NOVEL NEXT 144 - Archmund’s Tantrum Doesn’t Work for the First Time in his Life
"I must go see it! I must!" Archmund shouted over breakfast.
How could his father just drop a bombshell revelation like that? The Imperial City — nay, the Imperial Palace itself — was built over the Imperial Dungeon. He'd thought it would be a Rome-Ravenna situation, where Ravenna was a port city for Rome several tens of miles away — but no, the Imperial Palace, the nexus of the Imperial Family, the most resonant symbol of the Empire's power, was built over a pit in the ground filled with deadly Monsters that led to hell.
"No matter how much you whine, the answer is and will remain no!" the Lord Reginald Granavale said neutrally over breakfast.
They were eating two eggs apiece with some smoked ham, and slices of bread drenched in molasses syrup.
It seemed like this might be the first time Archmund's tantrums utterly failed to move his father, and more than any other social interaction in his life this had put him at a loss.
"How can you just say that, and then not let me see it?" Archmund said, whining. He knew it sounded pathetic. But this was vitally important. He'd made a mistake in his calculations and a few people, commoners, had died. The Omnio Imperial Family were putting the life of the Emperor himself on the line, and yet they were completely and comfortable with having the Emperor sit right above an exploding passage to hell.
What were they thinking? What did they know?
"Is this what I get, for telling you 'no', only on the rarest occasions? Spare the rod, spoil the child? They all warned me, you know — Anthony and Jane Blackstone, the Redmonts, Duke Agraria, even Emperor Marcus himself in that coy politesse of his. I thought my permission would make the force of my refusals all the stronger when they came!"
Not for the first time did Archmund think that his father had gotten immensely, immensely lucky. If he, Archmund, hadn't been reincarnated or awakened or whatever mechanism gave him memories of another world, he would have been the most insufferable brat this side of the Empire.
He shoved half a slice of bread in his mouth. The syrup wasn't really molasses, he thought. It didn't taste nearly sugarcaney enough. Perhaps a tree sap, boiled down? Or something more exotic. The Elysian Wall was replete with exotic plants that had no business living in this climactic zone, and he had no doubt there were farms dedicated to the most valuable ones.
"At least tell me why, then," Archmund said after swallowing. "Surely you have a reason for flat refusal."
His father took a long sip of coffee. It was the dominant drink in the Capital, even though they preferred tea.
"It is impossible!" his father said. "Marcus, when young, took me down personally once — exactly once — against all the laws and regulations set forth by generations of Emperors before him! The first Monster we faced almost killed us both. I have never dared reenter, even if they hadn't given he fifty lashings and a warning for my life should I ever try again!
"Fifty lashings?"
"Only those authorized by the Emperor himself are permitted to delve the depths of the Omnio Dungeon," his father said. "It is far too dangerous for anyone lesser. You are nowhere near the strength necessary for it!"
"And did he face any punishment?"
"A stern warning that such an act was unbefitting a future Emperor, and if he did any other such acts there was a real chance the throne would pass to another branch of the family."
Which was about as fair as Archmund expected.
The whole situation pissed him off. So many things were making perfect sense now in a weird twisted fairytale sort of way. Thousands of years ago, Alexander Omnio had conquered the Dungeon and from it harvested Gems, which he then used to build the very Empire itself. In the years since, his successors had built a byzantine bureaucracy that seemed tailor-made to stop anyone else from ever doing the same should a Dungeon open in their lands.
He knew from personal experience that Dungeons could be shaped by those who conquered them, even if they were tempted in turn. Obviously, there was a major element of convergent evolution at play — it was clear that the Capital was no stranger to ridiculous and unnecessary office work — but in less than a day he'd completely changed the magical flows of Granavale Dungeon. Imagine what a family could do with a thousand years of dominance.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
There was, of course, the tricky matter of the malicious intelligence of the Dungeon itself, but there was probably a solution to that. Probably. If there wasn't, ,then the Empire itself was puppeted by the evil spirits of the dead, but what were the odds of that?
Archmund took a sip of his coffee black. His father filled his own with milk and sugar, but Archmund was perfectly fine with the acrid taste. It was a grim and present reminder of what life could become.
"How strong would I need to be?"
