CHAPTER 63 – The Feast Beneath the Dungeon Crown

  The feast had been underway for nearly an hour by the time the first divine ripple prickled through the cavern walls.

  They were already deep into their plates—long before any politics, before any responsibilities, before any ink-written ultimatums. Tonight, the dungeon belonged to roasted meat, glowing fruits, and the kind of peace that only comes after surviving something impossible.

  The Lich’s ancient dining hall—carved from black-veined stone, lit by gentle teal lanterns—was warm enough that even Vaelreth had shrugged off her cloak. She lounged with her boots on the table, tearing into a basilisk steak the size of her forearm. Ember sat next to her bowl of molten mana-gel, happily slapping at it with tiny glowing hands.

  Nolan sat more neatly, but no less hungry. He tore a bit of moss-butter bread and wiped it through a dish of dungeon spice oil. It tasted like cedar and thunder. The Lich’s cooking always felt like that—centuries of patience, ingredient mastery, and absurd wealth.

  “You know,” Nolan said between bites, “for a guy who doesn’t need to eat, you’re dangerously good at cooking.”

  The Lich inclined his skull in quiet pride. “Wealth opens doors. Even culinary ones.”

  Vaelreth snorted. “Just say it plainly: you hoard rare food like dragons hoard gold.”

  “I do not hoard,” the Lich corrected. “I simply purchase ingredients of unmatched quality.”

  “You’re a rich corpse with a pantry,” she said. “And you cook like a retired emperor.”

  Nolan took another helping. “It really is amazing, though. Better than any city.”

  Before the Lich could reply, the temperature in the room shifted—slightly colder, slightly sharper—as a slit of black ink dripped from the ceiling and splashed onto the table.

  It rose into the shape of a woman made of manuscript and dusk.

  The Akashic Record slid into the seat beside Nolan without asking permission, immediately stabbing a piece of basilisk meat with perfect bureaucratic efficiency.

  “I leave you alone for one evening,” she said, “and you eat like retiring warlords celebrating their pension.”

  Vaelreth raised her cup. “We earned it.”

  The Lich gave a polite nod. “You are welcome to join.”

  “I already did,” the Record said, chewing contentedly. “Good basilisk. Slight lightning affinity. A little overcooked.”

  “Your opinion is always unnecessarily detailed,” Nolan muttered.

  She patted his head. “I know.”

  Before they could continue eating, a golden shimmer rolled down the corridor like someone dragging sunlight through water.

  “Oh come ON,” Vaelreth groaned. “Let us digest in peace—”

  The Goddess stormed into the hall.

  She looked dramatically offended, dramatically hungry, and dramatically inconvenienced—all at once.

  “You—” she declared.

  Three pairs of eyes turned toward her.

  “—are having a FEAST.”

  Nolan blinked. “Uh… yes?”

  “We finished work,” Vaelreth said. “We’re eating.”

  The Goddess marched forward and plopped herself into an empty chair like a sulking cat. “I was in eight meetings,” she complained. “Eight. And all of you are down here eating basilisk tenderloin.”

  The Lich politely slid a plate in front of her.

  She grabbed a piece of meat with divine indignation.

  The Record smirked at her. “Welcome to the debrief.”

  The Goddess chewed angrily. “I’m suffering.”

  “We noticed,” Vaelreth said dryly.

  Nolan leaned back. “So how did the meeting go?”

  She stabbed another fruit. “They want policy. Structure. Plans. Politics. Do you know what politics is like? It’s like trying to sculpt air while drowning in paperwork.”

  “That’s the most accurate description I’ve heard,” Nolan admitted.

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  The Record snorted. “He would know.”

  The Goddess jabbed her fork at him. “Office-working person. You—give me advice.”

  Nolan set down his cup. “I already said I wasn’t a politician.”

  “Close enough,” she said impatiently.

  And that was when they saw it—she wasn’t proud. She wasn’t dramatic. She was genuinely overwhelmed.

  So Nolan started with the simplest thing possible.

  “Lower taxes,” he said. “If you want dungeon participation and less stress on people, make their everyday life easier. Reduce burden before you increase expectations.”

  The Lich nodded. “Stabilize the base, or the structure collapses.”

  Vaelreth shrugged. “And less starving people means fewer riots and more volunteers. Easier to manage.”

  The Goddess wrote glowing notes in the air. “Okay. That makes sense.”

  “And dungeon management,” Vaelreth added, “needs a full overhaul.”

  Nolan leaned forward. “Your classification system is awful.”

  “It is,” the Record agreed cheerfully.

  The Goddess glared. “No one asked you.”

  “You need scouting teams,” Nolan continued. “Information groups that don’t fight, just observe. Then separate combat teams enter after gathering data. Also: standardized tags for dungeon types. Don’t classify by vibes—classify by patterns.”

  The Lich lifted a cup. “Permanent dungeons should have standing observation posts. Supply lines. Teleportation anchors. Or card-messaging systems.”

  “And reward information,” Vaelreth said. “Make reporting dungeon intel profitable. People love money.”

  The Goddess pressed her forehead to the table. “This is so much simpler than what the Academy said.”

  Nolan shrugged. “They like complicated solutions. It justifies their jobs.”

  The Record hummed approvingly. “You see why I brought him into this world.”

  That earned her a glare from the Goddess—but a tired one.

  Then the Goddess asked the question that stopped the table cold—not because of the content, but because they had expected it.

