FINAL CORE : [A holy dungeon-core litRPG] - Chapter 101

~ An elder’s musings on life and death and the cycle of reincarnation

The man’s robes billowed, the passive energies of the ritual blowing past him as if he were trapped inside a tempest. High atop the western mountain, high up on the barren, snowy peaks, the wind howls in a way that it hasn’t done for generations now. It presses past the shearing cap of the mountain, running along the jagged edges of the razor sharp, rocky cliff sides, the air whistling from the pressure behind it.

Lights glow all around him, ambient baubles of world magic that flow within the world’s jet-streams, this high up. Generations ago, the world was flush and rich with magic. It was abundant with magic in amounts unheard of in this day and age. The air, the water, and the very soil of the world were absolutely teeming with raw, natural magic.

But over time, it began to wane, with each new born child experiencing just a little less of it than their fathers and mothers had done during their days of youth.

The cardinal exhales, the vapors of his warm breath being carried away by the pressure as he continues to channel magic into the sigil, carved into the rock.

“Everything is in place!” yells a shrill voice into his ear. His assistant, the fairy, clings to his shoulder with both of her arms, barely able to hold on against the winds that blow her tiny body, covered in a thick, fairy-sized set of winter gear, around as if she were nothing at all.

He nods as she lets go of his shoulder and is blown away like a leaf in the wind, vanishing into the storm that never stops.

Ice and snow pelt his face as he turns to look back forward at the sigil, the circle carved into the rock. Standing across from him on the other side of the circle is the ever quiet cardinal from the south.

The hero-summoning ritual is usually complicated and extensive. It would require the full, combined efforts of a powerful institution, such as the church, to summon a hero, using the magic of hundreds and hundreds of priests, locked together into one, unified channeling effort.

However, he is of the fortunate situation that this process can be bypassed if a sufficient source of ambient, world-magic were present to take the place of these men and women instead and he just so happens to be bishop to the mountain-city in the west, one of the last high-magic zones in the world and even more than that…

His eyes lock onto the thing sitting in the middle of the stone-carved summoning circle. An old suit of dark, metal armor sits there in a jumbled heap in the middle of the circle. He hadn’t brought it here; it has always been here for as far back as the generations of this city can remember — a token relic from a forgotten age. The old suit of armor is leaning against a lance that is pressed into the stone with a force that could have only belonged to a great dragon-slayer of times now long since past.

The peak of the western mountain is already the grave of an unnamed hero, forgotten by time. It is a rare site.

This, together with the world’s magical jet-streams, means that there is more than enough magic for him and his colleague from the south to do what needs to be done.

It is highly unorthodox, but this god-given test is nothing but an opportunity for the heavens to see how their children will fare in unorthodox situations without a nurturing hand to save them.

He fully intends to show them how much humanity has grown in their absence.

“Beulah,” says Isaiah, the heavy winds pressing through its feathers as it turns its head to look at the man, who it has finally been able to get to leave from his hidey-hole in the shrine on floor eighteen.

Beulah, wearing an ornate, heavy robe fitting to his shrine that Teal had made for him, stands there with the shrine-maidens next to him. “I have asked little of you until now, but now I must ask for your help,” explains Isaiah, looking at him and at the shrine-maidens, who are still wary of Isaiah, after their last encounter. The looming storm, pressing through its black wings, may do little to alleviate the negative image it has gained in their eyes. “The presence of people’s beliefs in me is held firmly in their hearts, but it is proven in the number of boots marching towards the tower and the number of temples being raised in my name.”

It looks back out over the storm, down towards the golden horde of lights and swords that flows down out around below the floating island, as if it were adrift in a sea of fireflies.

“But these sites are few and far between,” explains Isaiah. “In this time of crisis, I need to further establish myself. I need the people to know that, unlike their old gods, I am here for them and that I hear their cries amidst the never-ending nightmare.”

Isaiah looks back towards him. “Take your group,” says the creature. “Move and spread in whichever direction there are people, and erect shrines to me,” it orders. “Build as many as you can. Shrines. Temples. Monuments,” asks Isaiah. “Seed my name through the jewel garden that is this world.” It tilts its head, looking at him. “Will you do this for me?” it asks.

