Walter quickly realized he disliked hiking. No, he hated it. The supplier's rucksack crushed his back, the straps rubbed his shoulders, his sneakers slipped in the mud, and he struggled to gasp in air.

His previously sedentary lifestyle sapped him of his strength.

Elin called it a "practice run." Walter called it suffering.

"What exactly is a dungeon anyway?"

"A place of monsters," Elin replied matter-of-factly.

"Right, I understand that, but why do they exist?"

"They're an artifact of the third crusade. Dungeon hearts transform the earth into a labyrinth and populate it with monsters."

"Third crusade? How many are there?"

"Three. The Four Heroes Crusade, the Dragon Crusade, and the Bloody Crusade."

Walter wanted to ask more but struggled with a lack of breath. He suspected Elin was keeping him busy to freeze the scales.

It was working.

"We're here."

He leaned against a nearby tree. Trails connected the dungeons, and Walter deduced that adventurer's travel between them enough to pack the ground. Permanent roads connected the larger ones.

"Don't let your guard down," Elin chided, "Monsters spawn here."

"What kind of monsters?" Walter wanted to be concerned, or at least act like it, but exhaustion blocked it.

"Abominations. If there's more than one, then we retreat."

"What are abominations? Are they tough?"

"They're hard to explain. These shouldn't be difficult to fight, but still dangerous in groups. Let's check the dungeon. If there's nothing at the entrance, we'll head back."

"What dungeon?"

Elin pointed to a hill. No matter how Walter looked at it, it was just a mound of dirt. He shrugged. Elin gave him a look that translated to, "Are you blind?"

A staircase burrowed into the side of the hill.

Walter's exhaustion evaporated, now that he faced the maw of a real dungeon. Inside was a life-threatening maze filled with creatures, traps, and rewards.

His motivation zeroed when he reached the bottom. The entire dungeon was the stairs, and a single chamber dug into the earth.

The only thing in the chamber was a small marble pedestal, the type in a museum holding art. On top was a disembodied heart.

"That's all, huh?" Walter said.

"Looks like a party cleared it out recently."

"Should we leave that?"

Elin shook her head when he pointed at the heart, "It destroys the dungeon."

"Isn't that the point?"

"No. It will reform elsewhere, possibly someplace where it can grow unchecked. Furthermore, the Adventurer's Guild relies on monstraculture for its income."

"Monstraculture? Do you mean harvesting monsters? How does that work? Does the Adventurer's Guild put a bounty on them?"

"Only powerful monsters get a bounty. The rest get butchered."

"Even the humanoid ones?"

"Depends. Goblin blood has its uses, like axel grease. There's more, but I won't get into it."

"Gross," Walter said, "Do we have to do it ourselves?"

"Well, if we can avoid it, we will, but specialists are expensive."

"Great," Walter muttered. The idea of carving up a pseudo-human body made him nauseous. When he thought about it, monsters simply dropping money was ridiculous. Reality ruined his adventure fantasy.

Elin gave a sympathetic smile, "Are you a nobleman? If you're going to survive, then you'll have to get your hands dirty. Sometimes monsters carry valuable equipment, and larger dungeons have treasure and trappings."

Before Walter could respond, the heart restarted its beating.

Elin crouched, and her hand hovered over the handle of her sword.

The heart itself wasn't neatly detached, and long strands of vein and artery flicked with each pulse. Drops of black mud plopped on the ground. The smell reminded Walter of battery acid and pus.

An attractive force joined the droplets. The more that gathered, the more Walter could see mana coalescing, until finally, a red outline appeared.

"A slime?" Walter asked.

The monster that formed from the mud was the size of a basketball. The exact spherical shape flattened as if thrown too hard against the ground.

"Stay back. It might be weak, but it is still dangerous. Slimes have powerful digestive enzymes."

Walter wondered if the enzymes would melt clothing.

Click.

Elin slowly turned her head at Walter. Despite the threat from the monster, he was more afraid of her.

"Right," Walter coughed, he avoided looking at her directly, "Sorry."

"In what way could you find this exciting?" she hissed.

I've seen enough anime to know where this is going.

Click.

"I'll wait outside," Walter mumbled.

"Yes," Elin's voice was a whisper from a tomb, "Do that."

Faux enjoyed her little walks under the Necropolis.

What she wanted to do was stalk Walter, but what she needed to do was gather information. Although counter to her chaotic philosophy, sometimes the bigger picture could not be ignored.

Above ground teemed with the furious undead. These types were the typical zombies and poltergeists, and they ran directly to the candle of life to snuff it out.

The city's best-kept secret was the repurposed sewer. Like the surface, down here had its undead. As above, so below. Unlike the unintelligent ghouls, roaming about without a care, down here, the variety of undead was different. They kept secrets, they planned.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this unwanted visit?"

To get along with intelligent monsters, or at least temporarily ally with them, one must understand dungeon ecology. Dungeon hearts managed their territory through their summons by creating them with directives.

A nosferatu's directive drove them to near-obsessive levels.

"Greetings, Duke of the Rotting Garden. First, I believe the protocol suggests a gift? At least to secure my safety."

Faux placed a folded tapestry and a bag of paints on the ground between them, then curtsied. The nosferatu didn't look away from the book he was reading, but he shivered as he restrained himself.

"How generous. You certainly have my attention, dear visitor, though I wonder why you would joke about safety?"

Faux grinned but remained silent.

The Duke of the Rotting Garden snapped the book shut and carefully replaced it on the shelf, to take its place among the four there. All were well worn. His movements mimicked a curator's as he examined the tapestry and paint, holding the small jars up to objects in the room to compare the hues. For a moment, he lost himself, panting with obsession.

Startled, as reality reasserted itself upon his thoughts, he rattled the jars together and stacked them hastily on a nearby table.

"Don't forget the tapestry."

The nosferatu collected the fabric like a spider would retract an old web. Faux chuckled to herself as she watched the monster place the tapestry on the near-bare bookshelf.

"Well?" it asked, "You said protocol, so this isn't a social visit."

"I want to make an exchange."

"For?"

"Information."

The nosferatu nodded before sitting upon a worn-out leather chair, a mock nobleman upon a dirty throne.

"There's precious little of it in the City of the Dead, so, according to supply and demand, it's expensive. The minimum price is freedom."

Faux tossed him a silver crystal, the size of a dime, "I want to know about the visitor. Summoning a," she paused before continuing, "a hero is impossible for the Mage's Guild, as it currently is, so I want to know who helped them and how they did it. I also want you to tell me anything you learned about him."

The Nosferatu grinned and revealed pointed teeth, "It's quite a conspiracy. Please, have a seat."