The Book of Dungeons - A weak to strong litRPG epic

As the rank-up alerts appeared less frequently, I forgot about them and pursued knowledge to establish a foundation for myself in this fantasy world of Miros. Having a concept of one’s place in the universe is part of being human. It’s what everyone needs to move forward, regardless of their culture or background. It comes from the fear of uncertainty—the future. If we wanted to know our future, we needed to understand our past and present. And if people didn’t know their history, then they invented one. Some explained the universe using scientific and quantified terms. Folk who don’t know how the world works concocts conspiracy theories. Some defined themselves by social standing—while others embraced superstitious or abstract concepts.

Regardless of their methods, the motives remained the same. We all want to know our place in the world.

This theory explained my thirst for knowledge about The Book of Dungeons. Knowing one’s environment has advantages. Pursuant to my intent of winning the battle royale, I wanted to merge with this environment and become a part of its history and people. Whether it used binary computer code or quaternary DNA, life’s building blocks didn’t matter. I wanted to embrace it. For now, the residents of Miros counted as my people. My sense of worth felt greater here than in Atlantic City, and perhaps that made me unique among the contestants.

The first subjects I sought included geology and history. The library contained nothing comprehensive, so I pieced bits together and sketched out the continent’s areas and zones myself. Humanity inhabited the coasts and rivers while the interior remained a no-man’s-land. Monsters barred transcontinental traffic. The North had two mountain ranges—one infested by goblins and the other by orcs. To the South, a long barrier called The Highwalls stretched like a backbone—its name alone explained why no one traveled them.

I cribbed notes from Charitybelle to expedite my scholarly pursuits. We kept abreast of whatever the other discovered. She geeked out over medieval engineering and found a chapter devoted to waterwheels one day. “We can modify water power. These pressure tanks remind me of my dad’s civil engineering books.”

Her comment didn’t make any sense. She once explained that civil engineering focuses on drainage, but none of that seemed applicable to Miros. “How do you modify water power? Do you mean you can turn it to steam or something?”

“No. We can transfer the water’s movement to turn a gear.”

She pointed to a picture of a water wheel. “All the waterwheels in this book are easy to make. A current of water turns the wheel attached to a millstone or something. But gears can do more. You can connect them to a spindle and spin on a vertical axis, leading to automation.”

Charitybelle sketched wooden cogs, rods, cranks, cams, and belts on a piece of vellum. She showed how they could drive heavy hammers to pound laundry or power bellows for smithies. Her enthusiasm amused me, and she took my smile as an appreciation for the design.

One day, Charitybelle surprised me with an unexpected announcement. “We should build a hunting lodge!”

At first, I thought I’d misunderstood her. “A hunting lodge?”

“Yeah. We could settle in the continent’s center. It would eliminate travel downtime. If we could harness water power, we could bring many of civilization’s comforts to our base camp.”

Charitybelle gestured to pictures of waterwheels in her woodworking books. “These pages show how to make all the stuff we’ll need, like how to hew lumber.”

She pontificated what it would be like to create a self-sustaining hunting camp. From my findings, trees covered most of Miros, and only the southern regions received heavy snow in winter. Her research pointed to a central question—could we survive in the Miros outback in a cabin?

“I got the idea after exploring the frontier with PinkFox, RIP, Fabulosa, and ArtGirl. The problem with hunting involved the long hikes to and from Belden. It eats up time and energy. Everyone loves warm beds and cooked meals, but we also enjoy wilderness adventures. Why not have both?”

My back stiffened. Her suggestion reminded me of RIP’s ploys to get me to leave the university. Hearing Charitybelle echo his strategies surprised me. She knew I had two libraries to explore and enjoyed working with Mr. Fergus.

Charitybelle turned her woodworking book to another page. “It takes only a few hand tools to construct buildings. Factories and assembly lines aren’t necessary. I badgered the blacksmith apprentices for information on how to make things. They got evasive when they realized I wasn’t joining their guild, but I learned a little. With time and experimentation, we can make anything we need.”

I never expected to be pulled away from my studies by the allure of a girlfriend. She wasn’t batting her eyelashes, but her enthusiasm shook my resolve to discover magic through academia.

The feasibility made Charitybelle’s proposition alluring. We didn’t need to pay for deeds, wait for building permits, conduct environmental impact studies, or curry favor with the neighbors. The wilderness became the dominion of anyone willing to stake their claim.

My noncommittal grunts didn’t deter her from pitching the idea to the rest of the gang over dinner.

They loved the idea but insisted that the lodge be secure, so I helped her research basic palisade construction over the following days. I combed through stacks, chapter by chapter, searching for relevant passages. Charitybelle studied how to secure and maintain an outpost. If we could figure out how to move earth, we could build a basic motte-and-bailey fortification. She drew me into volumes about battlefield earthworks, fortress design, and frontier life.

Charitybelle bought parchment and took notes about living in the great outdoors. Even the library at Our Lady of Balance had applicable books. We found relevant passages in stories about ascetics living in the wild, and Mother Marteen brought out books on flora and fauna that applied to our investigation.

While we scoured the library in Our Lady of Balance, I kept things tidy at Belden. Even though I didn’t officially work there, I helped with little chores like re-shelving books. By this point, Mr. Fergus gave me the run of the place.

The summer before my senior year in high school, I’d been working as a stock boy in a local grocery store in New Jersey. Making managers happy became a tried and true tactic. By working hard, the boss gave me more freedom than other employees. With some extra effort, I’d become valuable by making their job easier. No one hassled me over the little things like showing up late or switching shifts. It gave me independence and more ownership of my position. I invested the same ethic into the Belden Library and even enlisted Mr. Fergus to suggest helpful books.

