Colosseum Core : [The Arena Dungeon-Core LitRPG]

Drums bang and the plucking of stringed instruments play loudly out in the world outside of the dungeon gate as voices, full of excitement, fill the night air. Starlight twinkles up in the sky, interconnecting strands of light wafting through the dense, floating cloud cover and shining with the same exuberance as the stream of souls weaving in and out of each other down on the streets below. Thousands of people move through the new city that has been developing outside of the colosseum core. Businesses and homes, taverns and centers of production—all manner of constructions have popped up by the hundreds and then by the thousands. A new dungeon core in the world is always something of note to the population, especially if it is one that seems to be lucrative to live around.

Most dungeons in the world, those that are ‘permitted’ to exist within the borders of society, are seen as something like an endless gold mine of resources and wealth, rather than a living organism such as a tree or a creature. Every great city of note in the world has a dungeon core in its center, which is used as an endless pool of material goods, food, alchemical reagents, and everything else.

What makes this one different, however, is the matter of subjugation. It can be fairly said that all of the large dungeon-cores of the world, barring a few notable exceptions, have been captured and tamed by the hands of men holding whips and the levers of guillotines. These dungeons have been fully encircled and beaten down over generations and generations of lives, so deeply so that there doesn’t seem to be any place for them in existence other than their'shared’ life with humanity and its ilk.

Munera, however, is the exception, as while these other dungeons are allowed to stay alive with the threat of them being purged and their cores destroyed by expert teams of adventurers and knights should they become troublesome, it itself is more of an eye-to-eye level of cooperation with the people of the world.

Not that they wouldn’t like to hammer it into submissive capture like all the rest, but they simply lack the ability to do so.

Nobody is quite sure where Munera draws its power from exactly. After all, it’s just a dungeon core like all the rest, in theory. But here it is, pulling from nearly endless wellsprings of power to suppress the lives of hundreds of the world’s strongest, all the way to an ancient hero and demon of legend, as if they were dolls, shuffling around in idle boredom.

While some whisper in fear of what this could imply, should this wild, raw power manifest itself into a tangible danger such as an invasion of the surface world by the dungeon’s monsters in what is called a ‘dungeon breach’, others hand-wave this away because of the fact that the dungeon is engaged in pro-active cooperation with the world in a fashion that no other dungeon had ever quite done before.

The city outside of the dungeon has become wildly prosperous because of the dungeon core, and tonight, this is being celebrated with a massive festival that spans the streets. Vendors and stalls line every corner, with games and events happening all over the place. Skeletons wander out of the dungeon in groups, carrying sacks of wooden toy swords, shields, and staffs that they give away for free to children to beat each other with.

This is a clever marketing ploy to grow future consumers and contestants for the Colosseum.

Money flows freely in and out of the dungeon core, as the flow of mercantilism runs out of the underground and drips out into the surrounding countryside. The new city around the core becomes a hub for traders, who begin to spread that wealth to the other cities of the nation. It doesn’t take long before the revenue generated here, brought in by the games that draw travelers and crowds from across the nations, begins to reach the coffers of the kingdom in which Munera’s dungeon sits.

Nobles grow fat from the spoils and trickles of gold that flow their way from the new lifeblood of the nation, and this prosperity is invested into stronger roads, bridges, and security throughout the nation—in part to further fuel the movement of people to the colosseum and thereby create even more wealth. But the layman also prospers from this, as the infrastructure of the nation begins to grow and develop with a speed that their neighboring countries find frightening.

While those in power in Munera’s kingdom find great pleasure in their newfound luck, their counterparts in the seats of power in the surrounding kingdoms look only toward the region with envy and an uncomfortable squirming in their gut. Not only does this new dungeon core provide the host kingdom with wealth beyond that of any other dungeon, but it also provides them with popularity amongst the common people. The everyman loves the colosseum core and all that is being done to make its games and events accessible to all in the kingdom. Even in their own countries, popularity for a nation that should ideally be their rival is growing among the populace.

It’s a dangerous situation.

The longer this is allowed to go on, the further the kingdom hosting the colosseum will distance itself from all the others in terms of wealth, power, and common support. If this is allowed to go on for too long, the gap will eventually be too large to ever hope to bridge, at which point they will sit there at the mercy of the greater kingdom.

