However, he had to make sure he didn’t die first.
He hoped his next class, Dungeon Core Calisthenics, would help with that.
Chapter Eleven
LOGAN AND THE TERRIBLE Twelfth hit the Golden Serpent Hall for a quick lunch—some kind of roast in a thick gravy sauce—and then made their way to the Akros Coliseum, which was the northeast practice field. A dirt running track, packed down from thousands of feet, surrounded a grassy field filled with a variety of odd implements. Some of them resembled obstacles Logan had seen at Fort Jackson—such as the Victory wall and the enormous wooden ladder bars. Others, made of polished metal and engraved with glowing runes, were a mystery. Stone seats rose up around the arena grounds in a ring, just like a football stadium.
Luckily, no one would be watching Logan and his cohort. No, their attention would be firmly fixed on the First Cohort, who were already limbering up on the field. Chadrigoth had his wings tucked back as he stretched his hamstring. “Well, hello there, weaklings. Look at you, coming out here with such bravery on your faces.”
Magmarty, rock arms crossed, flexed his stony muscles. Sludgy mud oozed out of the cracks. His eyes were just as muddy. “Yeah, Chad, bravery is probably their middle names.”
Lady Elesiel rolled her eyes. Logan had no idea how her skeletal face could be so pretty, what with the miasma of green necrotic energy lingering around her. Her face was gaunt and rather angular, and her hair was so black, like liquid midnight. The combination shouldn’t have worked, but somehow she managed to make it look like an absolute ten.
Tet-Akhat merely sighed, her green feline eyes so incredibly bored.
Marko laughed. “I don’t have a middle name. What about you, Logan?”
“Eugene.” He winced. “Though I generally don’t tell people that.”
“Ennui is my middle name,” Treacle said. “Treacle Ennui Glimmerhappy. Life is so very heavy.”
Inga wasn’t saying anything, and so Chadrigoth asked, “Don’t you have quip to add?”
The moth woman frowned and hit them with a non sequitur. “This class should test both our physical bodies as well as our Apothos cores. I am interested in learning more about the cultivation techniques that will allow us to increase our power.”
Magmarty wrinkled his rocky nose. “That wasn’t funny. Aren’t all of you supposed to be funny?”
“What was the question again?” Inga asked innocently, cocking her head to one side as though only now realizing there had been a question at all. That one was an absolute space cadet. Maybe that was why she’d ended up in the Terrible Twelfth—because her head was so high up in the clouds she couldn’t be bothered with reality.
As for Magmarty, it was clear that guy wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. He sounded about as dumb as a pile of rocks, which was what he was.
Logan put the other cohort from his thoughts, focusing on the arena. This place really was different. And it wasn’t just the training equipment. The air here felt powerful, rich with Apothos, something he’d not noticed before. This was a place that was near the Tree of Souls—he could feel it in his core. The colors were vibrant, and the very air seemed to thrum with life.
Professor Rockheart came flying in from the blue sky, his great stony wings catching an updraft as he descended. Today he wore a splendid velvet doublet with a high collar that bore the symbol of the Azure Dragons. The gargoyle landed on the running track near them in a blast of dust, debris billowing up around him. When the cloud cleared, Rockheart shook his wings and rose up on his lion legs. He had a whistle around his neck like a medieval PE coach. “Welcome, cohorts, to Dungeon Core Calisthenics. I am not going to waste my time explaining this class to you. Your understanding will come from suffering. And suffer you shall. Release the doomhounds!”
Several sections of the stone seats rose. Hellish dogs the size of horses rushed out snarling. They looked like an unholy mixture of wolves, bighorn sheep, and bonfires. They coughed dark flames and smelled like a dog kennel on a hot August day.
Logan wasted a precious second by asking, “What are we supposed to do, Rockheart?”
“Run, fight, or die!” Rockheart barked like just another slavering doomhound.
Logan turned and ran, because fighting and dying weren’t such good options. He started down the track, working his legs as fast as he could.
Inga was lucky. She took to the air on her resplendent wings, quickly gaining altitude to avoid the snapping maws. Treacle had such long legs that he easily tore ahead, hooves digging deep divots into the earth and throwing up tails of dust. Marko was right behind him, nimble and fleet of foot, though not as fast as the minotaur.
They outpaced Logan in seconds, and he could feel the doomhounds gaining on him. The pounding of their paws reverberated up through his feet as they drew closer. In moments, he could feel the heat radiating off them in waves. There was no way he could outrun them—not in a million years.
Logan had no choice but to use his Harden ability, but before he could thicken up enough, a doomhound had him by his toadstool cap, vicious teeth digging down, thrashing him this way and that. The demon dog spit him out once Logan hardened into a chunky gray lump. That wasn’t the end, though. The hound continued to claw and bite at him, trying to rip apart the calcified exterior. Logan felt like a chew toy.
Logan triggered his Pollen ability, but that only made the doomhound sneeze a bit, its snot like liquid red-hot coals. It sizzled onto Logan’s armor.
Why had he chosen fungaloid again?
The doomhound eventually got its fangs through the thickened skin around his thigh and chewed one of his legs clean off. Well, it was hardly clean. Oddly enough, Logan was getting used to losing limbs. The overgrown puppy ram took the leg and gnawed on the severed limb like a bully stick. All Logan could do was lie there, facedown in the dirt, hoping a leg was all he would lose to the monstrous creature. That and watch. At least he had a great view of everything else going on.
As for the First Cohort, they chose the fight option. The four powerful guardians already stood over a mound of the doomhound corpses, and it looked like they were ready to add more to the pile at the drop of a hat.
Rockheart blew his whistle. “Enough! Ned! Zed! Can I get some help?”
Two huge rosebushes came scurrying out of the chambers under the seats like weird flowery spiders, creeping along on twisting roots. Seeing the living rosebushes come at him freaked Logan out. He tried to crawl away.
However, one of the rosebushes quickly scurried over, picked him up, and touched the gemstone on his belly with a branch. Fresh Apothos was injected into his core, and then, magically, the white rose doctor healed Logan.
“So I can heal any damage?” Logan asked, eyes wide.
The bush giggled, roses coming together to form a face—two eyes and one long multi-flowered mouth. It spoke in a high-pitched, cartoony voice. “Yes, silly. Your guardian form is only a manifestation of your core gem. As long as your gem is not destroyed and cultivated, you can heal any wound. It may take time, but such is the way of all dungeon cores.”
The shrubbery doctor set Logan down on his feet and gave him a friendly little pat on his toadstool head. Then the bush—either Ned or Zed, Logan couldn’t for the life of him discern the difference—scurried back under the seats.