《Making of the Cubic Dungeon》 Chapter 1: A glint of sunlight streamed through the dusty cracks of the dungeon¡¯s ceiling as a chunk of shimmering metal plummeted from above, shattering into small, gleaming cubes. These fragments landed with a satisfying clink in front of a crawling, cube-like creature, whose four spindly legs moved with an almost joyful exuberance. As it methodically gathered the metal pieces, stacking them into larger, perfectly aligned cubes, its singular thought echoed in its mind: Cubes are perfect! In the background, a hive of activity unfolded. Hundreds of identical cube-like creatures, each one a mirror of the other, busily engaged in the same task. They moved in sync, a mechanical ballet of industriousness, each adding a modest cube to their burgeoning piles. Yet, none could compare to the proud creature at the forefront, the oldest of its kind. With every precise movement, it exhibited a grace born from years of practice, each stacking motion refined to perfection. It knew, with unwavering confidence, that its cubes were the finest creations in the entire dungeon. Despite the thriving scene, danger lurked around every corner. Occasionally, one of the lesser creatures would topple into the furnace below, swallowed by the fiery maw, or be crushed under the weight of debris that occasionally rained down from above. The odds of survival were slim; the dungeon was a ruthless environment that offered little regard for their safety. The cube-like creature, having witnessed the demise of many of its kin, had learned to tread carefully. It recalled the harrowing moments when four-limbed, metal-clad beings loomed overhead, their presence a constant threat. Time and again, they had wreaked havoc upon its kind, reducing them to mere scrap. Yet, in the distant corner of the room, it had often found sanctuary, escaping the destruction that surrounded it. Today, however, its focus shifted sharply. As it piled the newly acquired metal pieces with unyielding determination, a familiar irritation bubbled within. Its main adversary, a tiny, scuttling roach, had dared to venture too close. With a swift motion, it employed the welder nestled beneath its chassis, unleashing a brilliant flame that engulfed the pest in an instant. Satisfied, the creature discarded the charred remains into a pile, dismissing the threat with a flick of its appendage. Just as it settled back into its rhythm, a sudden message flickered before its eyes, pulling it from its moment of triumph. The vibrant letters shimmered with anticipation, sparking curiosity and a hint of anxiety. "Attention: New Challenge Initiated! Collect 100 Perfect Cubes!" Excitement surged through the creature as it absorbed the words. This was the moment it had been waiting for! The prospect of creating the ultimate stack of cubes ignited a fierce determination. With newfound vigor, it re-focused on its task, ready to prove that its craftsmanship was unrivaled. The dungeon may have been treacherous, but for this proud cube, the reward of perfection was worth every risk. As it resumed its work, the familiar sounds of clinking metal surrounded it, merging with the electric buzz of competition. Each cube stacked higher than the last felt like a step toward glory. The proud creature smiled inwardly, knowing that with every metallic addition, it was not just crafting cubes, but building a legacy that would outlast even the most formidable of foes. Deep within the shadows of the dungeon, a sense of unease danced in the air, tugging at the instincts of a solitary cube-like golem. It had spent countless days perfecting its craft, shaping gleaming metal cubes with an unmatched fervor. Yet, something inexplicable beckoned it to stray from its usual routines. Despite the instinctual warnings echoing in its core, it found itself drawn to a new compulsion: hoarding the very cubes it had painstakingly created. With a manic determination coursing through its form, the golem began to stack its prized creations to the side, arranging them into smaller piles, each one like a shimmering pebble. It couldn¡¯t shake the thought that the dungeon master had orchestrated this¡ªdemanding 100 perfect cubes as a testament to its skill! At last, its relentless labor was being acknowledged. A swell of pride surged within, igniting a fire of creativity that had long been simmering. In its mind, a mechanical snicker reverberated, a silent acknowledgment of its superiority over the other laborers who busied themselves in monotonous tasks. They were mere cogs in a machine, lacking the finesse and artistry that defined its work. Giving in to its whims, the golem redoubled its efforts, crafting one exquisite cube after another while still maintaining its original task. Days melded into one another, but time held little meaning in this realm of stone and metal. With every cube it produced from spare materials, it felt closer to achieving something monumental. It could hardly contain its excitement, imagining the rewards that awaited it upon the completion of the task. What would the dungeon master bestow upon such dedication? Would it finally be recognized for its brilliance? Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the golem stood before a magnificent stack of 100 flawless cubes. Each one gleamed with pride, a testament to its unwavering commitment to perfection. With bated breath, it braced itself for the moment of revelation. Suddenly, a message flickered into view before its unseeing eyes, startling the golem: Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. ¡°Challenge completed: Gained access to the system.¡± The words hung in the air, shimmering with an enigmatic promise. Confusion mingled with exhilaration as the golem struggled to comprehend what this "system" entailed. It had no knowledge of such a thing, yet it felt an undeniable tug toward this newfound potential. A shimmering interface appeared before the cube-like golem, the words flickering with a strange energy. ¡°Please pick your base model to expand from: The golem tilted its square-shaped head, its mind a whirl of confusion. Each option pulsed with possibility, yet it felt a dissonance within. What did these designations mean? It pondered, tracing the meanings of the words in its mind as if they were carved into the very fabric of its existence. The first choice, Tank, conjured images of impenetrable defenses, a bastion of strength standing unwavering against adversity. The golem considered this¡ªits sturdy form could certainly absorb punishment¡ªbut was it truly meant to be a shield? Next came Scout, evoking thoughts of speed and agility, a nimble figure darting through the shadows, gathering information. The golem envisioned itself zipping about, uncovering secrets, yet it couldn''t shake its inherent solidity. The option of Technician sparkled with potential, suggesting mastery over intricate mechanisms and the ability to mend and modify. This resonated, as it had spent many hours creating and refining, but it felt more than just a builder; it was a creator, a sculptor of perfection. Then there was Brawler, a model associated with brute force and relentless combat prowess. The golem imagined itself engaged in fierce battles, pummeling adversaries into submission. While it had the capacity for strength, it wasn¡¯t merely a weapon¡ªit longed to be more. Finally, the last choice stood out like a beacon of mystery: Energy Core. This option seemed to pulse with an inner light, promising a connection to untapped power, a source of potential that could fuel incredible transformations. The golem felt a strange warmth at the thought, as if a whisper of destiny was calling it to harness something greater. After much contemplation, it closed its metaphorical eyes, letting intuition guide its decision. In that moment of clarity, it felt a resonance with the Energy Core. This model spoke to its very essence, the spark that ignited its creativity and determination. With newfound confidence, the golem reached out and selected the option, feeling a surge of energy course through its form. As the golem marveled at its newfound potential, another shimmering interface materialized before it, filled with cryptic symbols and numbers that flickered like distant stars. This new screen displayed a representation of its body and mind, laying bare its strengths and weaknesses for the first time: Strength: -1 Flexibility: 0 Durability: 1 Mind: 2 Energy Control: 2 Assignable Ability Scores: 1 The golem¡¯s heart sank as it absorbed the information. What was this? It stared in bewilderment at the glaring negative number next to Strength. A feeling of dismay washed over it, accompanied by a creeping sense of inadequacy. Flaws? I have no flaws! The golem felt a surge of indignation rising within, a fervent desire to prove that it was more than just numbers on a screen. The other attributes, too, painted a curious picture. Flexibility sat at a stagnant zero, indicating a rigidity that matched its square form. Durability, though higher, still seemed insufficient. But then it noticed its Mind and Energy Control, both at a respectable 2. Determined not to be discouraged, the golem¡¯s resolve solidified. With its Assignable Ability Scores showing just one available point, it knew exactly what to do. It focused on its Strength, feeling a surge of energy coursing through its being. If this system thinks I¡¯m flawed, then I will prove it wrong! With a decisive motion, it allocated its single point, raising its Strength from -1 to 0. As the numbers changed before its eyes, a wave of glee washed over it, filling its core with warmth. The golem couldn¡¯t contain its excitement and began to dance along its spindly legs, moving with a newfound buoyancy. Each step felt lighter, every movement imbued with a sense of accomplishment. Look at me now! it thought triumphantly, reveling in the minor victory. Just as the golem finished its jubilant dance, the interface shimmered again, displaying a new message that piqued its curiosity: ¡°New Task Initiated: Defeat 10 Roaches to Level Up!