Chapter 2. Ghost

Hamilton was usually a peaceful town.

Usually. Unfortunately, the usual peace had been disrupted when the wizard’s tower in a nearby forest had decided to self-destruct with ungodly manners a few hours earlier.

Only after the terrible shake had ceased did the townspeople of Hamilton begin peeking out of their houses and trotting out, one by one.

They gathered at the town square as if by some unspoken agreement, and glanced curiously at the tower visible in the distance.

“Damn wizards and their towers,” muttered one of them to murmurs of agreement.

Strange were the ways of the wizards, and though the one called Woggins the Wise had been a polite enough neighbor for all the years since he had moved here from the capital, most common folk were rather weary and even afraid of all things magic.

It was generally known that wizards tended to be strange, grumpy shut-ins who spent all their time with their noses buried in books. And though they helped the people of the kingdom with small and large problems from time to time, they also spent an equal amount of time turning people into frogs and setting the homes of people who stepped on their toes (‘metaphorically’) on fire.

Or so it was said.

“Should we send someone to see if he’s all right?” asked one of the young men fearfully.

“Bah! Keep away from wizards, that’s what I always say! It’s how I’ve gotten to this age.” crowed a village elder, waving his cane.

“But if he’s croaked, does that mean all the stuff in the tower’s for anyone to grab?” one of the villagers wondered aloud.

“...Maybe we should send someone to go and check on him. Just to make sure he hasn’t kicked the bucket, of course.”

—

“M-m-master Woggins?!” Quint stuttered in shock

Wha..t… Happened…?

The spirit bobbed in the air in a bluish, translucent state, its words echoing from nowhere and everywhere at the same time.

“A bird pecked your eye out, then the core fried you alive.” Quint said.

…

The spirit and apprentice stared at each other for a moment in silence.

Ah well… It was a risk I had accepted… the spirit finally sighed.

Stroking his bluish wisp of a beard, and the spirit began examining his ethereal form in an unattached manner that soon grew into a scholarly interest of sorts. He had begun conjecturing with great enthusiasm while waving a triumphant finger in the air.

Interesting… The outburst of mana seems to have temporarily given me an ethereal form… an imprint of mana…? And the boy… I sense the boy has bound the dungeon to himself! But the third law of Homura the Hermit… Ha! If only I could show this to those old fools at the next council meeting…

The spirit suddenly harrumphed and pointed an imperious nose at the air. Hmph! Nay! Those old coots wouldn’t know what’s good for them if it hit them in the face!

The spirit then suddenly turned to his apprentice, as if he had just remembered him.

Quint… I sense that you have bound the dungeon to yourself.

“My apologies, master. It was the only way to stop the core from exploding with the tower with me inside.” Quint said sheepishly, feeling like he had ‘stolen a kill’ as some hunters liked to call with great disdain.

I understand… Nothing to apologize for… you did well… The spirit of Woggins the Wise nodded wisely while stroking his beard, though his epithet had more to do with the way he looked while stroking his beard and nodding thoughtfully than he perhaps liked to admit.

Quint thought it was a rather harmful and false stereotype regarding old wizards with long white beards, seeing as how his master had died.

“Master Woggins… What do I do now?” Quint asked. “I can feel this tower… as if it were a part of my own body.”

“And it’s also been badly damaged!” the excited apprentice added as he stretched out his consciousness through the tower.

The spirit of Woggins the Wise gathered its thoughts.

Being the master of a dungeon is no small responsibility… You have made many enemies simply by becoming one… Oh, my poor boy…

Woggins, who had himself just been fried to death, gazed at his apprentice with pity and sorrow as if the young boy had just been recruited into a battle of terrible proportions he had no hope of understanding nor surviving and was doomed to die a terrible death in the eternal humanistic struggle for supremacy.

Quint gulped audibly as he felt his mouth dry out in real time.

No matter, I will help you as long as I am able in this strange state of mine. The spirit nodded thoughtfully as it looked around the damaged tower.

First, you must fix the structural damage to the tower and close any openings. It will stop the mana from leaking out of this dungeon and consolidate your bond with the core. Remember your training, and concentrate on the mana.

