The pain spun Logan Murray into a dark void. The second time in less than twenty-four hours he’d visited Abysstown. Population ouch. Well, no one ever said that dying and becoming a dungeon core would be easy.

This time, at least, the darkness was fleeting—there one minute, gone the next.

And this time, Logan didn’t wake up alone. Nor was he human. Not even close. He was lying on his back and he felt smooth cold stone under him. His eyes fluttered open and he found himself looking at his pudgy white hands. The three fingers and a stump-like thumb came in and out of focus. No fingernails. Not even any proper joints to speak of. He opened and closed his hands, and yes, balled his fingers into loose fists. He was made of the spongey gray-white material of your garden-variety fungus. No pun intended.

This was wickedly weird. He also felt terrible.

What wasn’t numb tingled, and he wanted everything that tingled to be numb. He dropped his arms, letting them flop like rubber tubes against the floor, and stared up at the arching black stone of a high-vaulted ceiling. He turned his head to the left and spotted huge columns rising up, up, up into the air like monstrous redwoods. Those columns were a bit fuzzy though, blurry around the edges since his eyes felt like they were rebooting. A turn to his right showed him arches crafted from black stone with long windows glowing with amber light. He’d gone to France with a few enlisted buddies, and this felt like the Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris.

He groaned and pushed himself to his feet, both feet, though he stood on elephant pads with four toes sticking out. There went counting to ten. Though, two legs was still a win in his book. Better two legs and eight toes than one leg and five. Sure his legs were just spongy white twigs, but in the sheer numbers department, he was killing it!

Still… He was short. He was wide. And he wore white cotton pants that ended at his jointless knees. A red shirt, soft and comfortable, hung from his round, sloping shoulders—the shirt, too short, showed a swatch of pasty white belly. He was as skinless and boneless as discount chicken.

His pudgy hands went to his head, and he felt his cap. At first, it felt like he was wearing a big round hat. Then he felt at the gills underneath the cap, the weird ridges that most mushrooms have. His fingers traveled south and he hesitantly touched his face—bulbous eyes, a tiny little nose, and a narrow mouth without very much lip. He didn’t have ears. Another strike in the body part ledger. But it could’ve been worse, he reminded himself. He could’ve been a puddle of goo with no limbs at all, devoid of sight, sound, and taste. Compared to that unfortunate fate he was doing pretty well.

He took one step. Then another. Then stopped. Something itched on his belly and he scratched at it absently. Again, he felt his spongey new flesh. He was a mushroom. A fungaloid. He knew this was coming, but wow… Hopefully he’d made a wise choice.

His other senses were slow to come around. Without ears, did he hear through his gills? At first, things were indistinct, but after a few moments he heard the murmuring, laughter, and conversations going on around him. A mixture of odors reached his button-mushroom nose. Puns were definitely going to be a problem.

He smelled a variety of things, some animal, some vegetable, some mineral. Eventually, his knobby eyes cleared, giving him a very Mos Eisley moment. There were monsters everywhere. Big, terrible, strange. Hearing Shadowcroft talk about Lich Priests and Abyss Lords had been one thing, but seeing it was something else entirely. He realized with a jolt exactly how much the deck was stacked against him. These things could crush him underfoot without missing a step. If he wanted to survive and thrive here, he was going to have to work harder than everyone else, smarter than everyone else, and fight for every single inch.

He was going to have to become the undisputed King of the Hustle.

Several long tables had been pushed to the side of the vast hallway, the space cleared so the incoming dungeon cores in their guardian forms could mingle. Schmooze.

Two hulking werewolves, covered in coarse tawny-colored fur, stood on their hind legs, covered in red robes, chatting amicably while they passed a big leg of beef between them. Dragons shrunk to the size of horses snorted flames and chatted. An enormous creature that looked equal parts fire demon and shadow nightmare yakked it up with a cold-faced undead queen, who glowed with a greasy, queasy jade light. Both were drinking from golden cups encrusted with jewels. They looked like dungeon core royalty all right.

What was the name of that Apothos-rich world that Shadowcroft had mentioned? He couldn’t quite recall the name, but he bet dollars to donuts that those two were former residents.

A centaur clopped by, his mane fluttering in some unfelt breeze. Logan stumbled back on instinct, craning his neck. Well, trying to. His neck didn’t really crane. He sort of bowed his whole body to get a better look. Majestic looking. Regal. Also stinky with a capital S. Another figure ambled past, a suit of armor made from what looked like lime Jell-O, leaving behind a trail of goo.

“Gelatinous Knight,” Logan whispered in shock.

