The Great Core's Paradox (Monster MC LitRPG)
“What is the greatest danger that humanity faces?” his father asked. It was a strange question; it was one that everyone knew the answer to. Even Erik, at the age of ten, was well aware of it.
“The Dungeons,” he answered confidently.
“Wrong,” his father responded, his face set into a grim facade. The boy was taken aback. What greater danger could exist? Had his father seen something, while out on one of his many expeditions into the world outside?
Unlike Erik, his father was not from Orken; he had once been a drifter, a mercenary that traveled from town to town, braving the dangers of the world outside when those under-equipped and overwhelmed outposts could not. By the time that he had met Erik’s mother, he had already begun to settle down - the Dungeons were not kind to the aging.
It was one of the great regrets of Orken’s populace, Core-poor as it was.
Having such an experienced man within the town was gratifying, but many thought it would have been better if he ventured outside; they would have preferred if he were willing to form a party to retrieve Cores. He had done it for many others.
And so, when his father claimed that there was something even more dangerous, he felt a chill set in his spine.
“W-what is it, then?” His voice trembled slightly as he spoke, and he cursed his weakness. Young as he was, he had high expectations for himself - and he wasn’t alone in that. Both Kala and Doran had recently mentioned their parents discussing him, talking about how they hoped that his father would be able to pass down his experience and knowledge to his boy.
“Hopelessness.”
It wasn’t the answer that he expected. He had expected some story of a great monster or Core that his father had been witness to, some great danger that lurked within the depths of the world outside. Instead, it was...this.
At his incredulous stare, his father raised a brow. “Do you not believe me? Tell me then, what is more insidious than humanity giving up? What is more dangerous than being like so many others in this town, just sitting and waiting for someone to brave the world outside and defeat the Dungeons and their Cores? Someone else, that is.”
He paused, taking a breath and waiting for that thought to settle in. “Let me tell you something, son. There is no one else. We cannot rely on a hero chosen by the world to save it, because this world is not ours. Not anymore. Not since the First Core formed. Not since mana filled the world. Not since the surface was destroyed. This world has no heroes.”
Erik mulled over the thought. He knew that his father expected something out of him. He always did. The man was strange - some even said he was Mana-touched -, but he was consistent. Finally, he responded with a simple statement, driven by the brash attitude of youth.
“I won’t.”
His father waited for him to elaborate, knowing that there was more to come. Like him, Erik was consistent.
“I won’t wait for a hero to save us. I won’t just wait for the world to create a hero. I’ll become stronger. I’ll become the hero myself.
His father grinned. “That’s the hope that I was looking for.”
Erik smiled back.
“Don’t let it kill you. Hope can be a dangerous thing.”
“Don’t let it kill you.”
His father’s words flashed through Erik’s mind as he fell.
It looked like he was going to fail in that, in the same way that nearly every Core seeker did.
His hands burned with a strange sensation - they had long passed the point of pain, and moved on to a sort of detached agony, as if he could see the damage that they had taken, but was no longer able to feel it himself.
He was grateful for that.
The monsters’ mandibles, tiny though they were, had seared through his flesh with terrifying ease. The moment that he had seen them, he knew things were going to go bad.
Those who didn’t venture outside of Orken always imagined the giant leviathans to be the most dangerous - and they were. But they discounted the deadliness that came with some of the smallest of Dungeon monsters.
Flame Formicans were one of those monsters. In fact, they were one of the most dangerous monsters created by Flame aspect Dungeon Cores. It was one of the monster types that his father had made sure to drill into his head over the years.
They were swarming-type enemies, which could make them far more deadly than a single powerful enemy might be. They could climb. Their mandibles could bite through stone, melting it away with the overwhelming heat that they held. And, worst of all, most weapons were not made with them in mind.
A sword could do little against a thousand tiny targets, especially when they could come from multiple directions at once.
Arrows could do little, as well.
Of all of his companions, at least he was the one left to face them.
At least he would be the one to die.
He would be able to take the most with him in his death.
“Don’t let it kill you,” he heard again.
Sorry, father. Looks like I lied. I won’t get to be that hero, after all.
