Shadowcroft Year 3 - Chapter Nineteen

NOTE FROM JAMES: Because I totally forgot to post a Shadowcroft chapter last week, I figured I'd make up for it by posting a double! Enjoy!

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Logan’s trips to his mushroom class at Nightfall University made him grateful for the simple horrors of the Shadowcroft Academy. For example, a freshman dungeon had their core cracked in the library when a massive hammer trap smacked them in the chest. It had been in the S-T shelves, and really, most people blamed the scholar. Unironically, Madam Orry Gammy, the head librarian, always trapped her books on traps. You just had to be careful.

Logan traipsed down the Stairwell of True Seeing. He paused to look in the towering mirrors that lined the stairs, and he saw his old body standing there, staring back at him with a vacant expression. Short-cropped hair, tanned skin from working outdoors, his left leg gone— taken off below the knee by an IED—improvised explosive device—attack outside of Al-Fallujah. The strangest feeling washed over him. He’d grown so comfortable in his new fungaloid body that the human in the mirror looked like a stranger. Back on Earth, he’d been an E-Class or a Dirt Root Cultivator, barely more powerful than a U-Class, which had just enough Apothos to function.

In just two and a half years, Logan had ascended to B-Class, Rank 4, which was an amazing feat all on its own. Most of the students and professors at Shadowcroft hadn’t expected him to even survive the first year. But he’d beat the odds and had more than just survived. He also had a ton of friends and, surprisingly enough, he counted Professor Rick and the other fungaloid dungeons in his off-world class as part of them. Sure, they weren’t the best and brightest, but they had kind hearts and a genuine desire to succeed. Why else had they attended that special class over and over?

They were looking for something. A way to be more. Be better.

Logan had been in their fungi-infested shoes once upon a time and he knew what was possible. Which was why he’d been teaching them a few techniques to improve their cultivation, while simultaneously stressing the importance of hard work and friendship. Mostly hard work. The funky fungaloids were responding. Even Yeez Tee wasn’t storming out of the classroom as much. Yeez admitted that he wasn’t exactly darkness personified. More like the dusky light of a stormy day. That was progress, without a doubt.

Logan continued down the steps of the Stairwell of True Seeing, content with his station in life and looking forward to studying with his friends in the very dangerous library. In just a handful of days, the interschool tournament officials would be releasing the list of worlds and dungeons that would be used for the Semi-Finals. From there, the participants would have three weeks to prepare for the trial, which would take place over the first week of February.

Logan couldn’t wait.

Professor Suresh the Magnificent had finally come around and was trying to prepare Logan and his classmates for the challenge ahead. Suresh randomly took them to different dungeons around Arborea, giving them tests to complete under exacting timelines. The Rakshasa professor still favored the Ninth Circle, but without Chadrigoth around, he’d basically abandoned the First Cohort. A waste of space and effort, he said. Tet simply worked with the Terrible Twelfth while Lady Elesiel and Jimi Magmarty spent most of their time making fun of everyone else from the back of the classroom.

Good times.

Professor Suresh drove home the point of the random dungeon assignments over and over. That was the whole thing with the Semi-Finals round—dungeon guardians walked through the BYE portal at the center of the Arena Suprema and were instantly whisked away to one of the pre-set Celestial Nodes. It was simply luck about who went where. But a truly talented dungeon core made their own luck—at least, according to Professor Suresh. Because Logan had no idea which world he would end up on, he needed to train and prepare for all six.

Especially because there was no telling who he would be facing off against.

It wouldn’t be Sir Brandybutter, Arfgar, Daggers McFinn, or any other of the ghostly raiders he was used to going up against in the Tartarucha Cells. No, these would be real dungeoneers, lured in from across the multiverse. An entire list of suspected dungeoneers would be published alongside the list of pre-set nodes, but there was no telling how things would shake out until it was all over and finished with. The interschool competition had been going on for centuries and during that time, the judges had participants had seen just about everything.

Ideally, Logan and his friends would’ve gone over some of the protentional dungeoneers they’d be facing in Professor Kobold’s class, but instead they were still watching those old Devil McClure video crystals, which were all at least fifty years old and filmed in herky-jerky black and white. True, the videos did take about a variety of “movers and shakers” in the competitive dungeoneering world, but they were also about five decades out of date. There was an entire spotlight section on a dungeoneer named Tedder “Ted” Shadie, who Devil McClure insisted would change the dungeoneering guilds forever.

Except, according to every reliable source, Tedder Shadie had disappeared twenty years ago. He’d gone searching for elusive combat techniques on some far-flung world and had vanished. Of course, Marko insisted that Ted Shadie had later became a masked dungeoneer by the name of Lou Shador, who was currently terrorizing dungeon guardians across the multiverse. His source? Dark Matter Multiverse Radio—which was as unreliable as sources came.