Everything was bigger, taller, and more powerful than Logan, including a depressed-looking minotaur with his huge arms folded across his massive beef-slab chest. The bullheaded man leaned against the wall, sighing every once in a while, his ears fluttering in obvious annoyance. Near him was a tall, slender woman with blue-black moth wings poking out from her back and lacy antennae protruding from her brows. She looked about as uncomfortable as Logan felt and radiated social awkwardness in waves.

A jubilant voice echoed through the hall, reverberating off the high ceilings. “No, guys! I’m telling you. With my new hooves, I can slide through that slime trail!”

In a clatter of hoof clops, a toga-wearing satyr went zipping through the goo the Gelatinous Knight left in his wake as though it were a Slip ’N Slide.

The satyr had the furry legs of a goat but the muscled torso of a man. The hair around his wrists half-covered his human hands. His face was also humanish, with a pointed beard covering a chiseled jaw, a wide nose, and an ever-smiling mouth. He had goat eyes—horizontal pupils—and two big curling horns spiraling around pointed ears capped with tufts of golden hair. A fuzzy tail stuck straight out, then curled up like an overgrown pug. In one hand was a comically oversized flagon—the thing was dang near a punch bowl—which he somehow managed to hold with perfect balance despite careening through the slime. Something was printed on his toga, but Logan couldn’t quite make out the words.

The satyr finally slid to a stop. He deftly leapt from the goop, landing on his clopping hooves. “Haha! See that?”

No one seemed especially impressed by his antics, not that the satyr seemed to notice or care. Instead, the goat-footed man took a huge gulp from his cup and scanned the crowd. He zeroed in on Logan almost at once.

“Hey, bro,” he boomed, clopping over with a lopsided grin on his face, “I bet you’re like me. A fun-guy. Get it? You’re a little mushroom dude. A literal fungi.”

The satyr was a little under six feet tall. Normally Logan would’ve been looking down into the horizontal slit of his beast eyes.

Now? Logan had his head back. He smiled. Well, he attempted to smile; it was hard to tell if it worked with his new face. “Shadowcroft said to keep the puns to a minimum,” he replied. “And for the record, those hooves are perfect for sliding. I never would’ve doubted you. I’m Logan Murray.” He extended one pudgy hand in greeting.

The satyr stepped over and bent down on one goat knee. “Well, Logan Murray,” he said, accepting the proffered limb, “I’m Marko Laskarelis. The pleasure is all yours.” He paused and dropped Logan’s hand, his eyes going hazy for a beat. “Do you realize the first letter in your last name is the first letter of my first name? And vice-versa for the other names involved in this interesting bit of wordplay. It’s destiny that we have met, I think. Yes. Yes! I can feel it in the bottom of my wine cup. Destiny.”

The furry-wristed guy, already a bit drunk, took another long slog from the punch bowl turned chalice. From this close, Logan could finally see what was printed on the front of his toga—THE PARTY STARTS HERE with an arrow pointing down.

Logan had to laugh. “How did you customize your toga?”

Marko shrugged. “When the S-man, old crafty crofty, let me choose my guardian form, I saw my chance to do a little decorating. I have a keen eye for such things, you know. And I do like to party. So, put the two together and bam! A little embroidery later and I’m walking around with a surefire conversation starter. I’m just glad they have booze here. So, which world are you from?”

“Uroth,” Logan replied. “Or we call it Earth. It’s, uh, far away and having issues.”

“I dated a girl like that… far away and having issues. I’m from Sangretta myself, which is like Eritreus only stupider. But I had fun there, so it wasn’t that stupid.”

“Sangretta?” Logan had to smile. “That kind of sounds like sangria—red wine and chopped fruit.”

“Yes!” Marko drank some more. “I’ll have two. Make both a double. Quadruple me, barkeep, and don’t stop until breakfast. I might as well party it up since I don’t suppose I’ll survive very long. I’m not what you would call competent. Honestly, it’s an absolute miracle I can cultivate as well as I can. I suppose that old saying is true, the gods watch over children, drunks, and fools. I am certainly the last two. Still, I doubt I’ll make it long, even with divine intervention. It’s not like a satyr is anyone’s first choice as far as quality guardian forms are concerned.”

“Better than being a mushroom,” Logan said, sighing.

“No, guy, mushrooms are awesome. I’ve spent some great nights with mushrooms, I can assure you.”

“I don’t know.” Logan’s hands went to his cap. “Is there a mirror in the hall? I haven’t gotten a chance to look at myself.”

