“Alright,” Viktor said. “Let’s get started.”

  The time had come to summon the next Guardian. His two current ones were already here, in the Core Room, each occupied a seat that was made to accommodate their size perfectly. Sebekton’s enormous bulk rested heavily against the large, reinforced chair, while Khenemhotep sat upright and unmoving, his desiccated eyelids shut tight, as if he were in sleep.

  [Yes, Master. I can begin the summoning on your order. Shall we proceed?]

  “Do it.”

  [Understood. Initiating summoning procedure...]

  A glowing circle bloomed across the stone floor, thin lines of light etching themselves into existence as if carved by an invisible hand. They expanded, pulsing brighter and brighter.

  [A candidate is arriving. Her terms are... She has none. There is no demand on her part.]

  What?

  This was not how it worked. All Guardian candidates had terms. Because power was never free, and loyalty always came with a price. Who in their right mind would want to bind themselves to the will of a Dungeon Core without asking for compensation? Not unless they were some sort of battle maniac. But hey, Sebekton was, by all reasonable standards, a battle maniac, and even the guy wanted something.

  Viktor frowned. He had long since learned that free things were often the ones that ended up costing the most in the long run.

  Pink and violet mist leaked out of the circle, slithering around his legs like a nest of snakes. And it smelled sweet. Very, very sweet.

  Why does this feel so awfully familiar?

  The answer revealed itself a moment later, when a figure stepped out of the haze, its movements unnaturally fluid.

  Curved horns framed dark, glossy hair. Glowing crimson eyes adorned a pretty face. Smooth skin the color of lilac, fabric that barely counted as clothing.

  “Oh, another succubus,” Sebekton said, tilting his massive head. “Though she looks exactly like the last one. Are all succubi identical to each other?”

  “That’s the same succubus, Sebekton,” Viktor muttered under his breath. He then turned to Celeste. “Why are we getting the same candidate twice? How is it even possible?”

  [Technically, the probability is not zero. However, in practice, it should be low enough to almost never happen.]

  Almost never, huh? And yet here she stood, smiling like she had every right to be here. What kind of luck was this?

  Viktor let out a slow breath, then turned to face her fully.

  “Lady, why did you come back here?”

  “Oh,” she said with a smile. “It seems fate has decreed that I belong to this—”

  “Celeste, send her—”

  “Wait!” the succubus snapped, dropping the purr instantly. “Do not kick people out before they’ve finished speaking. That’s incredibly rude, you know.”

  “Fine,” Viktor said. “I’m listening. So talk. But skip your bullshit. Why are you here?”

  She folded her arms, wings twitching. “Because you threw me out last time before I could even say a word. Do you have any idea what that does to a girl’s pride? No one has ever treated me like that before.”

  Oh great, a succubus with bruised feelings. Exactly what he needed. Clearly, he was having a wonderful day.

  “Alright,” Viktor said. “I understand why you want to come back. What I don’t understand is how you got selected again.”

  She shrugged with theatrical exaggeration. “How should I know? As I said, maybe it’s fate. Or destiny. Take your pick.”

  Viktor picked something better. Divine meddling. This must be the work of a god or a powerful Ascendant.

  “Well, it doesn’t matter,” he said. “Celeste, send her back.”

  “Wait!” the succubus cried once more, desperation creeping into her voice. “Why won’t you at least listen to what I have to offer before making your decision?”

  “Lady,” Viktor said flatly. “You are a succubus. I know exactly what you have to offer. I do not want you. Have a good day!” Then he added, “Please, don’t come back.”

  He hadn’t wanted her the first time, and he wanted her even less now. If some god thought shoving a half-naked demon down his throat was funny, then they could choke on that idea.

  “You can’t do this—”

  Light swallowed her whole before she could finish the complaint. The circle flared, snapped shut, and she was gone.

  Viktor let out a long breath. “Finally.”

  [Master, you seem to harbor a strong dislike for succubi.]

  Viktor snorted. “No, I neither like nor dislike them. They’re not important enough to warrant a strong emotional response from me. I just think that they don’t fit our dungeon. I mean, what could they even bring to the table?”

  [Well, a large number of adventurers are male, so...]

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  “Enough of this.” Viktor waved a dismissive hand. “Let’s summon the next candidate.”

  If it was that same horned seductress again, he would strangle her himself.

  [Initiating summoning procedure...]

  [A candidate is arriving. His terms are... He wants a share of the souls harvested within the dungeon.]

  Oh?

  Shadows began to seep upward from the glowing lines of the circle, pooling together like viscous black ink, rising and solidifying into a humanoid shape.

  The figure that emerged was tall and gaunt. Long, sinewy arms hung at his sides, while a threadbare robe wrapped around him, covering the barest hint of flesh in his body. Skin the color of bleached bone stretched taut across hollow cheeks, and a dusting of grey stubble clung to his pointed jaw.

  In one pale hand, he gripped a strange curved staff that looked like it had been made from someone’s spine, though a bit too long to have belonged to any single person. Perhaps the vertebrae had been extracted from two or three bodies, then assembled into this single, interlocked staff.

  The newcomer did not bow, nor did he smile or offer any gesture of respect. Instead, he simply turned his gaze toward Viktor and regarded him in silence.

  “Are you the one who called out to the Ethereal Sea?” he finally asked.

  “My Dungeon Core did,” Viktor replied. “You are?”

  “I have many names,” the pale figure said. “But you may call me Var’ghul. I answer the call because I sense great potential for... harvest... here.”

  “You said you want souls. You do understand that the souls of the intruders who die within this dungeon will be claimed by the Dungeon Core and converted into mana, right? And you want a cut? So, how much do you want? Why do you want them? And what do you offer in return that would justify such a demand?”

