“Now?” Was all the goblin could cough out at the sudden announcement.

  “No… not now.” She said while chuckling. “But soon.” Isolde tried to put the blade in, making the goblin realize that he forgot something and a a sheath of tanned leather appeared before her. Taking hold of the sheath, she continued. “I know who was responsible for the deaths of my parents.”

  “Who?” Asked Amand

  “My father’s old adventuring company hired the brigands; apparently he had something they wanted.” She had finished affixing the sheath to her side and grabbed the blade. “I guess they didn’t want to share.” The girl finished affixing the blade to her side.

  “I could come with!” The goblin said a little excitedly, “I have been looking to see the world and gain some inspiration.” A sad smile graced the girl’s face.

  “That cannot happen…” She said, “Do you know why people choose to destroy dungeons rather than become their master?”

  “No, why?” The goblin asked.

  “The bond of dungeon and master is on the level of the soul. You are tied together, you are extremely powerful in here but you cannot leave.”

  “Wait, what?” He was surprised by the information.

  “Are you telling me that you never tried to leave this place?” Isolde asked him.

  “Yes, on the first day but the door would not open… oh.” He finally realized his situation.

  “Indeed, you’re stuck here.” She said rather matter-of-factly.

  “So… what now?” He asked.

  “Well, I still have a bit more training to do and I could do with some more gear.” She said with a wink. The goblin rolled his eyes, clearly getting the point.

  A few more of what felt like months passed; He could never really tell down here. He made some leather armor, a backpack, and various other adventuring staples to the best of his abilities; after all, he was going purely off descriptions from books, pictures, and the suggestions of Isolde. “I’ll bring some things back next time I visit.” She would reassure him, which did bring him a little comfort.

  But no matter how long he stalled, the day inevitably came. Isolde geared up, filled her bag, and entered the main hall. Amand knew instantly what was about to happen. He sighed; at least he could escort her out. They walked through the meandering tunnels it had become quite the maze but good news he knew where to go, after all it was of his design.

  “You really should add some flair; it would be good practice.” Isolde broke the awkward silence.

  “I guess so; after all, I will have a lot of time.” The goblin replied, with a hint of something more hidden in the statement.

  “Only if you escape your terrible addiction.” She teased.

  “Very well, perhaps I should start with a grand entrance.” He said as they neared the door out. The hall enlarged into a massive room; it took the shape of a cathedral, but instead of rows and rows of pews, he filled the center with a clear pond of water, several benches and tables appeared along the sides, and soft light illuminated it all. “Now for the final touch,” and at the sides of the hall several hearths sprang forth and began to burn, with the same purple hue as the dungeon core.

  “I think your creation is lovely; it really captures the grandeur of this place.” She said with a bittersweet smile

  “I’m glad to hear; I don’t have enough mana to correct it if you found it distasteful.” He jested. Despite the change in scenery, one thing still occupied their vision: the wrought iron door. “I guess now is better than never, huh.”

  “The parting was always going to be a bit painful,” Isolde replied, “regardless of when it was going to occur.” She knelt down; when they first met, they were about equal in height but the passage of time had changed the balance. She embraced her friend and he returned it.

  A few moments passed; she finally released and stood up facing the door. The goblin stood there lost but prepared for what was to come; she took a deep breath, then some long confident strides to the doorway and pushed her way out. In the whole process she didn’t hesitate or look back; the dungeon was silent as if mourning her exit.

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  Amand released his bated breath now that she was gone; the whole dungeon seemed to breathe with him. The fires continued to crackle and water drops dripped. He sighed, walked up to the door and put his hand against it but no matter how much force he applied, it would not budge. He stood there for a while, as if hoping the door would open again, but it did not.

  Eventually he turned around and started to walk back to the core. He didn’t take the path that he originally took with Isolde but rather approached an inconspicuous bit of wall. As he reached it, the wall faded away, revealing another passage. He had long prepared more efficient ways of getting around but he wanted to maximize his remaining time with Isolde; he kept that information to himself.

  While he had fun with that little stunt, it drained a lot of his strength, and he felt the dull ache of mana deprivation permeating his body. Even with the shortcuts, it took him a good while to finally reach his chair by the main hearth. He quietly sat down; he stayed there for a long while. After some quiet reflection, he came to a conclusion. He just needed to keep himself busy; he had drowned his grief in work before, so this should be no different, right? He was magically exhausted, but he was still physically and mentally at full capacity.