So plans begin to form in the back chambers of palaces and in the long hallways of old castles—plans of theoretical movements of troops and armies. Old documents in dusty archives are read through by hundreds of scholars, ordered to find any obscure claim of title to the lands or regions of the area in which Munera grows, so that these other nations might present their claim to the area and take it for themselves under ‘correct’ pretenses. Old bloodlines are combed through for cousin’s uncles and niece’s third brothers for anyone who could possibly hold a title of dominion over this space that was once just empty countryside close to some third-rate city.

This doesn’t just happen in one country; it happens in many nations. Some of them are closer to the core kingdom than others, but all of them greedily eye the dungeon core that they wish to possess.

It is unlike any other in its cooperation.

It is unlike any other in its ability to generate everything a nation needs to prosper.

And it is unlike any other in its raw power.

The thought of wrangling this for themselves causes the heads below countless crowns to salivate.

And perhaps such things will come to pass soon enough—the days when soldiers of a hundred banners march into the nation to lay claim to a single dungeon for their own causes. But tonight, that threat is distant and irrelevant as the celebrations continue. There isn’t any particular reason for the party that has engulfed the city around the Colosseum tonight. It’s just a fun event for the sake of it that seems to have organically appeared from nowhere.

“I only need a little more,” says the man, holding a tankard of a colorful, bubbling drink as he walks through the crowd. His shrouded compatriot and he walk together down the road. A group of laughing children runs past them.

“It will never let me go,” says the voice from beneath a hood, the head turning to watch the children vanish into the busy crowd all around them.

The man grabs a thin arm, holding its shoulder. “I already have one-hundred points, even after buying today’s day outside,” he explains. “I can get the other hundred in a few weeks at most,” he says. “People love me. I’ll just make some smart bets and -”

“- Munera is cruel to those who aren’t a part of its games,” interrupts the hooded figure, followed by a long moment of silence as the former tries to stare into the latter’s eyes but finds it impossible because of the deep hood from which a long exhalation comes. “It will not let you buy my freedom.”

— Someone screams nearby. The two of them look, but then lose their tension as they see its just someone who got scared by a clown. The young girl sits on the ground, crying and cowering in rabid, frothing fear as a colorfully painted man dances around her.

“The children do so love the fun games…” sighs the hooded figure, almost wistfully. They fold their gloved hands together, holding them over their hearts, and then lower down over their core as their folded fingers loosen.

“We won’t know until I ask,” says Marjus quietly. “I’ll ask tonight.”

“No!” replies his counterpart sharply, their hands suddenly clutching his shirt. “Marjus! You must not!” it explains in a breathy, long exhalation. “If Munera learns of us, it will use me as a prize to make sure that you never leave the arena.” Marjus grabs the thin hands with one of his, the two of them looking at each other. “What of Vilale’s plan?”

Marjus looks at the skeletal face of the very bony skeleton staring at him from below the hood. After a moment of that, the skeleton looks down, covering its face again as it stares at the ground. “Vilale is crazy,” says Marjus quietly, holding the skeleton’s gloved hand. “If anything, sticking her plan through is more dangerous than just trying to buy your freedom from the dungeon core,” explains the spearman. “Niji-ji had the right idea to get out of here as fast as possible and never look back.”

It’s not that people are scared of skeletons in these parts or anything. There are a few dozen running around the city at all times of day, inviting people to participate in the very fun games. But this one is just shy and has self-confidence issues, is all. That is why it’s obscured by the heavy clothing. Although the fabric doesn’t fully stop the constant, slow whistling sound coming from inside, which does make people look oddly now and then. “Then go! Leave without m-!”

“- No,” interrupts Marjus firmly. “Today is our day. Don’t worry about it all, okay?” he asks, holding its hands in his. “I’ll take care of us, one way or another.” He holds out an arm, turning to the side to keep walking. Slowly, the skeleton reaches up, grabbing his elbow as they walk away together.

“Will we play…” it rasps. “…fun games?” it asks in a raspy, hissing breath as the sound of crying children and rattling metal can be heard in the background: a collection of wailing ten-year olds are being sent as a chain gang to the arena to pay the ultimate price for losing at whack-a-mole. They shuffle down the street, halberds held to their backs.

“For the rest of our lives,” replies Marjus, as a bony head leans itself on his shoulder.

He looks back behind himself down the street, winding toward the colosseum that the world loves but which is a problem for his life and that of a few others.

One way or another, this situation is going to have to come to an end soon — before something goes very wrong.