¡± A rush of excitement coursed through its form. The roaches had been a persistent nuisance, scuttling around the dungeon with their tiny legs and insatiable hunger for destruction. The golem¡¯s earlier irritation flared anew at the thought of those pesky intruders. This is my chance, it thought, feeling a spark of determination ignite within. With its welder glinting like a beacon of potential, it envisioned itself confronting the roaches, using its abilities to eradicate the tiny pests. It may not possess arms or intricate weapons, but its spider-like legs were agile, and its mind was focused on the task ahead. Chapter 2: For the first time, the golem found itself pondering its own existence. It wasn¡¯t entirely sure if this newfound curiosity stemmed from its increased stats, but something within compelled it to look closer. As it focused on its reflection in a nearby gleaming metal surface, it was met with the sight of its single, glassy eye. Round and unblinking, it stared back, filled with an unusual mixture of admiration and discontent. This eye, this shape¡ªwhy does it stir such conflicting emotions? The golem contemplated, a flicker of frustration passing through its mind. It had always viewed its spherical form as somewhat lacking, a mere simplicity amidst the complexity of the world around it. Yet, in this moment of reflection, it realized that the very shape it had loathed seemed to work harmoniously with the rest of its structure. There was an elegance in the way the eye glinted in the light, capturing the dungeon''s dim glow like a solitary star. Beneath this curious orb, four spindly, spider-like legs sprawled out, each one supporting its compact body with surprising stability. The legs moved with a grace that belied their mechanical nature, allowing it to traverse the uneven terrain of the dungeon with agility. As the golem shifted slightly, it felt the legs responding in perfect sync, a harmonious dance of metal and purpose that resonated deep within its core. Tucked beneath its form, the welding gun hung with quiet readiness, an extension of its very being. It was secured by a flexible webbing of intricate muscle-like structures, an engineered marvel that granted the golem both dexterity and strength. This apparatus, far more sophisticated than it had ever realized, felt like a vital lifeline¡ªone that not only allowed it to create but also served as a means of protection against the lurking dangers of the dungeon. Tilting the welding gun slightly, the golem lowered itself down, mimicking the movements of other dungeon creatures it had observed. A sense of anticipation thrummed through its core as it prepared to go on the hunt. Prowling, it recalled the term, a word that seemed to resonate with the instinctual rhythm pulsing within. With newfound stealth, it crept along the ground, its spider-like legs moving with a surprising grace. Each delicate step was calculated, careful to minimize any noise that might betray its presence. The dim light of the dungeon cast long shadows, providing the perfect cover as it navigated the rocky terrain, eyes sharp and focused. It felt a thrilling rush, a primal instinct awakening in its very essence, propelling it forward into the depths of the unknown. As it scoured the ground, the golem¡¯s gaze darted about, searching for signs of movement. It couldn¡¯t help but feel a twinge of disdain for its prey¡ªthe revolting roaches skittering across the uneven stone. With their grotesque, elongated bodies and twisted shapes, they stood in stark contrast to the perfect geometries the golem cherished. Not a square, nor a rectangle, or even a circle¡ªjust chaotic, messy forms that squirmed and crawled in a manner that sent ripples of irritation through its being. The golem''s sensors tingled with anticipation as it spotted its first prey, a tiny roach crawling atop one of its brother¡¯s carefully constructed cubes. With a careful tilt of its head, it inspected the cube, mentally offering praise for its craftsmanship. Nice cube, it thought, awarding it a solid 8 out of 10 in aesthetics. There was a bittersweet feeling swelling within the golem; it saddened to think that it would have to destroy this lone piece of refuge, a temporary haven amidst the chaos. With a deep breath¡ªor as close to a breath as a golem could muster¡ªit steeled itself. Quietly, it readied its welding gun, feeling a surge of power coursing through the mechanism. This time, it felt stronger, more potent than