I asked Mr. Fergus about the top floor. Completing the catalog earned me clout, and he trusted me with his books. “Could I look through the special collections for anything about the wilderness?”

Mr. Fergus didn’t balk at the idea. “You think you’ll find information on the continent’s interior up there?”

“Even fables might have some truth.”

“Hmm. That’s a possibility. While you’re up there, pick out a few of the most ornamented books. A book collector from Jarva passes through every Spring up the river to Grayton. He’s usually looking for well-made editions—perhaps you could pull a few to sell.”

“I can do that. Is there anything, in particular, you want me to pull?”

“Any topic, or rather, the lack thereof, will suffice. Good luck with your search. If you can find material in that flotsam of misspent scholarship, you’re welcome to it.”

I became a bibliophile in my teens, but the pristine condition of the special collections felt wrong and unhealthy. Books should be dog-eared with use, not put on pedestals. Libraries became a lifeline from the despair of my lonely youth. Reading did more than stimulate me. It weaponized my imagination and prepared me for adulthood after my parents called it quits.

But the forgotten volumes in special collections saddened me. Its books amounted to vanity projects, a pageant of inept, outdated, and insincere thoughts, never to be treasured by readers. Mr. Fergus had been right to cull them from circulation. The fifth floor served as a graveyard where uncelebrated thoughts went to die.

After a week of organizing and searching, I happened upon a book called A Beginner’s Introduction to Applied Magic. My jaw dropped as I flipped through its pages. I always suspected another school of magic existed. The four other schools bore associations with celestial objects—the sun and three orbiting satellites. But nothing drew power from Owd, the fourth moon.

I wrapped my arms around it and jumped up and down with excitement. After plopping onto the floor, I pored over its illustrated pages, reading it from cover to cover. Hours later, I closed the tome, causing an alert to surface in my interface.

Skill Acquired

Arcane Magic

Description

You’ve learned how to cast arcane spells. Arcane, or applied magic, derives its power from the moon, Owd. It is the magic of artificial manipulation, and its traditional color is blue. Its influence presides over the domains of transformations, artifacts, and runes.

Rank

1

Progress to rank 2

0%

No one could see my jig because the library designated the fifth floor off-limits to students, and Mr. Fergus rarely came up here. I took care not to slip on the dusty floor as I pumped my fists and flailed about like a lunatic.

And how did runes work? Did they use magic differently than spells?

I’d discovered another school of magic, and its cantrip didn’t require a target like Animal Empathy. I didn’t need to look for bugs or birds to rank up the new skill. Like Heavenly Favor, I could spam it whenever I liked.

Power (spell)

Detect Magic (cantrip)

Prerequisites

Arcane magic rank 0, Research rank 5

Cost

12 mana

Cooldown

60 seconds

Cast time

10 seconds

Description

For 1 minute per rank in arcane magic, caster sees a blue glow on magical items and enchantments within 30 yards.

This book vindicated all the effort I’d put into the library, and I took it to Charitybelle and the others. She found the illustrated pages, decorative animals, and illuminated initial capitals enjoyable and easier to read.

I made mnemonic associations with places and events to remind myself to practice. Whenever I stood up or sat down, I cast Heavenly Favor. Whenever I walked through a doorway, I cast Detect Magic. The cantrip took 10 seconds to cast, so I soon learned to step aside to avoid blocking traffic. I subdivided my routines with little exercises to grind my cantrips. Cast after cast, I progressed through skill ranks. Ironically, this process wasn’t as efficient off-campus because I couldn’t afford to be caught in the wilderness with an empty mana bar. My immunity didn’t extend to NPCs or monsters.

Unlike the other cantrips, Detect Magic required 5 skill ranks in research, making it inaccessible to anyone except Charitybelle. When she finished the book, I showed it to Mr. Fergus. I expected him to be embarrassed or impressed that I’d discovered something valuable in the library’s special collections. He received the news with minimal shock, making me wonder if he planted it. I never voiced my suspicion.

It wasn’t the only book I gave him.

Charitybelle and I compiled information about medieval technology and the continent’s interior. I grew adept at finding and reading things, but Charitybelle excelled in understanding them. We couldn’t take the books with us, and her notes became so extensive organizing them wasn’t easy. Expediency forced me to separate her records into sections, and the idea occurred to compile everything into a journal.

Writing a book involved an immense undertaking, and I had to rearrange the sequence of my information several times to make it easier to read. I condensed and edited the content until I couldn’t improve it. When the final version coalesced, I created a second copy, cleaner than the first, and presented it to Mr. Fergus for the library. Behind his thick glasses, the venerable librarian’s eyes widened with admiration.

Mr. Fergus fingered its pages. “Mr. Apache and Miss Charitybelle, this will be one of my most treasured books. Never have I had apprentices this diligent.” Embarrassed, he wiped his eyes and dried his hand on his tunic to avoid smudging the ink.

His reaction almost choked me up, so I preemptively excused myself so he could take time with the book. We left him with his nose buried in the pages.

A nervousness that I hadn’t expected unsettled me. What if the book wasn’t good enough? What if mistakes or errant writing forms disappointed him? If he found anything wrong, I trusted he would point it out. While I wanted it to be perfect, his critiques didn’t disappoint me. Analyzing and articulating thoughtful responses took time and trust—it showed respect. Maybe having someone to impress was like having a father.