  “So,” she said, “what about artifact cards? The Academy needs someone to teach them. I can't teach them—I make things, I don’t explain them. And they have NO idea what artifacts are. Their potion guy thinks artifacts are big potions.”

  Nolan, Vaelreth, and the Lich did NOT pause.

  They immediately answered.

  “We can give you the knowledge,” the Lich said.

  “We aren’t hiding anything,” Vaelreth added.

  “But—” Nolan finished, “delivery is the real problem.”

  The Goddess looked up. “Meaning?”

  “It’s not the information,” Nolan said. “It’s who gives it. If we give it directly, the Academy will suspect the Record is manipulating you.”

  Vaelreth nodded. “If you teach it directly, they’ll think you’re copying our notes. That undermines your authority.”

  “And if the Lich walks in with a chalkboard,” the Record added dryly, “the entire Academy will faint.”

  The Lich gestured to his bony face. “I am not inconspicuous.”

  “You’re undead,” Nolan said. “You don’t eat. You radiate death. You look like the person who nearly killed them with Bone Walls.”

  Vaelreth pointed her fork. “And if they think you’re working with the Lich, they lose trust in the Goddess immediately.”

  The Goddess groaned. “Yes, yes, image matters, I know.”

  Nolan continued, “So the challenge isn’t ‘what to teach.’ The challenge is ‘how to teach it without collapsing public trust.’”

  The Goddess let her head fall dramatically backward. “This is exhausting.”

  The Record reached over and patted her cheek. “Now you understand my job.”

  “So,” the Goddess groaned, “I need a teacher that isn’t a dragon, isn’t a corpse, and isn’t me. Someone who can plausibly teach artifacts without linking back to all of you.”

  Vaelreth leaned back. “You need someone neutral.”

  The Lich added, “Preferably non-human. Mortals trust monsters more than villains.”

  “That is absurd,” the Goddess said.

  “Correct,” the Lich replied. “But also true.”

  Nolan, unfortunately, saw where this was going.

  “Don’t you dare,” he warned.

  The Goddess lit up. “YES. Exactly. You.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “No—”

  “YES.”

  Vaelreth grinned. “You are the least suspicious. Humans like human-shaped teachers.”

  Nolan pointed at the Lich. “Make HIM go.”

  “Undead aura,” the Lich said calmly. “I food-simulate, but I do not eat. I am too memorable. And my presence creates fear.”

  Nolan pointed at Vaelreth. “Make HER go.”

  “I would teach by yelling ‘natural instinct!’ and setting something on fire,” Vaelreth said proudly. “Your students would die.”

  “Absolutely not,” the Goddess said.

  Then the Record leaned forward.

  “Nolan,” she said with gentle cruelty, “you owe me.”

  He deflated. “I knew you’d bring that up.”

  “You used a Chaos Page,” she said. “I covered the cosmic paperwork. You will be paying that off for decades.”

  The Goddess snapped her fingers. “I got it! You’ll be a dungeon boss.”

  Nolan closed his eyes in despair.

  Vaelreth perked up. “Ooh. Good cover.”

  The Lich nodded. “Monsters are either very strong or very intelligent. A plague doctor dungeon boss is believable. Symbolically perfect.”

  Nolan groaned. “Why plague doctor?”

  “Mask,” the Goddess said. “Cape. Tools. Healing theme. Item focus. You already have precise hands, and the Record can just download medical basics into your brain.”

  The Record raised a hand. “Already prepared to do so.”

  “Of course you are,” Nolan muttered.

  “And,” the Lich added, “as a dungeon doctor, you can justify using item-crafting symbols without connecting it to your Duelist identity.”

  Vaelreth grinned widely. “Plus, humans love mysterious doctors. They’ll trust you faster than they trust the Goddess.”

  “That is insulting,” the Goddess said.

  “It is accurate,” Vaelreth replied.

  The Record wiped her fingers clean. “The real reason you must go, Nolan, is this.” She gestured to the table. “You three are eating basilisk. Hydra marrow. Dungeon-grade vegetables. Using boss-tier materials to repair your cards. This is economically insane.”

  The Lich nodded reluctantly. “We do lack… ordinary supplies.”

  Vaelreth sighed. “Everything we eat is a luxury ingredient.”

  Nolan blinked. “Wait. You want me to go outside… to shop?”

  “Yes,” three voices said at once.

  The Goddess added, “You need to buy normal food. Rice and beans, Nolan. Simple vegetables. Flour. Salt. We are using treasure-class ingredients for breakfast.”

  Vaelreth groaned. “It’s wasteful.”

  The Lich muttered, “Even I cannot sustain basilisk consumption daily.”

  The Record tapped the table. “You acquire ingredients. You teach artifact theory. You secure supplies. And you give plausible cover for us.”

  Nolan buried his face in his hands. “So I’m becoming… an undercover grocery-shopping plague doctor professor.”

  “Yes,” the Goddess said cheerfully. “Exactly.”

  The Record raised her cup. “To Nolan’s new job.”

  Reluctantly, hilariously, Nolan lifted his cup too.

  “To pretending,” he said, “that I’m not working with all of you.”

  Vaelreth clinked her cup against his. “You’ll do great.”

  Ember hopped up and tapped her tiny bowl against his cup. “Papa doctor!”

  Nolan rubbed her head. “…Yeah. Papa doctor.”

  And somewhere in the dungeon, a plague doctor mask stirred into existence—dark glass eyes gleaming with a future full of lectures, lies, and very annoyed shopping trips.