before, and it carefully aimed at the unsuspecting roach. The moment felt charged, an electric thrill dancing along its metal frame as it prepared to strike. With a swift, decisive motion, the golem unleashed a powerful blast from the welding gun. A brilliant flame erupted forth, engulfing the cube and the roach in an instant. The metal melted away, transforming into a glistening pool of slag that dripped onto the ground. Wow, it thought, a long whistle echoing in its mind at the display of sheer power. The victory was bittersweet; while it had neutralized its prey, it had also obliterated a creation that deserved to be admired. As the smoke dissipated, the golem took a moment to reflect on its actions, an inner conflict stirring within. It was a guardian of perfection, yet it had to confront the flaws of the world around it. Despite the pang of regret, the golem pressed on, determined to embrace its role in this relentless hunt. The dungeon was still alive with the scuttling sounds of more roaches, and it would not let this victory be in vain. Each step was deliberate as it moved deeper into the shadows, ready to face whatever else awaited it in its quest for order amid chaos. For the next hour, the golem relentlessly hunted, its focus unwavering as it dispatched one roach after another. Each successful strike brought it closer to the coveted notification it hoped for. Finally, as it felled the last pest, a sense of triumph surged through its core. Ten down! it thought, basking in the fleeting victory. Yet, the hour had not been without its challenges. There were close calls¡ªone particularly nerve-wracking moment when a roach managed to clamber onto its head. Panic gripped the golem as it darted around, flailing its spider-like legs in a desperate attempt to shake the invader loose. The sensation of the creepy creature crawling on its exterior sent waves of discomfort through its being. Get off! Get off! it thought, the urge to cry rising within as it felt utterly vulnerable, a realization settling in that it had a major weakness: it couldn¡¯t remove anything that landed on it. But the battle had been worth it. With the final roach dispatched, a familiar notification flickered to life in front of its unseeing eyes, the words shimmering with promise: Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. ¡°Congratulations! Level Up Achieved!¡± With the level-up came a reward¡ªthe golem felt a surge of excitement as it learned it would receive 2 assignable points to enhance its capabilities. Furthermore, as an Energy Core, it was granted the ability to select a new limb specifically tailored for its unique form. The options appeared before it, each one radiating potential:
  1. Energy Blade
  2. Shield Arm
  3. Magnetic Grasp
  4. Utility Appendage
As the golem examined the options laid out before it, uncertainty crept in. Each choice shimmered with promise, yet its mind remained clouded by the memory of the roach that had clung desperately to its head. That incident had been a moment of panic, highlighting its vulnerability, and it wanted to ensure that it wouldn¡¯t feel so helpless again. With a decisive thought, it selected the Utility Appendage, hoping against hope that this new limb would grant it the ability to remove any unwanted intruders from its surface. Instantly, a surge of energy coursed through its form as the connection was made. Deep within its core, it felt something shift and grow, and before it knew it, a sleek mechanical tentacle emerged from its body. It was perfect! The tentacle wiggled and coiled with newfound dexterity, offering an impressive range of motion that filled the golem with excitement. The small appendage was a marvel of design, crafted to extend its reach and grip objects with precision. As it practiced, the golem found joy in discovering how it could deftly grab at the scattered metal cubes littering the ground, lifting them up and adding them to the growing mass of gleaming metal that it had worked so hard to create. Why didn¡¯t I have this before? it mused, the frustration of past challenges fading away as the tentacle became an extension of its will. The golem took a moment to gaze at its stats once more, curiosity bubbling within as it pondered the potential of its newfound abilities. The numbers glimmered in front of its eye, a reflection of its growth. With the Utility Appendage now a part of its form, it felt compelled to enhance its capabilities further. After considering its options, it made a decision that felt right: it allocated its new assignable points to Flexibility. As the adjustment took effect, a wave of energy surged through its body. It felt a shift, a subtle loosening that allowed it to move with a newfound grace. Tentatively, it tested the limits of its mechanical tentacle, extending and retracting it with ease. The appendage danced