  “Worry not, Dungeon Master,” Var’ghul said, his dead eyes scarcely blinking. “Your income won’t be diminished in the slightest. It will merely be... delayed. Give me the souls so that I may feed them into my engine. Once I am done with them, I will give them back to you in full. The essence you harvest will remain unchanged. In fact, you will benefit greatly from this arrangement. For my engine, empowered by those souls, is capable of unleashing magic of unparalleled potency. And that power is what I offer in service to your dungeon.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Viktor said. “Your engine uses souls to fuel powerful magic, yet the souls themselves are not consumed in the process. They can be returned afterward, intact, without losing any value. With all due respect, that sounds far too good to be true.”

  “I wouldn’t call them ‘intact.’ But if your only concern is their conversion into essence, then routing them through my engine will not reduce their yield in any measurable way. For what my engine consumes is not the souls themselves, but their suffering.”

  Viktor caught the faintest stir in both of his Guardians.

  “The souls are subjected to torment, over and over, within the engine’s chambers,” Var’ghul continued. “It is their fear, their despair, their agony that is distilled into raw power. And that is what fueled my magic.”

  Sebekton’s teeth were now audibly grinding, and Khenemhotep had opened his eyes, the twin glowing orbs fixated on the newcomer with an intensity that spoke louder than words.

  Well. That was their verdict.

  To be honest, the guy had potential. He could be useful, very useful. If he were just some low-ranking minion, Viktor would just toss him into a forgotten corner of the dungeon, leaving him to his grim work. Out of sight, out of mind.

  But being a Guardian was a totally different matter. He would need to cooperate with the other top lieutenants. He had to become one of the team. As it turned out, Sebekton didn’t like him, Khenemhotep didn’t like him, and Celeste, considering how she had acted so far, probably didn’t either.

  At the end of the day, Viktor had the choice to pick a Guardian or not. There could be someone else out there, offering similar benefits without bringing all this... baggage.

  “Thank you for coming here, Var’ghul,” Viktor said. “You’re powerful. Impressive, even. Unfortunately, I’m looking for someone with a different skill set, and you’re not quite who I need right now.”

  The gaunt man gave no visible reaction.

  “I see,” he said. “It seems I’m not welcome here. It is alright. But before I leave, I would like to know if there is anything I can do, anything I can change, to make myself more acceptable to you.”

  What is this, feedback for a job interview?

  Viktor glanced at his Guardians. “Sebekton, High Priest. Do either of you have anything to tell him?”

  Sebekton leaned forward. His jaw tightened for a moment, sharp teeth pressing together as though he was chewing on the right words.

  “Listen, Var’ghul,” he rumbled. “I am a simple warrior. I like fighting. I like testing myself against strong opponents. But I do not like the idea of torturing people. Putting them through unnecessary suffering just for the sake of it. Well, from the way you describe it, perhaps ‘unnecessary’ is not the right word. Still, I cannot say that I am fond of your way of doing things.”

  After the Crocodilian’s words ended, Khenemhotep’s followed, dry and ancient, like sand scraping across stone long undisturbed by the living.

  “My lord, the Bearded God, was the judge of the dead. Countless souls had been brought before him, so that each might be judged according to their deeds. Among them were many who had lived in wickedness, who had committed grievous atrocities and inflicted great harm upon the world. Yet even for these, the harshest punishment was this alone: that they be cast into Oblivion, and that their souls be utterly destroyed. For it was not permitted that any soul be condemned to torment without end, regardless of who they were or what they had done.”

  Var’ghul listened without interruption. Then he inclined his head.

  “Very well,” he said. “I thank you for your frankness. Perhaps another time...”

  His body began to dissolve, edges bleeding away into inky shadow. The darkness poured downward, flowing back into the etched lines of the circle like spilled oil returning to its container.

  Viktor exhaled. “Next one, then.”

  [Yes, Master.]

  [Initiating summoning procedure...]

  [A candidate is arriving. Her terms are... She wants us to treat her wounds. In return, she will fight for us as long as we wish.]

  Huh? This one is injured?

  The light of the magic circle ebbed away, leaving behind a hulking figure in armor thick enough to make it look less a warrior and more a mobile construct. It would have looked impressive, though, had it not immediately collapsed forward and dropped to one knee, its immense bulk leaning heavily on a massive warhammer planted head-down on the floor, the shaft trembling under the strain of its full weight.

  The suit of armor clearly had seen better days, but now it stood as a monument to its own ruin, bearing the extensive physical toll of a violent confrontation. Deep gouges scored the plates, as if some monstrous force had tried to carve its way through. The once-proud purple cape hung in tatters, embroidery chewed up and spat out, cloth frayed into rags. The left pauldron had taken a catastrophic blow, caved in and buckled, while the tall, pointed helmet fared no better. The lower half of the faceplate was gone, revealing a dark void where a face ought to be.

  Yet, both the figure’s imposing stature and the severity of the punishment it had endured paled in comparison to the strangeness of the thing embedded at its chest. Set squarely into the center of the torso was a transparent cylinder, now spiderwebbed with fractures, encasing a human skull that lolled slightly askew.

  What kind of ornamentation was this? Who in their right mind would have thought mounting a skull in a fragile jar directly over their vital organs was a sensible decorative choice? Still, given the state of the rest of the armor, the fact that the container hadn’t completely shattered was nothing short of impressive.

  “Who are you, warrior?” Viktor asked at last, staring up into the hollow under the helmet. “What happened to you?”

  “My name is Galatea,” said a voice. But it did not come from behind the ruined visor. “And my face is down here.”

  Inside the cracked jar, the skull twitched and rattled before rolling itself upright, its empty sockets locking onto Viktor.