Demon Core

~ [The Demon-King] ~

(Swain) has used: [Soul-Crafting {Demon-King's Throne}]

{Unique}[Demon-King’s Throne]

A horrific, ornate throne that carries the tinge of thousands of souls within itself. It looks like it is made up out of ten-thousand skittering legs, curled together into tight forms that resemble the horrified dead. Effect: While resting on the throne, your SOUL-POINTS are passively restored at a rate of 100% over 24 hours Weight: ??? Value: ???

How strong is he?

Swain sits on his throne and stares out at his throne-room, full of hundreds of tormented faces, hewn out of stones from deep below the world.

The eroding presence of the demon-sickness spreads itself out far and wide over the landscape, devastating anything in the area.

But how strong is he himself? How strong is his dungeon?

He supposes that he’s going to find out soon.

The trap, while devious, will not dissuade the full human host from penetrating the carnival.

— He watches the trap spring on the intruders, the eyes spread out over his body spasming as they twitch around in all directions, staring at strands of blue hair.

He’s seen this woman before.

The eyes narrow themselves.

She was at the graveyard-dungeon too. She must have survived the trap somehow.

The Demon-King observes as the carnage unfolds, bodies and souls flailing and fighting in an intricate dance of struggle that he is sure Cartouche would appreciate watching.

It’s almost time.

Swain tilts his head. One thing is for sure. He himself has become much, much cleverer ever since his ascension.

The man holds a massive hand against his face, thinking.

— Yet he feels like it wouldn’t have been possible if he hadn’t been a fool before, in his previous life.

Life is indeed a very strange thing.

No matter.

Life as a whole will be done with, soon enough.

~ [Ruhr, the River-Sorceress] ~

Human-Half-Elf, Female, Sorceress Rank: SSS Location: The Demon-Carnival LEVEL: 92

The ground slides away beneath her feet. Ruhr scrambles upwards, her fingers and boots sliding through the cascading mud as screams and bodies fall all around her. The storm rages above their heads, the wind howling as the world rumbles and shakes. The incline that she and the raiding party are all on grows ever steeper, causing them to all slide down towards the monster waiting at its end.

She slips.

Ruhr spins around as she slides down the incline, getting ready to cast a spell to blast herself back up. At least until her bottom strikes something solid and she winces, looking down.

The ground below her, covered in streaks of mud, glows alight.

Along the vertical incline — the slope that leads down to the flailing mass of meat and worms — several translucent, magical barriers have been created as platforms of sorts to stop people from falling down.

She sighs in relief, looking down through the glass panes. Not everyone was lucky. The bottom quarter of the troop fell right into it, their bodies being plunged into open maws, made out of flayed open ribcages. The liquefied bones or worms or whatever they are are pressed into the captured people, moving through their ears and eyes and burrowing through the sides of their necks or their chests.

Moments later, the lowest translucent window is splattered red as dozens of horrifically screaming carcasses explode, spraying their insides everywhere against the glass panes.

Ruhr winces.

“Get up,” barks Zacarias, grabbing her.

As she rises to her feet, Ruhr slides around, her boots slipping all over the sleek, muddy glass as she awkwardly swipes his hand away, trying to maintain her stance like a newborn fawn, just learning to walk. “We’re going to have a real talk about your attitude, Zuzi,” says Ruhr.

— The world stops shaking as the incline comes to its steepest point, mud running down the sides of the ramp, dripping down the steps that they have made out of their barriers, like a sludge-flowing waterfall.

“Tell it to the Demon-King,” replies Zacarias, nodding his head.

Ruhr awkwardly scrambles over to the edge of the step that they’re on, the highest of the glass shelves that they’ve created. Dozens of casters and ranged combatants have gathered at the edges of the platforms, shooting down at the trap that they’re meant to fall into.

To her surprise, it’s working well, actually.

This was a good improvisation with the magical barriers; she has to hand it to the guardsmen. But she supposes that they are high-leveled, after all, even if they are untested, untrained noble's children.

Chunks and pieces of the monster fly off in all directions. Feathers from dead anqas, beaks, and bones of people who were alive a moment ago or even those who still are, trapped, flailing, and screaming, fly all over the place as the entity is decimated by an abundance of heavy, offensive spells from above.

This thing is weaker than the creature they had fought in the city, the finger collecting entity.

Ruhr narrows her eyes.

That means that the Demon-King really is on the run. This was a smart trap and it almost worked, but if he’s resorting to this level of chicanery, that means he’s burned through. He’s weakened.

The sorceress smiles a smug smile, lifting her hands into the air, so that they can finish this and keep going on their hunt.

(Ruhr) has used: [Deepwater Pressure]

The rain all around them stops falling down straight toward its trajectory and instead pulls together, simply sliding sideways through the air into a single, globular mass of swirling water.

A second later, a hiss presses through the air as a high-pressure, single stream of violent water blasts a hole through the monster, washing pieces of it back a good mile or so.

~ [The Demon-King] ~

Having rested a little, Swain rises to his feet, intending to at least design a few more floors for them. After all, a strong play will require a theatrical backdrop.

Terror: [The Heartworm] has been defeated.

Level Up! ~ [The Demon-King] ~

You are now level {68}! You are now level {69}! Level: 69 ↗ Experience: 4322/122500 Attribute: DARK Soul-Points: 09/138↗ Presence: 13.5 km ↗ Obols: 000

You have {25} free Ability Points to spend!