through the air, each motion more fluid than before, like a painter''s brush gliding across a canvas. With excitement thrumming in its core, the golem scurried along the ground, its four spindly legs propelling it faster than it had ever moved before. The sensation was exhilarating; it felt as if the world around it had opened up, and every corner of the dungeon beckoned for exploration. It had assumed that adding to its strength would yield speed, but the surge of flexibility had proven to be the secret to its newfound swiftness. This is amazing! it thought, the thrill of velocity igniting a spark of joy within. The combination of its spider-like legs and the agile tentacle allowed it to navigate the treacherous terrain with surprising finesse. It raced past its fellow cube-like creatures, their motions still rigid in comparison, a proud smile forming in its thoughts. With every scuttling movement, it felt more alive, more capable, and more in tune with its surroundings. This wasn¡¯t just about surviving in the dungeon anymore; it was about thriving and embracing the adventure that lay ahead. The golem surveyed its newly updated stats, a hint of pride swelling within its core: As it stared at the numbers, a sense of accomplishment washed over it. With its Flexibility now matching its Energy Control and Mind, the golem felt a surge of confidence. These attributes felt crucial as it embraced its identity as an Energy Core¡ªa unique form among its kind, crafted for a purpose that was still unfolding. It couldn¡¯t help but contemplate its next steps. The prospect of enhancing its Energy Control and Mind tantalized its thoughts. Each increment promised greater mastery over its abilities, allowing it to wield its new appendages with finesse and think more strategically about the challenges ahead. What if I can do more with the energy inside me? it mused, envisioning itself harnessing more power to create or even defend against threats. The potential seemed limitless, sparking excitement within its mechanical heart. The golem realized that if it continued down this path of evolution, it would not only become a more formidable presence in the dungeon but also unlock deeper layers of its own being. It felt the call of adventure grow stronger, urging it to explore the possibilities that lay beyond the confines of its current form. As the golem studied its stats with growing confidence, a new menu blinked into existence. Curious, it mentally pressed on the interface, revealing a description of its most recent addition:. The golem stared at the description, absorbing the details. This new limb wasn¡¯t meant for battle¡ªit was designed for precision, for navigating the tight spaces of the dungeon and grasping objects with delicate control. A tool of finesse, not force. Despite the warning about its lack of combat capability, the golem didn¡¯t mind. It found a certain satisfaction in its new appendage, especially knowing it could use it to grab those pesky roaches it so despised. With this tentacle-like limb, it felt more capable than ever of clearing the dungeon floor of the scuttling nuisances. This is perfect for my tasks, it thought, a subtle thrill running through its core. The idea of sneaking into tight corners or retrieving cubes that had rolled out of reach filled it with excitement. For all its shortcomings in a fight, the appendage was still immensely useful¡ªand that was what mattered most. Chapter 3: ¡°Error: You¡¯ve gained a level without choosing a name.¡± The golem figuratively blinked its single, glassy eye. A name? It hadn''t thought about needing one. But if the system required it, then it would come up with one. After all, how hard could it be? ¡°Cube,¡± it thought confidently. ¡°Name denied.¡± The golem frowned¡ªwell, as much as it could. Cube was a perfectly good name, wasn¡¯t it? ¡°Square.¡± ¡°Name denied.¡± Irritation crept in. How could these names not be acceptable? They were simple, to the point. It pondered for a moment, trying out various combinations of words that echoed the shapes and forms it found most pleasing. ¡°Block.¡± ¡°Name denied.¡± ¡°Hexa.¡± ¡°Name denied.¡± On and on it went, throwing out idea after idea. With each rejection, the frustration grew, though it never gave up. Naming itself seemed to be a much more complex task than expected, especially for a creature so fixated on the perfect shapes and forms. It wasn¡¯t until after the twentieth attempt that inspiration finally struck. The golem¡¯s mind clicked as if aligning with a missing piece. ¡°Mechalon.¡± The system paused for a moment, a soft chime sounding in its core. ¡°Name accepted.