Dragonheart Core - Chapter 162: Furious Learning

In the end, it came down to survival.

I dithered and bit over the Otherworld schema options for far longer than I wanted to; this was my fourth choice, all new, and I wouldn’t let myself just rush into a bad choice because of how shiny it was. Shoth’s dead-man sprint had taught me that wouldn’t work. Not anymore.

All of them were lovely and vicious and fanged and dangerous and, ultimately, similar to what I had. The corpsefarmer could be made from a shadowthief rat, so long as I obtained an alchemist to show the rodent what ingredients were critical to collect; the galactic hoverling provided mana and building materials, which I could devote more of myself to. Myconids were a shambling wreck of sapience and personhood, a force constantly building and growing, a combination of my thornwhip algae and kobolds—without a home for it. In a similar vein, the terrorbird was lovely and wonderful and hurt me to my bones not to pick—but I didn’t have a floor for it, not yet. They hunted in jungles; maybe Nicau would find one, when I sent him out. But not now.

The only option that I couldn’t make myself and didn’t require a specific home was the restorative aloe.

Veresai had caught Kriya under a geas just to have a healer. And now I could provide one to all my creatures intelligent enough to use it—and, perhaps, start one of my other goals; teaching them to work together. Considering how mana-intensive I imagined this schema would be, I would only be able to create limited amounts of it; and if everyone wanted to use it, they would have to coordinate.

In another world, I could see it going like it had with the ironback toads and burrowing rats up in the Drowned Forest, creating a society of backstabbers and betrayal and extortion, but this time I would muscle in and make sure everyone coordinated. I had nearly been enslaved today, and if that happened, all my creatures would be either killed, broken, or cut down for mere gold. I would tell them this. I would show them how vital it was to play together.

With that in mind, I allowed the schema of restorative aloe to flow through me.

Its mana was dark and cool, filling my mind with the impression of emerald green spikes from pale soil, water beading on the edges, spines from the tip—and potential. So much potential. To heal all my creatures not just when an invasion had finished, but throughout every day. A way to survive. A way to be better.

A way to crush every stupid fucking invader who thought they could waltz into my dungeon and take my core.

And speaking of—with all my distractions decided, mana thrumming through my core and straining at the edges of my pool, I let my points of awareness flick up and up; to a creature and a corpse, the last of the choices I had to make.

Up in the Jungle Labyrinth, stuck between the grasping arms of thornwhip algae, what remained of a boy laid sprawled over the stone, hands outstretched and rumpled clothing cut loose by mandibles. Over him, with two broken legs and hemoglobin seeping through the cracks in its chitin, was a webweaver.

The webweaver I had chosen to be a priest for Nenaigch; the one I had pumped full of mana, stuffed to the brim of its very channels, in an attempt to make it better than it was. And now, it was glowing with evolution, light thundering over its black eyes.

Gnat was studded with bitemarks; little things, because webweavers were built for stationary combat, sitting on their communal webs until prey came to them. Their venom was strong, yes, considering how Gnat was twisted through death, but they weren’t built for attacking.

If anything, that was more power to the webweaver, for overcoming its nature to kill him.

I let my points of awareness spread over the tunnel, examining the scene; I’d been a touch distracted with Alda and Azkhal’s groups to focus on this death, but thankfully, the webweaver’s thoughts and memories flowed over its mind with a passion. It had felt what it called as the wrongness, a spider-woven person that wasn’t supposed to be, and pursued it; hunted it down, at great risk to its own life, and killed him. Gnat had been… initially helpful? Or something, it was hard to parse through the webweaver’s thoughts, but Gnat had wanted to establish a trade of something.

In return, my lovely webweaver had lunged at him, ignored its bodily injuries, and bitten him until dead.

It had done what I needed; and, of course, with extreme devotion to me. While I was interested in what Gnat was here for, I couldn’t afford to just let him do it, when there was a chance of my enslavement on the page. Perhaps his soul would reveal things.

