Chapter 37: The Pull

Sharlock's blueprint for his dungeon had been to use these otherworldly players for basic construction — check off all the essential buildings and production structures. If they could dig up a valuable ore vein, or straight-up strike magic-stone ore, then Sharlock might actually have a shot at buying up other dungeon cores with magic stones and upgrading his own dungeon.

Level the dungeon up, and you could recruit higher-tier dungeon servants. Goblins, after all, were labor and nothing more — they could never hack it as dedicated combat personnel. The strength deficit was only half the problem; the bigger issue was the IQ situation.

But these players summoned from another world had intellects that flat-out curb-stomped the goblins', AND they could respawn inside the dungeon without limit. Sharlock couldn't help himself: he had a bold idea.

"Bru. I have a bold idea."

said Sharlock.

"Lord Sharlock — have you finally seen the light?" Bru said, a hint of excitement creeping into his voice. "You mean to use these otherworldly goblins as your army and go take other dungeons, yes? I've had a fully comprehensive battle plan drafted for you for ages! True, we're still a level-1 dungeon and goblins are all we can recruit — but we can use quest guidance to keep strengthening these otherworldly goblins. Then we pick a target dungeon, build a portal in the tunnels outside it, and exploit the otherworlders' unlimited respawns: send them through the portal again and again, tireless and fanatical, assaulting somebody else's dungeon without end. As long as your mana holds out, Lord Sharlock, one day these goblins WILL take a dungeon for you!"

"Once we've taken a dungeon core this way, we use it to upgrade me. And once I'm upgraded, we recruit even more, even stronger subterranean creatures from other worlds. Our power will snowball and snowball, until we swallow the entire Underworld — even the Realm of the Dead. Then we take the surface and conquer the whole world! I shall become the one and only dungeon core on this planet, and you, the magnificent Lord Sharlock, will have every race in the world groveling at your feet — the sole, and mightiest, Demon Lord this world has ever known!"

Bru got more and more worked up as he went. In his telling, a beautiful future steeped in blood and fire unrolled like a scroll painting.

Sharlock didn't immediately engage with Bru's fantasies of the future. He asked, with total composure:

"How many years were you decommissioned, again?"

"I was decommissioned for ten thousand years, Lord Sharlock. You woke me a little over two weeks ago." Bru answered with utmost respect.

"That explains it. If I were a demon from ten thousand years ago, hearing a plan like that, I'd probably be every bit as hyped as you. But times have changed, Bru." said Sharlock:

"The era of casually raiding somebody else's dungeon is over. This is a modern, rules-based Underworld society we live in now. Never mind how absurdly difficult and annoying it is to formally declare war on a dungeon these days — we demons have had ninety years of universal public education. Walk up to any random Dungeon Lord and they might turn out to be my old classmate, an upperclassman, or even an underclassman! As for conquering the world, or destroying it — that's the kind of goal those old fogey relics, the ancient demons, chase after. New-era demons couldn't be less interested."

Sharlock chuckled, as if remembering something amusing, and went on:

"A teacher at school once told me: if people live steeped in misery from the very start, then whatever misfortune a demon stacks on top — however tragic — reads to them as just another Tuesday. Worst case they die, the soul ships off to the Realm of the Dead, and it stops being our problem. But let them marinate in a happiness they can't claw out of, then shatter it out of nowhere — pile the tragedy on — and watch them thrash in agony while reminiscing about the good old days. THAT is when a soul is at its most delicious. And naturally, the magic stone it condenses into fetches the highest price."

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Finishing, Sharlock flashed a smile:

"Demons don't wreck the body. We play the heart."

"It would seem Lord Sharlock's ambitions sit a bit further up the difficulty curve." There was a smile in Bru's voice too, and he continued: "But let's shelve that — since I guessed wrong about your bold idea, might Lord Sharlock tell me what it actually is?"

"Now that you mention my bold idea — I swear, I'm a genius." This time it was Sharlock's turn to get fired up, and he rubbed his hands together: "Didn't you just say these otherworldly goblins can keep fighting, keep compiling experience, keep resurrecting — and eventually beat enemies they had no business beating?"