¡± Mechalon gave a little excited shuffle on its spider-like legs, feeling a surge of energy and pride after its newly accepted name. Its mechanical limbs twitched in a kind of awkward, triumphant dance. Then, another chime echoed through its core. "New Mission: Create a statue of the Dungeon Master." The words flickered before its single eye, and Mechalon froze. A statue? Of the Dungeon Master? A new wave of uncertainty crept in¡ªit had never seen the Dungeon Master. What did they even look like? The question loomed large in its mind. But then, a thought sparked¡ªa clear, undeniable truth. The perfect form. Of course. The Dungeon Master must embody perfection, right? And there was only one perfect form, one shape that surpassed all others in elegance and simplicity. The cube. Yes! Mechalon''s mind buzzed with excitement at the realization. The Dungeon Master must be the perfect form, and the perfect form was a cube! It would create the best cube imaginable, one that would truly capture the essence of perfection, of the Dungeon Master''s true nature. Without hesitation, it scurried to the center of the room, setting up its workspace. Its welding gun hummed to life, and Mechalon set to work, the image of a flawless, gleaming cube taking shape in its mind. This would be its masterpiece, the greatest creation it had ever made. Of course, the Dungeon Master couldn¡¯t allow something as lowly as roaches to crawl on its perfect form. That would be unacceptable. Mechalon''s eye flicked over the scattered scrap pieces in the dungeon. The statue of perfection needed a stand¡ªsomething to elevate the cube high above the filth and the strange creatures that roamed the dungeon floors. Its mind churned as it imagined a base worthy of such a creation, something that could defend against the crawling nuisances. Yes, it needed spikes. And razors. Mechalon knew just where to find those¡ªit had seen scrap pieces scattered throughout the dungeon, jagged shards of metal that bristled with sharp edges. Scurrying across the room, it gathered the scrap with mechanical precision, selecting only the pieces that met its exacting standards. The spiked metal scraps would serve as guardians for the cube, a fortress surrounding the perfect form. With the welding gun activated, Mechalon took its time, carefully piecing the structure together. Every weld was deliberate, each connection strong and sharp, creating a stand that bristled with defenses. Mechalon gazed upon the statue, its mind buzzing with a mixture of awe and satisfaction. The cube itself was a marvel, its surface impossibly smooth, with sharp, clean edges that gleamed in the dim dungeon light. Every facet of it reflected a flawless symmetry, catching the faint glow of the metal walls like a beacon of precision. To Mechalon, this wasn¡¯t just a representation of the Dungeon Master¡ªit was the embodiment of perfection, a geometric masterpiece that stood above all else in form and beauty. But it wasn¡¯t the cube alone that demanded attention. No, the base beneath it¡ªthe stand¡ªwas something far more deadly. It was a fortress of jagged metal, each piece welded with painstaking care to ensure no imperfection would mar its design. Spikes of varying lengths jutted out from every angle, some slender and needle-sharp, others thicker, bristling with razor edges that glinted menacingly in the shadows. The entire structure was a maze of sharpness, a deadly deterrent to any creature foolish enough to approach. The spiked stand twisted upwards, curling around the base of the cube like the gnarled roots of some ancient, mechanical tree, each spike angled with deadly intent. Some spiraled up like cruel talons, while others spread outward, forming a barrier that seemed to grow more intimidating the longer one stared at it. Between the spikes, shards of jagged metal intertwined, creating a lattice that looked almost beautiful in its deadly complexity. If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. The overall effect was striking. The perfect cube sat atop a throne of pure menace, suspended above the chaotic dungeon floor like a monarch protected by a legion of iron guardians. It was a balance of elegance and destruction¡ªbeauty and brutality, form and function. The sight of it sent a thrill through Mechalon. This statue wasn¡¯t just a tribute¡ªit was a declaration of mastery. The Dungeon Master, it decided, would surely approve of this flawless creation, elevated high and shielded from the disorder that plagued the dungeon. It was both a symbol of ultimate control and a weapon in itself, a masterpiece that dared anyone to challenge its perfection. Mechalon paced nervously on its spider-like legs, the tension growing with each passing second. It had finished the statue, a perfect cube atop a fortress of deadly spikes, and now there was only silence. No familiar chime, no notification¡ªjust the eerie stillness of the dungeon. Did I make a mistake? it wondered, its singular eye flicking back to its creation. Surely this was perfection. But doubt crept in like the scuttling roaches it