Logan was thinking about all that while he ambled through the library stacks in search for his friends. A bit of green slime dripped from the ceiling, but Logan sidestepped it out of habit before activating his Pneumacity ability and effortlessly floating over a pit of glass vipers. He rounded a corner and found the Terrible Twelfth’s normal table, tucked away in a secluded alcove well-away from many of the murderous creature’s that called the library home. Inga was hunched over the table, surrounded by piles of teetering books as she sifted through receipts.

A nearby window stared out into the depths of Loch Endless. A gargantuan sea monster with a serpentine neck and more tentacles than a octopus swam lazily past. A school of Fulgur fish sparkled in the darkness before disappearing down into the infinite murk.

Logan silently plopped down onto a chair across from Inga and took out his ball of twine, which had morphed into two inextricably tangled balls of increasingly dirty twine. He’d managed to get the core undone, hoping to find something magical, but no, nothing was there except more twine. Trying to manage one ball had been difficult, managing two was a living nightmare. Now, when he tried to unravel either, he had to pull one big tangle through the threads of the other big tangle.

“Hey, Inga, are Treacle and Marko going to be joining us?” Logan asked after a moment, setting the twin balls down in frustration.

Inga closed a thick tome on economics—Edmund B. Ledger’s Modernistic Money Theories and Ivory Tower Tax Axioms. The B stood for Boring. She sighed and added the thick, leather tome to the stack of books beside her.  “Unfortunately not. Marko and Treacle are together, indulging in their… obsessions. I’m beginning to suspect the Blue Divine Filter isn’t helping them advance.”

“Yeah, you and me both,” Logan admitted with a weary shrug. “There’s at least a thirty percent chance I’m making it incorrectly. I mean, I follow the recipe, but there are a lot of variables to consider. The bigger problem is that I’m having trouble remembering my alchemy class. You wouldn’t happen to know who teaches it do you? I think it’s a raccoonish dungeon guardian maybe.”

“I can tell you exactly who teaches it,” she replied while idly sorting through some of the receipts. “Professor Ahrah-Koonem Gilligan.” She tapped at one list of receipts that looked like they may have been set on fire at one point or another. “Professor Gilligan likes to expense stuff like baking soda, moon sugar, powdered dwarf beard, amphetamine filters, and one-ounce plastic baggies. And some other things that I don’t understand, but they don’t seem at all like classroom supplies.”

“Ahrah is all right,” Logan said in a low voice. The memories were hard to pin down. There was screaming and maniacal laughter, beakers exploding into flames, black smoke obscuring the lab desks. “He prefers Professor Ahrah. On other days he wants us to call him Professor Giggles. Sometimes just Gilligan.”

Inga seemed to be coming from far away. “Well, from what I can tell, Professor Gilligan’s guardian form is something called a Trash Panda.”

Logan hardly heard her. He was still trying to glue memories together. “Marko says he likes the smell of the fumes, but he doesn’t. And Marko hasn’t made beer. He can’t, because we’re too busy. Ahrah isn’t all right.”

Logan glanced up to see Inga organizing receipts.

She gave him a long look and shrugged. “This year has been very strange, Logan. Honestly, nothing is turning out the way I expected. Not your alchemy class, not Marko’s Clown school, and certainty not our cultivation class.” She glanced down at the reams of crumpled papers and receipts, a defeated looking flitting across her brow.

“You mentioned this Karate Boy film. Do you really believe we are learning anything through this terrible, tedious process? You have your twine, sure, but you didn’t find anything at the core. And I am still hundreds of years behind on Shadowcroft’s taxes. I’ve checked, and there are no statute of limitations on how far back they can look. It’s maddening, Logan. Maddening.”

Logan shook away the dark memories of his alchemy class. “I have two balls of twine now, right. Two cores. That has to mean something, right?”

“I don’t know.” Inga squinted at him. “But I can tell you the tax exemptions of dungeon academies and how they interact with local commerce, but that is about as useful to my cultivation as your twine. I think Rockheart couldn’t kill us, so he’s trying to drive us insane.”

“No, he believes in us,” Logan insisted. Mostly because he needed to believe that they weren’t spinning their wheels for no reason.

“He believes in you,” Inga shot back.

“The name of the movies is the Karate Kid by the way.” Logan swept one ball of twine through the loosened loop of another. “As for Marko and Treacle, all the books say that the Blue Divine Filter takes some time. They also mention that there might be some strange side effects, but in the end, it should get them to B-Class. Where are they, anyway? Or do I not want to know?”