~ [Achievement Unlocked] ~ 'Never Heard of You' Unlocked By: Killing a level 90+ intruder Reward: One out of one-hundred UNDEAD monsters under your control will gain [CHAMPION] status, making them a significant threat

“They’ve broken through,” says a voice from the side. Cartouche.

Swain nods. “Thank you. I know,” replies the Demon-King, walking forward.

“What should I do next?” asks Cartouche. Abydos comes in from above.

The Demon-King looks over his shoulder to look at the dancer, covered in rain, mud, and ash, and the painter, who is the same. “You both did well,” he lauds. Cartouche smiles, lowering herself in a flourished bow. Abydos flicks his brush past his forehead. “Take a break,” commands the Demon-King, walking off through the shadows of a hundred screaming faces, hewn in stone that the many eyes of his body glance over. “And then…” He stops, looking at one of his massive claws. “We’re wrapping this little performance up,” he says. “It has been a very long song and dance, but I think it’s about time to tie it all closed.”

He vanishes into the shadows, teleporting up to a higher floor, leaving the two of them there in the darkness of the throne-room.

~ [Cartouche] ~

Gallu, Female, Dancer Location: The Demon-King's Castle, Throne-room LEVEL: 69

Cartouche looks around herself, not really sure what to do now. She’s been dancing the whole time. She was dancing all of her old life, and now in this new one, she has done nothing but dance, and this is really her first real break, barring some wandering around and vague examinations of her changed state.

She turns her head, looking to the side at the painter. He’s standing in front of one of the statues in the throne-room, painting its eyes with his brush. The man’s shadow has wrapped itself around the statue, acting as a perfectly wrapped fabric canvas that drapes around the stone body.

Cartouche turns her head, looking at the ghostly band of musicians that haunts the air around her, always following her. They’re playing their melody, but it's softer now and more somber, as if to accentuate the heavy, looming darkness of the throne-room.

The dancer looks down at the floor, somewhat lost.

…What is she supposed to do?

Is she… is she just supposed to stand here? To sit here?

What did she use to do? Back before today?

She thinks for a moment. Back then, she was on her feet so often, working from sun up to sun down, that all she ever really did was sleep, wash, and then prepare for her next show. She never had any ‘free’ time. It was all work or the tight budget of time used to rest up before more work. That was it. That’s all she ever did.

She looks over to the painter.

He’s painted in the eyes of the statue and stands back, admiring his work.

— The statue remains perfectly still, but its eyes have now come to life, looking around the room in a gaze of trapped horror as they squirm around, as if trying to find a way to move the rest of the body they’re attached to. It, of course, does not respond and remains perfectly still.

She supposes she should prepare for the next show, then, if nothing else. But…

The dancer looks down at herself. She’s covered in filth and gunk. There are people, of course, who would pay extra for such a performance. But she’s in the employ of something more noble than the pursuit of money now, something more refined and tasteful, something with an eye and a heart for the purity of the fine arts, of true culture.

She isn’t some crude creature of base instincts. She’s an artist.

“Hey,” calls Cartouche. The painter looks her way. “I need a favor.”

“Yes?” asks the painter.

She points at the wall of the dungeon. “Can you paint a washroom?” she asks, “Please. I really need to freshen up.”

Abydos tilts his head. “Of course, but… can’t you make it?” he asks, looking at the wall that she’s pointed out, shrugging.

Cartouche purses her lips into a tight frown and then shakes her head. She can’t dance anymore right now, even if she wanted to.

The truth is that after all of this dancing, steam, water magic, rain, and everything else, she just really has to go.

It would seem that Gallu are still, despite their demonic change, living, fleshy beings of some sort at the end of the day.

~ [Vicar] ~

Human, Male, Priest Location: The City, Cathedral LEVEL: 73

Warning: Soul-Points: {09}% remaining You are suffering: [Soul-Sickness {02}]

Vicar strains himself, holding his arms up into the air, his magic flowing out of him into the great collective mass of energy that he and a hundred other priests of varying rank and position condense in the center of the cathedral. Hundreds of pews have been thrown hastily against the walls, stacked up so that the great magical seal, carved into the stone floors generations ago, could be freed from its rest beneath them.

This is the mechanism that holds the shield up around the city. But only so long as they keep pouring themselves into it will the shield stay sustained.

The man winces, holding back his exhausted face and trying to keep his arms up in the air. How long has it been? He’s starting to lose feeling in his fingers, and his shoulders have been shaking for a while now.

“Brother Vicar,” says a voice from next to him. With strain in his eyes, he turns his head to look at a sister of the faith. “Here, drink this,” she says, holding up a potion to his mouth.

(Vicar) has drank: [Major Soul Potion] Soul-Points restored to 100%

A coolness runs through his body, the exhaustion and nausea that he had a moment ago washing away — at least that part of it that was born of his depleting soul-points. However, even with his soul-points restored, his body is still taxed. Channeling magic this long is devastating for the intricate magical system that functions as a part of a person’s body. Much like an over-stressed heart, this unseen organ can give out too, eventually, even if it is continually supplied with fresh, rejuvenating blood.

“Thank you, sister,” says Vicar, looking back toward his work. “How much longer?” he asks, grimacing as a sharp pang shoots through his core. The priestess takes the bottle back, setting it onto a cart as she makes her rounds around the circle of casters holding the shield around the city aloft. She grabs a damp cloth and dabs it against his forehead.

“Just a little longer, okay?” replies the sister.

Vicar exhales, doing his best to stabilize himself as he nods.