"The Emperor is at the Eight and Final Awakening with each of the Three Triumvirate Gems," his father said. "To even formally apply for entrance you need to be at the Sixth Awakening, and even then the odds are so immensely low that you would be better off working towards the Seventh. I only achieved the Fifth by my twentieth year. The Emperor is a rare prodigy who achieved the Eighth by twenty-five. Your best odds would be to reach the Seventh. Even with your progress, I can't imagine you'd achieve that by before the age of twenty."
Twenty. Another decade. So much could change in a decade. He had the benefit of hindsight to know that was true. So much could change for the better — or for the worse.
"Then," Archmund said, "I suppose you're not an irrational man, father. Why is it impossible? What do they guard with such secrecy? Are these things I should not ask?"
"You're fine to ask these things," his father said. "It's technically verging towards lese majeste, but all nobles ask the questions. None are stupid enough to look for answers if they wish to keep their station."
"Is there anything they've disclosed?"
His father sliced his ham and chewed it pensively.
"There's a gallery of artifacts taken from the Omnio Dungeon, along with the legends associated with them. Open to the nobility. Since we've made the trip, it's a suitable place for a first visit. My schedule has been clear today, since I expected you to be more tired."
"And is it fine that I appear in public in a country-man's clothing? Is that acceptable?"
"I suppose we could spare the expense to make you presentable."
They stopped by a quick tailor's visit. Thanks to Archmund's Gem harvests, they could afford to buy some top of the line defensive gear.
"We're expecting a new line to come out in a few months. If you check in then, we can have you outfitted with the newest harvest."
"That may not be possible. We'll have to return to our holdings in the countryside," his father said.
"Ah," the tailor said. "And how will you be paying?"
"Direct account with the Imperial Bank under the Granavales."
The tailor walked over to his till and tapped a Gemstone display — most likely the same sort of thing as the Gemstone Tablet, and with a jolt Archmund realized he was nobility. These tablets bound until death; the only way this man would have one was if he was genuinely high-ranked enough to be worth giving one.
And yet he used it as nothing more than… what? A messaging system? A bank account? A glorified Bloomberg terminal?
He was having trouble wrapping his head around it, actually. Angelina had told him this was supposed to be a state secret, and yet here literally half the people he met had one. It was insane.
"There are ten to fifteen active Dungeons in the Empire at any given time," his father said. "Each of them crystallizes into having a set of mundane gear it can provide, and it will do so until it runs dry. They aren't of Gem nature, so there's no risk of binding. The earliest issue will be cheap but rough, often shaped by artisans and craftsmen outside of the Dungeon. In the middle of the lifecycle, they will be more natural and form-fitting. Towards the end, they will be highly advanced but also hard to use, specialized, and risky. And all of them are limited. Some gear only shows its usefulness ten or twenty years after the Dungeon it's from closes and a new one opens across the Empire, and that causes prices to surge massively. "
"You're very knowledgeable, milord," the tailor said. He'd apparently done his lookup, and even the slightest waspishness in his voice had vanished, replaced with deference. "Were you an adventurer in the past?"
"I was in my youth, and our lands host a Dungeon of our own now, so perhaps we may see some of our goods in this very store."
"If only we could be so honored," said the tailor.
It was a very fake exchange. If those tablets were anything like the Gemstone Tablet, then the man could have looked up an immense amount of information about them in the blink of an eye, and he would have known anything Reginald Granavale could have told him.
Within reason. Probably. Maybe. He really needed to see just how much information those things had compared to his own.
In the end they settled on a modestly expensive outfit, a dark gray suit, for Archmund. His father wanted to spend an excessive amount to guarantee his safety, but Archmund convinced him to buy gear that worked with, instead of against, the protections already provided by his Bodily Barrier.
He settled on a few extra items. One was a cloak that extended and strengthened his own magical field, allowing for the extension of his Bodily Barrier beyond his own form. Another was a silver-colored circlet that increased his resistance to mental attacks (+2 Wisdom), though if he meditated on it, it did seem to make him wiser in a conventional sense, though that might have been placebo. And the last was a bracelet with that would close around Gems he inserted into it, which he could incorporate into his fighting style and make sure he was never too far from a viable weapon.
"A bit much for a museum visit, isn't it?"
"You'd think, but not at all. I expect nothing to happen, but it's always best to look your best and preserve your power should you be struck with minor attacks on your person."