The Detective Twelve

The day after the dungeon failed

He should not have been here, yet here he was. There were others that were in charge of the police force in the area, yes, but he had been unceremoniously placed in charge of the initial investigation into the... issues, with the Wendell-Smith dungeon.

The reasoning was simple, and mostly relied on two things. He was an outsider with a fresh perspective and the skills to run an investigation. It helped that he was from the capital as well, since that leant his work and word a fair amount of credibility.

The second factor was far more mundane; he happened to be here already.

There were other investigators in the city, but with things starting to boil over, none of them were at the dungeon at about the time when it started to act strangely, and he was.

So, when the first night came and the entire city held its breath, he found himself inhabiting a small command tent set up on the dungeon’s grounds. The ambient mana was bothersome, but he could live with it. If anything, it wasn’t as bad as it would have been just a day or two ago, which was... not great.

It was a strong clue, as well, one that the police couldn’t hide, but which was based more on a gut feeling, so maybe the news wouldn’t travel as far.

He wasn’t too familiar with dungeons overall, but it was common knowledge amongst the educated that they pulled in mana from the air and used that to somehow recreate the items and goods across their many floors.

It was what many called the Dungeon’s Blessing. That was attributed to several gods, and many had taken some amount of credit for it. Personally, Malory never much cared, and he hadn’t spent much time thinking about it. Dungeons made things. Dungeons had a mana-sucking phenomena around them. They were just minor facts in the background of his life.

Now those minor facts were the cause of riots and the proof that this dungeon was well and truly broken.

He had requisitioned certain papers and reports, and had spent the night reading them by lamplight in the rather frigid command tent. There had been some time to question some of the locals, including the leaders of some of the delving teams, but other than the sense that quite a few of them were happy to participate in a bit of graft, there wasn’t anything that twigged his skills with regards to whatever was causing the dungeon to break.

So, the locals, those he had spoken to at least, were innocent. Probably. He couldn’t rule it out entirely, but there was also a distinct lack of motivation.

These people lived off of their work in this dungeon. It was what afforded them their daily bread. Many took pride in the work as well. That was common amongst those that worked jobs that were dangerous, they took pride in that danger.

Looking over the reports from the Ditz dungeon gave him something to do, but it didn’t give him answers, which is what he really sought.

There had been multiple teams of delvers that had scoured the Ditz dungeon. Several experts had been called in. He looked over their findings, but it amounted to nothing.

Then he noticed one report, near the end of the pile. It was more recent, and a little strange. It came from a team that wasn’t just composed of delvers and mages, but also a cleric. A cleric of Owela, a goddess of mental fortitude. He wasn’t familiar with her, but then he didn’t pay an excessive amount of attention to minor gods and goddesses.

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The cleric had reached the dungeon’s core.

That was one thing that many reports noted. Delvers and adventuring sorts often plunged deep into a dungeon. Reaching and touching a core was something that almost always counted as an achievement. If one did so successfully, then they were often rewarded with better, less common, classes later on.

The cleric’s report suggested that whatever had happened to the core was done via a religious rite of some sort.

Mallory had been sitting on that all day. It was one of the last reports he had read before sleeping, and it was in his mind from the time he woke up to now, late into the second day since the breaking of the Wendell-Smith dungeon.

A religious rite. That pointed to... something. Which god or goddess had something to gain from breaking a dungeon?

No, gods rarely, if ever, interfered in the affairs of man. Perhaps the highest clerics and certain kings might have a prayer answered, but the common man? For them, a god might help or hinder, but it was in reply to a demand or prayer that was strong. It was never because the gods themselves wanted something. Their desires were above most.

So, if it wasn’t that a god wanted something, then it had to be that... what? Someone in a religious organization wanted the dungeons of this city broken?

He wasn’t sure, but it felt at least plausible. There were plenty of economic gains and political maneuvers that one could do if they were aware that a dungeon would soon fail.

Was that what was happening here? He wasn’t sure. But he knew that he couldn’t leave this uninvestigated, and would soon be poking into every temple and church in the city. That was going to be frustr--

Mallory perked up as the sounds around him changed.

People had been talking, and there were a lot of gawkers gathered on the edge of the space. Some of them were even relatively close to the dungeon.

In the morning and on the previous day, the crowd had been quite large, but there was honestly nothing to look at here, so people eventually wandered off. Now those same people were talking with elevated voices.

He moved out of the command tent, then paused and went back in, grabbing his long coat and slinging it on. Then he checked his gun. It was a simple little thing. Six shots. Well made, reliable. An officer’s standard revolver. He hoped he wouldn’t need it.

Stepping out, he surveyed the space and instantly knew what was up. Smoke was trailing out of the dungeon’s entrance. No... was that dust? There was an expanding cloud of it, slowly leaking out of the dungeon, then billowing outwards.

People were talking, some of them tapping their neighbours to get their attention.

Mallory watched as one of the nearby officers frowned and stepped up to the cloud. He was still several feet from the edge of it when he started to cough.

Somehow, there was a sudden, powerful hush over the crowd as the police officer continued to cough, more and more, his upper torso bending in half and his face going red. His tall peaked hat clattered to the ground, and he stumbled, falling out of the expanding cloud with a face a dangerous shade of purple-red.

Then he collapsed and seized on the ground.

Mallory’s heart was beating like thunder in his chest. A brave fool ran up to the officer, grabbed him, and started to pull him back only to collapse with his own coughing fit.

Everyone tensed when three objects were thrown out of the dungeon, all of them arcing high in the air. When they landed it was with a loud bang, like a gun’s retort. They spread more smoke.

None of the three had landed near anyone, but that didn’t matter. The crowd broke.

Mallory glared while slowly backing away. What was all this? His mind and skills were already making connections, however. Choking to death, wasn’t that how--

A form darted out of the dust.

He raised his gun, aimed. The crosshair on his revolver followed along the figure’s torso... then the dust cleared a little, and his finger twitched away from the trigger. A child? They wore a backpack, face covered by layers of cloth.

He cursed as they ran into the already dispersing crowd and sprinted away. He caught sight of the cloth, fluttering in the wind as it was abandoned.

What had just happened?

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