Beulah rubs the back of his head, looking at Isaiah and then over to the kitsune at his side. “You’re kicking me out?” asks the man.

“I am asking you to protect what is yours,” replies Isaiah. “Alone, without the help of you and the rest of my flock, I may not be strong enough to keep this place safe forever, Beulah.”

“I didn’t even reply yet,” says Beulah, as the glow washes over him.

Isaiah shakes its head, staring back out towards the burning city in the west. “You are a good man, Beulah,” it explains. “I already know what you will say.” The world continues to burn, with vapors of smoke rising into the air, only to be quenched by the downpour.

By the time it turns around to look, the man and his group are already gone.

It’s good to have people who you can count on.

Absolutely fascinating.

In the cover beneath a large piece of rubble that hangs over the fountain, Scholar Anderwal stands in the plaza by the dungeon-gate, taking notes and scribbling down everything he can into his journal as the world around them burns, despite the heavy rain.

“SPILLE! SPILLE!” yells Witch Perchta, flying down to the ground and grabbing Witch Spillaholle, who was quietly sitting on the edge of the fountain next to him, and shakes her. Perchta points at the explosions ringing out around the city as holy monsters shoot past the walls and the towers, landing amidst the chaos of the assault. “That stupid bird is ruining my life again!” screams Perchta.

Witch Spillaholle turns her head, looking at her. “Witch Perchta. Refrain from touching me,” remarks Spillaholle.

“Help meeee~!” cries Perchta, falling to her knees and grabbing Spillaholle’s hands. The witch cries, looking up at her friend. “Yovel says the monsters are getting trashed!” she explains. “Everything from that stupid tower is holy-attributed!”

Spillaholle looks at her. “Witch Perchta. I will not allow your inability to find inner peace to erode my own.”

Perchta purses her lips, widening her eyes as she stares at her friend, clearly crying.

Spillaholle sighs, clapping her book shut as she rises to her feet. “What do birds hate most?” asks Spillaholle.

Witch Perchta sniffles… shaking her head.

“Snakes?” guesses Anderwal, looking up from his journal.

“Scholar Anderwal,” says Witch Spillaholle, looking his way. “You are correct.”

“So, you’ll help?” asks Perchta.

Anderwal notices the witch still looking at him as he feverishly makes notes out of the corner of his eye. He stops, looking up at them.

“I will,” remarks Spillaholle, pushing Perchta off of herself as she rises into the air.

The boy in a red initiate’s robe runs, bounding around a corner and stumbling over himself, his shoulder-length brown hair covered in an odd grime made out of rain and ash. He tumbles over the cobblestones. People all around him are running away from the danger. He wants to get back up to his feet, but he can’t for some reason. His legs just don’t want to do what he wants them to.

Following his fear, the boy instead crawls forward, biting his teeth and telling himself to get up. There’s no reason for him to be down here, he just tripped. He can get back up. He’s fine. He’s just too scared to get up.

His eyes scan the crowd. There are hundreds of people everywhere. People run past him, by him, several of them run over him, pressing their boots against his outstretched arm or legs.

Why isn’t anyone stopping?

He looks around in fear, in misunderstanding. All of the people who he had spent every day of his life around, the friendly shopkeepers, the nice adventurers, the kind people of the city — not one of them stops to help him. He can see them looking his way as they run, sparing him an odd glance at most.

— He grabs hold of someone’s leg, looking up at the man.

“Hel-”

“LET GO OF ME!” yells the man, kicking him in the ribs. He tumbles over, feeling something crack in his chest, his arm releasing from the half-stranger, a person who he has seen and interacted with dozens of times.

He rolls, coming to a stop as he hits the wall of a building.

Oh.

He lays there, staring at the crowd running by, watching them all go, watching them all leave him behind. He can hear the screams in the air, the clacking of sharp claws against the stones as the things with too many teeth and talons come closer and closer. He turns his head around, able to move that much of his body, as he stares at the nightmare moving down the street.