The sister pushes her cart further, rubbing his back once with a free hand as she passes, moving on to the next person in line, who is facing similar difficulties.

Even if they change out shifts, it’s just too much for the small numbers they still have here still alive. All of the new priests died horrifically, and most of them, those who even made it this far, are simply worn out.

He closes his eyes, keeping the magic going.

Just a little longer.

~ [Sir Fajulia] ~

Elf, Male, Royal Knight Location: The Demon-Carnival LEVEL: 86

Fajulia’s mace crushes the skull of a zombie that was trying to grab him from a tent.

Suddenly, fire explodes all around him. The elf covers his face.

— The whole tent is blown away, having been struck by a wayward fireball.

They escaped the trap and horrific monster, the amalgamation of flesh, sinew and screams. They destroyed it and pushed forward into the carnival, a sickly display of humor by the horrific beast known as the Demon-King.

Ash and cinders fall down around him as he spins around, hearing something shuffling to his side.

(Sir Fajulia) has used: [Royal Decree {Halt.}]

Golden chains shoot out of his mace, wrapping themselves around a dozen fetid husks that had been shambling towards him in the amber firelight.

— The horde is immediately swept away, consumed, as a raging, blue dragon made up entirely out of surging waters swallows them whole, ripping off into the darkness of the distant night.

Fajulia nods to the river-sorceress, who makes her way past him.

She’s a commoner, and a crude thing at that. But even he, someone of superior blood, knows to bow his head when the gods choose somebody. After all, they are of superior blood to him. For him to be able to know that he is simply better than a commoner by his birth alone, then he must also accept that the gods are better than him by their own genesis.

This is the way of nature.

There are superiors and there are inferiors, dictated not by quaint social motives and happy political takes, but by the warm, solid truth of blood.

The assault pushes the carnival, destroying all of the remaining undead with ease. These are just simple zombies and a couple scattered imps. There’s nothing of real threat out here, barring the massive monster from before. These ‘normal’ creatures are simple and plain.

— They are of inferior creation.

Fajulia waves for a troop of his men to regroup and follow after him as they go towards the center-piece of the carnival.

A stage is set, but nobody stands on it. No performer is here to greet them, no playwright to begin the show. It’s simply an empty stage.

It is fitting, in a way.

He supposes that after all the cards that have been played, the Demon-King is simply empty handed now, with no real tricks left. He may be a powerful creature, of a higher birthright than his own, but he is alone with none around him of a blood of similar quality.

He supposes that such a horrific entity can’t know of such a thing, however. Unlike himself, it is unlikely that the Demon-King has kin.

Ruhr the river-sorceress nods to Royal-Guard Zacarias, who then nods to him, and he turns and nods to his own men — as is the natural order, and they all climb up the stage, a good three-hundred strong still, of the five-hundred who came this way.

~ [Cartouche] ~

Female, Gallu, Dancer Location: The Demon-King's Castle, Washroom LEVEL: 69

Cartouche stares with dead, tired eyes as she turns her head to the side, staring at the band of ghosts standing in the washroom and playing her accompanying music as she bathes.

Every squeaky rub gets a dramatic ensemble of strings, every flip of her hair receives a longing serenade, every time she tries to get up out of the water to dry off — a drum-roll.

They know what they’re doing.

Cartouche’s eye twitches as she grates her teeth together.

— Just as her eyelid closes, something strikes a small, metal triangle next to her ear.

The woman screams, jumping up out of the bathwater, and rushes at the ghosts, who scatter in fearful departure.

~ [The Demon-King] ~

~ [Warning] ~

A RAID has entered your dungeon! Estimated Difficulty: EXTREMELY DEADLY Estimated Intruder Level: 95

~ [Dungeon] ~ The Demon-King’s Castle Current number of floors: 10 Section one - Lust (Floors 1-10)

01: {The Gate to the Underworld}

02: {The Precipice of Hope}

03: {The Call of Home}

04: {A Writhing Comfort}

05: {The Mimic Chamber}

06: {The Promise of Power}

07: {The Grasslands with Strange Names}

08: {A Wholesome Promise}

09: {The Lusting Den} (💀)(DEMON-CORE)

10: {The Graveyard}

  10B: {The Demon-King’s Throne-Room}

    10C: (Demon Quarters)

    10D: (Washroom)

Estimated difficulty: EXTREMELY DEADLY Estimated intruder level: 95 Estimated defender level: 69 Monster count: 00 Bosses: 01 Traps: 09 Chests: 00 Dungeon territory: 13.5 km Rank: SSS

They’re close.

Swain lifts his gaze, staring up towards the top of the dungeon from where he stands on floor nine, and then finishes carving his poem into the rock, finishing the room.

Windows appear all around him as the room completes itself and as monsters are summoned in from the darkness, coming together into supple, quivering masses of flesh that take on the shape of beautiful people.

~ [Dungeon] ~

[Section 01 - Lust] [Floor 09] {The Lusting Den}

A strange chamber, full of wafting perfumes and odors that remind one of distant memories of loves never had and of secret hopes, held in carnal nights that never occurred.

Room Effects: Passionate Allure — All entities that enter this place with a LOV value lower than 20 will be afflicted with stacking status: [Transformation: {Succubus} / {Incubus}]

SOULS COST PER MONSTER: F-Rank: 01 E-Rank: 02 D-Rank: 04 C-Rank: 08 B-Rank: 16 A-Rank: 32 S-Rank: 64 SS-Rank: 128 SSS-Rank: 256

- [Transformation: {Succubus}/{Incubus}] -

Status Effect: Strange chemicals and smells degenerate your mind, reducing you down to a lower, base state with weaker inhibitions and stronger desires.