Marko laughed. “Gods, I know just what you mean.” He grabbed one of his horns and wiggled his head. “How in the inferno below am I supposed to sleep with these things, hmm? I like to sleep on my side, you know. Not anymore. I wonder if I can sleep standing up? Goats do that—sleep standing up. That would be useful! I’d save a ton of money on beds. At least I think so.” He tapped at his curly goatee. “Or maybe I’m thinking of elephants.”

A gruff voice interrupted their conversation, slashing through the low murmuring and the uncertain shuffle of feet. “Quiet, all of you. Eyes front and center.”

A formidable gargoyle-griffin-like creature stood on a raised dais at the far end of the hall. He stood upright, legs reverse hinged, his feet ending in bone-crushing, flesh-rending eagle talons. He had huge wings and a lionesque head with a lush mane. He wore heavy silver plate mail, with some sort of blue enamel running around the edges and an intricate dragon crest at the center. A wicked mace hung from his hip, the flanged head the size of a large melon. He looked terrifying, mean, and as dark as the inside of a coffin on Halloween night.

His voice boomed out, sharp and precise. “I said quiet! From this point on, we are watching you, every one of you, and we are grading you. So, you will all be on your best behavior. Or you will suffer.”

That sure seemed to get everyone’s attention.

Suddenly, Logan felt like he was in middle school. “I think my vice principal said that same thing to us at one point.”

Marko lightly punched Logan’s arm. “Looks like we’re getting started. Good luck, Logan Murray. I hope you make it. You seem like you’re one all-right toadstool.” The satyr left to go stand with the friends he’d already made. Marko was clearly someone who could make friends with anyone, anywhere.

Logan liked that.

The room fell quiet, and the various monsters shuffled forward. There was no way Logan would be able to see.

He hurried to the side, near where the minotaur and the moth girl loitered, and climbed up on a stack of chairs. Again, he felt his incredible shortness and how fragile his body was.

The gargoyle-griffin raised his claws and spread his wings wide, showing off the spectacular golden plumage. “Better,” he snapped. “Welcome to Shadowcroft’s Academy for Dungeons. I am Professor Yullis Rockheart, the rector prime here at Shadowcroft’s. We are the finest dungeon academy in all the Dungeon Corps. You may have heard good things about Gadsore’s Institute of Defense or the Crossworld Academy of the Arcane, but they do not have our legacy of excellence.

“Saudrian’s School of Guardians is third-rate, and the Waldorf School of Strategic Learning is a joke—a JOKE!” he roared, the noise shaking the floor. “And don’t even get me started on the shortsighted, myopic curriculum at the Plaguebringer College of the Undead! Nightfall University has given us a run for our money a time or two, this is true, but there’s a reason we’ve won the dungeon games the past three years running.”

Several of the guardians in the place let out a triumphant yell. Logan put two and two together. Somehow, many of the monsters here already knew what was going on and were probably at the Shadowcroft Academy by choice.

Logan had to wonder if any of these other dungeon core schools had people who’d chosen the fungaloid guardian form. Maybe mushroom dungeons had fared better at these other institutions.

Professor Rockheart continued. “Shadowcroft’s is the best because we have three things. One”—he stuck a talon-tipped finger into the air—“the best headmaster and staff of any dungeon core academy. Period. Full stop. Two”—another finger joined the first—“the most well-rounded and forward-thinking dungeon curriculum in all the realms. And three.” He paused, face a thunderhead, tone turning dark. “We have absolutely no mercy. Not a shred. You will conform. You will succeed. Or you will be crushed under heel. This is a school for winners. Time will tell which of you don’t belong here.” He scanned the crowd, gaze resting especially long on Logan. “And that time starts now! By standing in this room, you’ve already passed through the Reaper. Now… Now comes the Threshing.”

Logan didn’t like the sound of that. “What’s the Threshing?” he asked himself out loud.

The nearby minotaur heard him, ears twitching manically. The bull man sighed like he’d just crashed his first car, gotten fired from a great job, and dropped his ice cream cone. “It’s our first solo dungeon run in our new guardian forms,” he replied, sounding for all the world like Eeyore’s clinically depressed little brother. “Don’t tell me your name,” he said, raising a calloused hand. “I don’t care and I don’t want to know it. You’re probably going to die, and I know I will. That would be funny… me living and you dying.”

Logan went to protest, but then the itching on his stomach turned into a searing burn. He jerked up his short little shirt to see a gleaming ruby where his belly button should’ve been. It was about the size of his shroomy fist and reminded him of the gems in those old Troll dolls.

Logan gently touched the gemstone. The minute he did, he was sent reeling back into the void—third verse same as the first. This time, however, there was no pain.

And just like that, Logan found himself excited. A solo dungeon run? He was going into an actual dungeon. Awesome! Though, too bad he was doing it as a pizza topping.