Path of Dragons - A LitRPG Apocalypse (BOOK TWO ON KINDLE SEPT. 2)

Roman’s face twisted in disgust as the stink of the unwashed mass of prisoners wafted into his nose. He asked, “Can we not wash them, at least?”

“We could hose ‘em down,” offered the warden. The fat man had somehow gained weight since the last time Roman had seen him, which only added to the air of disgust that pervaded the lowest reaches of the palace dungeon. “But they’d just get dirty again. Ain’t much reason for them to care about hygiene, as such. Most don’t think they’re ever gettin’ outta here.”

“They’re not,” snickered Fiona.

“Right you are, High Magister,” the fat man said. “But if they don’t have no hope, then they don’t care about nothin’. Not much we can do about that, neither.”

“Start cutting things off,” Roman suggested. “If they refuse to adhere to basic standards of hygiene, then they don’t need toes. Or fingers. Or any number of other appendages.”

“Yes, your majesty. We’ll get right on that after today’s session,” the warden agreed.

Roman didn’t respond. He’d found that keeping his communications with his underlings to a bare minimum served to motivate them. It was something he’d learned at his father’s knee. The man had never been effusive with praise – or any feedback at all, really – so Roman had spent much of his early years striving for his approval. It was only after decades that he’d come to realize that it never would have come, regardless of what he accomplished.

Still, the lessons stuck.

And what was Roman, if not the father of Easton? So, he channeled his own past, though with the roles reversed, and his people had responded appropriately. Most tripped over themselves in an attempt to garner even the slightest praise.

But the other side of that was that he met failure with unmitigated ire. Some of the people who’d managed to disappoint him were in this very dungeon.

All of that flitted through Roman’s mind as he traversed the disgusting space. Cages lined the walls, most of which held naked and dirty people. None were in good shape, but that was by design. Even if he preferred not to be exposed their stench, Roman didn’t care about their actual physical condition. Instead, he only took their levels into context.

Eventually, they reached the open space where the sacrifice would be performed. In the beginning, it hadn’t been anything more than a bit of bare floor. Yet, the warden – in an effort to please Roman – had gone to great lengths to dress it up. Standing torches had been arranged in a wide circle, and ten men and women had been shackled to a series of stone altars.

Each of the sacrifices had been scoured clean, their hair shorn down to the scalp, and given pristine white robes to wear. More importantly, they’d all reached the level limit of thirty-five. Reaching any higher would require actual danger that the dungeon could not provide.

But that was expected. Even though Roman would have preferred to push them to even higher levels, the cost of doing so would have been extravagant. Roman regarded it as a blessing that the system, in all its wisdom and glory, had cut them off at level thirty-five.

In a speech he’d already given countless times, Roman stepped up and said, “You have all been chosen. Your sacrifice will go toward strengthening the city. In that way, you can pay for your previous failures.”

One of the women looked up. Her eyes were deeply sunken into their sockets, and her skin was waxy, giving her a cadaverous appearance. Then, she spat, “Fuck you.”

Suddenly, the air came alive with ethera, though it never coalesced into a spell. The warden, who had the Jailer class, clamped down on her. So long as the prisoners were within his dungeon, they were largely impotent – at least in terms of using spells and abilities.

“Her first,” Roman said, stepping forward and drawing his sword, False Dragon Fang. It shimmered in the torchlight. He brought it back, then let it fall upon her neck. It sliced through flesh and bone with frightening ease, and the woman’s head fell free. It bounced slightly, then rolled for a brief moment before coming to a stop.

Roman stepped up to the next, though this man accepted his fate without complaint. The next one after that growled more profanities, and the next didn’t move. Each one died the same as the last, and Roman continued on until twenty sacrifices had been made.

The influx of experience only barely progressed him, but that was normal. It was not a sprint. Instead, it was intended to be a marathon. Hundreds had already been sacrificed, and thousands more would follow that same path – all for the greater good. Because as Roman grew stronger, so did Easton.

But he could admit that he wanted more.

He needed more power, and not just inside of his city. However, with unquestionable willpower, he shoved those selfish desires aside. He could go out and hunt monsters. He could have joined his people as they worked to conquer towers and close rifts. Yet, he knew that Easton was better served with him remaining within the city. He was the one person holding everything together.

Not only that, but he was a symbol. He was an example, an ideal for which his people could strive. So, he pushed his self-interest aside and focused on what was truly important.

“When will the next sacrifices be prepared?” he asked.

The warden rubbed the back of his neck, answering, “Could be as soon as next week. If you wanted, we got some higher level monsters. We was gonna use ‘em to push the sacrifices to level a bit faster, but if you want –”

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“I will not sully my blade with dirty beasts.”

“Of course. I know. It’s just that we could push you higher faster if you just killed a couple here and there.”

“No.”

The refusal hit the warden like a ton of bricks. In reality, the man was right. Or he would have been if he understood Roman’s class at all.