The full effect is triggered at {09} applications, at which point an entity will lose its person-hood and fully transform into a minion of the Demon-King, bound by the sin of lust.

~ [Succubus] ~

A succubus.

Succubi are female bodied incarnations of wild demons of lust. They commonly prey on spirits with particularly weak wills and a clear lack of carnal virtue. Although they have more fun going after those who fight the hardest to remain true to themselves, Succubi will commonly target the weakest souls they see most often, using an array of illusions, transformations and mind-altering magic to lure their prey in.

Once captured and kept busy, a succubus will secretly drain a person of their soul.

Class: MONSTERElement: DARK Type: SeductressCategory: DEMON* Rank: B+ Level: 69 [Washroom] || [Red-Water {04}] || [Wild-Hunter] || [Lamashtu] HP: 69/69SOUL: 69/69 *A demon's stats are based on the LEVEL of the demon-king. Its affinities are based on its past life.

[Uncanny Familiarity]: The succubus can adopt the traits, smells, and habits of people it has never met by reading the image in their mind.

[Demonic Allure]: Allows the succubus to transform itself physically to look like whoever a person’s heart longs for most.

[Drain Soul]: Secretly drains a person’s soul out of their body at a rate of {03} SOUL-POINTS / Every three seconds. Upon reaching {00} SOUL-POINTS, a person will become catatonic.

[Corruption]: Lowers a person’s LOV value, making them more susceptible to being corrupted.

The Demon-King rises to his feet.

Floors one to ten are all done now. He’s done everything that he can to prepare for the incursion. The rooms are done. The monsters are summoned. The traps are set. His contingent of souls to spend is almost empty.

Swain lifts his gaze, staring around the room at the convergence of bodies that line the wall. The creatures, the succubi and incubi, line the chamber that is taking shape into a strange, soft place full of colorful cushions and perfume vapors that drift past eye-catching shapes.

Someone walks up to him, stepping out of the crowd of monsters.

It is a succubus, having taken on the shape of a grown woman, with wild, unkempt blond hair and a sharkish, rough look to her dirty face. Swain stares at her in familiar confusion.

A homesome smell of red wildflowers rises up his nose as the creature places a hand on his chest. The eyes all over the Demon-King’s body go wide, and the mouths along his core open in salivation.

— The overly ambitious succubus’ hand is pulled into his core as the mouth her palm was over clamps down on her fingers, breaking them. She screams horrifically, her legs kicking in the air, as the Demon-King lifts the creature to look at it and at her — her arm still being pulled deeper and deeper into his chest by chewing teeth.

She smells like her… She feels like her.

He never got to hear her scream, did he? The person he is looking for, the person he is hunting — Did she ever scream?

The Demon-King eyes the wailing succubus, kicking and flailing against his choking grip, easily wrapped around her neck. One of her kicking legs is caught by another mouth on his side, which bites straight into the bones of her shin. They crack.

— He tasted her once, a kiss. He remembers. It was warm. She was warm.

Wet trickles down to the stones as he lifts the frothing, urinating, terrified creature up, opening his mouth, wondering if it will be the same?

Bones crack and blood squirts everywhere.

~ [Vicar] ~

Human, Male, Priest Location: The City, Cathedral LEVEL: 73

Warning: Soul-Points: {67}% remaining You are suffering: [Soul-Sickness {03}]

Vicar’s vision wobbles, despite his eyes being clenched tightly closed. He feels awful. His body feels like it's just… fried through. It’s like he’s had a fever and recovered, but hadn’t ever drank a single drop of water the entire time.

The priest exhales, holding his hands as steady as he can. He has to do his part.

Squeaky cart wheels come from behind him.

“How are you holding up, brother Vicar?” asks the sister, the priestess from before.

Vicar doesn’t turn to look at her and just shakes his head, slowly exhaling, as he continues his channeling towards the collective effort.

A moment later, he feels a hand rubbing a cool rag over his forehead.

“Just a little longer, okay?” she says.

Vicar nods.

The priestess stays there a moment, rubbing his back, before she moves on, continuing her rounds that also never seem to end. She’s trapped here as much as he is, just in a different way.

The man does his best.

Just a little longer.

~ [Ruhr, the River-Sorceress] ~

Human-Half-Elf, Female, Sorceress Rank: SSS Location: The Demon-King’s Castle, Floor one LEVEL: 93

Ruhr and the rest of the group walk into the castle, moving over what looks like a long, wide bridge.

She holds on to her hat, glancing over the railing-less edge. Below is a steep, dark incline that leads to a drop that is certainly not survivable. Her hair and robe billow around as the hot updrafts from below rise up, whistling as the pressurized air shoots past the rocks.

— She grabs her dress, fixing it, and then elbows Zacarias, who was looking somewhere else entirely.

“What?” asks the man, lifting his gaze towards the fruits above his head.

“Don’t eat the fruits,” says Ruhr, walking on ahead.

The wind continues to howl, shearing across the bridge and past them all, carrying with it a deep, sweltering heat. She can feel the sweat staining her clothes now, as wet as they already are from the storm outside.

~ [Sir Fajulia] ~

Elf, Male, Royal Knight Location: The Demon-King’s Castle, Floor One LEVEL: 86

“…Brother?” asks Fajulia, looking off to the side where he sees a man bending down to pick a fruit from a vine, rubbing it against his chest to polish it.