despised. Minutes dragged on, each one heavier than the last. The absence of feedback gnawed at its mind, an uncomfortable sense of failure bubbling up inside. Mechalon shifted uneasily, its mechanical tentacle coiling and uncoiling in a nervous rhythm. Maybe the Dungeon Master doesn¡¯t like cubes? Maybe I was wrong¡­ Just as the worry began to spiral into panic, a faint chime echoed through its thoughts, catching it off guard. The notification blinked into existence before its eye, but instead of the usual authoritative tone, the message felt... uncertain. "Mission Complete?" The question mark hung in the air, more of a tentative suggestion than a proclamation. Mechalon froze, unsure how to interpret it. Was it finished or not? The system wasn¡¯t even sure! But before it could dwell too long on the ambiguity, another line of text appeared, this time clearer, more direct: "Reward Options: Fabrication Module." Mechalon stared at the words, relief washing over its core. Despite the uncertainty, it had succeeded. The statue¡ªits perfect cube and deadly spiked base¡ªhad been enough. And now, a reward awaited. The Fabrication Module... it didn¡¯t know exactly what it would do yet, but the thrill of the unknown sent a spark of excitement through its metal frame. Mechalon felt a subtle, internal shift, a faint hum resonating deep within its core. Something new had been added to its structure, integrated seamlessly into its form. It was strange¡ªthis wasn¡¯t an appendage like the others, but something entirely different. Sections on both the front and back of its metal body clicked open, revealing intake and output ports. Curiosity welled up within it, pushing aside hesitation. Slowly, it decided to test the new function. What could it fabricate? What was its true purpose now? The answer came instinctively. With a soft, mechanical whirr, Mechalon intook a small chunk of scrap metal, feeling it flow through its body, reforming, reshaping. The process felt smooth, natural, as if this was what it was always meant to do. Moments later, a perfectly formed cube emerged from the back port, dropping onto the ground with a soft clink. It stared at the cube for a long moment, admiring the precision of its edges, the flawless symmetry. Of course, it thought with a satisfied hum, I can make cubes with this? This is perfect. ¡°New Mission: Create a weapon to be handled by Adventurers, and place it in a container.¡± The notification echoed in Mechalon¡¯s mind, a new challenge unfurling before it. But what exactly was an Adventurer? It was a question that buzzed in its mind like a persistent roach, but there was little time to dwell on it. Mechalon knew one thing for certain¡ªa weapon was like its welding gun, an instrument designed to inflict damage. With this clarity, it turned its attention to the task at hand: turning a simple cube into a formidable weapon. Perhaps it was a sign of its singular focus, but who could blame it? The elegance of cubes had been its guiding light through the dungeon''s shadows. An idea flickered to life within its circuits¡ªa weapon that would embody the beauty of both cubes and circles. It envisioned a sleek, cube-based weapon, a perfect blend of form and function. The base would be a polished, dark metal cube, gleaming with sharp edges that could easily pierce through armor and flesh. To this cubic foundation, it would add a circular blade, a deadly ring forged from a radiant, shimmering metal that would spin with lethal grace when thrown or swung. The blade would be mounted at an angle, seamlessly integrating with the cube to create a weapon that was not only deadly but also aesthetically stunning¡ªa marvel of engineering that any Adventurer would be proud to wield. With a flurry of motion, Mechalon began its work, welding and assembling the components with careful precision. Sparks flew, illuminating the dim corners of the dungeon as it crafted the weapon with meticulous attention to detail. The cube''s edges gleamed, while the circular blade glinted ominously, reflecting the flickering light. As the final pieces came together, Mechalon stepped back to admire its creation. The weapon was a striking amalgamation of shapes: the solid cube at its core represented strength and durability, while the circular blade symbolized speed and agility. It was both a tool for destruction and a work of art, exuding a sense of danger and elegance. Once satisfied, it knew the next step was crucial. It needed a container to house this weapon, something that would protect it while highlighting its exquisite design. Searching the area, Mechalon found a fragment of scrap metal, a flat sheet that could be folded into a protective case. After shaping and welding the container to cradle its creation, it placed the weapon inside, securing it snugly. With the weapon complete, a surge of pride coursed through