Shadowcroft Year 3 - Chapter Twenty-Four

Lou Shador, the A-Class Rank 1 cultivator of legend, stood in the newly refurbished Situation Room of the Scarlet Paradox Dungeoneering Guild. The clutter was gone. The magical crystalline holo table was at the center of the room, as it should be, and around it were a dozen high-backed chairs made of polished pompwood with gemstone accents.

Shador had paid for the chairs and furnishings himself. He certainly had the gold for it.

The Scarlet Paradox was booming. Raiders were constantly traveling to remote dungeons while weary survivors returned and paid their tax of gold and Apothos. Sometimes, the raiders cultivated the energy, but Hardclaw had magic items capable of drawing the energy from their cores. Other times, the dungeoneers brought Apothos coins to pay their dues. Those were valuable—a little gold, a little platinum, a bit of the mystical energy keeping the multiverse alive. Magic mirrors were also good for storing Apothos and transferring it around, but they were bulky and had the unfortunate habit of breaking. Many preferred to store it in Apothos acorns, which made perfect sense considering it was the Tree of Souls that connected all the known worlds and gave them life.

Shador stood with his arms crossed, waiting for his Glow Brigade to arrive. He inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of his special incense blend which burned in the corners—Savage Meditation. He needed incense as tough as he was. It was also one of the bestselling items in his impressive merchandise line.

The six different Celestial Nodes being used for the dungeon academies tournament flickered in the air over the nicked and scratched table, which now had a certain charm, since the room wasn’t packed with filing cabinets. An archive in the basement had been built to accommodate the files. The Scarlet Paradox had hired a bird woman from Toriopa to handle the paperwork. Those Okitori loved to archive. What a waste. And so boring.

Lou Shador could tolerate a lot of the downsides of this dungeoneering business, but he had absolutely zero tolerance for boredom. Zero.

As he watched the images appearing and disappearing over the table in rapid fire succession, he couldn’t believe how far he’d come. To think, he’d started off on Humania, the same homeworld as Marky Softscales, which was kind of a weird coincidence. While Marky had gone on to become a Crimson Void Viper, Lou Shador had only been a disgraced Deep Root Cultivator, little more than a worm in the dirt. He hadn’t even been called Lou Shador in those days. His parents had named him Ted Shadie, and he’d been a quiet and awkward kid—such a nerd.

No one knew how weak and geeky he’d been. No one could ever know about his humble beginnings. And no one ever would—he’d made sure of that long ago. All those who knew about his less than impressive beginnings were dead and buried years ago. His humble origins weren’t his only secret, however. Not by a long shot. There were a great many things he would be taking to the grave.

Not that Shador was going to die. No. He was going to live forever, and immortality would be only one of the benefits. Others would be a life of excitement, being rich, being amazingly powerful.

His thoughts meandered away from his past and too his immediate future. He glanced at the empty chairs and found anger starting to well up inside his chest. The Glow Brigade was late. Again. They were vicious, powerful, but they could also be annoyingly flaky.

They’d completely missed the opening day of the interschool dungeoneering tournament, so now they would have to settle for showing up on the second or third day, which wasn’t ideal. He’d wanted to catch those dumb students with half-finished dungeons and blaze through them like they were nothing, and then smash the dungeon core himself.

Normally, Shador might’ve went in alone, however, a few of the more intimidating guardians made him pause. Even apart from Wintersylver Gracefreeze, who was as cunning as she was powerful, there were several of the Semi-Finalists who might prove to be a challenge. He was arrogant, sure—it was why he’d forced Hardclaw to clean up the Situation Room and add the portraits of Lou Shador from his various adventures—but he wasn’t a complete narcissist. He hadn’t made such huge strides by taking needless risks.

He smiled as he looked at an enormous portrait of himself. The artist had captured him in all his perfect glory—white boots, white taped arms, red and white tights, and the cowl of his crimson cloak half-covering his mask. A mask that Shador had fashioned himself from his training on that far-flung world of Uroth, where Ted Shadie had been died so long ago, only to be reborn as Lou Shador the great and powerful hero of the ages.

Shador had learned so much. He’d come so far. But he wouldn’t rest until he had achieved S-Class and the real game began. He’d have to devour whole worlds, whole galaxies to get to SSS-Class, but then he’d transcend his humanity and become a god.

Then, and only then, would he be satisfied.

Because Lou Shador was still haunted, haunted by his past as Ted Shadie, some peasant who had any number of crazy ideas. He’d believed the conspiracy theories, not about the Zeta Ridiculans, that was whole just a bunch of hokum. There was truth in many of those conspiracies, however. Truth so powerful it couldn’t be buried, so instead it had been satirized and turned into a joke, meant to discredit those who saw through the lies. Lou Shador saw through those lies and that deeply buried truth would one day define the future.