The man in the distance, on the back corner of the bridge, idly looks over in confusion as he sees Fajulia.

The elf rubs his face, blinking, and then runs over. His brother is here. How? His brother has been off in the far east for months now. What fortune! What luck! He loathes for his family to be here, but his brother is a strong fighter — stronger than he himself is.

The man nods, tossing the fruit to Fajulia and then picks another one for himself.

“Brother! What are you doing here?!” asks Fajulia, stopping in front of him.

The man shrugs. “I heard there was trouble,” replies the person. “I figured you’d be involved, so I came as fast as I could.”

Fajulia laughs. That’s just like his brother. He’s always been the stoic hero type. He places a hand on the man’s shoulder. “I’m so happy to see you, brother.”

“You know I wouldn’t leave you here alone,” replies the person, lifting the fruit in his hands and biting into it. He nods his head to the group. “Mind if I tag along?” he asks. “Oh… this is pretty good.”

“— Mind?!” asks Fajulia, looking over to his men, who are standing and waiting in confusion as they watch him. “Come on! I’ll tell them you’re he-“

“Oh, hey, wait, try this,” says the man, walking by his side.

“Huh? Oh… Fajulia looks down at the fruit he had been given and then stares at his brother, who is walking next to him, looking content and happy enough, all things considered.

Fajulia shrugs, biting into it.

~ [Ruhr, the River-Sorceress] ~

Human-Half-Elf, Female, Sorceress Rank: SSS Location: The Demon-King’s Castle, Floor One LEVEL: 93

Screams come from the back of the line.

Ruhr spins around, looking. A troop of noble soldiers, all from the same house, stand gathered around in a circle. She runs over, pushing her way through them, to look down at the elf, who is laying there on the ground — or at least what’s left of him is.

— A piece of fruit is held in his hands, with a clear bite mark in it.

The skin of the round apple in his hand unnaturally pulls back with a wet trail, as if someone were removing a ball from a slimy sock, revealing a round, soft surface beneath.

An eye, with an oozing bite taken out of it, looks up at them all from his hands.

The walls and ceiling all around them begin to move as all of the fruits hanging from all of the branches open themselves up, looking their way.

“Fire,” says Ruhr, pulling over another sorceress to herself from the group. Ruhr lifts a hand, pointing at the squirming, green ceiling. “- Fire. NOW!” she barks, looking the terrified caster in the face from up close.

The terrified woman lifts her hands to the air and releases a burst of flames, burning away all of the whispering greenery all around the floor.

Wind surges past her face as they reach the end of the bridge. The precipice, the second room of the dungeon, is a large, half-moon platform that hangs out over the abyss, serving as a rubbing surface for the howling winds to press themselves against.

Ruhr rubs her face, looking around them.

It wasn’t just the elf; a few others had fallen for the spirit’s tricks there on the bridge, partaking of the food of the underworld, trapping themselves here forever.

“Zac,” says Ruhr. “Let me see your bag,” she asks. Zacarias eyes her warily for a moment and then nods, taking off his heavy rucksack. “Thank you,” says Ruhr.

— She immediately tosses the entire thing over the ledge.

“What are you doing?!” yells Zacarias at her, grabbing her.

“If you can't eat food that’s from the underworld,” replies Ruhr. “Do you think it’s safe to eat food that you brought with you down into it?” asks the woman, tapping her head. Zacarias stares at her for a moment. Ruhr shrugs. “I dunno about you. But I wouldn’t eat anything that I took down here, even after I leave.” She shakes her head. “You never know.”

Zacarias glares at her and then sighs, letting go of her. “You didn’t have to throw the whole bag…”

“Sorry Zubibi,” says Ruhr, patting his cheek twice. “I’ll buy you a new one. But I had to make a point. It’s all about the image, you know?” She looks over to the group. “Everyone. Dump your food. Now.”

The soldiers and guards all look around at each other. “Or do you want to end up like those guys on the bridge?” She asks. “You can eat when we get home.”

The troop relents, although most of them don’t throw their full bags. Rather, just their provisions down into the pit.

“So, which staircase do we take?” asks a man from the side.

“What?” asks someone else. “What do you mean ‘which’ you daft fool? There’s only one.”

Ruhr looks over at them.

~ [Cartouche] ~

Female, Gallu, Dancer Location: The Demon-King's Castle, Throneroom LEVEL: 69

She’s clean.

Cartouche sighs in relief, running her fingers over the dirty, burnt clothes that she’s wearing and over her soft arms as she wanders the hall. She wants to ask the Demon-King to make her a new outfit for her to dance in.

Is she ‘allowed’ to do that?

Cartouche isn’t sure. What exactly… what exactly is their station here? Hers and the painter’s? Are they servants? Minions? Guards? Companions? Or are they all fellows of the same league and status? The Demon-King had asked them not to bow. But… he’s the Demon-King. One bows to a king. She agrees with Abydos that she enjoys the theatricality of it all.

It’s fun.

This is fun.

Cartouche, in a moment of new clarity in this life of hers, realizes that, for the first time in years, she’s… having fun.

She never really had fun before. Not for a long, long time.

— A ghost pops out from the side, putting in great effort to hauntingly play the flute as she wanders the darkness alone.

Feeling her venomous sideways glance shoot its way, it immediately ducks back down behind a statue.

The dancer shakes her head and wanders out into the graveyard with clean skin and dirty clothes.

She likes the graveyard. It’s an interesting place. It’s calm and serene in a way that she would like to capture in a dance.

