“And I’m good with the ladies,” the Abyss Lord said with a confident grin. He towered over Logan, who felt like a football about to get kicked.
“But leveling gets more difficult as you go, right, Inga?” Logan asked.
“It does,” Inga agreed. “Going from Deep Root to an Iron Trunk cultivator is far easier than going from Iron Trunk to Azure Branch. And even gaining ranks is easier the weaker you are.”
Logan smiled. “Glad to hear it. This is good news for us, actually. I mean sure, we might be on the low end, but that means if we train harder than everyone else, we could grow by leaps and bounds while everyone else is plateaued. After I lost my leg back on Uroth, I had this physical therapy trainer who called them newb gains. He said even if you had no idea what you were doing in the beginning, you could make crazy progress just by showing up and doing the work.”
Laughter rang out, starting with Rockheart, but then Chadrigoth started guffawing as did the rest of the First Cohort. Everyone in the Terrible Twelfth looked dejected, even Marko.
The professor motioned to the two cohorts. “You are being daft, Mr. Murray. There is no such thing as newb gains. And the difference between your two teams should be clear, though it seems you don’t truly understand how outclassed you are. What a worthless piece of dirt you are. Some of the guardians on this field are the epitome of strength and power, while the rest of you are cooling dog turds.”
Marko waggled his hairy eyebrows. “Aww, Professor, how did you guess my mom’s pet name for me?”
Not like Rockheart was going to pause. “Perhaps a tangible example of how far you have to go is in order, Mr. Murray. Prince Chadrigoth, I would like you and your cohort to subdue Logan and his team. Don’t kill them. But, please, hurt them.”
Inga didn’t pause. She turned and leaped in a single fluid motion, desperately trying to fly away, but Chadrigoth’s fiery rope pulled her from the sky. Logan bolted in her direction but then ran right into Magmarty’s big rocky fist, mutated into a hammer the size of a wheelbarrow. Logan went flying and lost an arm in the process—another limb seared off his body by Magmarty’s red-hot rocky skin.
Treacle lowered his head to ram his way out of the trouble, but skeletal hands reached from the ground and tripped him. Lady Elesiel danced forward and stabbed him in the chest with a dagger made from green fire. She pulled the blade free, only to plunge it back in over and over again, turning the former gnome into a bloody pincushion.
Marko backed up and raised his hands as Tet-Akhat approached. “Who’s a good kitty, heh? You are, Tet, you’re a good kitty. You wouldn’t scratch a half-drunk goat man, would you?”
Tet didn’t scratch him. She punched his lights out.
In seconds, the Terrible Twelfth were on the ground, bleeding, burned, bludgeoned, and all just a hairsbreadth from death’s door.
Rockheart clapped. “Yes, yes, you see? That is the power of mature dungeon cores working with the Apothos inside them. Let this be the true lesson. Class dismissed!”
Tet helped Marko up then went over to Logan. She was carrying his arm. “I think you lost this,” she said, handing it over with a thin grimace.
“Thanks.” Logan took the limb and held it awkwardly. Already Ned and Zed were racing out onto the field to help with injuries.
Tet gave him a long look. “Sorry we had to kick your asses. This really is about saving the universe, though. Better you buy it at this school than in a dungeon, failing to protect a Celestial Node.” She nodded and sauntered away, tail twitching. Her words were cold, but they carried no malice.
Marko, Inga, and Treacle drew near.
The minotaur winced, then sighed. “I was stabbed in the heart. Also the kidney, lungs, and stomach. It’s so depressing. Stabbing. Hearts. Organs. Losing.”
“I never should’ve left home,” Inga said morosely, staring down at the dusty ground beneath her feet.
“I never should’ve stopped drinking.” Marko dropped his head.
“But you were drinking this morning,” Inga pointed out.
“Yeah, I never should’ve stopped.”
Logan, though, didn’t feel too bad. He’d grow himself a new arm, and he knew what he’d told Rockheart was true. Being at the bottom was hard, sure, but it didn’t mean they had to stay there. He just needed to convince his ragtag crew of misfits that winning really was possible.
“You guys, after dinner, we need to talk about the law of diminishing returns. Our situation is bad, but we can make it better. And I’m wondering what we’ll learn in our other four classes.” He swung his severed arm around like a baton. “Will there be more dismemberment involved?”
“Likely,” Treacle muttered. “Very, very likely.”
Well, at least he had that to look forward to.
Chapter Twelve
DINNER WAS BETTER FOR Logan, but only because the menu was leftover chicken legs. They were lukewarm, and some pieces were about to turn. For a fungaloid, apparently, the extra tang was just what the doctor ordered. Logan traded his fresh pieces for Marko’s questionable ones and stuck a couple of chicken legs away in his satchel for later. Some part of him felt more than a little mortified at the notion of eating nearly expired food, but then he reminded himself he was literally a walking, talking mushroom. Moreover, he’d just spent the morning in a class called Ethics of Murder, so he was withholding all personal earthly judgements for a while.
Treacle had a sack of hay on his tray, and he ate it, sighing the entire time, clearly not enjoying it. On the other hand, Inga had a jug of honey, which she poured on everything. Literally everything. Chicken wings dipped in honey, honey drizzled over broccoli, honey slathered thick as paste on butter noodles. The lady certainly had one heck of a sweet tooth.
After dinner, with the various Treegees starting the cleanup, Logan made sure his cohort didn’t disperse. “Listen, I know today wasn’t ideal for anyone, but that doesn’t mean we should give up. We’re not the strongest here, just the opposite, but that doesn’t mean we can’t outwork everyone here. Strength and work ethic have nothing to do with each other. In my experience, it’s usually the opposite—the strong coast by on their natural ability. But if we put in the elbow grease, we can make up for our lack of physical ability. I think we should head over to this Stairwell of True Seeing Inga mentioned. We need a private place to talk. To strategize. And I’m thinking the library is perfect. Plus, it should be dead this time of night.”
Reluctantly, the others agreed, and Inga led the way to the southern part of the Golden Serpent Hall and down smooth stone steps, worn by time and the countless passing of feet.
One single unbroken mirror covered both walls and arched overhead. A few magical torches burned in sconces in the glass. At first, Logan didn’t think anything was strange with the mirrored stairwell. He saw his red-and-white toadstool head bobbing along, short and dopey like one of those goombas from Mario. As he walked, though, he started to see changes in himself and the others. By the time they reached the bottom of the winding staircase, Logan was seeing himself as he’d been seconds before the Reaper Box had eaten him.
He touched his face, but he didn’t feel stubble. He also didn’t feel his hair, only the gills of his mushroom cap. He moved back against the other side to get a better look. All four of them did.