Chapter 18: Chapter 18: The Message

 

There’s nobody there.

 

The young man floats there, bathing in the totality of the true darkness of the core of the old dungeon, staring with wide eyes that receive only flickers of dim light at the blank surface of the wall that he’s sitting down in front of now, as he has been doing for… well, for a while. His knees are held in his arms, which are wrapped tightly around them. His short, well cut and trimmed hair that has become a mess over an indeterminate period of time adorns his head above his sharp ears, and his half-buttoned, dirty, but expensive clothes give him the appearance of being some well-off elf’s child who wandered astray in the dungeon.

 

With a twitchy, nervous glance, he turns to look to the side of the room.

 

There’s nobody there.

 

The only thing that would betray his appearance as belonging to something akin to humanity or any of their ilk is the fact that he has no skin of any discernible tone except an unnatural, alabaster white that almost glows with a passive shine, and that his eyes, within their normal sockets, are pupil-less and large, like an insect’s.

 

He floats overhead, levitating in the total void of the hollow core, perplexingly giving its interior some content.

 

The boy closes his eyes, as he always does, bringing on a darkness that is deeper still than the emptiness of the core chamber.

 

And there, within the confines of his deep imagination, he is above a world of golden wheat and chaff, aglow with sunlight rays that are the color of warm marigold honey. He looks around himself in that place, feeling the wind coming to him, hinting in its sweetness at the coming of spring soon and bringing with its flow the shine of the bright morning light.

 

His eyes scan the pleasant world, lingering for a time on the waves of wind upon the fields that come to a crescendo beneath him as he looks around a place that must surely be paradise.

 

— Except that there’s nobody there.

 

He opens his eyes, breaking the imagination, and screams, his fingers violently clawing at his head, face, and hair, tearing at them, ripping at them. His nails break as they dig into his gums, fracturing on the sharp edges of his teeth and on the ridges of his skull as he burrows down to the bone beneath his flesh.

 

The boy screams and self-mutilates and it doesn’t really matter what happens during that process, because at the end of it, his body regenerates through the powerful magics of the void, in which he is immersed, and his feral cries are all swallowed by the hollow core, which may never satiate itself on the voices of those near to the edge of hell.

 

Panting, he floats alone, his wide eyes scanning through the darkness as he slowly puts himself back together, adjusting his hair as best he can with his hands and closing up his shirt as best he can, but it has one less button now than it did before.

 

The boy pulls up his knees, tucks down his head, and resumes.

 

With a twitchy, nervous glance, he turns to look to the side of the room.

 

There’s nobody there.

 

Nobody saw him.

 

Nobody ever sees him.

 

Sure, there are things in the dungeon. There are monsters and creatures, there are things that crawl and creep and chitter and chatter, but they are just base, simple things that wouldn’t be able to understand the abstract dreams and visions that he has. They’re not there.

 

As of late, there has been an increase in the number of humans in his dungeon too. Before, it used to just be adventurers. They’d come here and push into his refuge, pressing with their blades and boots into unwelcome territory against his wishes as the master of this domain. They flood into him like parasitic worms, looking to drain him dry. They’re only here for material gain, for their own survival at best and for their pursuit of wealth in the worst.

 

They’re also just base, simple things that aren’t compatible with what he wants.

 

Now, however, there are more people — many, many more people. People who aren’t adventurers have come into his dungeon, and they dwell here; they have set up shelter in the first floor of their instance, not even having the politeness of a usual adventuring party to leave once they’re done defiling the temple of his body. Instead, they’ve burrowed themselves into his flesh and now reside here.

 

He wishes they’d just go away.

 

They don’t get it.

 

They’re empty. Even if he looks at them, those strange creatures, even if he stares into their eyes, they’re just not… there’s just nothing in them that resembles what is in his own.

 

All they ever do is scream if they see him.

 

The entity closes his eyes again, beginning to try to escape to a realm of imagination once more, as it has done thousands of times before and will do many thousands of times more.

 

This is his full existence, and it has been ever since the dungeon was completed hundreds of years ago.

 

There’s nothing left. There’s nobody left. Now, it just floats in a place that nobody, no living soul, has ever reached.

 

The deepest pits of the Hollow-Core dung-

 

“- Excuse me! I have mail!” says a voice abruptly from the side.

 

Inmir screams, flailing and spinning around like a fish that has suddenly gained ten fingers, as the first voice of a dozen generations breaks the sanctity of its hermitage.