A monster of a man in black armor, fire shining off of his body, illuminating him as if he were a demon. Without a single qualm, the armored giant steps through flames, his armor covered in blood and soot as he approaches with calm, methodical steps, a broken axe in his hands — An omen of death.

The boy winces, closing his eyes tightly, as the giant lifts the weapon.

Thunder cracks, splitting the world.

Rain pours down over his matted hair as he opens an eye, looking up at the figure standing above him. Her arms are extended, the heavy thread of massive beads on both of her arms placed together to catch the blade of the weapon above her wrists.

“Why?” asks a voice, and he thinks it's hers, given that he’s confused by the somewhat random question.

— She throws the uncoordinated giant’s arms back, planting a firm strike against his chestplate with just her bare fist, denting it, and sending him tumbling back, his body moving unnaturally, as if the armor were possessed by a ghost rather than a body with bones.

The monk looks down at him, grabbing him and hoisting him to his feet.

“Because I’m strong,” is all that she says, as she looks down at him and then essentially throws him down the street without any further explanation.

He somehow lands on his feet and looks back, watching as she squares up to the monster in the armor for only a moment before he runs off, following the other people trying to escape.

Razmatazz Monk vs. Shamrock time. Let's see how they do!

Fun random fact. Altweih, the boy we see here briefly in this chapter, is the infamous Red Wizard from DIS. The whole gang is here! Fun, isn't it? I love this kind of stuff. I really love how it's all coming full circle *-*

