FINAL CORE - Chapter 60 (Patreon)

There is debate amongst the scholars of the world as to the age of the common races of people.

Some argue that all races, Humans, Elves of all variants, Orcs and Dwarves were all created at the same time and place.

Others argue that all species are simply a variant of one core, elder race. Just as dark-elves and elves are beings that belong to the same family, it is argued that humans, dwarves and orcs are also simply regional offshoots of this elder folk, having changed over time to adapt to their environments and the cultural tendencies encouraged by living in such domains.

A final theory, held to be true by the religious scholars of our world, claims that each of the races were simply products created by collectives of gods, who, unable to decide who would get to make the owners of the world, split into groups, each of these making their own race to follow and worship them.

From the perspective of a magical scholar and people of science, it is safe to say that we simply do not know and that, until further evidence of any claim is found, it is suggested that it is wise to avoid such a topic in any political settings, given its extremely explosive nature.

What we do know, however, is that human biology is dominant. In all instances of inter-race pairing between couples of any common race with humans, the birthed half-breed child, while taking features from both parents, will always have human-dominant features, without exception.

This is what has led to the decline and almost entire vanishing of the dwarven race, with the dark-elves being closer followers towards extinction.

~ On the subject of the biological separation of the common races, from dwarves to orcs.

_________________________________________

Isaiah exhales, gazing up towards the clouds that draw ever closer.

They are not there yet. But they will be soon.

— Probably.

In recent times, the growth of the tower has exploded exponentially.

[Floor Eighty-eight]

{Empty}

The Eighty-eighth floor of the tower. It is currently empty.

Monster-Capacity: {166}  Traps: {08}

Monster-Point prices per monster

• F-Rank: 1
• E-Rank: 2
• D-Rank: 4
• C-Rank: 8
• B-Rank: 16
• A-Rank: 32
• S-Rank: 64
• SS-Rank: 128
• SSS-Rank: 256

The tower rises up another floor.

Isaiah can’t help but wonder, even if the gods can’t hear them because they either aren’t listening or because they are simply indifferent to the plights of the living, can they see them?

It stands there, its arms crossed as it stares up towards the sky.

Can the gods see the tower? Are they watching right now? Do they sense its approach up towards their celestial thrones, that it intends to storm.

Isaiah tilts its head.

— No.

It does not think so.

The gods aren’t listening. The gods aren’t watching.

They might have done so in a time long, long before now. But now, in this current age, they are simply absent and continue to fail in their duties as the stewards of this world.

It is a failure that must be corrected.

Isaiah jumps down from its tree, flying off the side of the tower. There are rooms that need to be designed. The adventurers are getting further and further into the dungeon. The highest leveled group with the most practice, the ones who had defeated the phoenix, are already past floor thirty now.

This achievement pales in comparison with the almost ninety floors of the tower. But, as far as human-progress goes, it is a significant achievement.

As odd as it sounds, Isaiah is proud of them.

But perhaps that is some old, wayward motherly instinct that seeks to fill chirping mouths.

________________________________________

[Rorate]

“- I don’t know…” says the swordsman, looking back to his party as he swirls the bottle around in his hands that a priestess had given him. He looks back to his group, who all have their own.

“I mean… it’s an easy quest,” says his party-healer. “The status-window says it’s just some mushroom drink. There's no poison icon, see?” he asks, pointing up towards the status-window of the potion. Usually, if an item were poisonous to consume, it would be marked accordingly in the menu.

(Normal)[Mushroom-Brew]

A bottle of mulchy tasting mushroom tea. There is a hint of lemon.

Restores: 20% STAMINA, 20% SOUL

Weight: 0.23kg

Value: 020

“But why?” asks the man next to her. “Isn’t it kind of a weird quest? Drink this potion that may or may not be poisonous?” He looks towards the fake, the priestess, who stands perfectly still by the altar on floor three of the tower.

