NOVEL NEXT Chapter 9: The Dripping Walls
In the modestly furnished quarters of the colosseum, the gladiators gather after a long day of intense battles, their limbs heavy with fatigue and minds weary from the constant onslaught of the dungeon-core’s new and ever more exhausting challenges. As they find solace in one another's company, conversations inevitably turn to the latest events and games that have transpired within the arena.
“It ate my god-damned leg,” mutters the black haired priestess, Niji-ji; she’s sitting on the ground with her back against the wall. She’s skirted her robe up to her thighs, her hands rubbing her calf that had, about ten minutes ago, been gruesomely torn off by a new monster that has made its appearance in the arena. It’s fine now, though. She’s been reborn after dying in the last skirmish event.
Marjus, the human spearman, kneels down next to her, looking at her pale leg. “Looks good to me,” he replies, grabbing her ankle and lifting her leg up into the air. “But how about I take a closer look?” he suggests, lifting an eyebrow.
A second later, Niji-ji’s leg slips out of his hand and cracks against the side of his head, causing the man to fall over. “Nice try,” replies the priestess dryly, sighing and pulling her robe back down. “Team Fire dog.”
A skeleton shrieks from the side of the room, pointing very enthusiastically to a hand-painted ‘no fighting’ sign that it is holding.
Marjus, rubbing the side of his head, looks up her way from the ground next to her. “Really? We haven’t had a team game in days now,” he replies, sitting upright. Back during the initial drawing of teams, he had been placed into Team Fire, and she was in Team Water. These teams have since made recurring appearances at other events. At first, there was no rivalry, as it was viewed as a ‘them all against the dungeon’ issue. However, the mood has changed. As one team wins, the other realizes that it puts them further away from escaping. In the end, there are only so many Champion-Points and the majority go to the victors, who are getting tired of charity. Sharing has become reduced over the days, and prizes are hoarded now more than before. “Right now, it’s every man for himself.”
“Correct,” replies Niji-ji cooly, rising up to her feet. “I suggest you follow that philosophy to its logical end,” she replies, gesturing with her hand in a very suggestive motion as she walks away.
Marjus sighs, calling after her. “How about dinner then?” he asks, receiving no response except a cold shoulder from the rival priestess.
After a moment of silence, he turns his gaze to the skeleton holding the sign.
“Well, how about you?” asks the man.
The skeleton lifts the wooden sign up, hiding its face from him.
It has become apparent that another new division has emerged within their ranks, one that transcends the prior boundaries of Team Water against Team Fire. The divide stems from a notable disparity in champion-points that now exists among them. Those who have tasted victory seem to consistently prevail in their matches, accumulating an impressive hoard of points in the process. Conversely, those who experience defeat often struggle to break free from this cycle of loss, perpetually languishing at the lower end of the spectrum.
Some people, like the fairy Frejvald, are already about to break their first hundred within a day or two at most and look to be the first to be able to leave, while others, born at the same time as them, are still down from anywhere from zero to ten points for reasons as many as the stars in the sky. Gambling their points away is a big problem for some. Others, after being mangled in the arena, find creature comforts in the snacks and baubles they buy at the dungeon item shop essentially every day for one or two points, which prevents them from ever amassing any significant numbers, even with poor performance.
These latter people in particular hate the frugal ones the most — those who do not win but also do not spend. They are making decent progress with their minimal earnings toward escaping, but not necessarily toward making friends, as they are seen as losers by the winners and as cheap, snobby, or arrogant by the other losers.
The atmosphere within their shared living space below the world begins to shift as this rift widens. Once-boisterous laughter and camaraderie are now tinged with a subtle undercurrent of tension as conversations are peppered with thinly veiled envy or smug satisfaction, depending on which side of the divide one falls on.
It seems like every day these days, the social rules are changing.
Vilalae, the elven archer, sits up on a stack of supply crates with her bow on her lap as she restrings it. Occasionally, she’ll shoot down glances around the quarters at the different fragmentations of people. Friends of last week, who were enemies yesterday, are now friends once again today. Rivals who hated one another for years are now, quite literally, hopping into one another’s beds in full view of the public — There isn’t much privacy down here, unless one wishes to spend a full seventy-five champion points for permanent private quarters, if you’re dumb enough to want to stay here, which a few people are, or a lesser amount to rent a room for a night in the new inn on the other side of the arena. So the concept of shame has very quickly flown out of the non-existent windows — too much adrenaline, bloodrush, and quiet desperation. Sometimes there’s more howling in the quarters than in the arena. She doesn’t even go into the baths anymore.
In essence, everything is a mess.
