Friday(late by 5 mins) 241

Hey great people! I am back with another chapter! I noticed somefolk wanted more Delta POV, let me know if you want more of a mix or a continued dungeon vibe, but enough rambling, ze words!

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-iDDqaCIljDzGhvp2utB12oNgZ3UBkiYdjkIe5nWqic/edit?usp=sharing

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The book golem wasn’t strong nor was it particularly fast in the way it attacked the stranded Maxers. It didn’t seem that tough either with the way the Maxers sliced through its book-limbs and pages, the damage coming easy. A few swings took off most of its arm, another tore through its side, the paper just paper in the end.

No, what made it dangerous was its unpredictable nature, each new book it summoned gave only fleeting glimpses at a title before the pages tore open and something emerged. The words flashed by too fast to read, letters already warping before they could be understood. Some books were thin, others thick, all shaking as if they struggled to contain what was inside.

Nickels watched as one book opened and bundles of long golden hair shot out, tangling a Maxer up before the strands of the book were slashed to pieces, the hair turning to dust once the book was ruined. He doubted the hair had any mind of its own, likely a conjuring of the book, though it had better aim than half the squad.

“That’s insane, how does anyone know what these damn books could contain?” another man demanded, banging on the orange barrier keeping the rest of the Maxers from backing up their trapped comrades. The sound rattled across the corridor, hollow and pointless. Nickels couldn’t really help himself when he answered, tone thick with sarcasm.

“Possibly with the recent invention of ‘reading’?” he hazarded a guess, noting that most of these rooms, no, most of the Dungeon had warnings or hints laid out

It was never subtle about its rules, even if no one bothered to notice them. Most rooms simply didn’t attack outright until they did so first or set off a trap, which said more about the Maxers’ patience than the Dungeon’s cruelty.

It reminded Nickels of those long days of his childhood and the local school teacher trying to get them to grasp numbers by gesturing to a problem on the board. He’d never learned the lesson, but at least the chalk didn’t shoot sharks at you.

Most of us don’t need to read, and the rest are wizards,” someone said almost proudly.

Maxers had a high turnover rate and mortality issue and Nickels couldn’t possibly imagine why.

There was bravery, there was confidence, there was even the insane, and then there were Maxers.

In the room, the golem summoned a book that shot a whirlwind of dark gray wind, capturing several Maxers who hadn’t clung to a bookshelf for support. The blast sent both paper and ego into orbit. One of them went flying with silver shoes smacking him in the face, also conjured by the book.

The man went down, dignity broken by sparkly heels.

Nickels ignored the chaos as unconscious men were teleported out of the Dungeon, some sort of ‘mercy’ system that hadn’t yet turned off, even on this ‘stage’ of challenge. They vanished in a flash of orange in a familiar swirl of teleporting magic, a rare and expensive school of magic that the common man balked at paying.

He had seen the process before. The smell of burnt dust always followed, something about displacement and distance cooking the air wrong. It was meant to be painless, but he heard stories of sore ankles and left nostrils.

Always the left nostril.

Some still preferred horse and carriage, too many stories of ‘incidents’ happening with teleporting even a short distance. One bad jump and you could arrive early, late, or everywhere at once. The carriages might break a wheel, but they rarely misplaced a passenger. Some even turned up speaking of a lost land, run by squirrels.

Teleporting was a mad man’s business.

The golem was jumped on by an opportunistic rogue, trying to use the golem’s own immediate space as a form of defence, hoping it might not be able to aim inwards without harming itself. The move was quick, confident, the sort of thing that made sense for the first half second before reality caught up.

It wasn’t a bad idea, Nickels admitted. There was also one issue.

Books began to open across the back of the golem, forming hands, some gloves, some claws, and even some that were mostly just tentacles, all of them slapping the rogue in the face like a scorned lover. Pages flapped like angry birds, bindings squealing as more volumes joined in. The rogue managed to block one, maybe two, before sheer embarrassment slowed him down and he was soon swarmed.

Each hit left behind smudges of ink and torn fragments that clung to his gear like insults. Nickels winced on principle, not sympathy. You couldn’t teach experience, and you couldn’t fix stupid mid-fight. A large tome making up its body opened and a black rounded cylinder emerged, the round opening pointed directly at the rogue’s stomach.