 

There, standing upright in the void that she has broken into, is a human woman, jogging in place and holding out an envelope. The light bag on her back bounces up and down, as does her short hair, as she seems to be unable to stand still. Her outfit — a puffy pair of off-white pants tucked into thin brown boots and a sleeveless, dark top — seems out of place for the usual adventuring fair. There aren’t enough belts and buckles. Wrapped around her waist is a light jacket of the same gray tone as the pants, its sleeves tied off.

 

“WHO ARE YOU?!” screams Inmir, covering its face and baring its teeth and clawed fingers all at the same time as it confusingly turns around. All of its body language is entirely out of sync.

 

“Got mail,” she repeats plainly, making a clicking noise in her mouth. Inmir looks over his shoulder, staring at the intruder. “I’m a courier.”

 

“Get out! GET OUT!” screams the dungeon-core.

 

“Sure thing, boss,” she says, waving the letter around. “But you've gotta take the letter before I can go.”

 

Inmir’s eyes go wide. What the hell is going on?! A letter? How did a human get down to the core of the dungeon? It’s a hundred floors of its most deadly and dangerous monsters. Terrible beasts, the likes of which the children of men never even dare to dream of during their most horrible nights, scour these dark recesses of the world. “How did you get down here?!”

 

“Took the stairs, Boss,” says the courier, plain as day, holding a finger to her upside down wrist for a moment as she continues to jog in place. “I tried to get you to respond up on floor one, but I guess you were busy.”

 

Inmir looks at her. “…What are you doing?” asks the dungeon-core, curiously. It would ask if all humans are like this, but it knows that they aren’t.

 

“Gotta watch your pulse in this kind of work,” she explains, slowing her jog, but instead of coming to a stop, she just sort of springs up and down with her entire body, her feet, now firmly planted, never leaving the ground. “Too much and you get winded, too little and your body gets cold.” She looks at it. “Can you take this letter now?” she asks. “I really gotta get going,” she says, looking behind herself.

 

“What’s in it?” asks Inmir, its curiosity now having gotten the best of it. All questions aside, including how a single human had managed to do what thousands of adventurers haven’t even come close to managing, who would send it a letter? Inmir has obviously never gotten a letter before, ever and it doesn’t exactly have any contacts, given that it has been living in desperately quiet isolation forever.

 

“Mail,” she replies, shaking the envelope as she bounces up and down on her knees. “So? How about it? I really gotta go if I want to outrun the Demon-King.”

 

“Demon-what?” asks Inmir, shaking his head and slowly lowering his arms.

 

The woman doesn’t scream as she sees its strange body and features, instead, she just keeps bouncing up and down, focusing on her tightly timed breathing. “Got some water?”

 

“What?”

 

“Nevermind. Look, Boss, I really need to leave,” she says, pressing the letter toward Inmir.

 

The dungeon-core looks down at the letter, bobbing in its face and then up at the woman, who stands in contrast to the total void by the simple merit of being someone, anyone, who is there to fill it.

 

Inmir reaches out, its clawed fingers twitching as they come close to grazing the bobbing paper envelope.

 

“You can’t leave until I take the letter?” he asks.

 

She groans, rolling her eyes. “I have to ensure delivery,” she says. “But don’t be a weirdo about it, or I’m allowed to use force to defend myself,” explains the courier. “Every creepy guy tries that one.”

 

“Do you deliver many letters?” asks Inmir.

 

“I’m a courier; it’s my job, Boss,” she says, pushing the envelope forward and pressing it against his face.

 

Inmir turns his head sideways, not even angry. This is the first time something else has touched it in a thousand years and more. “To dungeon-cores?” he asks curiously. He has no contact with its kin of species, as he lives in full isolation here.

 

“You’re the first and the last, if I don’t leave soon,” she explains. “I’m really gonna be in trouble, okay?” says the courier. “Take the letter. Please,” she pleads in annoyance, pressing it forward a few times, the envelope wrinkling as it folds against his cheek.

 

Inmir looks around the void, not sure what’s happening. Why is this happening? Is it imagining something again? Sometimes, it loops back and forth between reality and imagination so often that it gets stuck in one or the other and forgets where it actually is. He’s had dreams like this before.

 

— The envelope squishes against its face, the woman’s fingers practically touching him. “Come oooon~!” she says. “Look, there’s this whole thing going on outside, and I will literally die if I get out of here too slow.”

 

Inmir looks at her from the corners of its eyes. “That’s not really something you should be telling a dungeon-core,” it explains.

 

The courier pulls the letter back, slapping it across his face. “I’m not an adventurer. I don’t have skin in the game,” she explains. “So don’t be a dick and take the damn letter so I can leave and you can be alone again.”

 

'Leave'?