After what felt like an eternity of falling, he hit the ground. His shield, forged in the absorbed mana of null-water, held strong. A burst of mana-light flashed from its surface as he hit back first, the power that it held somehow cushioning the blow enough that Erik didn’t simply splatter when he hit the ground.
He was grateful for that.
When the cracking of carapace nearly covered up the sound of his own shattering hip, he was grateful for that too.
It wasn’t a sound that he had ever liked to hear.
Despite the cushion provided by his shield’s protection, his head rang and his ears buzzed. His vision twisted, and blood leaked profusely from a blow to his head.
Erik stood up slowly, the damage to his hip and his overall dizziness forcing him to sway uncomfortably. Yet, with a practiced motion, he reached behind himself. His shield came first, the great towering thing covered in blood and refuse that dimmed the mana-glow within. After that came his warhammer, its giant head more than sufficient for what he needed. His hands cried out in agony, fighting against his efforts to close them around the grips.
Erik, on the other hand, did not cry out.
The tide of Flame Formicans rushed over him.
He did not cry out then, either.
Instead, he roared, releasing the rage and the hate that all of humanity felt for the Dungeons. The pain of losing the world that they had created. The fear of never getting it back again.
The loss of knowing that they likely never would.
He smashed around himself with reckless abandon, ignoring the way that the smallest of the Flame Formicans had managed to press through the joints of his armor. Ignoring the way that his flesh had begun to melt away. Ignoring the way that they just kept coming.
His shield took out monsters by the dozens as he dashed them against the stone below, having become more battering ram than actual defense.
His warhammer crushed carapace with frightening ease, leaving a pile of dead bodies around him.
To the tiny monsters, he was the leviathan. He was the giant, insurmountable foe. He was powerful.
Yet, they did not give up their own hope, as humanity had.
They smashed themselves against his armor again and again, searching for the way in. They died by the hundreds, and attacked with hundreds more.
His legs were the first to go, the bones of his ankles melted through entirely. He toppled to the ground, smashing more Flame Formicans as he went.
The rest of his body followed soon after.
Fallen as he was, there was little he could do. The tide flowed over him; they slipped through his armor’s cracks, they scrabbled at his face, they burned out his eyes.
Still, he didn’t scream.
He was too lost in the horror that came with realizing the truth of his father’s words.
This world has no heroes.
Chapter 34: 34: This World Has No Heroes
“The Dungeons,” he answered confidently.
“Wrong,” his father responded, his face set into a grim facade. The boy was taken aback. What greater danger could exist? Had his father seen something, while out on one of his many expeditions into the world outside?
Unlike Erik, his father was not from Orken; he had once been a drifter, a mercenary that traveled from town to town, braving the dangers of the world outside when those under-equipped and overwhelmed outposts could not. By the time that he had met Erik’s mother, he had already begun to settle down - the Dungeons were not kind to the aging.
It was one of the great regrets of Orken’s populace, Core-poor as it was.
Having such an experienced man within the town was gratifying, but many thought it would have been better if he ventured outside; they would have preferred if he were willing to form a party to retrieve Cores. He had done it for many others.
And so, when his father claimed that there was something even more dangerous, he felt a chill set in his spine.
“W-what is it, then?” His voice trembled slightly as he spoke, and he cursed his weakness. Young as he was, he had high expectations for himself - and he wasn’t alone in that. Both Kala and Doran had recently mentioned their parents discussing him, talking about how they hoped that his father would be able to pass down his experience and knowledge to his boy.
“Hopelessness.”
It wasn’t the answer that he expected. He had expected some story of a great monster or Core that his father had been witness to, some great danger that lurked within the depths of the world outside. Instead, it was...this.
At his incredulous stare, his father raised a brow. “Do you not believe me? Tell me then, what is more insidious than humanity giving up? What is more dangerous than being like so many others in this town, just sitting and waiting for someone to brave the world outside and defeat the Dungeons and their Cores? Someone else, that is.”
He paused, taking a breath and waiting for that thought to settle in. “Let me tell you something, son. There is no one else. We cannot rely on a hero chosen by the world to save it, because this world is not ours. Not anymore. Not since the First Core formed. Not since mana filled the world. Not since the surface was destroyed. This world has no heroes.”
