Of course he was concerned. Shadowcroft loved his students. He played the kind headmaster and left all the unpleasant tasks to his rector prime. Rockheart would never complain. Their work was important. Vital. For the good of the universe.
“We have the Winnowing for a reason,” the gargoyle-griffin insisted. “If Marko cannot rise to the occasion, he should fall. It is our way. Has always been our way. You know this as well as I and have approved the deaths of thousands of students.”
“But he has risen to the occasion,” Shadowcroft replied serenely, arching a leafy eyebrow at Rockheart. “His entire demeanor has changed since the field trip to the Slaughter Pits. And, even more importantly, he has acquired friends who are willing to risk their lives for him. It is impressive.”
No, no, no! Rockheart saw this was a losing battle, and that Shadowcroft, ever the utilitarian, would side with Marko Laskarelis and his wretched comrades.
“If we allow this sham,” Rockheart said, “then we will be brutal about it. They will be given the SandScream. They will have four hours to prepare. Then they will face the most difficult dungeoneers we’ve captured. That includes the Jade Leaf spell-caster. Normally, we would reserve that for Prince Chadrigoth, but if you combine the ranks of the Terrible Twelfth, all four of them, it would be almost equivalent to a Rank 1 Azure Branch Abyss Lord. Suffice it to say, the Terrible Twelfth will be given no mercy.”
Shadowcroft rose, his stately robes billowing out around him.
Both the Crystal Terpsichorean and the Rosaceae Flysnag gazed expectantly at their master. The headmaster combed twig-like fingers through his mossy beard. “A splendid idea, I think. And pragmatic. Four cores have access to a variety of skills, and with their Apothos pooled, that does give them a certain advantage. Some of these professors won’t think this is fair. But what is fair, Yullis? Raiders band together all the time to attack dungeons that are beyond their individual abilities, and dungeon cores are murdered in return, by dungeoneers several times their level.
“It seems to me that Logan and his cohort are simply doing what we taught them to do—using their abilities to the utmost to protect the Tree of Souls. You are right, though. We must show no mercy. I want them to succeed, but it is true that there must be an impartiality to it. Your terms, old friend, seem like an excellent crucible in which to forge these four.” He rubbed his hands together. “Hold nothing back, understand, old friend? We will try them, and perhaps they will fail and die. But what if they don’t? Well, it is a grand experiment, worthy of the finest dungeon academy in the multiverse.”
Yullis kept silent, but the wheels in his head turned and turned and turned. Hold nothing back.
Shadowcroft knew everything that happened here, Rockheart reminded himself. That also meant the headmaster knew exactly what the rector prime had forced the Terrible Twelfth to endure throughout the year—and hadn’t made a move to intervene. Reading between the lines, it could be reasoned that Shadowcroft wanted Logan here, but that perhaps he still held reservations. If the fungaloid died Shadowcroft would merely shrug and move on. Such was the way of their academy—victory through strength. Better a few dead students than a lost Celestial Node.
Marko raised a hand. “Uh, Rector, shouldn’t you be happy about us doing well? It does help the Azure Clan and the leaderbread.”
“Leaderboard,” Treacle corrected.
The satyr thrust out a finger and said, “Points!” as if that explained everything.
Rockheart ignored the fool. He lived for the Azure Dragon Clan. Yet the standing of his clan paled in comparison to preserving the sanctity of the school.
The gargoyle raised his hand to show four claws. “Four cores. Four hours. They will face six heroes. And I will not be overseeing their exam. Zhen Ikgix can do the proctoring. I refuse to be anywhere near this travesty.”
The rector prime turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, wings flaring out behind him.
He knew what he had to do.
THE FINAL EXAMS STARTED that Monday. With thirteen dungeons to use, they went through the students far faster than the Placement Exams. The school buzzed with the thrill of the exams. Students chattered in the Golden Serpent Hall, discussing how they’d undone the evil plans of the raiders or toasting fallen cores who had been killed.
It happened every year. It was part of the Winnowing. Freshman, sophomores, juniors, and seniors, all died. Of course, the freshman class lost the most. This year, Rockheart would see that Logan, Inga, Treacle, and that insufferable fool Marko were among their number.
Forty-eight hours later, on the eve of the Terrible Twelfth’s Final Exam, Yullis Rockheart used the DIE Pavilion to whisk himself to the entrance of the Chaos Oasis. Its sandstone corridors were empty for now, the various traps and minion rooms quiet and lifeless. At the bottom, in prison cells, were the most powerful dungeoneers. The raiders didn’t have their weapons or their armor, and their cores were temporarily crippled with powerful elixirs, so they couldn’t cast spells or use any of their cultivated powers.
The grimy men and women glared at Rockheart. They saw him as the evil monster.
The gargoyle-griffin strode up to the bars of a cell. He glanced around at the six wooden beds, their mattresses thin, but their blankets clean. There was food and water for them, even some wine, because the academy wanted the would-be heroes healthy for the trials to come. Iron sharpens iron. The only way to improve was to be pressed.
At the back, sitting at a table, was Linraist Erejam, the cowl of his cloak pulled up to conceal his face. He was a Jade Leaf raider—the very same Vampiric Runecaster who’d failed to plunder the Slaughter Pits. Kyvandry had captured the impudent dungeoneer and delivered him by hand for use in the finals.
But Rockheart’s real quarry slept on one of the beds, purring softly. A type of cat man, called the Ferox. Tetsukya “Tearclaw” Cratris was a B-Class Azure Branch cultivator who hailed from Kitterxob. The fur-covered War Sentinel could cast a myriad of deadly spells as well as fight with his long claws. Tetsukya had a Terra and Mallus Affinity, like Rockheart himself. The perfect dupe. He had the markings of a jaguar, gold and black, with cat ears, no hair, and feline features, though he wore pants, which were very, very red. Too red.
He needed to die.
The midnight-haired rogue of the party, approached the bars. He wore fine silken clothes with muted colors, so as to emphasize his bright smile. “Well, now, a monster. I’m Flynn Corry, and I’ve been told by a tall, tree sort of person we can win our freedom if we plunder a dungeon. I’m assuming it will be this dungeon. Can you offer any more details?”
“It won’t be this dungeon,” Rockheart said. “I’m here to discuss something with Tearclaw. Wake him for me. Now.” Not a request.
The cat man rose, swept his legs to the side of the bed, and stood. With a flick of his hands, he exposed his enormous talons. “I am here. I will talk with the gargoyle.” He padded across the floor to the bars in silent feet.
Flynn Corry grinned. “Please, Mr. Gargoyle, tell me something. When we go a-plundering, will we get our effects back and will our cores be restored to full strength? We won’t have much of a chance if we feel like hell.”
Rockheart nodded. “You will have your spells, your skills, and all of your armor and weapons. Now, stand back. If you don’t, I will kill you where you stand.”