The nature of souls is a cyclical one. People die and are reborn over and over in what we can only assume is an eternal process of gestation, the perpetual development of the living core towards a state of what we can only assume is perfection divinity. While this is beautiful in a way, there is also a great sadness to it. Yes, we might climb towards the highest summit of self-actualization; however, think of all of those steps and grips taken along the way. Think of the possibility, when you look your brothers and sisters into the face, that in lives past, you once held others in deep cherishment, souls who you might have absolutely nothing to do with now in this latest reincarnation. Yes, you are connected by your past, but now, in the present, those memories are entirely unknown as they belonged to a life you no longer live, and maybe, in good fortune, you might pass by one another on the street. Yet you will never know, apart from a strange gust of wind that is perhaps a little too strong or a sense of dj-vu when the kind woman behind the till gives you your change, that, in aeons past, you might have once had hearts connected in blood and love. The sunset atop the mountain of spirituality is perhaps beautiful, yes. But maybe take a moment to stop and look around; maybe admire the sunset here and now. Maybe you'll prefer it to that later one. It would be a shame to have missed it. ~ An elder's musings on life and death and the cycle of reincarnation ~ Cardinal Erzael of the West ~ Human, Male, Cardinal Location: The Peak of the Western Mountain *~- Ritual of the Golden Bell -~* 09% Complete The man's robes billowed, the passive energies of the ritual blowing past him as if he were trapped inside a tempest. High atop the western mountain, high up on the barren, snowy peaks, the wind howls in a way that it hasn't done for generations now. It presses past the shearing cap of the mountain, running along the jagged edges of the razor sharp, rocky cliff sides, the air whistling from the pressure behind it. Lights glow all around him, ambient baubles of world magic that flow within the world's jet-streams, this high up. Generations ago, the world was flush and rich with magic. It was abundant with magic in amounts unheard of in this day and age. The air, the water, and the very soil of the world were absolutely teeming with raw, natural magic. But over time, it began to wane, with each new born child experiencing just a little less of it than their fathers and mothers had done during their days of youth. The cardinal exhales, the vapors of his warm breath being carried away by the pressure as he continues to channel magic into the sigil, carved into the rock. Everything is in place! yells a shrill voice into his ear. His assistant, the fairy, clings to his shoulder with both of her arms, barely able to hold on against the winds that blow her tiny body, covered in a thick, fairy-sized set of winter gear, around as if she were nothing at all. He nods as she lets go of his shoulder and is blown away like a leaf in the wind, vanishing into the storm that never stops. Ice and snow pelt his face as he turns to look back forward at the sigil, the circle carved into the rock. Standing across from him on the other side of the circle is the ever quiet cardinal from the south. The hero-summoning ritual is usually complicated and extensive. It would require the full, combined efforts of a powerful institution, such as the church, to summon a hero, using the magic of hundreds and hundreds of priests, locked together into one, unified channeling effort. *~- Ritual of the Golden Bell -~* 10% Complete However, he is of the fortunate situation that this process can be bypassed if a sufficient source of ambient, world-magic were present to take the place of these men and women instead and he just so happens to be bishop to the mountain-city in the west, one of the last high-magic zones in the world and even more than that His eyes lock onto the thing sitting in the middle of the stone-carved summoning circle. An old suit of dark, metal armor sits there in a jumbled heap in the middle of the circle. He hadn't brought it here; it has always been here for as far back as the generations of this city can remember a token relic from a forgotten age. The old suit of armor is leaning against a lance that is pressed into the stone with a force that could have only belonged to a great dragon-slayer of times now long since past. The peak of the western mountain is already the grave of an unnamed hero, forgotten by time. It is a rare site. This, together with the world's magical jet-streams, means that there is more than enough magic for him and his colleague from the south to do what needs to be done. It is highly unorthodox, but this god-given test is nothing but an opportunity for the heavens to see how their children will fare in unorthodox situations without a nurturing hand to save them. *~- Ritual of the Golden Bell -~* 11% Complete He fully intends to show them how much humanity has grown in their absence. ~ Isaiah ~ Beulah, says Isaiah, the heavy winds pressing through its feathers as it turns its head to look at the man, who it has finally been able to get to leave from his hidey-hole in the shrine on floor eighteen. Beulah, wearing an ornate, heavy robe fitting to his shrine that Teal had made for him, stands there with the shrine-maidens next to him. I have asked little of you until now, but now I must ask for your help, explains Isaiah, looking at him and at the shrine-maidens, who are still wary of Isaiah, after their last encounter. The looming storm, pressing through its black wings, may do little to alleviate the negative image it has gained in their eyes. The presence of people's beliefs in me is held firmly in their hearts, but it is proven in the number of boots marching towards the tower and the number of temples being raised in my name. It looks back out over the storm, down towards the golden horde of lights and swords that flows down out around below the floating island, as if it were adrift in a sea of fireflies. But these sites are few and far between, explains Isaiah. In this time of crisis, I need to further establish myself. I need the people to know that, unlike their old gods, I am here for them and that I hear their cries amidst the never-ending nightmare. Isaiah looks back towards him. Take your group, says the creature. Move and spread in whichever direction there are people, and erect shrines to me, it orders. Build