And if it didn’t, so be it. I would lose that knowledge in return for life.

Equally in return, for his corpse.

I wanted a priest—and I wanted one with more to do than feast on flies and nibble on stuck prey. A human’s intelligence and a spider’s loyalty. And much like my beloved vampiric dryad of time before, while I could just look at the evolution options available, I wanted to try my hand at something more deliberate. Something sharper.

And so I pushed soothing mana into the webweaver, straightening out its broken legs and replenishing its hemoglobin, and then I reached out to the goddess whose power soared through these halls.

Almost immediately, I felt Nenaigch respond, her iron-thread awareness spidering down to mine. She paused for a second—maybe sensing Rhoborh, who still hadn’t pulled his miserable mind out of my dungeon considering Aedan was stuck gibbering down in the Hungering Reefs—before settling overhead, peering down at what I had to offer.

Which, to be fair, wasn’t much, but I could spin a lovely story when it came down to it. I let my mana spread out over the tunnel, flickering over the edges of the corpse, his hands outstretched and froth through his lips. And the webweaver, crouched on top, its mind awash with satisfaction.

A change, I said, soft and subservient and all other moronic things I had to be when interacting with deities. Would you accept them both as a follower?

Nenaigch leaned in. She had a hunger to her, more than her making; I wondered, not for the first time, how long she had been the Goddess of Weaving. It felt like there was something more to her; an explanation about her origins that didn’t line up with her worship now. With Nuvja, far up in the Fungal Gardens, I rather understood her, as a goddess whose power had been stripped away from her; but Nenaigch was different. Something else.

And whatever it was, she had asked for followers, and I was offering her something more.

Yes, she said back, an iron-thread spool twisting over our connection. I accept.

Phenomenal! Now I just needed her to do more than accept.

With my mana, all seventy-five points and the excess I was shoving into my creatures as fast as possible to avoid losing out on too much, I draped it over the corpse and the creature; the webweaver shuddered as the full force of my awareness draped over it, sinking into the follicles of its mind. Gnat’s corpse and soul, still trapped under pale skin, waiting in death as I carved myself around him.

The small child—the boy—the idiot—the mess that had threatened me, with the devotion overtop. I reached out and opened up my Otherworld connection, halfway through from a Name, a middle balance that my dungeon core memories showed me how to do.

And through me, Nenaigch reached out; wove her mana, the Jungle Labyrinth humming in wake of her presence, over the corpse. Though he was long dead, Gnat twitched, so much power moving through him–

Alongside, the webweaver brightened. The light over its carapace doubled in intensity, fierce as a storm, and the message in my core lit up.

Congratulations! Your creature, a Webweaver, is undergoing evolution!

Please select your desired path.

Bloodweaver (Rare): In death it awakens. This creature takes the corpses of its victims and uses them as silk, creating intricate webs throughout its territory. But a web made of blood isn’t normal; and how they act finds its way into horror stories.

Thornweb Spider (Rare): It learns from its surroundings; each web it weaves grows wicked thorns, tangling and entrapping any in its path. This creature will even cover itself in them or fire it at prey, ensuring their slow and eventual death.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

Arachne (Rare): An amalgamation of spider and man, this creature carves a path through the world and lays waste to all those in its path. It spins webs into intricate patterns that it can then use as tools, building a society from the baseline.

Oho.

I wouldn’t lie that I’d hoped it would be explicitly a creature of worship, but to take anything of the webweaver would be to make a priest. Perhaps I would have to beat worship of Nenaigch into its head instead of me, but with Gnat’s elevated intelligence, I had hope it would be done. Of course it would be done. Nenaigch had given me another path out of the dungeon and a Haven at my center; if she wanted a priest, by all hells, I was going to get her one.