Cartouche tilts her head and observes the gravestones and mist that fill the labyrinth-like area as she shifts her arms and practices a flow of movements that resemble the feeling one gets when in a graveyard — quiet, soulful resolution.

— Something crashes down next to her, interrupting her dance. A heavy rucksack, full of pots and pans and all sorts of things seems to have fallen from above.

Confused, Cartouche looks at it for a moment and then up into the air, as a jumble of hundreds of various objects fall down straight towards her, having been thrown down into the pit from the top of the dungeon.

The ghost hovering next to her, having popped out of a grave, holds a flute to her ear and plays the sound of a single, descending note as a screaming, flailing man falls from above, having stepped onto a staircase that was never there to begin with.

— He lands straight with his back over a wall of the labyrinth, his whole body essentially ripping in half.

Cartouche instinctively covers her head as the rest of the gear falls from above. But none of it hits her.

It’s quiet.

Carefully opening an eye a moment later, Cartouche peeks, her gaze wandering up the towering gestalt of the Demon-King, who stands there with a massive arm held up over her head.

— A pan rattles noisily against a stone nearby.

The Demon-King lowers his arm, looking at her for a moment, before he wanders off into the throne-room without a word. Several heavy things fall down around him, having landed on his guard instead of her.

~ [Achievement Unlocked] ~ ''Light Weight, Baby' Unlocked By: Catching a falling object(s) with a total combined weight of 750 kg and surviving. Reward: All of your monsters that rely on STRENGTH as their primary core stat gain the [Overdrive] ability, allowing them to sacrifice MAX-SOUL-POINTS for permanent STRENGTH gains.

Cartouche is sure that she can’t die. But her instincts don’t really know that yet.

“Ah…” She reaches up to call after him. “— Thank you,” says the dancer, realizing only as she says it that the words and her tone are simply too quiet to carry all the way across to where he vanishes into the darkness.

She frowns, lowering her hand as she looks around at the mess.

It looks like the humans dumped all of their equipment. How strange.

Curious, she bends down and looks at the different things.

There is a lot of food.

But there are also bags and fabrics and clothes. Cartouche’s eyes go wide as she looks at everything. There are weaves here of an exotic, extravagant, noble nature that in her old life, she could never even dream of touching, let alone owning. They’re just throwing these away?

— She pulls a blouse out of a bag and rubs it against her face. Someone else has already worn this; it’s unwashed and covered in the smell of sweat and work. But the material is so soft and fine. She’s never…

Her fingers run over the fabric over and over. Do people really get to wear things like this? Even her best costume was nothing close to this perfectly woven silk.

Excited, Cartouche runs around the graveyard, gathering together all sorts of wayward bits and pieces. She’s not above scavenging, not then and not now, and this way, she doesn’t have to pester the Demon-King to make her something.

Cartouche spins, jumping over to another bag that lays over a headstone.

The ghostly musicians return from their hiding and continue to accompany her.

~ [Ruhr, the River-Sorceress] ~

Human-Half-Elf, Female, Sorceress Rank: SSS Location: The Demon-King’s Castle, Floor Two LEVEL: 93

“He just stepped off the edge! That idiot!” exclaims the man.

“What’s wrong with you people?!” yells Ruhr. She steps up onto a rock and points at the soldiers. They’re all high-level, supposedly professional men and women. Most of them are noble blooded. But that is exactly their problem. They’re not field-tested. They just got power-leveled by their rich daddies, who paid for them to be carried through dungeons. “Don’t touch anything. Don’t move without your formation leader telling you to,” she orders. “Do you not understand where we are?!” yells the river-sorceress. She points at them. “You’re all from protected families, from noble bloodlines and safe houses, so you were spared from what everyone else had to suffer.” Ruhr points behind herself. “But in case you missed the CARNAGE, we’re in the DEMON-KING’S GOD-DAMNED CASTLE!” She points at them. “Tighten your formations. Triple file, now!”

The soldiers gather together, forming up into rows of three people. Ruhr points down the staircase. “March. Before I blast you down there myself.”

The soldiers look at each other and then nod, doing as they’re told.

It’s true that Ruhr is of common blood, and so this tone of hers, in a society prior to today’s, for someone of noble birth would be worth lashing and torture at a minimum. But they aren’t going to argue with someone chosen by godly right.

Ruhr watches them begin to march down the staircase, shaking her head.

“Nice job,” says Zacarias.

“Thanks,” replies Ruhr, grabbing his shoulder to balance herself as she steps off of the stone.

“You really sold the whole ‘I care about what happened to other people’ thing just now,” says the man.

Ruhr looks at him. “I’m here, down in the Demon-King’s castle, hunting the actual Demon-King,” says Ruhr. “What more do you want from me, Zacc?”

“Zacarias,” says Zacarias. “And we both know you’re not doing any of this because you care about other people. You just want the rewards of it.”

“So?” asks Ruhr. She shrugs. “If the Demon-King dies, isn’t everyone happy?” she asks. “What does it matter if I kill him because I want to eat good tonight or because -” She makes two fists, pretending to rub her eyes as she puts on an overly exaggerated sad expression. “— It’s the right thing to do, ablub~ blub~ blub~,” says Ruhr sarcastically, rolling her eyes at the man.

Zacarias quietly looks at her and just shakes his head. “There’s a reason you’re alone in this world. You know that, right?”