“That looks like one of those guns, all smoke and bang,” someone commented. Guns weren’t popular due to their clunky nature, but Nickels had seen a few worked into something smaller by those with the talent and know-how. People liked the idea of range until they had to clean it.

This looked like the opposite. The gun was now large enough for a giant to use it as a weapon. Its barrel was as thick as a man’s chest, vents coughing faint heat as the golem took a stance.

Nickels eyed it with the same calm interest one might give a collapsing roof that there was no chance of him preventing.

A white sack slammed into the rogue’s stomach, making his eyes bulge out and his weapons drop to the ground as he went sailing across the room into a pile of gathered bags for sitting on, their innards bean-like, but comfortable when Nickels had pressed into one. The impact drew a small gasp from the onlookers and a long silence afterward.

The man laid there for a moment before he held up both hands in the air without raising his head, a single cough emerging from his throat. The surrender was casual, almost polite. He was gone in an orange flash a moment later.

The Maxers inside the room were dropping like flies and it was oddly captivating to watch each of them get dispatch by the strangest of book contents.

There was an odd moment where the golem collected a book and visibly paused before opening it.

Nickels had to squint to read to cover. ‘Anna Blaine The Vampire-werewolf-fairy-strong woman vampire-hunter Book 27: Lace and Fang’

…What in the stars was that?

Nickels kind of wanted to read it, just to know.

It seemed to push the book away after some consideration before settling on ‘1001 ways to use a sword non-lethally by Ray Pier’

The fighting died down not long after and the golem turned its head to the barrier and the people beyond. It held up a book for all of them to read.

‘The Art of Getting Good.’

Nickels didn’t know whether to laugh or feel personally insulted. The golem flipped the book once, almost smugly, before it broke apart into a dozen smaller books, each scattering back to the shelves with a faint clap of air. The noise faded fast, leaving the room quiet .

But as they waited, the orange barrier never fell.

“It’s locked us out?!” someone demanded in outrage, but Nickels couldn’t see why they’d be so eager to go back into the room with the very deadly golem of books. He looked at the barrier and then back the way they came.

The Dungeon, in his opinion, was giving them a hint. It wasn’t subtle, but then again, Maxers weren’t observant, just fast.

He pulled out the guide in the library and didn’t find much he hadn’t already observed, but near the bottom was a line he hadn’t noticed before.

‘Guardian may be appeased by reading enough or finding its ‘core’ book. Destruction will begin a fight. Currently drops are unknown as no one has had enough defence and area damage to come out a victor. Maybe you’ll be the first? Maybe pigs will fly?’

He followed it to the next room which was listed as the Free Heal Hall and he made sure to devour the words carefully, having little to go on other than ‘the cheesecake thankfully isn’t made of cheese’. That raised more questions than it answered.

There were mentions of the earlier stages in the halls, mostly secondhand reports. Those stages offered smaller meals or none at all. The Dungeon reacted to conduct, not distance, and generosity faded as crimes rose.

A simple system, if harsh. Nickels saw it as more human than a dungeon which was interesting.

No documents existed about the stage the Maxers were currently on. That meant few had reached it without incident or left clear notes behind. Had people simply not reported their experience?

More likely it was information hoarding again. The hobby everyone pretended to hate but practiced anyway. A favorite pastime and half the reason Maxers were even hired. The group who held the secret to a boss could pass that boss more reliably than those still guessing. Nickels understood it, but he still felt the small twist of annoyance in his gut.

Every missing page meant another hour confirming what someone else already knew but didn’t share.

The group, now retreating after more failed efforts to break the barrier, ended up back in the map room where two horrible stinking puddles in the shape of people waited for them. The outlines looked like someone had been laying on the ground in the stuff for some time, edges still wet, centers drying into crust. The smell hit first, pickled fish, sun-baked meat, oily sweat, and something that lingered at the back of the throat.

The sudden gap and undisturbed outline hinted at more people teleporting out, leaving behind an almost artistic piece of art.

“What is that?” someone gagged, turning green.

“War crimes,” someone declared, looking knowing and haunted.

The East Tunnel was declared ‘none of their business’ without any voices of protest.