“Undercroft Lobby bathrooms,” she said absently, as though it should be self-evident. “Marko said to meet him there, so we could talk. Last I checked, Treacle is in there, crocheting. Treacle says the crocheting is helping him deal with the stomach pain he gets from sucking on the jawbreaker. Actually, Treacle is happier than he’s ever been. But really, I don’t think the little outfits he’s making for his Ugknot Calflings have any strategic use.”

Logan had just passed through the Undercroft Lobby, and he didn’t remember seeing any bathrooms. But if anyone knew the location of a hidden bathroom, it would be Marko. The satyr took his janitorial duties seriously—which itself was odd—and knew the location of every toilet on Arborea. Logan helped Inga pack up the assorted books and reams of paperwork, then followed her back through the death traps scattered throughout the library and to the entrance.

Inga counted out ten paces exactly, turned right, and walked directly into the wall besides a set of large wooden doors that connect to the Codex Athenaeum. Instead of faceplanting into unforgiving stone, she disappeared in a blink. Here then gone in a flash.

Logan nodded. “Secret door. Not sure why you’d hide a bathroom with a secret door, but then I wouldn’t put an acid trap in a library either.” He also wasn’t sure which dungeon cores had to use the bathroom in the first place.

Logan phased through the wall just as Inga had and found himself in a tiled hallway, meticulously clean. The scent of lemon disinfectant loitered in the air.

And echoing off the tiled walls was the voice of the Dark Matter Multiverse Radio personality, Emerick Warning Bellsman. “It’s pretty clear that Skip Shadowcroft—if that even is his real name—isn’t a Treowen Guardian Form, rather he’s actually a Carnivorous Privet Bush. I’ve gotten reports of him eating the Treegees that work for him, which also makes him a cannibal. Why is no one stopping him?

“Well, I’ll tell you. No one is stopping his cannibalistic delights because the entire Council of Dungeons are actually extra-dimensional time-traveling aliens called the Zeta Ridiculans, and they are here to siphon Apothos from the Tree of Souls. Not that this is news to any of my long-time listeners. I’ve been saying for decades that the Councils is using the dungeon academies to do their dark bidding.”

Inga’s voice followed. “Please, Marko, you have got to turn that off. It’s just lies. Shadowcroft is a Treowen. And the Council of Dungeons are just dungeon cores. I know you want to believe there is some grand conspiracy, but I’ve seen the tax receipts. The numbers don’t lie, there’s no conspiracy afoot, unless it’s Rockheart’s grand scheme to write off socks as a business expense. Which they aren’t.”

“Say what you will, but the Warning Bell knows what’s up, Inga,” Marko protested. “EWB is putting himself at great personal risk to expose the dangerous cabal of liars, cheats, cannibals, and murderers.”

All the while, Emerick Bellsman kept on chattering, but his voice was getting lower and lower. “Of course, the Council of Dungeons have been in the pocket of the Spore Lords since they first began. Really, this all goes back to the Spore Lords, who are working with the Zeta Ridiculans to take over all of reality. And guess what? The Spore Lords actually started out as…”

By that time, EWB’s voice had faded, becoming too soft to hear.

The hallway let out into a typical bathroom with stalls on the right and sinks on the left. Treacle was leaning against one wall, with crocheting needles and yards of yarn coming out of his back. As he worked, a variety of mechanical creations scuttled along his arms, ferrying the finished product into a compartment in the minotaur’s belly. His dungeon core gem gleamed, looking a bit like Tony Stark’s Arc Reactor. Except now there was a little ring of orange, yellow, and brown yarn around it like a tea cozy.

Marko wore a gray, janitorial jumpsuit and was resting his forearms against a dingy cart covered with a wide array of spray bottles, brushes, and rags. In the center of the cleaning supplies was a brilliant blue gem the size of a baseball—a standard audio crystal. Poking out of Marko’s back pocket was the DMMR tuning fork. He took it and smacked it against the side of a stall. The fork buzzed and the audio crystal blared with new life.

“Hey, EWB, long time listener, first time caller. I just want to know why you’re not talking about Lou Shador and his Glow Brigade. They’re the real threat. I know, some people think their just dungeoneers, but this is bigger than that. Way bigger, you know what I mean? They’re part of the Deep Dark, which has infiltrated the Council of Dungeons. The Deep Dark controls everything, man. Everything. I bet you didn’t know that there are actual dungeoneers working inside the Council of Dungeons? They say they’re accountants, but it goes beyond that. Some say this Lou Shador is—”

Inga reached out to silence the tuning fork. Without its reverberations, the entire bathroom fell quiet.

Treacle let out a bovine sigh. “Thank the licorice goddess. That was growing tiresome.”

“Tiresomely awesome,” Marko pouted. “Guys, the Blue Divine Filter may not have opened my core, but it has opened my eyes.” He tapped his forehead. “My third eye, to be exact. How can you not see the truth in what these guys are saying?” Marko’s cart had a mop bucket attached, and he grabbed a mop and started idly cleaning the already spotless bathroom.