The Spore Lords—it was all about the Spore Lords—and he would learn their lessons well.

Shador stood in front of the crystal table, feeling the energy in the air, and watching the images of the six worlds flicker above the holo table. Sucrosia, Twilittia, Necroscant, and the others. Which one to choose?

Not Wintersylver’s. For obvious reasons.

No. But what of the others?

Hardclaw clanked in on his mace as he hobbled into the room. The cat man sneezed. “I hate the incense, Lou. I hate it.”

Shador thrust his arms forward and the red, white, and blue bandages wrapped around his hands shot out like striking serpents, slithering around Hardclaw’s arms and legs and neck. The powerful coils drew the cat man forward and slammed him down into the chair at the end of the table. “It’s Mr. Shador to you, brother, because we both know where all the cheddar is coming in. I’m the head cat now.”

Hardclaw brushed away the tendrils from around him. “Fine. Mr. Shador. But why the incense?”

“Calms me, bro,” Shador growled, “and you want me calm.”

Hardclaw sighed. “I thought you’d be gone already. The tournament has started.”

“Waiting on my troops. Trying to decide which dungeons I want to destroy. Which Celestial Node would you choose, brother?” Shador asked. “I can’t seem to decide. They got some good nodes this year. Yeah, they did. I’m like a youngster in a candy shop. So much yummy to choose from. Can’t decide.”

“Angleria, maybe,” Hardclaw suggested, swallowing hard. “I mean, the fish world does have the most Apothos, and legend has it, the fish has some of the answers to the multiverse’s most important questions.” But then Hardclaw changed the subject. “Where is you Glow Brigade, anyway?”

“Late,” Shador growled, “and when I find out who is responsible, brother, you can bet I’m going to punish them. They’re costing us both money.”

“I bet it’s the archer,” Hardclaw said carefully. “She is forever messing with those wheels on her feet. Or could it be your cleric with the hammers and the huge pair of pants? Why such big pants? And why the chains?”

“Hawt Tawpic has her ways, brother.” Shador inhaled deeply, letting the incense flood his nostrils. The Savage Meditation wasn’t calming him. Good, he wanted to be good and angry when the time came for dungeon destruction. “I don’t think it’s Hawt, and it wasn’t Cruelli DeKill. No, those two are good girls, but we both know the Grand Jester is chaos made flesh. It was her. Probably got into trouble. She makes me crazy, brother. She makes me crazy.”

Hardclaw nodded. “I don’t suppose it was Edna of the Three Rings. She’s seems like the least troublesome of the Glow Brigade.”

Shador laughed. “A fat lot you know, kitty cat man. Edna is no one you should messing with. In the end, it don’t matter much why they’re all late. They’ll come. We’ll go. Dungeon cores will die.”

Then Shador heard the sound of eight wheels rolling across the polished hardwood floor outside the door. A second later, his Glow Brigade hurried into the Situation Room. His archer. His cleric. His thief. His sorceress, carrying her powerful tome of diabolical magic.

Yes, Edna of the Three Rings was not a sorceress you should underestimate.

Cruelli DeKill spoke first. “It wasn’t my fault, Mr. Shador. It’s actually rather surprising that—”

The Grand Jester cut off the archer. “Mr. S, you are blaming me, like always, and like always, I didn’t do nothin’ wrong!”

Hawt Tawpic laughed brazenly. “Except you always do everything wrong, Jester.”

Edna cleared her throat. “Gee whiz, Mr. Shador. It was me. I had the girls wait around while I did some research. I found a few things that you might be of interest. I know we’re late, but it’ll be worth it, Mr. Shador, I promise.”

Shador titled his head and listened while Edna told him everything.

Well, that settled it. In seconds, he knew which dungeon cores would be his prey during the Semi-Finals. He planned on killing at least four worlds. Would that push him into S-Class?

Perhaps. But this was only the Semi-Finals. And he had an idea that in the Finals, he’d crack the cores of both the victors, even Wintersylver Gracefreeze and that freaky fungaloid. Or maybe he’d do the mushroom this week. That candy dungeon he and the astral moth had created was a joke.

Yeah, maybe Shador would smash up that Logan Murray. They were similar in a lot of ways. Both started out as weaklings and idiots. But Shador had transcended. He’d become awesome, while Logan remained as weak and stupid as ever. A moronic dungeon core like that needed a good cracking. Because in the end, mushroom dungeons were far too dangerous for Shador to ever let one live.