 

Inmir looks at the spot where she’s standing, a spot that is full. He doesn’t want it to be empty again, even if it is a human and even if he hates them. This one seems fine; besides, he hasn’t had anyone to talk to him in a long time. Besides… there might be a mix-up here on her part.

 

She sighs. “Fine. Okay. I’m just going to drop this here and cancel the contract,” she says. “I’m not dying for this,” says the woman, turning around and throwing the letter up into the air.

 

“WAIT!” yells Inmir.

 

— She catches the falling letter between her fingers, bouncing in place as she looks over her shoulder. “What?”

 

Inmir covers his face while thinking. This is all too much. He hasn’t talked to anyone in so long. He hasn’t been looked at in so long or had anyone or anything to look at. He doesn’t want the stranger to go just yet. But he… he…

 

“- How long did you need to get down here?” asks Inmir, looking through the cracks between his fingers.

 

“What? Look, I don’t -”

 

Inmir leans in, excitement growing in his bug eyes. “A deal!” it says. “I’ll make you a deal!” it offers. “How long? You planned that time in to go back up too, right?” he asks.

 

“…Sure…” she replies uncertainly. “But that’s why I have to go now. I’m really pushing it,” says the courier. “One and a half hours down and one and a half up,” she says. “One-twenty-nine now,” explains the courier.

 

“One hour,” replies Inmir, lifting up a finger. “Stay here for one hour, and I’ll let you use the shortcut up to the exit,” he explains. “You’ll be ahead of schedule by almost half an hour then!” it offers.

 

She lifts an eyebrow, starting to jog again. “Can’t you just take the letter and let me use the shortcut right now?” she asks. “It would really be a huge help.”

 

Inmir stares quietly for a time at the jogging woman, trying to piece this all together. “Just one hour!” he reemphasizes, entirely ignoring her question. “And I’ll open the door for you myself. Hand on my heart,” promises the dungeon-core.

 

The courier thinks for a moment. “How do I know you aren’t lying?”

 

“Why would I?” asks Inmir, shaking his head. “If I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead -”

 

“— as if,” she throws in.

 

“- and I’m not a liar!” finishes the dungeon-core. “Besides. You’re already down two minutes now.”

 

She makes a clicking noise in her mouth, looking to the side for a moment before nodding. “Fine. We have a deal,” she agrees.

 

“WATER!” screams Inmir excitedly.

 

“Huh…?”

 

Inmir gestures for her to stay there, looking around the total void. “You’re thirsty, right?” he asks. “Hold on, I’ll get you some water!” says the creature excitedly, running off into the full darkness in search of some.

 

It hasn’t had any guests in so long. It hates humans, but still, this is rather exciting, isn’t it?

 

The entity looks around himself in the darkness, trying to remember where he put the water. Humans like fresh water, right? The dungeon-core scratches his head, his fingers running through his messy hair as he thinks.

 

…His hair.

 

The dungeon-core screams, clawing at its face and falling to its knees, before flopping over to the side and sobbing as it realizes that it had looked unpresentable during its first contact in so long.

 

“You good?” asks a voice from the distance.

 

Inmir takes a deep breath and stays quiet for a while. “I forgot where the water is…”

 

---

 

 

The crusade rests.

 

It is truly a rare sight to behold, but even the grand crusade, as full of zeal and fervor as it is, is made up out of mortal bodies with mortal needs, wounds, and requirements. Floor sixteen is currently entered, but there doesn’t seem to be any immediate sign of danger or any obvious traps.

 

“Well, Zac,” says Ruhr, looking around the area. She’s standing next to the man, who is sitting down on a big rock.

 

“Don’t,” says Zacarias, sighing.

 

Ruhr turns to him, nodding. “We’ve both cried now,” says the river-sorceress. “That makes us best friends forever.”

 

“I didn’t cry,” replies Zacarias. “I was resting my head.”

 

Ruhr lifts a leg, planting her boot on Zacarias’ good leg, and points at herself. Zacarias clears his throat. “Didn’t make my own pants wet, Ziggly-wiggly,” she says. “Ruhr! The river-sorceress!” begins the woman, with particular emphasis on her title as she looks at the crusaders next to them, before lowering her voice again to return to the conversation. “- Hasn’t wet the bed since she was… uh… nevermind, actually.”

 

“…What?” asks Zacarias, looking up at her.

 

“Nothing. Shut up Zac,” replies Ruhr, taking her boot off of him, but making the drag of her walked on boot sole over his pants and armor particularly slow.

 

Zacarias wipes off the grime. “Huh? No, really. What?” he asks, looking back up her way. “You telling me that the world famous -”

 

“- I said shut up, Zac!” she hisses, looking around, having said too much. “I used to have a real drinking problem, okay?” she says, leaning in. “It helped me get through the nights.”