  He stood upright and stepped into the hallway; he had long migrated the books into the hallway. The walls lined with knowledge really made him satisfied. He approached one of the shelves and pulled off a leather-bound book. Like a good swordsman, Isolde’s father kept quite the collection of different weapon manuals. And among those was a collection of spear techniques. He used a little bit of mana to create a large open room; a lectern rose from the ground as he placed the spear manual upon it.

  He began to mirror the stances, mimicking the thrusts and blows. The only thing interrupting the pattern was his occasional running to the lectern to double-check his positioning. He couldn’t help but feel that many of the techniques actually lined up with his fishing style. Feinting to bait a certain attack and using the reach to exploit them, the focus on perfect timing, and overall patience are required. He quite enjoyed the process.

  The goblin practiced his techniques for several hours before finally taking a break. He stepped out and towards the bathroom, eager to soak his aching muscles. That took less time, but not by much. He dried off and headed towards the shelves again; he had been saving a lot of reading material in preparation for being returned to isolation. His goal was to learn more about his circumstances. Isolde’s parents had an extensive collection of books in regard to adventures and some of the other problems they run across.

  Surely there is something about dungeons in all this adventurer literature; he had selected one up his ally, Dupendous Delves, Dungeons, and How Not to Die. He soon sank into his armchair and flipped through its contents.

  Apparently even the author of this book was not super knowledgeable of dungeons; they theorized they originated from fragments left over from creation and function as miniature planes, essentially individual worlds, like how the gods reside in Celestia and the demons in Hell.

  Supposedly there were many planes of existence; for example, there were the elemental planes where many mages conjured their elemental magics from. So in a way he controlled a miniature world. Another piece of information: apparently it was recommended to avoid dungeon masters at all costs. It was better to shatter the dungeon core and the master would perish with it. So he definitely needed to make some defenses; he was currently as defenseless as a fish in the middle of a desert.

  There were two dungeon types, controller and creator. Controller dungeons can control the monstrosities within them, weaponizing them to defend themselves; they often appeared as unique ecosystems. That made him think of the cave attached to them; he would have to run some tests. Creation-type dungeons were usually megastructures filled with traps and had little to no defenses otherwise. The book actually recommended not shattering dungeon cores but rather using them to harvest specific materials: monster parts from controller dungeons and magic materials from creator ones.

  So he should be able to create a wide range of magic materials and not just medicines. Unfortunately, he had not had access to many magic materials before his unintentional and unprompted move here. The goblin’s mind was brimming with ideas. He probably needed to learn about some traps then, not that he wanted to kill any visiting adventurers, but he couldn’t sit and wait to die.

  Testing control over monsters would have to wait for another day. He set aside that book and moved to the shelves once again; this time he found what he was looking for: Traps, Tricks, and Torture. He was only interested in a third of the contents but a third was better than none.

  Once again he went back to researching; he learned about many different types of traps: pitfall, noose, and spike. All of which were mundane in nature and should be easy to conjure. He had pictures to go off of but would have to run through several iterations. The tricks portion of the book was also helpful, specifically how to disguise entrances or create methods to distract and misdirect people; these would serve as helpful non-lethal methods of controlling would-be intruders into his sanctum.

  Before he realized it, his eyes grew heavy; he had successfully burned through his first day alone, with potentially thousands more to go. He sighed at the thought. The goblin ate a simple meal of soup and bread; he didn’t even bother cooking, he just conjured it and joylessly ate it. Amand never realized the joy of sharing a meal till he was alone again. The goblin sat there for a while staring at the empty bowl and plate.

  I guess it is time for bed then, Amand thought to himself. After all, he had much to test tomorrow, and his mana tended to recover completely overnight. He took the bowl and plate over to the lake and washed them in its waters. Could he have just destroyed them and created new ones? Yes. But there was a certain amount of routine that was healthy. He watched the fish in the lake swim up and eat the fragments of food that were dislodged. There was so much to learn, and despite his situation, he had a large amount of time to discover them then.

  Once he felt the bowl, plate, and spoon were sufficiently clean, he smiled satisfied and brought them back to the kitchen. He then headed to the main room, went to his bed, removed his fish-scale clothes and wrapped himself in his blanket. Despite his exhaustion, sleep would not take him; the voices wouldn’t be quiet. He sighed, reluctantly extricated himself from the blankets, and shivered a little bit at the sudden influx of cold into him. He grabbed the copy of Under Petal-ty of Love and read until the darkness finally took him.

  He was graced by the presence of the fishing god that night; they sat together and cast their lines into an endless ocean. They didn’t really ever catch anything but the process soothed his soul. Overall, a pleasant dream to end the day.