“Oh, funny,” says Ruhr. She looks around the area with a playful, curious expression and then leans sideways, grabbing his arm to lift it up to look under it too. “Nope. Nobody here either,” says the river-sorceress. She tsks and shakes her head. “Looks like you’re no better than me, asshole.”

“I’m not,” replies Zacarias, walking off towards the line. “We’re the same.” He looks over his shoulder at her. “The difference between you and me is that I know that I’m not.”

Ruhr glares at him as he vanishes into the line that moves down the staircase towards the third part of the Demon-King’s dungeon.

The river-sorceress takes a moment to spit over the edge of the chasm before marching down along with the rest of the line.

~ [Vicar] ~

Human, Male, Priest Location: The City, Cathedral LEVEL: 73

Warning: Soul-Points: {19}% remaining You are suffering: [Soul-Sickness {04}]

(Vicar)’s [Channeling] has been interrupted

Vicar vomits, his channeling of the magic breaking as he falls over forward onto his hands and knees, purging at least a liter of soul-potions and soup back out of his gut over the stone floors of the cathedral.

The priest flops over onto his side, his chest heaving to breathe.

He turns his head, looking up at the glowing sphere of energy above himself and lifts a shaking hand through his blurred vision.

People are counting on him, just like they’re counting on everyone else in here to give their all. He knows that.

(Vicar) has continued: [Channeling]

— Squeaky wheels come from the side.

A person sits down next to him, and Vicar feels his head lifting as someone lays it on their lap, running a damp rag across the sides of his cheeks to clean his face.

“How…” is the only word that he can manage to say.

“Just a little longer now,” replies his sister priestess, stroking his hair with her other hand as she cleans him.

~ [The Demon-King] ~

Swain sits back down on his throne, taking a moment to exhale as he looks at his work.

Everything is going as planned. The human intruders are dwindling slowly in their numbers and are pushing deeper and deeper into the castle. They’re wising up now, but each floor will continue to slice off pieces of their numbers, bit by bit, and that’s all that he needs.

He just needs the river of their mass to filter down to a tiny, trickling droplet that will land on the hot stones of his presence.

And then, when they’ve taken a single step too far and don’t have the power to go back or forward, will they realize the catastrophe of the mistake they’ve made. They didn’t even think about it, in their haste. They didn’t even consider the possibility that there could be a second trap after the monster outside was sprung on them.

— Arrogant, hot-headed fools.

The Demon-King leans his elbow against the throne, his head resting on his fist, as he watches them through his many eyes — the humans.

They have no idea what’s happening to them.

[Demon-King’s Throne] : +1% SOUL restored Soul: (06/100%)

“I took the liberty of making some modifications,” says a voice from before him. The Demon-King looks down at the painter, who points across the throne-room to the new sections that had been built by him, the washroom and the private chambers.

“As you will,” replies Swain. “Some ideas are born out of harrowing desperation,” says the Demon-King. “And others come to us only in times of comfort. Good work.”

New Area ~ [Dungeon] ~ Demon Quarters {Level 1} A series of private chambers, meant for the Demon-King’s followers to retreat into during times of rest and quiet.

Rooms:

{Cartouche}

{Abydos}

New Area ~ [Dungeon] ~ Washroom {Level 1} An ornate, lavish washroom full of large bathing areas and other amenities.

Level {1} Effect: Allows all [Succubus][Incubus] monsters access to WATER-magic

“What should I do next?” asks Abydos.

“Join Cartouche,” orders Swain, looking at the dancer as she approaches the throne. “I want you both to leave the castle. Walk the land,” says the Demon-King. He leans back. The demon-core is running dangerously low on souls to spend, let alone to save up for the critical overload of the core. He’s almost entirely through his first massive contingent from his rebirth. This isn’t sustainable if he doesn’t top up soon. “Find the largest city you can. Tell me where it is,” says Swain. “I think it would be good of us to bring our performance to the people, if they will not all come to us.”

“How should we get past the intruders?” asks Cartouche.

His many eyes look at the two knelt demons, lowered before his throne.

“Simple enough,” replies Swain. “They’ll be distracted soon. Make your move then.”

NEW - (DEMON KING) ABILITY

[Bestow Gift](Active)

It is vital for a king and his court to be aligned in their interests and coordinated in their abilities

Effect: Allows you to bestow an ability of your choosing on an entity.

(Swain) has bestown his [Active Dominion] on (Cartouche)(Abydos) [Active Dominion]: Once a minute, allows you to teleport anywhere within your own dungeon — As long as there is currently no hostile presence there or in the way of your movement.

The two demons rise up to leave.

“Oh, and Cartouche,” says the Demon-King. “Nice shirt.”

Cartouche spins around with a flourishing bow, walking backwards to leave, proudly displaying her new blouse.

~ [Ruhr, the River-Sorceress] ~

Human-Half-Elf, Female, Sorceress Rank: SSS Location: The Demon-King’s Castle, Floor Three LEVEL: 93

“The hell…” mutters Ruhr to herself as she looks around the area.

They’re on floor three of the Demon-King’s castle, but…

“Hey! Look!” says a man to the side. Ruhr turns to look at him as he holds up an old toy. “I haven’t seen this thing in years!” says the man excitedly, turning back to look at what was presumably once a childhood treasure of his.

“Stop touching things!” barks the man next to him, striking the toy out of his hands. “Or do you want to be the next one to die?!”

“Keep moving,” orders Ruhr. “Stay in line. Don’t touch anything.”