 

“I see,” he replies. The man nods to her in approval. “I’m glad you stopped. What did you do to make your nights better then instead?”

 

“…Better…?” asks Ruhr, blinking. “It never got better, Zac,” she explains. “I just cried by myself instead, and look at where the hell I am now.” The half-elf shakes her head. “I should’ve kept drinking.”

 

Zacarias rises to his feet. “What, and deprive present-me of the joy of your company?” he asks, standing on his bad leg and wincing a little. The question may be sarcastic, or it may be serious, she can’t tell anymore, honestly. This is a very weird, strange thing that the two of them have going on. Is this what friendship is?

 

Ruhr frowns, finding that her hand is playing with the tip of her ear as she stares at him.

 

Zacarias elbows her. “Come on. Let’s get our spot set up before they steal all of the good ones,” he says, nodding his head lightly to the crusaders.

 

“Yeah,” replies Ruhr, rolling her eyes. “Wouldn’t want to miss out on the best experiences the Demon-King’s castle has to offer,” she says snarkily, but as Zacarias goes, forgetting his bag, she picks it up for him together with her own, quietly thankful that it is implicit for him that the two of them would set up together at the same spot.

 

As friends would do.

 

She runs after him. “So you have to tell me something embarrassing now,” says Ruhr.

 

“Pardon?” He looks at her. “Oh, sorry. Thanks, I forgot,” says the man, reaching out to take his bag. Ruhr spins to the side, walking sideways and holding the bags out of his reach.

 

She lifts her nose. “I told you something embarrassing by mistake,” she says. “Now you have to tell me something too,” argues the river-sorceress. "Otherwise, there’s an imbalance in our relationship.”

 

“Uh…” Zacarias looks ahead of himself, thinking for a while. “I don’t really have anything,” explains the man.

 

“Oh, come on, Zac,” remarks Ruhr. “No dirty underwear? No broken hearts and third marriages?” asks the river sorceress. She leans in, raising her eyebrows a few times. “I’ll also accept scandals.”

 

Zacarias and she find themselves in a corner, near a pile of rocks. "Oh, hey, look,” says Ruhr. “Some loser wrote poetry on the wall here.” The elf narrows her eyes, leaning in and trying to read it.

 

“I guess I used to write poetry too,” says Zacarias, finally catching her off-guard and snatching the bag from her. Ruhr yelps, reacting too late to stop him from stealing it back.

 

“You?” she asks, looking away from the scrawls.

 

“Yeah,” replies Zacarias. “Remember how I told you we had a whole course on decorum when we guardsmen are around nobility?” he asks. Ruhr nods. “Well, as an add-on to that, we have a whole bit on chivalry,” explains Zacarias. The man rubs the back of his head. “It turns out that a larger part of that than you’d think is just writing poems,” he says, looking back up her way sheepishly. “Very flowery poems.”

 

“Aww~” Ruhr clasps her hands together by her face, blinking as slowly as she can, trying to make doe eyes. “Will you write me one, Zac?”

 

“Sorry,” replies Zacarias. “They were only intended for women of proper status,” he explains. “Not some nob-”

 

He winces, as her boot kicks against the side of his bad leg, bracing himself against his shield, but still falling down despite that.

 

“— I didn’t deserve that,” says Zacarias, letting out a slightly pained gasp as he moves his leg, lying on his back.

 

Ruhr drops her bag and sits down on his chest-plate, pinning him there and crossing her arms. “You’re right, Zac. I went too far,” she admits. “But what do you expect from some improper creature like myself?” she asks, opening an eye to look down at him.

 

“Good question,” replies Zacarias, sighing. “Better question.” He looks at her and then rolls his head over to look at the wall. “If we were the first ones here, who the hell wrote that?” he asks, looking at the scratches on the wall.

 

“Some nobody from the crusade, or?” she asks, eyeing the poem. “Wow. It’s so shit.”

 

 

 

The two of them stare at the window and then look around themselves.

 

“I’m surprised you didn’t get that one before.”

 

“Shut up, Zac,” says Ruhr, looking around at the crusade for signs of anyone sniffling.

 

---

 

 

Kirsch the ghost howls, crying.

 

“There, there,” says Swain, patting her on the back with a massive hand that is as large as she is. “Don’t listen to them,” says the Demon-King, shaking his head. The ghost continues to violently cry, stuffing her face into her stuffed bear and hiding it. “They’re animals. They don’t appreciate true art.”

 

“I- I wanted to write great poems like you!” she says.