Erik mulled over the thought. He knew that his father expected something out of him. He always did. The man was strange - some even said he was Mana-touched -, but he was consistent. Finally, he responded with a simple statement, driven by the brash attitude of youth.
“I won’t.”
His father waited for him to elaborate, knowing that there was more to come. Like him, Erik was consistent.
“I won’t wait for a hero to save us. I won’t just wait for the world to create a hero. I’ll become stronger. I’ll become the hero myself.
His father grinned. “That’s the hope that I was looking for.”
Erik smiled back.
“Don’t let it kill you. Hope can be a dangerous thing.”
“Don’t let it kill you.”
It looked like he was going to fail in that, in the same way that nearly every Core seeker did.
His hands burned with a strange sensation - they had long passed the point of pain, and moved on to a sort of detached agony, as if he could see the damage that they had taken, but was no longer able to feel it himself.
He was grateful for that.
The monsters’ mandibles, tiny though they were, had seared through his flesh with terrifying ease. The moment that he had seen them, he knew things were going to go bad.
Those who didn’t venture outside of Orken always imagined the giant leviathans to be the most dangerous - and they were. But they discounted the deadliness that came with some of the smallest of Dungeon monsters.
Flame Formicans were one of those monsters. In fact, they were one of the most dangerous monsters created by Flame aspect Dungeon Cores. It was one of the monster types that his father had made sure to drill into his head over the years.
They were swarming-type enemies, which could make them far more deadly than a single powerful enemy might be. They could climb. Their mandibles could bite through stone, melting it away with the overwhelming heat that they held. And, worst of all, most weapons were not made with them in mind.
A sword could do little against a thousand tiny targets, especially when they could come from multiple directions at once.
Arrows could do little, as well.
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That thought made him a little grateful, at least.Of all of his companions, at least he was the one left to face them.
At least he would be the one to die.
He would be able to take the most with him in his death.
“Don’t let it kill you,” he heard again.
Sorry, father. Looks like I lied. I won’t get to be that hero, after all.
After what felt like an eternity of falling, he hit the ground. His shield, forged in the absorbed mana of null-water, held strong. A burst of mana-light flashed from its surface as he hit back first, the power that it held somehow cushioning the blow enough that Erik didn’t simply splatter when he hit the ground.
He was grateful for that.
When the cracking of carapace nearly covered up the sound of his own shattering hip, he was grateful for that too.
It wasn’t a sound that he had ever liked to hear.
Erik stood up slowly, the damage to his hip and his overall dizziness forcing him to sway uncomfortably. Yet, with a practiced motion, he reached behind himself. His shield came first, the great towering thing covered in blood and refuse that dimmed the mana-glow within. After that came his warhammer, its giant head more than sufficient for what he needed. His hands cried out in agony, fighting against his efforts to close them around the grips.
Erik, on the other hand, did not cry out.
The tide of Flame Formicans rushed over him.
He did not cry out then, either.
Instead, he roared, releasing the rage and the hate that all of humanity felt for the Dungeons. The pain of losing the world that they had created. The fear of never getting it back again.
The loss of knowing that they likely never would.
He smashed around himself with reckless abandon, ignoring the way that the smallest of the Flame Formicans had managed to press through the joints of his armor. Ignoring the way that his flesh had begun to melt away. Ignoring the way that they just kept coming.
His shield took out monsters by the dozens as he dashed them against the stone below, having become more battering ram than actual defense.
His warhammer crushed carapace with frightening ease, leaving a pile of dead bodies around him.
To the tiny monsters, he was the leviathan. He was the giant, insurmountable foe. He was powerful.
Yet, they did not give up their own hope, as humanity had.
They smashed themselves against his armor again and again, searching for the way in. They died by the hundreds, and attacked with hundreds more.
His legs were the first to go, the bones of his ankles melted through entirely. He toppled to the ground, smashing more Flame Formicans as he went.
The rest of his body followed soon after.
Fallen as he was, there was little he could do. The tide flowed over him; they slipped through his armor’s cracks, they scrabbled at his face, they burned out his eyes.
Still, he didn’t scream.
He was too lost in the horror that came with realizing the truth of his father’s words.
This world has no heroes.
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