The dungeon-core clearly had the goal of dividing them as a population through its games and forced teams, so that they can’t unite against it. It’s working too, which is the worst part. It didn’t even take two weeks.
She grabs a bottle of wine from next to her, taking a long drink as she watches the human spearman Marjus skulk the quarters. He had agreed to work together with her to find a way out of here, a way to break free from this prison system. However, no opportunity has presented itself to either of them, so they’re just surviving in their own ways.
The bottle bubbles as she continues her very long swig.
Her eyes drift, wandering to a group sitting together at a table, eating a very lavish meal that others can only side-eye from a distance. Frejvald and the rest of the winning group have made a little party of their own. They’re like the popular kids in a school.
Among those who find themselves consistently victorious, there is a growing sense of pride and entitlement. They bask in their accomplishments and relish any opportunity to flaunt their burgeoning status within this microcosm of society. This behavior only serves to deepen the resentment harbored by those less fortunate gladiators who continue to struggle for success in the arena.
Her lungs burn, her eyes water, and she lets the bottle fall from her lips. It is significantly emptier than before, and her cheeks are significantly fuller and flusher.
As time wears on, these divisions threaten to fracture what was once a unified group bound by a common purpose: escaping the dungeon and returning to their homes and loved ones.
Although, given the number of wedding rings she can see glinting from up here in graceless acts, that concept means very little for very many these days.
Her eyes wander up along the walls, over the ornate statues that guard the entrances to the quarters.
Vilalae the archer spots something there, even with her blurred vision and red face — something out of place.
“Hey Vilalae,” starts Marjus, standing down below the crates and looking up her way as she stands up, narrowing her eyes to focus as she watches something move in the darkness.
“Not now, Marjus,” she replies, jumping off of the crates and running past the man, who no doubt has lecherous intentions.
Marjus is left standing there a second time, watching another woman run off. He looks down at his hands, at the bottle of wine, and at the food he bought with some of his points — enough for two.
The man sighs, defeated, stopping only as something taps his shoulders.
He turns his head, looking at the skeleton standing there behind him, and screams.
The skeleton screams too.
Confused, enthusiastic applause and whistling come from the distance.
The ever-evolving dungeon-core Munera, continually seeking to entertain and challenge combatants and spectators alike, has recently unveiled yet another spectacle. The enigmatic dungeon-core has expanded its powers of resurrection to encompass long-extinct monsters, adding an unprecedented layer of excitement and wonder to the arena.
One such creature resurrected by the dungeon-core is a black dragon whelp, whose bones had been smuggled into the colosseum by some very daring thieves who hoped to be paid by Munera for their trade.
They were. Handsomely.
Munera was more than thrilled about getting such a special thing. Humans are fine and good, and so are powerful undead, but rare monsters? This will be a draw not only for humanity to watch the spectacles, but also for itself! How exciting! Events that can happen nowhere else in the entire world!
As word spreads about this astonishing development, people flock to witness the fearsome black dragon whelp in all its awe-inspiring glory. The human city nearby has, essentially, made a road to the dungeon inadvertently from their own gates, simply by the sheer volume of foot traffic moving back and forth. All along the road, businesses are popping up to accommodate the travelers. Members of the humans’ Adventurers’ Guild, magical academies, noble houses, and even their Holy-Church have come to observe the spectacle and see if it could be true.
Black dragons were hunted down to extinction generations ago. They are known for their particularly nasty demeanor and access to powerful spells and abilities that normal dragons aren’t capable of using.
The sight of this once-extinct creature sends more than a murmur of amazement through the crowd as they marvel at the raw power wielded by Munera as it stomps around the arena. It is only a whelp, a youngling that had never had a chance to grow. However, even in this state, it’s as powerful as a more mature dragon of another variant. Among the gladiators, curiosity mixed with trepidation bubbles beneath the surface as they contemplate facing off against such mythical beasts that have returned from oblivion.
Everybody wants to be seen as the man who slew a black dragon, but nobody wants to be the man who pees himself when it chomps down on you, as you’re half frozen in a time-warp caused by obscure, ancient magic that nobody quite understands.
Spectators are enthralled by the clashes between man and myth, with each battle more incredible than the last. The resurrection of extinct creatures like the black dragon whelp adds an element of unpredictability that keeps even seasoned viewers guessing what will come next. More and more rare bones find their way toward the arena — Cyclops from the distant southern regions, Jade Hydras from the far east, Cream colored, non-acidic Slimes from the west.