 

Swain looks over to Cartouche, who shrugs.

 

Monsters, the lot of them.

 

“Cartouche,” says the Demon-King. “Get my paper.”

 

“Yes, my lord,” she says, teleporting away.

 

He’ll show them. Humans are ugly, wretched things that mock the efforts of a child because of their own distorted, warped, sick perceptions of reality.

 

His many eyes narrow themselves; others gaze in frothing rage.

 

They’ll pay for this ugliness that they have brought into the world.

 

---

 

 

“So, water, huh?” he asks excitedly. “Not bad, right?” asks the dungeon-core, sitting excitedly with crossed legs and looking at her.

 

The courier has finally come to a stand-still, staring at the large urn she’s ‘holding’. It’s massive, in fact, standing up to her chest and entirely filled to the brim with water.

 

“…Is this cursed?” she asks, looking at the ancient pottery, embellished with hundreds of twisted, screaming faces in the design.

 

“Cursed? What? That old thing?” asks Inmir, laughing, before falling silent for a moment as he thinks. Was that the cursed urn? He had one of those somewhere.

 

The dungeon-core lifts his gaze, looking at the urn’s many horrified, screaming faces, some of which leak water from the inside, giving them the appearance that they’re weeping.

 

“No, no… he says, shaking his head. “This is my good urn,” he explains. “The cursed one is up on floor thirty; I almost forgot.”

 

“Oh, great,” says the courier. “Thank you for the water.”

 

“You’re welcome!” says Inmir excitedly, leaning forward and watching her with wide eyes as she takes a smaller flask from her waist and dips it in to fill it. She caps it off and shakes the little container, before opening it again and sniffing it. Seemingly satisfied with whatever comes back to her, she takes a sip and then empties it entirely, before filling it up again a second time and sitting down. “How is it?” asks Inmir.

 

“Ah, thank you,” says the courier. “Very refreshing.”

 

“What does it taste like?” asks Inmir, leaning in forward so far that he loses his balance despite sitting cross-legged, his eyes going wide.

 

“Tastes like water, Boss,” she says, pointing at him with a finger. “So what’s up?” asks the courier.

 

Inmir stares at her for a while.

 

‘What’s up?’

 

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The dungeon-core looks down at the stones, his heart beginning to race as he tries to understand what’s happening here. She’s asking him what is up. Obviously, she’s asking about the dungeon above them.

 

Duh.

 

Inmir looks back up excitedly. “Floor ninety-nine above us has an undead hydra!” he explains, twisting his hands together. “But instead of dragon’s heads, I attached heads from five different monsters!” The dungeon-core nods proudly. “Their tongues are made out of human skin.”

 

“What? No,” she says. “Ew.”

 

“Ew?” asks Inmir, his heart racing faster now. Did he say something wrong? It was the human skin thing, wasn’t it? It was probably the human skin thing.

 

She points at it with a finger from her flask. “No, I mean, what’s up with you, Boss?” asks the courier.

 

“…Ah…?” Inmir stares for a while, processing the question. What is up with him?

 

Up… what is up with him… His body is down here, where he is. The entity lifts his gaze, staring into the void above. A strand of hair catches his eye.

 

— A strand of hair from above. Up.

 

She’s asking about his messed up hair?!

 

Inmir screams, burying his face in his knees, and quickly tries to fix his hair. However, his screams never stop in the meantime, as is proper behavior in such a situation.

 

Cold water hits him and he jolts together, looking through his clawed fingers at the woman, still sitting across from him, who had swung out her flask to splash him with his own water.

 

She gets up, refills the flask, and sits back down again. “I’m asking you what this is,” she says.

 

“— It’s not my cursed urn,” replies Inmir, water dripping down his head.

 

“No, I mean…” she gestures to everything around them, which is actually nothing, since they’re sitting inside of the void. “This.”

 

“This is the hollow-core,” he explains, matter of factly.

 

“Sure, but… what’s your deal?” asks the courier. “Why do you want me to stay here for… thirty-seven more minutes?”

 

Inmir looks at her and then down at the letter sitting between them.

 

“I wanted somebody to talk to,” admits Inmir, understanding now. His eyes go wide. “Do you want to imagine wheat-fields together?!”

 

“Uhh… That’s gonna be a no from me, Boss,” she says. Inmir frowns. But maybe it’s for the best. He can imagine wheat fields when she’s gone. Still, it would have been nice to imagine something together with someone. “If that’s all you want, why not talk to the people up on floor one?” she asks, pointing upward. “A few hundred villagers set up shop there,” she explains. “They’re running from the Demon-King.”