as many as you can. Shrines. Temples. Monuments, asks Isaiah. Seed my name through the jewel garden that is this world. It tilts its head, looking at him. Will you do this for me? it asks. Beulah rubs the back of his head, looking at Isaiah and then over to the kitsune at his side. You're kicking me out? asks the man. I am asking you to protect what is yours, replies Isaiah. Alone, without the help of you and the rest of my flock, I may not be strong enough to keep this place safe forever, Beulah. Isaiah has cast: Greater Blessing Beulah has gained: Tower Recall Tower Recall Teleports you back to the tower of Isaiah. Available once every {24} hours. I didn't even reply yet, says Beulah, as the glow washes over him. Isaiah shakes its head, staring back out towards the burning city in the west. You are a good man, Beulah, it explains. I already know what you will say. The world continues to burn, with vapors of smoke rising into the air, only to be quenched by the downpour. By the time it turns around to look, the man and his group are already gone. It's good to have people who you can count on. ~ Scholar Anderwal ~ Human, Male, Scholar of the Witches' Sect Location: The City Absolutely fascinating. In the cover beneath a large piece of rubble that hangs over the fountain, Scholar Anderwal stands in the plaza by the dungeon-gate, taking notes and scribbling down everything he can into his journal as the world around them burns, despite the heavy rain. SPILLE! SPILLE! yells Witch Perchta, flying down to the ground and grabbing Witch Spillaholle, who was quietly sitting on the edge of the fountain next to him, and shakes her. Perchta points at the explosions ringing out around the city as holy monsters shoot past the walls and the towers, landing amidst the chaos of the assault. That stupid bird is ruining my life again! screams Perchta. Witch Spillaholle turns her head, looking at her. Witch Perchta. Refrain from touching me, remarks Spillaholle. Help meeee~! cries Perchta, falling to her knees and grabbing Spillaholle's hands. The witch cries, looking up at her friend. Yovel says the monsters are getting trashed! she explains. Everything from that stupid tower is holy-attributed! Spillaholle looks at her. Witch Perchta. I will not allow your inability to find inner peace to erode my own. Perchta purses her lips, widening her eyes as she stares at her friend, clearly crying. Spillaholle sighs, clapping her book shut as she rises to her feet. What do birds hate most? asks Spillaholle. Witch Perchta sniffles shaking her head. Snakes? guesses Anderwal, looking up from his journal. Scholar Anderwal, says Witch Spillaholle, looking his way. You are correct. So, you'll help? asks Perchta. Anderwal notices the witch still looking at him as he feverishly makes notes out of the corner of his eye. He stops, looking up at them. I will, remarks Spillaholle, pushing Perchta off of herself as she rises into the air. ~ Altweih ~ Human, Male, Initiate Location: The City The boy in a red initiate's robe runs, bounding around a corner and stumbling over himself, his shoulder-length brown hair covered in an odd grime made out of rain and ash. He tumbles over the cobblestones. People all around him are running away from the danger. He wants to get back up to his feet, but he can't for some reason. His legs just don't want to do what he wants them to. Following his fear, the boy instead crawls forward, biting his teeth and telling himself to get up. There's no reason for him to be down here, he just tripped. He can get back up. He's fine. He's just too scared to get up. His eyes scan the crowd. There are hundreds of people everywhere. People run past him, by him, several of them run over him, pressing their boots against his outstretched arm or legs. Why isn't anyone stopping? He looks around in fear, in misunderstanding. All of the people who he had spent every day of his life around, the friendly shopkeepers, the nice adventurers, the kind people of the city not one of them stops to help him. He can see them looking his way as they run, sparing him an odd glance at most. He grabs hold of someone's leg, looking up at the man. Hel- LET GO OF ME! yells the man, kicking him in the ribs. He tumbles over, feeling something crack in his chest, his arm releasing from the half-stranger, a person who he has seen and interacted with dozens of times. He rolls, coming to a stop as he hits the wall of a building. Oh. He lays there, staring at the crowd running by, watching them all go, watching them all leave him behind. He can hear the screams in the air, the clacking of sharp claws against the stones as the things with too many teeth and talons come closer and closer. He turns his head around, able to move that much of his body, as he stares at the nightmare moving down the street. A monster of a man in black armor, fire shining off of his body, illuminating him as if he were a demon. Without a single qualm, the armored giant steps through flames, his armor covered in blood and soot as he approaches with calm, methodical steps, a broken axe in his hands An omen of death. The boy winces, closing his eyes tightly, as the giant lifts the weapon. Thunder cracks, splitting the world. Rain pours down over his matted hair as he opens an eye, looking up at the figure standing above him. Her arms are extended, the heavy thread of massive beads on both of her arms placed together to catch the blade of the weapon above her wrists. Why? asks a voice, and he thinks it's hers, given that he's confused by the somewhat random question. She throws the uncoordinated giant's arms back, planting a firm strike against his chestplate with just her bare fist, denting it, and sending him tumbling back, his body moving unnaturally, as if the armor were possessed by a ghost rather than a body with bones. The monk looks down at him, grabbing him and hoisting him to his feet. Because I'm strong, is all that she says, as she looks down at him and then essentially throws him down the street without any further explanation. He somehow lands on his feet and looks back, watching as she squares up to the monster in the armor for only a moment before he runs off, following the other people trying to escape. Razmatazz Monk vs. Shamrock time. Let's see how they do! Fun random fact. Altweih, the boy we see here briefly in this chapter, is the infamous Red Wizard from DIS. The whole gang is here! Fun, isn't it? I love this kind of stuff. I really love how it's all coming full circle *-*