She looks around the floor. It’s entirely out of place. It looks like they’re… well, like they’re in any old home, really. It’s… warm and feels oddly comfortable and familiar. For her and for everyone here, it feels like a place they’ve been before. It’s the feeling you get on a day in the last eve of the summer of your childhood, when you suddenly realize that this is the last time you will enjoy summer as a child.

It is an eek of comfort with a wave of nauseating dread looming just above it.

Ruhr looks around herself, somewhat bothered. There’s something off about this dungeon. But not just because of its odd design. No…

— Where are all the monsters?

She looks around herself. There were those odd eye things on floor one. But… floor two was just the fake-out staircase. Floor three?

The river-sorceress looks up above her head, where her toy from her childhood is sitting — a raggedy, soft owl doll that she had played with for years and years. It was her favorite toy ever. It’s barely more than some loose fabric with stuffing and two button eyes since they grew up poor. But it was her treasure.

It stares down at her from the shelf, and she looks back at it, having the overwhelming urge to pick it up and to play.

What is this?

“Hey! Asshole!” yells a voice from the front. She sighs. What now? Ruhr looks back at the two men from before. The one who had told the other man to drop his toy had now picked it up himself, for reasons she can’t decipher. “Give that back!” yells the man who the toy had once belonged to.

The two of them fall into a scuffle, the others gathering around them as if they were witnessing a schoolyard brawl over a ball.

“Nice owl,” says a voice from next to her. Zacarias.

She spins around, her eyes wide. “IT’S MINE!” yells Ruhr suddenly, glaring at him. She feels a fire boiling in her chest. “Get your own!”

Zacarias looks her way in mild confusion and snaps a finger in front of her face, which she swipes away angrily, getting ready to lunge at him. He wants to steal her owl, that asshole.

— Blood sprays from across the room, striking her cheek. Ruhr turns to look, as the scuffle has turned into an all-out brawl with swords and weapons drawn. They’re killing each other over some stupid toys.

(Ruhr) has used: [Grand Cascade]

Coming to her senses, she floods the room with water, breaking up the fight and flushing them all out down the way.

The Demon-King doesn’t need to prepare monsters, she realizes. He can just turn people into them.

The water crashes down several corridors and hallways, as a few hundred people jumble over each other, soaking wet, as they blast out of the other side.

Ruhr spits out a mouthful of water, wiping her hair out of her face as she looks around the area as people, coming back to their senses from the spell that had overtaken them for a moment, rise to their feet, apologizing profusely and healing each other’s wounds.

— Something slides up to her face, washing along with the last of the water.

Ruhr looks down at the bright green frog toy. “Ugh…” says the sorceress. She carefully picks it up with the tips of her fingers and then throws it off into the void. “…What?” she asks, seeing Zacarias watching her. “I hate frogs,” explains the woman, getting up and shaking her soaked clothes out.

“REGROUP!” calls Zacarias as everyone slowly gathers together again, ignoring her comment on frogs.

“How fucked are we, Zilch?” asks Ruhr, looking everyone over.

“I think we’re good, actually,” replies Zacarias. “Looks like only one… maybe two deaths on that floor.”

Ruhr sighs in relief. “Good. Come on. We’re about halfway there, I think,” she says, looking towards the abyss that hot air rises out of.

— The ground beneath her feet shakes.

Zacarias grabs her, pulling her back from the pit as everyone does their best to stay on their feet as a sudden, heavy, jolting tremor runs through the world. It slows down, the rumbling quieting but never quite leaving.

“What the hell…” mutters Ruhr, looking around in confusion. How can there be a quake, they’re undergr-

— Her eyes go wide. “Fuck.”

“What?” asks Zacarias. “Everything okay?”

Ruhr looks past him, up towards the heights behind them, towards the entrance that leads up and outside to a stage — a stage that is attached to a carriage.

“We’re moving…” says Ruhr.

“What?”

She grabs him, pointing up at the entrance. “The fucking carriage is moving, Zac!”

“What?!” asks Zacarias. “Where to? Why would…”

Both of them look at each other.

This whole operation was planned on the simple fact that Demon-King had spent all of his reserves of power, souls, and magic without a single chance to recover. Everyone is down here. Everyone who is left from the city who could be spared for a final operation is here, down in the dungeon and the carriage is moving off with nobody left to chase it or to stop it, moving right towards a new city, a new village, town, anything and everything that will give him power.

Every second from now on is going to give him back more souls and more energy; it’s going to make him stronger and stronger, and it's going to drain them dry.

They’re trapped.

They walked right into it like idiots, AGAIN.

Ruhr lets out a frustrated, desperate scream, spinning around to order a partial retreat to stop the carriage.

— The door to the quaint, charming, folksy house behind them, which they had all flooded out of, slams shut with a resounding, heavy thud.

~ [Vicar] ~

Human, Male, Priest Location: The City, Cathedral LEVEL: 73

Warning: Soul-Points: {04}% remaining You are suffering: [Soul-Sickness {05}]

He can’t really see anymore.

“Shh…” says a voice from next to him. She grabs his hand, but he can’t really feel her do it. The priestess lowers his grip, continuing to stroke his hair with her other hand.

“...H…” is the only sound that Vicar can make.

“Now,” she says. Lights all around the cathedral begin to slowly die out, the energy of the shield draining as the casters all stop their channeling one after the other. The tainting influence of the demon-king is too far away now to hurt them anymore.

The city is safe.

“You made it,” she says, leaning over to plant a soft kiss on his forehead. “Good work, brother Vicar.”

Vicar smiles, his arm falling slack as his body gives out entirely. He did his best.