 

“NO!” argues Inmir. He can’t talk to them. They’re… They’re too far away.

 

He quietly stares at the ground and then back up at her. What do humans like? What do they like talking about? Gold? Humans like gold, right? They like engaging in their animal behavior and they like… uh…

 

“…What?” asks the courier, after a full minute of totally silent observation.

 

“Do you like frogs?” asks Inmir

 

“Frogs?” she asks. “I mean… they’re alright, I guess,” she explains. Inmir nods. Good. This is good. This is progress.

 

The conversation is moving along excellently.

 

“Do you like rabbits?” he asks.

 

“Sure,” replies the courier. “I like them more than frogs, I think.”

 

EXCELLENT.

 

Inmir smiles with pride. He’s cracked the puzzle.

 

Humans like things that hop. They sort of like frogs, and they like rabbits more. Both of them are things that hop. …Okay. Think. He needs more things that hop so he can keep this conversation rolling.

 

Uh…

 

Inmir stares at the ground for a while.

 

But he can’t think of anything else that hops.

 

He’s blowing it. This is all going wrong.

 

The dungeon-core shakes, his hands digging into his chest as he grinds his teeth. What other animals hop…

 

“WHAT OTHER ANIMALS HOP?!” screams the dungeon-core in exasperation, his harrowed voice swallowed by the void.

 

Did he scare her by screaming? Humans are usually scared of screaming.

 

Nervously, Inmir looks up through his arms, wrapped around his head and torso.

 

She sits where she sat, an eyebrow raised, her arm back, looking as if she was ready to throw the water at him again.

 

“- Grasshoppers,” she says, lifting a finger from her arched back arm.

 

GRASSHOPPERS!

 

“Of course!” says Inmir, losing all of the tension in his body at once and hitting his fist into his open palm.

 

Saved.

 

This is going well.

 

At the rate this is going, maybe he can even ask her to come back again some time… That would be nice, right?

 

Inmir closes his eyes, thinking about it.

 

“Woah, weird,” says the courier.

 

Inmir opens his eyes. Weird? What’s weird? Is he weird? “AM I WEIRD?!” asks the dungeon-core desperately, falling forward and crawling over on all fours towards her like a scampering critter. She presses him back with her dirty boot, sticking it on his face.

 

This is a good sign in human culture.

 

He recalls once seeing a man actually pay his adventuring colleague his share of their dungeon treasure to do this to him in their tent. That poor fellow must’ve been a real wreck if he had to pay. Here he is getting it for free and he isn’t even human.

 

Inmir flops onto his back, smiling. What a good day. He’s having some trouble, but he never thought that he’d be so good at this. Communication is nice. He’s not weird. What a relief.

 

Frogs are nice.

 

“No, that,” she replies. Inmir looks up behind him, seeing the void shift and wobble. A second courier, with a frog on her head, dissipates and vanishes.

 

“Oh, that?” he asks. “That’s what happens when I imagine something in here,” he explains. “The core makes it manifest.” Inmir taps his head. “That’s how I’ll make your shortcut.”

 

“— In twenty four minutes,” she says.

 

Inmir nods, pleased. She must be counting the minutes too, because she’s also worried about it ending. Wow. He was so scared of being alone because of his fear of rejection and of doing something different after so long, and all of this time he had been a master at talking and making friends.

 

He should correct her on her time thing, but…

 

— Wait, she was impressed by that, right?

 

“Let me show you!” says Inmir excitedly, closing his eyes.

 

The chamber turns to the color of auburn, summer’s gold as the scene around them shifts to one of a vast landscape in which he flies, the woman hovering there.

 

“Wow…” she says, clearly impressed as she looks around at the sights. “It feels so real.”

 

“It is real,” replies Inmir. “The hollow-core swallows things, people, places, screams, whatever, and then whenever I imagine something, it remakes that image as best as it can out of the things that it has collected,” explains the dungeon-core, glad to be able to talk about his work for a moment instead. It’s an easy topic, and she doesn’t seem bored by it right now. “Some places look bad because it doesn’t have everything I need it to have,” explains Inmir. “But other places like this one are done. They’re perfect,” he explains. “I have wheat. I have grass, rocks, dirt, and a sky,” says the dungeon-core. “I come here a lot.”

 

“Must suck being alone down at the bottom of a dungeon forever, Boss?” she asks.

 

Inmir opens its eyes. The spell vanishes immediately, returning them to total darkness.

 

“I guess I get it now,” she says. “I’d want to talk to someone too if I was kooked up forever,” says the courier. “Twenty-two.”

 

---

 

 

Ruhr snores into his ear.