Then they headed north, to the supposedly fabled Free Heal Hall. Peaceful or even very low stages reported a buffet of delicious food, drinks, and desserts found nowhere else. The stories always sounded half-made up, like someone describing a dream while still drooling onto the page.

Food in a dungeon didn’t actually fill someone in the same way outside food did. Nickels saw it more as a free shot of mana that would keep them going. He’d eaten enough of it before to know the difference. The taste came close, the texture nearly right, but the body never believed it. Hunger simply paused until the mana ran dry again.

A person could survive many weeks without food, even less if they had no water. But if they had mana? They could survive months at a time without either, though the cost showed in their eyes. Living without mana made people Grey, diminish to something almost inhuman.

Too much, constant? They didn’t sleep, they didn’t ever wind down or feel relaxed, like they were hooked up to a caffeine feed at all times.

Nickels liked his sleep very much and didn’t want to turn into a Juicer. Those freaks only cared about their next hit of fresh floor-making Dungeon mana. Always twitching, never resting, convinced they were chasing enlightenment instead of burnout. He’d seen one try to meditate through a wall once. The wall won.

Nickels preferred a pillow and an honest yawn.

“Ready,” someone warned and pushed the wide doors, carved with flowing bunches of grapes, steaming legs of meat, and flowing goblets. The craftsmanship was detailed enough to be unsettling.

Every carved meat looked strained, every fruit overripe. The dimmed lights caught the surface in patches, stretching the shapes into something hungrier. The grapes sagged like bruises, the meat sweated darkness. What was meant to promise warmth instead dripped tension.

Nickels watched the doors swing open and thought, not for the first time, that the Dungeon didn’t bother with traps when mood alone could do the job.

Inside the hall, there was almost sheer darkness aside from an open fireplace that roared with flames, licking and dancing along the white marble that contained it. The fire’s glow caught every imperfection, turning smooth stone into something twitching with movement. It burned hot but narrow, as though conserving its enthusiasm.

The fire cast long shadows, making shapes and objects appear on a long table in the middle of the room. The table itself stretched too far for the number of chairs pulled around it, each one angled neatly outward as if waiting.

The invitation felt obvious and wrong at once. Every chair looked slightly different, each designed to fail in a new way, one too low, one uneven, one with an armrest that leaned. It gave the impression of comfort without delivering any.

Everyone refused the seating, fearing a sudden spike might emerge when they sat or the chairs might become alive with teeth. The hesitation hung thick, a shared superstition no one wanted to test first.

Nickels didn’t have that fear. He knew this wasn’t about trickery. The Dungeon liked irony, not ambush. He walked over and saw the plate held a single wafer-like cracker, thin enough to snap under a sigh. It was offered plainly, no glow, no hidden mechanism, no smell. He eyed the sign beside it.

‘Your rudeness does not remove my kindness,’ it read.

“Thank you,” he murmured and decided to risk it, hoping his theory was right. The cracker broke easily, bland to the point of honesty, leaving a faint warmth in his chest. He didn’t touch anything else, neither the grapes sealed in their cases nor the steaming pies on the side table marked ‘not for adventurers.’ The roasts around them glistened, surrounded then by colorful desserts that looked divine.

Nickels licked his thumb, found no blood, and nodded. “Guess it’s genuine,” he said. Mercy served cold still counted. If he’d been poisoned, it was considerate enough to take its time. He had potions ready, just to be safe…

A fight broke out near the center table. Stressed-out Maxers had spotted a fountain of wine and a small line of labeled beers and decided courage came in bottles. Others tried to talk them down, which only raised the volume. The first group wanted comfort, the second wanted to live.

“Rations,” someone called, the word sharp enough to end the argument. People winced, then moved away, remembering they were in the belly of the beast. The sound of motion replaced talk, boots scuffing against marble. They fanned out, searching the room again. Beyond the food, they found nothing useful. A side door remained closed, practically welded to the stone and requiring insane strength to budge.

They combed through the room again, finding only detailed sculptures and wall art. Each piece caught the firelight too well, as though it had been cleaned minutes ago. The air carried a faint polish smell, not age. One painting featured a woman the guide named as the Dungeon Core.