They’re quiet for a moment. Only the sounds of trickling water and the soft humming of the glowing spirits above fill the air.

“— Maybe it’s a test?” asks the swordsman. “The whole tower is built around faith, so, maybe the idea behind the quest is that it’s a test of faith?” he asks. “The tower wants you to drink this thing that obviously looks like poison to see if you’re a believer or not.” He nods. “It’s probably the start of some long quest-chain.”

“Aaaah~” says the party-healer, realizing. “That would make sense. Of course the first thing everyone thinks when drinking mushroom-stuff is that it’s poisonous.” He taps his head. “That’s the quest. It’s a mind-game.”

Rorate blinks beneath her hood, making a note to work that into her next speech to the next group of adventurers. It’s a much better way to sell it than what she had offered as an explanation.

“Worst case, we’ll just get teleported outside, right?” asks the swordsman. The others nod.

He shrugs and uncorks the bottle, drinking it down.

The others, one hesitating for a moment, watch and then follow suit.

Rorate beams, patting her pocket to make sure her gospel is there. She’s going to hold a long sermon about Isaiah in a minute, just as soon as the potion kicks in.

_______________________________________________

[Isaiah]

“There’s a problem,” says a voice from the side. Isaiah, having been working on a new floor in the tower, turns to look at Black who has flown in, looking rather bothered. It looks back towards the monster it was just summoning on floor seventy-six.

[Angelic Spirit]

A strange, twisting spirit that is made out of divine light from the heavenly realm. It stands ready for a fight as one of many. Angelic spirits are divine soldiers that adapt their abilities and equipment, based off of the monster declared to be their commander.

Note: The commander may only be a creature/person attune with HOLY

Rank: B-

Level: 41

Category: Spirit*

Type: Lancer

HP: 00/00

SOUL: 125/125

• [Heavenly Smite]: Collecting a wave of HOLY energy, the Angelic Spirit can release it as a wide-arced blast that affects any enemies within a cone 15m in length.
• {Commander Ability}[Dragon-Slaying Lance]: Given the commander’s prowess with a lance, these Angelic Spirits follow the doctrine of dragon-slayers and are immune to FIRE. Furthermore, any dragon-scale armor is fully negated in damage calculations.

*Spirits do not have health-points. Instead, any damage is removed from their soul-points instead.

“What is the matter, Black?” asks Isaiah, looking back towards the uthra as the spirit flies away.

Black shakes his head. “It’s the forest. The east mostly, but it’s starting to drip into the southern area. It’s really bad.”

“What’s really bad?” asks Isaiah, narrowing its eyes. The east? This is likely the witch’s doing, whatever it is.

“It’s just… everything is dying. The trees and the grass and… just, everything,” explains Black, shaking his head. “At first we just thought because it was all of the salt-water, pushing into the land. So we were working to keep that in check the whole time,” says the uthra. “But then, well… then things started getting… gooey.”

“Gooey?” asks Isaiah, rising into the air. This sounds like it’s going to be a problem.

“Gooey,” repeats Black, nodding. “You better look for yourself. I can’t really explain it.” He waves for Isaiah to follow him and the two of them fly off.

__________________________________________

Isaiah hovers there, looking down over the south-eastern edge of the island, towards what can only be described as a swamp-land.

The trees of the separated section of forest, once lush and strong and green, have changed very, very quickly. Their crowns have fallen bare, leaving only sharp, jagged branches that stick up towards the sky like a thorny bramble. Their bark, once thick and healthy and brown, is now simply an ashy, dead gray.

Isaiah looks. For as far as it can see towards the east, there is nothing but dead-wood. As far as it can see towards the south, where the land creeps to meet the ocean, everything is simply… gray.

There is a wet, musty smell in the air that carries all the way up here from down below. It is the smell of dead things. It is the smell of dead trees and dead fish and dead worms and dead birds and everything else, all coming together to rise as fumes towards the island.

The forest has been killed.

