<The point is, Uncle Bud found his home in business, and when I started my landscaping company, he helped me even though he thought mowing other people’s lawns was beneath me. Then it was my turn to fail, over and over. I lost clients. I killed lawns. I lost not one but two lawnmowers because I didn’t change the oil. And every time I wanted to give up, Uncle Bud would say that you fail your way into success. For him, that meant changing careers. For you, that might mean changing everything.>
<I understand most of what you said.> Again, she was quiet.
<Listen, I’m sorry you didn’t pass that exam,> he said after a time. <But I’m not sorry that you wound up at Shadowcroft. And come on, Inga, people like Tet worked and prayed to get into this school. For you? This was your plan B. You’re amazing. I’m so glad that you agreed to join up with me.>
<I’m glad too.> Her guardian form smiled. <Still, I’m nervous about tests now. What if I break under the pressure like I did then?>
<There’s a difference, Inga. You aren’t alone now like you were then. And I may not be a Grand Archivist or even the sharpest tool in the shed, but if there’s one thing I can do, it’s make a snap decision. That’s why we make such a good team, and that’s the reason we’re going to crush this thing.>
She sniffled. <I suppose having you here does make me feel better. I never had to be a Grand Archivist alone—we always had a team—and I don’t want to be a dungeon core alone.>
<Neither do I.>
Chapter Twenty-Nine
ROCKHEART’S VOICE BOOMED through their simulated dungeon. “All right, Logan and Inga, your six hours is over.”
Both dungeon cores returned their minds to the gems floating over their pedestal, which was surrounded by an underground mushroom forest. Some of the fungi were decorative, but others had a definite sinister purpose. Strands of purple-black Ghoul’s Snare covered the ground, especially near the entrance, where Logan had sprouted a ton of Blister Wart. The Blister Wart was a fairly innocuous looking mushroom with a thick white stalk and a spotted red cap, like something out of a fairy tale. But if an interloper accidentally brushed up against those crimson caps, they would find out they were in a Grimm’s fairy tale instead of a Disney one.
Thanks to his symbiotic relationship with Inga, both she and her minions were immune to the negative effects his mushrooms dished out. Just one of the many perks of the bond.
The Blister Wart uniformly covered the walls and floor of the short hallway that connected the sanctum to the antechamber. If the raiders made it that far, he wanted them in pain. And if they started hacking through the towering toadstools in the sanctum, the ceiling was a carpet of black Spike Flies ready to descend in an instant. Their inner sanctum was likewise packed full of insects and fungal fun.
The rector prime still didn’t like the idea of the astral moth lowering herself. “Inga, are you sure you want to throw your lot in with this fungaloid? I wouldn’t normally ask, but you have so much potential, it seems a shame you are about to waste it.”
Her response was immediate. “Don’t be tiresome, Professor. I know what I’m doing. If you had any sense, you’d see that.”
“Very well. Then let your fate be his, Astral Moth. The Placement Exam begins now!” Rockheart’s grumbles were lost as the five adventurers appeared at the entrance.
Sir Brandybutter was there, but he was so different now—an archer instead of a cavalier mage. Clothed in studded leather armor, he looked like a middle-aged Robin Hood with a beer belly, a scraggly white goatee, and a longbow. Brandybutter was joined by Arfgar of the Hill People. Even at a quick glance, it was clear Arfgar was the tank of the party. Huge metal plates covered his chest and back, all tied together with leather thongs. He gripped a stupidly large single-bladed battle-axe. He also had a series of gleaming daggers sheathed on an oversized belt. Both men were C-Class, middle-ranked fighters.
Powerful, but not terribly so.
And Brandybutter knew it. “Drat! My powers are minimal, my intellect is restricted, and I fear that I shan’t prevail!”
Arfgar raised his axe. “Find me skull to split, old man. Me bathe this dungeon in the blood of my enemies. Me rejoice in the lamentation of the women.”
That made Logan laugh. <Wow. Some references are not so culturally specific.>
Inga thoughts were full of smiles. <This is excellent news. The fighters are C-Class, which means this won’t be a melee-heavy scenario. That is incredibly lucky for us since we are terrible in close-quarters combat! Even better, Arfgar is dumb even with his intellect turned up, though he has far more charisma than poor Brandybutter, who looks silly without his plate mail.>
The other C-Class raider was a Harbinger of Illumina Pate, the Bald Phoenix—a type of cleric class that could deal damage, but mostly focused on healing and defense spells. Her real name was Lindarval Lanathandyx, but the students just called her Feathers due to her ornate golden plate mail armor sculpted to look like the magnificent plumage of her patron god. A long cloak, also covered in red and gold feathers, trailed down her back, swirling about her ankles as she moved. She fought with a mahogany cudgel sculpted to look like a bird taking wing.
The two B-Class dungeoneers were a rogue and a spell-caster.
Daggers McFinn didn’t try to hide the fact he was a thief. His leather armor was black and sleek, and his soft shoes allowed him to walk without making a sound. His short sword and dagger were perfect for backstabbing, and he’d brought a short recurve bow perfect for taking out unwitting targets at range.
The other raider was the real firepower of the group—the Magnificent Morty Mercutio Mimsy. Though, honestly, Mimsy looked more like a creepy uncle than a mighty sorcerer. He had thinning brown hair, a wispy beard, and robes that were more monkish than wizardly. He had a sheathed dagger hanging from his belt, which struggled to keep his prodigious gut in check. He looked doughy and nonthreatening, but as with everything at Shadowcroft, looks could be deceiving.
Logan saw the problem right away. <Daggers McFinn, even with his introductory settings, is going to sniff out our traps in a heartbeat. Looks like we’ll be fighting after all. And dodging spells. Mimsy might not look like much, but an Azure Branch mage is nothing to laugh at.>
Inga agreed.
Arfgar beat on his metal chest plate with his axe. “Arfgar says we should split up. Me go to the right with small man and feather girl.”
Brandybutter pinched his nose. “Tut, tut, Arfgar, we will not be splitting up the party. Even in my reduced state, I know that.”
“Cover more ground that way!” the barbarian insisted, brows furrowing as he scowled.
Daggers McFinn rubbed his chin. “Splitting up, eh? I’d get to take what loot I found. How about I go right, and the rest of you go left? I can walk in shadows. I can move silently. I am the night.”
Brandybutter sighed. “Oddly enough, my good man, I am the day. Is that why I never see you at any of the meetings?”
<Speaking of day and night, Inga,> Logan sent to his comrade, <both you and I can see in the dark. That means we need to turn off the lights as quickly as possible.>
For now, the adventurers stood in the torchlight at the dungeon’s entrance. Mimsy took one of the torches out of its sconce, while Feathers cast a spell to make her cudgel glow.