Nenaigch’s mana flowed over me, satisfaction, as she felt me select arachne—while bloodweaver and thornweb spider were fascinating and I dearly hoped others would evolve soon so I could select them, there was truly only one option for right now. The webweaver disappeared under silver light, Gnat’s corpse crackling with excess light; a dream of some awakening. A hope that this would finally work.

And with that, with a vague timeline I pushed through our connection that said she would only have to wait a few more days before the evolution finished, Nenaigch hummed with acceptance and drifted back up to her nameless world, where all the gods dwelled.

All except one.

I gave myself a second, let my thundering core relax now that all my messages had ceased, that my floors were once more stable, and I didn’t think of the fact that more adventurers would be coming tomorrow, that many of my strongest creatures were currently slumbering under evolution and thus couldn’t defend me, that my halls had revealed glaring weaknesses, that I was poised to be enslaved at any moment, that I had to be better, that I had to be smarter, and I let myself be furious.

Down to the Hundering Reefs did I charge, to the priest and the bastard there.

I roared over the first room, the glistening waves and pristine sand, to the second—to the lagoon, to the collection of atolls there, islands scattered over the blue. One in the center, a handful of cloudsire palms throughout, and a gibbering, shuddering, menace of a moron in the sand.

Aedan. The priest of Rhoborh. Moss over his face, his robes, his white-knuckled hands; what should have been a corpse if the vampiric dryad had her way, if someone hadn’t stopped her. Wasn’t still stopping her, actually, and all others on this floor—because while Aedan was alone on the island, he wasn’t exposed. More chains. More shields. Protections punched through my ambient mana to swirl around Aedan, ringing him in like an embrace. I was so happy for him that he could feel safe, because he certainly fucking wasn’t.

But for now, I dragged my attention upward, to the power hovering overtop of him like a miserable parent over hatchlings. To Rhoborh, the God of Symbiosis, the one who had stopped me.

You, I snarled, putting the effort to form actual thoughts instead of just bellowing like a sea-drake of old. I was certainly acting like one, my mana sweeping up like intangible wings, a million consequences of betrayal caught between mana-made fangs. You dare threaten me?

I felt his mana prickle uncomfortably—there was a sudden burst of pride that I was apparently powerful enough to make even a god leery—but Rhoborh didn’t retreat, didn’t back away.

Aedan will not capture you, he murmured, quiet. Nor will any of my priests.

Oh? Oh? That was so polite of him. And here I thought Aedan had just been merrily wandering through my halls on a fucking evening stroll.

The miserable whelp in question hunkered further down as my mana thrashed, snarling like fire and lightning and ice. Death promised and waiting. The second these protections fell– the second I wasn’t bound by a god who thought the world was for him to control–

We made a pact, Rhoborh said. That you would house my priests in return for my mana. Do not break it.

I coiled tighter around Aedan, pushing on the edges of his protections. Maybe I didn’t want his mana any longer. I’d already gotten what I needed from it; already my vampiric dryad stalked through my halls with her claws out. Maybe I would dissolve our pact. Maybe I would banish him from my dungeon in return for slaying his priest.

Rhoborh’s mana sharpened. Worried—so that was a possibility, then. I could break pacts. I had that ability. Interesting.

I stabilize your floor, he said, and reached out; let his mana flow through the Drowned Forest, showing all the crevices it pooled in, how it wove throughout and kept it together. Without me, you could not dig deeper. You could not expand.

I stiffened.

Hells, I’d forgotten about that.

Dungeons could only go so deep on their own; as my core moved further below, so did my ambient mana, so did my power. My first floor would be a barren wasteland, all creatures starved, for all it was still under my influence; but Nuvja kept it supplied, kept the ambient mana full. Rhoborh did the same, as did all my other patrons.

That was why they were worth it, even more than their boons. Why I had to keep fucking demeaning myself to offer floors to these wretched deities overhead.