It’s simply… gone. All that remains is a gray-land, a bad-land, that is slowly starting to sink downward as a whole, as the ocean from the south floods the region now that the strong roots of the many trees can now longer hold the soil compacted together.

The ocean, which was once at bay, leaks throughout the entire region. It pushes through what was once the forest, turning everything into a rotting, festering swamp.

Isaiah looks to the side, towards the west for as far as it can see, towards the region that the humans use.

It, too, has begun rotting.

The rot does not seem to reach the island, at least not yet.

But this is a problem for sure.

It rises to its feet, flying up to go see the witch once more. “Black. Take Magenta and Beige. Stop your work here. Go to the west. Shore up what you can to stop this there,” it orders. Black nods, flying away. “And black,” starts Isaiah, looking down towards the bubbling goo that drips between the shadows of the dead trees. “- Do not touch the water.”

_________________________________________

Isaiah lands at the witch’s house.

It had brought Crystal here days ago in person to watch the uthra, while the repairs on the witch’s house were being done.

However, she was not there, just as she was not there the last time it had tried to visit her.

Isaiah looks around the area. The trees all look sickly uniform and bend down at a too-perfect angle, as if to go the extra mile to obscure the witch’s house from any observing eyes.

“Witch Perchta,” says Isaiah, knocking on the door.

— There is no response.

But it had not expected one.

It grabs the cool, metal handle of the door, pushing the heavy construction open with a loud creak. Damp vapors escape the room, pressing out past itself as if they were tormented ghosts, fleeing from the depths of the underworld.

Isaiah steps inside of the dark room, immersing itself in a place that no blackbird should ever be. Glasses and jars full of odd, disgusting ingredients line the walls, set in between old books and tomes that are covered in various stages of decay and mildew. Smears of many colors run along the walls and the floors, that are stained with the ink of years of fruity smoke.

Sitting on the far end of the room with crossed legs is a woman, as casually under-dressed as one would feel comfortable to be in the sanctity of their home, barring the large, floppy hat on her head that she is wearing indoors that obscures her eyes. In her hand is a long smoking stick, the vapors of cherry-wood rise from it towards the ceiling.

Witch Perchta takes a long draw of it, saying nothing as she exhales the smoke a moment later.

“We must put an end to this,” says Isaiah. “It is going too far.” It steps forward towards the witch, who seems entirely unbothered by its unannounced intrusion. “I had made a mistake. For this I have already apologized and tried to make amends. Must we continue to ruin our homes?” it asks. “Please.”

Perchta says nothing, staring for a moment and then adjusting her top, before taking another draw of her smoking-stick.

Isaiah steps forward towards her. “I do not want to. But I will fight you if I have to, to stop this,” it warns. Having once been a paladin, it recalls many things about witches and about how to hunt and fight them.

She doesn’t bother responding.

“Perchta!” snaps Isaiah in unusual annoyance, reaching towards her shoulder, that a strap is hanging loosely down the side of.

— Its taloned hand goes right through her body, which flickers and wavers, like a distorted reflection upon a body of water.

It was a trick. This is just an illusion, like she had done during their fight.

“Chief!” yells a voice from the back.

Isaiah turns around to look at Red, who is hovering in the door. “Red. We must find Perchta,” says Isaiah. “Or we will have very large problems, very soon.”

“We already got them, feathers,” says Red, pointing to the side. “The humans are here.”

“What do you mean?” asks Isaiah, tilting its head to look back towards Perchta’s vanishing image. The fake-witch smiles a coy smile, taking one last draw of her smoking-stick, before she vanishes into a mist that smells vaguely of damp, rotting cherry-wood. “The humans are always here, Red.”

Red flies in, grabbing Isaiah’s arm. “Not like this they aren’t!” she barks. “There’s a whole army setting up down at the bottom of the staircase.”

Isaiah blinks. “What?”

“Come on!” snaps Red, dragging Isaiah out after her.