 

Zacarias lays there, staring at the ceiling, as a low grumbling makes itself heard next to his head, followed by a soft whistling that blows into his ear.

 

He turns his head, looking at her face, only to receive her breath in his eyes instead of his ear for his trouble. Zacarias turns his head back, looking at the ceiling again. He and the rest of the wounded are exempt from guard-duty. But he can’t sleep anyway. Something is bothering him.

 

The man just doesn’t know what it is, honestly.

 

— Something rustles in his other ear.

 

Zacarias turns to look at their two packs, leaning against the rocks that seem to be… moving? “The hell…” mutters Zacarias, narrowing his eyes. A rat?

 

The bags don’t open; there isn’t a rat, but something slides out through the partially opened flap. Zacarias reaches out, yanking it and sitting upright.

 

He knew something wasn’t right here!

 

The man gets ready to scream alarm, holding onto a pair of frilly underpants that he stares at in marked confusion.

 

Ruhr mumbles quietly next to him, rolling and stretching as she wakes up. The man quietly throws his underwear back to the side before allowing himself to be wrapped up in a new social disaster.

 

“…Zac…?” mumbles the woman, looking out of one eye at him.

 

Is he losing it?

 

Zacarias looks around the room and then back down at the bags. It was probably just loose inside the bag and finally fell out by itself, right?

 

“All good,” says Zacarias. “Go back to -”

 

— Someone screams an alarm on the other side of the camp. Bells start ringing, everyone rouses, coming out of small tents and out of the clusters of bodies they’ve made, grabbing their weapons in a panic as the room then falls into a silence.

 

“What? What is it?” whispers Ruhr, looking around but not seeing anything.

 

The room rumbles, as a long, jagged scar runs through the stonework floors, tearing up the foundation as if a dragon’s talon were ripping through it. Then more, dozens of them appear as unseen creatures move through the lantern-light. People shout and try to attack them, but their weapons don’t hit anything.

 

Whispers fill the air, coming not from the people of the crusade, but from haunting specters looming in their midst, speaking in tongues unspoken in the modern age.

 

Confused cries fill the room as people are torn off of their feet, flopping down to the sides as they’re knocked over. Screams of terror fill the camp as the crusaders try to hang on to those taken, but to little avail, as they are torn away or ripping into the air where…

 

Their boots are removed, unlaced, and put back on.

 

A few dozen crusaders flop down to the ground again. Others, having been released, crawl back to the crowd, who quickly pull them back into safety.

 

“…The fuzz…?” asks Ruhr. “AH! ZAC!” yells the woman, pushing past him to snatch at the pair of undergarments from before, which have begun levitating into the air, held by an unseen force.

 

Zac grabs her and they fight against it, but both of them are beaten and they fall down together, watching as that piece and hundreds of others, stolen together with hundreds of boot laces, hover up into the air and then slowly fly away with dozens of questionably desperate crusaders trying to get their possessions back. Others, given the unsanctimonious nature of some of the confiscated garments, do not make any public attempts to claim some very specific articles that fly away.

 

“Those were my favorite ones…” says Ruhr, dropping her hand.

 

Zacarias sighs. “We truly suffered a terrible loss today,” he says.

 

She looks back at him. “Zac, do you ever wonder if the Demon-King is a little mixed up in the head?” she asks. Zacarias nods.

 

The two of them turn to look back at the poem on the wall of their camp.

 

But it’s been scratched away by a heavy claw.

 

---

 

 

My lord,” says Abydos, the painter. “We’re coming up to a dungeon on the side of the road,” explains Abydos. “What should we do?”

 

Swain thinks for a while. A dungeon isn’t exactly a human ally. Dens of monsters and animals aren’t his concern.

 

“Leave it be,” he says, riding past.

 

“There are likely humans hiding inside from the nearby region,” explains Abydos.

 

“A pittance,” replies the Demon-King. “I want the beating heart of their society, their capital.”

 

---

 

 

“It’s time, Boss,” says the courier, rising to her feet. She starts stretching herself out.

 

“No… I..” Inmir lifts a hand and then drops it, lowering its head. “You’re right,” he relents, looking over to the next curiosity that life has to offer. The woman picks up the letter, holding it out to him.

 

Inmir looks at it and then at her, taking it and then ripping it open with a claw. His eyes scan the page from top to bottom, and then he looks back up at her.

 

“Do you have a response?” she asks, standing on one leg and stretching the other one upwards at an impressive angle before switching to the other.

 

Inmir scratches his cheek, holding out the letter for her to see. “…I can’t read human,” explains the dungeon-core. “Could you, uh… please?”