The latter are not so threatening, but they are a crowd favorite. They sometimes just wander through the seating area, wobbling and jiggling against the viewers as they eat the crumbs and dropped food and drink. The Cream Slime toys made by the undead and sold outside of the inn have been a great money maker, as they are popular for those with families. Not to mention the wiggly pudding dish sold inside the inn’s restaurant as a dessert.
The coffers are filled with coins. Already, Munera has more money than it knows how to spend. There are only so many payouts that need to be made. So it all just keeps massing more and more in a giant hole it has for that.
This wealth captures the attention of shrewd businessmen seeking to capitalize on this flourishing venture. With coffers of coins in tow, they arrive at the colosseum, eager to negotiate terms for advertising and selling their wares and products within its confines. These enterprising individuals recognize the potential benefits of having their goods showcased before an audience that includes both the general public and formidable gladiators. They believe that aligning their products with the excitement and prestige associated with the dungeon could boost sales considerably.
Upon securing agreements with the dungeon-core, these businessmen set up stalls or designated areas within the dungeon or just outside of it where visitors could browse through an array of diverse products. From weapons and armor crafted by renowned blacksmiths to enchanted trinkets and healing potions, a multitude of items catering to different needs can be found on display.
The gladiators themselves also take an interest in these offerings, as they seek out new gear or resources that may improve their performance in battles against monsters or fellow combatants. Additionally, some combatants may even agree to endorse specific products for a fee, lending their reputation as skilled fighters to bolster demand for these items.
As word spreads about this new marketplace within the colosseum's walls, more visitors flock to attend events not only for entertainment but also for shopping purposes. This marriage between commerce and spectacle serves as a mutually beneficial arrangement: businesses thrive due to increased exposure, while the colosseum gains revenue from leasing space or receiving a percentage of sales.
However, there are those who express concern over Munera's expanding influence over the world’s most important features, money, life, death, and now also extinction itself. They question whether meddling with forces beyond human understanding could have unintended consequences capable of altering the very fabric of reality. Despite these worries, fascination with these resurrected creatures continues to grow, and the excitement easily overpowers any doubters' voices.
Plus, the dungeon-core, in its unending pursuit to expand the colosseum's offerings and fuel the audience's excitement, has taken another unexpected step. Skeleton messengers have been dispatched to deliver letters not only to the families of the gladiators but also to various adventuring guilds and noble houses throughout the land. The letters contain a personal request from Munera for rare monsters and powerful adventurers to participate in the battles held in the arena.
This unconventional approach is met with confusion and uncertainty within society. As recipients peruse these messages from Munera, they are left contemplating how best to respond to such a peculiar summons. Some noble houses are, however, quietly amused and send off their servants to search their own ‘personal collections’. For some nobles, it is alluring to demonstrate their influence by providing rare monsters or championing powerful adventurers from their ranks. Discussions occur behind closed doors about whether participating would bring honor or disgrace to their family name.
For some adventuring guilds, this invitation presents a unique opportunity for their members to showcase their prowess before an eager audience or test their skills against formidable adversaries. There is a sense of fascination among those who view it as a chance for glory or potential fame that could elevate their standing within the guild. However, others perceive this enigmatic request as an unwelcome intrusion that disturbs the established order of things. Concerns arise about the implications of sending rare monsters and skilled fighters to battle under the dungeon-core's influence. Questions are raised about what could happen if these creatures or adventurers fall during combat, possibly becoming pawns of Munera's whims. What if the dungeon gets bored? What if it decides to send out its collection to attack the world?
Even if the dungeon is a bit quirky, the idea of powering up what is essentially the enemy of humanity as a whole for a novelty is not easy for many of the more responsible people in the world to swallow.
— As such, they make themselves very unpopular by being sensible and rational.
The dungeon, meanwhile, continues to grow.
Her boot presses off the face of the giant statue, scuffing the nose of the stone guardian that towers over the quarters as she climbs up it to the top of its head, close to the ceiling.
Looking around the area, she carefully stands up, balancing herself despite being well on her way to inebriation, and then looks at what she saw before.
Up above the statue, below the ceiling, is a decorative trim made out of stonework that juts out a little into the quarters. There, scampering along its edge, is a mouse. Seeing her, it scoots away, into a hole in the wall that she peers into and watches as the little creature scurries away through a long, thin tunnel that leads upward toward the surface.
She smiles, pulling her head back as the wheels in her thoughts begin to turn. The archer bites her lip at the growing ideas.
Looking back down, she scans the area for Marjus so she can tell him about this and what it could mean.
Confused, she sees him sitting at a table with a skeleton. A candle is burning between them.
“The hell…” she mutters, climbing back down, realizing that she forgot her wine back in the dark corner.