Sharlock clapped his hands once and said:

"I can make BANK off those players! I register them as gladiators and ship them to the arena to fight! Think about it — the other side is all beastmen, werewolves, stitched-together abominations, every jacked subterranean bruiser in the book, and my side is nothing but lowly, pitiful goblins. I send them into the arena against those powerhouses, and every betting line opens on the goblins LOSING. They get slaughtered a few dozen times — but if they really can do what you said, compile the experience and eventually beat unbeatable opponents, then once they're strong enough, I bet on them to WIN. One single win and I'm RICH!"

"Lord Sharlock, did your ninety years of public education neglect to mention that gambling is the one thing even demons don't touch? Also — squeezing the players THAT hard... are you even a demon?" Bru went quiet a moment, then asked.

"Damn right. High-tier demon."

Sharlock's idea was bold, no argument. He wasn't exactly rolling in money at the moment — even if he really did register the players as gladiators and bet on them to win, who knows how many matches it'd take to climb out of the red. And with too many losses on the books, one win might not even square him up.

Of course, all of it hinged on the players actually being as magical as Bru claimed.

While Sharlock was in here shooting the breeze with core Bru, the suicide-squad players outside had finished gearing up and were gathering with everyone else to talk strategy.

"Well?! Well?? You guys find anything? Boss skills, mob skills, anything?!"

"Find what? We fought them once. But we DID figure out the kobold warriors' aggro isn't tethered to Chief Kramo — you can peel a kobold warrior and drag it a looong way off, and Chief Kramo never even notices!"

"Wait, so they're just like the subterranean spiders then?"

"Right. Think we can run the spider strat on them? Pull 'em a few at a time and kill 'em?"

"Worth a shot. I think there's something here."

"Split it up — one squad holds Kobold Chief Kramo's aggro, another squad grabs short bows and clears mobs from range. Stand way back, shoot a few mobs down, then we reset and back off a wave. There's like twenty or thirty kobold warriors — few waves of that and they're all dead. That leaves Chief Kramo alone, and we can literally body-stack him to death!"

"That works. Honestly the only real problem IS Chief Kramo. One guy per hammer swing. Zero negotiation!"

"Hold up. You're sure this game even HAS an aggro system?"

"Pretty sure? Why else would the kobolds chase us the whole way there? And back when we fought spiders — didn't the subterranean spiders only ever smack whoever was closest?"

"I say we try it. With the kobolds camping that spot, we can't even farm materials."

"Yeah, yeah — hurry up and clear them out. Finish the main story and we get quest rewards too. I've got materials to farm; my gear's not even enhanced yet."

Dozens of players finished deliberating and locked in the plan. In no time they'd organized into a fifty-man team with divided roles: twenty of them carried nothing but shields — their whole job was holding Kobold Chief Kramo's aggro, which, let's be real, meant they were the designated deaths — so they left everything except their shields back in the dungeon, with other players babysitting it for the time being. This was still CBT1: the player count was tiny, there was no bank system yet, and players holding each other's stuff for safekeeping was everyday practice.

Another five were short-bow users — they'd be the main damage output on the kobold warriors. The rest came fully kitted, mostly there to screen the archers, and to slot in as extra muscle whenever the archers burned through their arrows.

Those who didn't make the team either had incomplete gear, didn't buy the boss-push strategy, or flat-out didn't want to go — they just wanted to grind coins and stack money in peace.

Soon the division of labor was settled, and the fifty players set off in high spirits.

Naturally, Sharlock was dying to know whether the tactic the players had cooked up after their one collective suicide run would actually pan out. The moment they left the dungeon, he started scrying on them.

The fifty-man column reached the kobolds' camp in short order. They ran through role assignments and a quick strategy recap on the spot, and then the shield-carriers stepped out front.

The five short-bow players nocked and drew, wound up tight and ready — the plan being, the second the shield players pulled, they'd unload on the kobold warriors.

Time was about up. But so was a problem: how exactly do you pull Kobold Chief Kramo's aggro?

Shield-toting OldMacDonald promptly announced "I'll pull," stripped to the waist, and strolled on out. The kobolds in the distance clocked OldMacDonald almost immediately, and then came OldMacDonald's full-volume battle cry at the kobold horde:

"BASTARDS!"