 

She drops her feet back down to the stones and takes the letter, clearing her throat. “To whom it may concern, we are requesting your immediate assistance in stopping the approaching caravan of the Demon-King through use of your monsters,” reads the courier. “It is in the interest of our own mutual survival that this threat be stopped. In return, we will happily provide you with anything you require in the future, from resources to additional land,” she says, folding the letter back together and handing it over to him. “Signed, his Majesty, blah blah.”

 

“So what the hell is this Demon-King thing?” asks Inmir. “What’s the problem?”

 

“He’s expected to drive past here not long from now,” she explains. “Please use your monsters to stop him,” she asks, touching her toes.

 

Inmir thinks for a moment. How odd.

 

The humans are asking something of him. But… why? What purpose would this serve? He supposes they don’t like this Demon-King creature. But it also does seem like sort of a ‘them’ problem, doesn’t it? They’ve never asked him for anything before, ever. In fact, she’s the first person to ever talk to him down here. Why should he care if they’re getting a bonk on the noggin up there?

 

He’s sad that she’s going now, though. They had such a fun conversation.

 

“Your response, Boss?” she asks, starting to bounce again. “And my shortcut, please. We’re wasting time.”

 

“Do you want to stay here and imagine hopping things together?” he asks, mimicking her bouncing.

 

Of course. He really should have figured the frog thing out sooner. She came down here like this, after all. This is fun.

 

She shakes her head. “I have to go. This is really important.”

 

Inmir sighs, closing his eyes. “A promise is a promise,” he says, imagining a way out to the top of the dungeon. He can hear her filling up her water one last time and then starting to warm up again to jog next to him.

 

Anything he wants?

 

Honestly, he isn’t sure if humanity has anything to offer him in exchange. All of his monsters is a big ask. Sure, they respawn by themselves. But they’re still his monsters. He made them to protect his dungeon. Just sending them all out to fight some creature is…

 

Hmm…

 

“I’ll send them out,” says Inmir, bouncing on his heels.

 

“Really? Thank you,” she says. “I’ll be on my way then.”

 

Inmir smiles, listening to her go. “Goodbye,” says the entity, listening to her jog away.

 

The creature opens his eyes again, floating alone in the total void of the hollow-core once more.

 

His eyes wander the darkness, staring off into the emptiness around him, in which nobody stands.

 

Closing his eyes, he imagines his favorite place. He imagines golden wheat and ruby sunlight shining over the horizon, painting his prized piece with a nostalgic glow. The dungeon-core flies up in the air like always in this dream, but now he stares down at the world below, at the single woman who jogs down the path, running towards a destination she’ll never get to.

 

The hollow-core keeps what it swallows. There isn’t a way out. That’s why he can’t talk to the people on the first floor.

 

But he isn’t a liar.

 

He himself knows that this is imaginary, this fake place. That is why he can only ever stay here for so long before the spell breaks and he is driven back into solitude and madness. Inmir reaches out from a distance, its hand obscuring its friend as she moves.

 

However, she doesn’t know that.

 

As far as she knows, she’s back outside.

 

Inmir smiles, watching her go as the illusion fades, feeling good about itself.

 

He did well today.

 

It made a friend. Humans are complicated, weird things. But maybe they aren’t all bad? Maybe one or two of them are okay.

 

Okay.

 

He’ll do it.

 

But… well… There may be another problem.

 

 

The dungeon rumbles, quaking and shaking as things are set into motion. During a dungeon breach, all of the monsters contained inside of a dungeon will all storm the exit, leaving into the world to wreak havoc.

 

It hasn’t had to use this ability that often, as it’s sort of a mess to organize everything again afterward. The hydra needs to be brought back down to floor ninety-nine and the urns need to be refilled with souls and all sorts of stuff like that.

 

Inmir opens a door next to himself, steps through it, and then steps out of the dungeon-gate.

 

— At least in his imagination.

 

Thousands of monsters, ghoulish fiends, and shrieking harrows escape into the night that never stops, and then… simply do nothing.

 

He looks down at the ground, at the track marks in the mud where dozens of caravans have already driven past hours ago. The Demon-King was already here and has already left.

 

Inmir scratches his cheek and opens his eyes again, finding himself standing in the full, black void of his chamber that he never left.

 

One, he or anything else it swallows can’t ever leave the hollow-core and two, well… When one is lost in daydreams, time does seem to flow at a somewhat different speed, doesn’t it? The minutes the courier had been counting wasn’t the real amount of time that had really passed.

 

Oh well.

 

He closes his eyes, deciding to visit her again in his imagination, and finds joy in just flying there in silence, watching her run and sometimes even hop forever, as free as can be.

 

 

---

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