“O-okay, I-I-I’ll give it a try.” Quint said, trying to imbue his voice with confidence.

Quint, though possessing an inquisitive if not bright mind, had not been a particularly talented wizard.

He closed his eyes nonetheless after folding his legs into the meditative pose his master had taught him and let his consciousness expand.

And he did feel something.

Or rather, he could feel… everything, in the tower.

Nay. He was the tower, now a dungeon proper if somewhat damaged and losing mana fast.

He felt the wind tickling the surface of the dungeon as though it were his own face, and he gasped at how much more dense the mana was inside it than the outside, while wondering at this new sense of his at the same time. He had never felt mana more clearly.

He brushed the walls with his mind and immediately knew that he could somehow… will the stone to grow. He also felt the mana leaking through the cracks on the walls of the third and fourth floors.

With an effort, Quint willed the stone of the tower to grow as it began drinking in the ambient mana and crawled across the fault lines that marred the walls, sealing them shut slowly but surely. He could feel it grow, a strange sense of oneness blurring the boundary between himself and the stone and wood that made up the tower.

Quint lost himself in the incredible feeling of it all.

Afterwards, when he finally opened his eyes, only the bluish glow of the core and his master’s spirit lit the room. The entire day had passed.

“I-”

Quint cleared his throat with a cough.

“Good gods, what time is it? I did it, master!” he exclaimed, ignoring his tingling legs.

The spirit had been deep in thought, and was startled out of his reverie by his apprentice.

Hm-huh? Ah… Yes, of course, of course. Good, good. Just as I expected, (the spirit coughed here for some reason) you’ve done well, Quint.

Now, you must listen carefully. I can sense that whatever phenomenon has given me this form is not permanent.

In fact, Quint did notice that Master Woggins seemed much less blue than before, growing more transparent and wispy even as Quint watched, as though it was losing more of whatever was keeping it in existence.

I sense that I am somehow bonded to the dungeon core, and that I can take refuge within it to prevent myself from dissipating completely. Thus, I will be going into a slumber to prolong my existence as much as I can, but I do not know if and when I will be able to return…

In other words, you will soon be alone to fend for yourself.

As a Dungeon Master, you have access to an incredible amount of mana and attunement, making you as powerful as a high circle mage… but only inside of the dungeon.

The spirit fixed him with a stern look.

I am sure you too understand the joy of pursuing knowledge and power after 3 whole years of study with me, nearly a fifth of your time on this earth. To a wizard as old and wise, perhaps even as dead as myself, you are but an infant! Ah, to be an infant again… The spirit's eyes suddenly glazed over as it turned even more misty than it already was.

Before Quint could think too hard about how in the seven hells that could be possible, clarity returned to his master’s eyes as the spirit caught itself and continued.

But I digress. you must exercise utmost caution, for you must now be careful who you trust, of your every action, than ever before. There are many who will covet your wealth and envy your dominion, seeking to harm or control you…

Luckily, the grimoire has survived and provides you with the basic instructions about being a Dungeon Master that is common knowledge. As much as it can be common knowledge, anyhow. The spirit chuckled. Then he looked at the boy he had raised for the past 3 years with no small amount of love in his eyes.

Good luck, my boy. You are my legacy. May you become the very best dungeon master of them all, like no one ever was. Consider this your real test, a sort of training to find your cause.

Quint imagined he heard an odd sort of thematic, inspiring music he had once heard at a play about a collector of monsters that lived inside of pockets. It felt oddly fitting.

The spirit of Woggins the Wise began disappearing slowly into the blue core, which still sat shining softly on its pedestal, with one last whisper and a grandfatherly, or perhaps uncle-y, smile.

Remember… with great power… comes a lot of enemies…

“Goodbye master…” Quint choked back his tears as the last remnants of his master faded into nothing. Literally. The dead body of Woggins the Wise had finished being recycled into motes of mana in the mana rich environment of the new dungeon with his last words.

Quint might not have been a smart boy (when it came to dungeons) but he knew that much, so he wasn’t too surprised.

As he breathed in a wisp of mana that had been his master but a few hours ago, Quint let the enormity of what had happened hit him with finality, and came to one conclusion.

He was alone.

And he was fucked.