Rhoborh leaned in, pushing over Aedan, reaching out to me with a gentle pulse of mana. I am sorry, he said, with this dreadful apology that felt genuine enough I wanted to kill him. He was betrayed—but I have no desire to see you chained. As much as I stopped your dryad, I would have stopped him; he would not take your core.

He was betrayed? Was Rhoborh taking all his thoughts and energy to focus on poor, sad Aedan, who had somehow trusted a pointy-toothed asshole in Shoth, and was so surprised he had been a traitor? That was who deserved attention? Who deserved mercy?

I am sorry, Rhoborh said again.

My mana roiled like a thunderstorm. I didn’t want sympathy. I wanted someone to attack. And considering Shoth was already dead, Rhoborh was my next best option.

It was worse that he seemed to understand that, and even moreso that he accepted it. That he was allowing me to scream and shout and rage at him, because he knew that I needed it. I needed to be angry so I wouldn’t be scared.

This asshole. I hated that. I hated being understood.

He will leave, Rhoborh said, quieter now. Allow him to leave your halls, and he will never return; and know that any of my priests cannot claim you. Their power is my power; them I hold. Even if they betray me, if they forsake my name, then I will use my mana to end them before they take you.

Well. That was so kind of him. So fucking merciful to just– say I wasn’t in danger. Say I wasn’t at risk of being enslaved.

Let him leave, Rhoborh said, again and again, like I wasn’t getting it, and then disappeared from my halls. Faded away, the redwood scent of his power drifting up to that nameless world, back to the lingering awareness he only had in the Drowned Forest and over Aedan—gone. Not threatening me, not stopping me. Back to normal.

I slowly, slowly, allowed my mana to dissolve. To drift away, unthreatening, taking the strength of my fury with it until I could think again.

Okay. Okay.

I wasn’t happy. I doubted I ever would be, while the gods kept poking their wretched noses into my halls and pretended like they gave a shit about me—but that had been informative. Furious as I was and would continue to be, I had learned.

Rhoborh was, in accordance to the pact we’d signed before that unknowable god, completely in his rights; he protected his priest, didn’t interfere otherwise, and made me agree to release his priest like a mouse from a trap. Did it matter that Aedan wasn’t in the fucking Drowned Forest when he played his cards? Apparently not. All my dungeon was the same when it came to protected priests.

But he had also taught me things he likely hadn’t wanted to.

The most important was that I could break our pacts. That if I wanted to, that if my relationship with a god ever deteriorated to an unsustainable point, then I could just—wave them away. Pry their control from my halls and rid them out. And, more notably, that they didn’t want this to happen; they wanted their connection.

And that made me think of Nuvja, of our changed agreement; and of Nenaigch, with our Haven and priest. So it wasn’t an established fact, an unchangeable thing to be obeyed. I could do more. I could demand more, in return for greater abilities.

…particularly from those who needed floors more badly.

Nuvja was much dethroned from her previous strength. Abarossa had needed me to reconnect with her merrow. Mayalle had no priests compared to her more powerful brother. Rhoborh was unknown to nearly all. Nenaigch was followed by none. Only Khasvar was popular in any way, and if I tried to threaten him, I imagined he would just pull out and leave me rudderless.

But the others—the others needed me. They needed me more than I needed them.

There was nothing I could do at the moment, no deal I could threaten with them already safely in my halls; but for the future, I would not be accepting the basic, miserable deal that came with chains under the surface. I wanted more. I would refuse to have anything but more.

And if that meant I had to go to weaker deities, like the goddess of fireflies who had been trying for floors now, so be it. I mostly needed them to hold my floors stable; I would take a weaker boon if they no longer could command me.

Interesting. Very interesting.

I took those thoughts and buried them; shoved them under the marrow of my mind so that no one else could read them, dissolved them down to little more than plans for my changing floors. Time to shove Aedan out of my dungeon—perhaps Nicau could escort him out on his way to the jungle—and then dig my fangs into the stone of my halls to remake them, to recreate them, to be better.

But I would remember this.