches so far. Your effort stood out. Most visitors rush through every hall and every room without thought.”

Nickels rubbed the back of his neck. The honesty landed heavier than he expected. “Didn’t think anyone paid attention to that.”

“Delta did,” the gargoyle said. He lowered his gaze for a moment, as if sharing something private. “She wanted you to know.”

Nickels felt a warm breeze brush the side of his neck. The sudden heat ran across his skin and made his shoulders twitch, though the sensation held a soft comfort he had not expected. The warmth carried a steady promise of shelter after a long, cold stretch, enough to ease the tightness in his jaw for a moment.

“What’s going on in the boss room?” he asked. He needed the distraction. He could not deal with the idea of someone cheering for him. He was a Maxer, a selfish intruder and scavenger.

The gargoyle turned toward the closed door. A dozen sliders and bolts held it shut. Thin traces of dark pressure seeped from the frame, steady and controlled rather than wild.

“Your comrades are learning a valuable lesson,” he said. His tone held no anger, only certainty.

“Like math or history?” Nickels asked slowly, knowing it wouldn’t be anything so simple. 

The gargoyle thought it over, then gave a small smile that sat tight on his face, a shade darker than before.

“Science. The lesson that every action has an equal and opposite reaction in equal response,” he said. The delivery sounded borrowed from someone whose grip on sanity thought was optional at best. Nickels glanced at the door with the Doctor’s mark on it and let the thought drop.

“Will they be alright?” he asked, shifting back to the boss door. The bolts held firm. The wood gave a faint tremble.

The gargoyle paused long enough that Nickels felt his stomach tighten.

“They’ll live.”

Well, what else could Nickels really ask for?

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The room beyond held a cold that felt set into the walls, a steady chill that clung to the stone. 

Frost crept along the floor and ceiling in thin lines, and a few icicles hung from the broken arches. The Maxers filed in, their breath rising in pale streams. Some wished Nickels luck under their breath. Others gave a vague promise to meet him upstairs, already thinking about bruises and stories.

A low wind pushed through the space. It moved with purpose, carrying a sense of order that did not match the ruin around them. This place had once been a throne room. Now the stone had fallen inward, turning the chamber into a wide den shaped by time and the quiet work of something powerful.

At the far end, a hole dropped straight into darkness, deep enough that no light returned from it. The edges were clean, as if something had carved it out with intent rather than force.

As they moved toward the center, a Maxer’s boot clipped something buried in a small mound of snow. He bent down, brushed it off, and lifted it with a burst of noisy triumph.

“Loot!” he shouted, holding up a battered crown, nearly cracked through the middle. The metal had more brass than shine, the triangles around the rim worn smooth but still cared for at some point.

“Melt it down or wear it and see if it blocks the boss’ attacks,” someone said. That set the rest off. Hands dug through snow, tossing aside clumps in the hope of hitting another prize.

The room stayed cold, the kind that slowed breath and made voices sound thin. Snow drifted in low curls across the floor, gathering around their boots. The unease settled deeper, quiet but steady.

“Speaking of, isn’t there supposed to be a boss here?” a Maxer asked. Her voice wavered as she scanned the empty den, waiting for something to shift or answer.

The moment the question left her mouth, the far pit answered. A blast of cold wind surged upward, a harsh stream that hit the ceiling and spread fast. Ice crawled across the stone in thin sheets. New icicles formed in real time, sharp and heavy enough to make several Maxers flinch upward.

“What happens,” a voice said from below, deep enough to freeze every breath in the room, “when a king finds his crown too small for what must be done?” The pressure pushed through the chamber heavy and deliberate

“What does a king do when his people, his family, his home no longer need a just ruler?” the voice continued. The pit darkened further, and something large began to rise from the depth, carried by that same cold wind.

“Formations!” someone shouted. Boots scraped for position. The floor gave a small shift beneath them, and only then did they notice the slight downhill tilt leading straight toward the pit.

“You have destroyed my family. You have stolen our treasures. You have hurt my mother!” the voice roared. The entire room shook. Snow leapt from the stone in scattered bursts as the walls groaned.

From the pit, a long slender neck emerged, deep azure in colour. Bone plates ran from the skull down the length of the neck, each one tight and thick. The creature’s rise continued in slow, steady lifts, carrying a body with heavy coils that moved under the surface of the pit as if bracing for release.

The Maxers edged back by instinct. Even those who usually pushed forward now kept their weapons lowered. The room stayed cold, and the cold kept growing, working into their legs and breath.

“You deserve not the judge and his verdict. You do not deserve the nurse or her cures. You do not even deserve the damnation of a king,” the beast spat. Venom struck the floor in hard droplets that froze whatever they touched, sealing cracks and snow in hard white patches.

The neck lifted higher, bringing the creature’s full head into view, eyes narrowed with a focused rage that cut through the room without hesitation.

“Your reward is the rage of a tyrant,” the serpent announced and its eyes flashed a deep orange.

There was a slight pause.

“I’m… sorry?” someone said hesitantly. The giant snake tilted its head and it somehow smiled, all teeth and no warmth.

“Not as sorry as you’re about to be,” the boss said, voice so certain it was like a law of reality being put into place.

Then ice and venom rushed down at them.

The crown laid forgotten in the corner of the room, slowly buried once more under a frozen mound.

---

“This corner of the garden is one of my favorites. As you can see, the cracks are more symmetrical, but also hint at a chaotic chance of formation. I find deep meaning in it,” Vanguard explained, the gargoyle showing Nickels his favorite corner to brood in, his preferred patch of grass to stand solemnly in, his preferred wall to lean against moodily.

“It’s nice,” Nickels managed and Vanguard looked pleased.

“Lean against the corner, let its dark opulence be revealed to you,” he insisted and Nickels wondered where his life had gone so weird?

He leaned in as suggested and after a moment he blinked.

“I feel really… cool,” he admitted with a frown.

Vanguard merely looked like he expected this.

“Come, I shall show you the poetry section of the library. Many macabre and nihilistic texts can be found there,” the gargoyle said, picking up speed and Nickels was flung over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

“I can walk,” Nickels said, too tired to argue.

“You are now my burden to carry,” Vanguard said tragically.

…Damn it, he was so cool.