Inga shot Logan a concerned look. “Fascinating, truly. But you’ve been so busy talking about EWB, that you’ve hardly mentioned clown school,” she said, effortlessly diverting Marko’s attention to the only thing that could rival his love for conspiracy theories. Clown school. “Have you made any progress with your… What was it called, Mimestry?”

“I am excelling at clown college,” he said smugly, “although I will admit that my Mimestry could still use a little work. But my Professor Nick Nicklewise—of Nick Nicklewise’s Clown College and Travelling Variety Dungeon of Terrific Techniques—says I’m a natural. One of the best he’s ever seen. And between us, he’s seen them all. Mimsey the Maleficent. The Black Jester. Bozo the Butcher. Sooie the Sewage Jester.

“Plus, I’m really enjoying Saudrian’s campus. Its tucked away inside this old office building with a fantastic brick basement. Bats in the attic. Lots of stained or missing ceiling tiles. Not a lot of frills, but it has character for days. I’ve jammed a little with the headmaster, Vos Mynih—now there’s a squid with rhythm. I’ve also hung out with Lorena Quartz a bit, and she’s super excited to be competing in the Semi-Finals. She drinks tea. Why does tea smell better than it tastes?”

Logan didn’t have an answer, but he was glad not to be talking about DMMR conspiracies. “What have you learned so far?”

Marko leaned on his broom like every janitor ever. “Juggling. So much juggling. Believe it or not, but Professor Nicklewise is actually a master of gravity magic—he has this shtick where he can make anything float. He’s all like, “We all float down here”—creepy stuff. Very atmospheric. Turns out, it’s all just advance juggling. Thanks to him I can juggle literally anything. Three pianos at one time? No problem. Yesterday, I juggled six chain-smoking zebras.”

“Why were they smoking?” Inga asked, taken aback.

Marko sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “See, this is why you couldn’t make it in Clown College. Because you just fundamentally don’t get comedy, Inga. The important thing though is that I do, and I’ve incorporated my new juggling routine into my Nataraja’s Wretched Rhythm and the Dumbshow of Burguk. Remember. Mime is money. Love the juggling. If I ever rank up, I want to get some exploding dummy heads. Or, as Professor Nicklewise calls it, Optimizing Mallus Apothos, or OMA. You capture the kinetic energy and release it all at once. Cool explosions follow.”

Treacle’s crotchet needles clicked. “Capture the power. Hold it deep inside of you. Release the kraken.” He paused. “I am very much in favor of OMA theory.” He then noisily regurgitated some cud and began to chew it vigorously.

Inga’s mouth fell open. “Treacle! Why are you chewing cud? What about your jawbreaker.”

“Stomach burning me. Sorrows of a winter day. Chewing cud soothes me.” Treacle kept on clicking his needles.

Logan felt bad for the minotaur, but Marko’s clown college class sounded legitimately impressive. It was also clear that Professor Nicklewise borrowed from a certain well-known earth author, but Logan didn’t want to burst Marko’s bubble. “It sounds like a real class.”

Marko rolled his eyes. “Of course it’s a real class. Unlike this toilet cleaning business. You know, everyone bags on Saudrian’s because they’re a little strange and underfunded, but I’m literally taking a class at Shadowcroft that has me scrubbing toilets. I’m pretty sure if I hadn’t found DMMR and EWB, I’d be completely insane right now. Which is what theywant.”

“Who are they?” Inga asked, clearly exasperated.

The goat man nodded knowingly. “Them.” After a dramatic pause, he went back to mopping. “Anyway, the juggling is fun, and there’s more pies than you’d think, which are delicious if a little painful. Eventually, when we’re ready, Professor Nicklewise will teach us that old ‘smell my flower’ bit. Acid daisy on the lapel. It’s gonna be awesome. Also, Nicklewise is trying to find a carriage for the clown carriage trick. We’ll pack ourselves into an extra-dimensional space inside a carriage, and we’ll go careening around the parking lot of the school and then pile out, one after another, just a ton of clowns all scattered about. It’s going to be epic.”

They chatted more as Marko finished up, while Logan worked on his twine. He wanted to defend Rockheart’s decision to give them such odd tasks to improve their cultivation, but more and more, it seemed less like a Karate Kid situation, and more like plain, old torture.

They’d just left the secret bathroom outside the library when Tet came rushing down the Hallway of True Seeing. “Logan! They’re going to release the six locations of the Semi-Finals early as well as the possible raiders you might be facing . There’s a great many people up in the Golden Serpent Hall talking about it!”

Logan couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t wait to see what he and Inga might have to work with. He put away his twine in his Ring of Pockets, and they all dashed up the steps.