Delta looked like she wouldn’t be mad if Nickels broke her favorite vase, just disappointed.

That image stuck in his mind, her expression quiet, patient, the kind that made excuses sound small. He wondered if the Dungeon felt the same way now, watching them pick through its gifts like children touching what wasn’t theirs.

He hated that look more than rage, it assumed you’d learn. Rage let you stay stupid. Disappointment waited for improvement and held you to it. Nickels rubbed at the back of his neck, uneasy, and turned away.

The Dungeon apparently had an art degree.

People sat down, back to back, pulling out bread that was becoming stale, containers of flat water that seemed to leave the lips more dry than moist, and the only stand-out was the cheese candies people had purchased off the old man in town, the stuff leagues above the rest of the food. The tangy bite wasn’t too tough or soft, more like a cream with an oddly peppy aftertaste that made Nickels question its ingredients.

As people began to eat, Nickels eyed the door ahead. It too was carved, like most that came before it, vines twisting around shapes that almost formed letters. The guide described this place as an insane crossroads, dozens of doors meeting in one space connected to a garden. The handwriting had wobbled, like the author didn’t want to keep writing. There was little else said, just a firm line insisting the garden be left alone.

The passage stood out compared to the rest like this writer, this ‘Grim’ had odd feelings about the garden. An encounter perhaps? But why be grateful?

Suddenly, the room felt hot and Nickels snapped to his feet as the fire began to roar like a beast. Shouting broke out before he’d even found the source. One of the Maxers, a ratty older man with more missing teeth than sense, looked up, eyes wide and unfocused. He clutched a steaming leg of meat, mouth half-open in a frantic chew that never finished.

The fire swelled, its glow doubling until it filled every corner. Flames leaned outward, hungry for air, roaring hard enough to drown the voices. The man dropped the meat back onto the plate where he found it but it didn’t seem to matter at this point.

The blaze started to whip side to side, a slow violent rhythm that painted the walls in surges of red. Each pulse stripped the room of shadow for a heartbeat, then swallowed it again.

Red. Dark. Red. Dark.

The pattern built like a drumbeat, steady, merciless, and far too precise to be random.

From the fire, emerging like a demon from the pits of the Abyss, a familiar hulking form stepped out of the fireplace. Heat followed her, crawling across the floor in waves. A meat cleaver hung from one hand, dull-edged but heavy, and her other fist gleamed with fitted steel that turned her knuckles into weapons.

In one smooth motion, the goblin pulled a gun powered by a fire crystal off her back, the trigger wide enough to accommodate even her thickened knuckle.

Many screamed at the sight of the female goblin. The smell hit next, cheap liquor and burned grease, the same stench that had haunted their gear for days after the first floor. It poured off her in clouds thick enough to taste.

“No, we left her on the first floor! How can she be here?” someone shouted, voice cracking as he raised his sword. The blade trembled, the light from the flames bending across it like water.

“Cois, watch the drapes,” she growled and the fire retreated somewhat, like a petulant pet, before it could set the art on fire or the decorate curtains in places.

Then she looked at them, then at the trembling man who stole the meat.

She moved the weapon in a sharp motion, making a clicking sound growl out.

“Blew up my bar, stole everything nailed down, murdered my idiots and coworkers, and now you’re stealing my food,” she said with a narrowing glare.

“It’s a dozen of us versus you,” someone tried to project confidence, like this was a buck in the woods one could chase off by standing their ground.

A meat tenderizer slammed into his head and he vanished in a flash of orange.

“What’s one less than a dozen?” she challenged, rolling her neck before grinning, “actually, here’s a better question. What’s one more than one?”

Nickels sadly knew that one. It was percentages that always tripped him up.

The door they had come from began to shake under a heavy blow, a massive fist slamming against it again and again. The sound carried the rhythm of rage, or maybe excitement. It was hard to tell the difference.

“That’s one?” someone whispered, stepping back as the hinges groaned.

A massive grey fist punched through the center of the door, wood splintering outward in chunks.

“He still counts as one,” the goblin said, calm as if explaining simple math

Nickels sighed, hand tightening on his weapon. Someone was getting choked before this was over. He just wasn’t sure if there’d be anyone left after all this.