its being. Mechalon had successfully transformed a cube into a masterpiece of combat, ready to be embraced by the Adventurers it still knew little about. ¡°Created: Cubic Cutter Crafted by Mechalon, this weapon features a core cube encased in a sharp, circular blade for precision and balance. The Cubic Cutter combines geometric elegance with lethal slicing power, making it a prized asset for any Adventurer. +1 to Flexibility attacking -1 to Armor for target¡± Mechalon twirled in a joyful dance, its spider-like legs moving with newfound energy. It placed the container next to the magnificent statue of the dungeon master, anticipation bubbling within as it awaited a sign of appreciation. Suddenly, a familiar chime resonated in the air, declaring, ¡°Reward: Level Up!¡± With excitement coursing through its core, Mechalon examined its stats once more, eager to assess its growth. Two assignable points gleamed before it, and it made a decisive choice to enhance its Mind. As it allocated the points, a wave of clarity washed over its thoughts, sharpening its awareness like the edge of the Cubic Cutter. New ideas flooded its mind¡ªvisions of improvements that could have elevated its creation even further. Yet, despite the urge to tinker, Mechalon took pride in the fact that the Cubic Cutter was a remarkable achievement, the first of its kind crafted specifically for the adventurers of the dungeon. Chapter 4: Mechalon waited patiently, its single glassy eye fixed on the entrance of the room, eager for another mission from the voice that had guided its recent endeavors. The silence stretched on, punctuated only by the soft clinks and clanks of metal as it busied itself with crafting perfect cubes in its corner. Each cube was a testament to its dedication, a flawless creation birthed from the very essence of its being. Yet, impatience gnawed at its core, urging it to seek out something more than the repetitive motions of cube-making. With a huff of mechanical determination, Mechalon shifted its focus to the rest of the dungeon, taking in the sights from its vantage point atop a carefully arranged pile of metal scraps. The room was an intricate maze of shadows and glimmers, illuminated by the dim light filtering through crevices above. The walls, adorned with the remnants of past creations, bore witness to the golem''s growth and achievements. At the center stood the statue of the dungeon master, a magnificent yet imposing figure that seemed to oversee the chaos with a watchful gaze. Its sharp, angular features glinted menacingly in the soft glow, while the spiked base surrounding it served as both a protective barrier and a stark reminder of the dangers that lurked within these walls. The statue was a symbol of Mechalon''s ambition, embodying its desire to create order amidst the disorder. Scattered throughout the room were the furnaces built into the ground, their smoldering embers casting flickering shadows that danced along the walls. The heat radiated gently, a comforting warmth against the coolness of the dungeon, fueling Mechalon¡¯s creativity. Each furnace hummed with potential, ready to forge new materials, and every spark seemed to whisper of possibilities yet to be realized. With its one eye trained on the opening, Mechalon felt a twinge of hope that adventurers would soon arrive to appreciate its latest creation, the Cubic Cutter. Would they recognize the craftsmanship, the ingenuity embedded in every facet of the weapon? The anticipation bubbled within, mingling with the fumes of the furnaces, urging it to create even more, to push the boundaries of what it could achieve. Imagining the praises of adventurers showering down upon it for the Cubic Cutter, Mechalon poured its energy into crafting more small metal cubes, each one a perfect testament to its skill and dedication. Each cube reflected its meticulous attention to detail, but as the mountains of cubes grew higher around it, an unsettling realization dawned: it had transformed every scrap of metal in the vicinity into cubes. Now, the once-thriving workshop lay silent, devoid of raw materials in his corner for the first time. A sense of unease settled over Mechalon as it scanned the empty expanse, searching for any sign of further instructions or missions. Yet, the stillness only deepened, and worry gnawed at its core. Had it made a misstep? Had its dedication to perfection somehow led it astray? The uncertainty stirred feelings it had never experienced before, and the thought of being idle for too long nearly brought it to the brink of despair. With a heavy weight in its mechanical chest, Mechalon turned its gaze away from the barren surroundings and surveyed the room once more. The glowing embers in the furnaces flickered invitingly, offering warmth but no materials to fuel its creative spirit. The proud statue of the dungeon master loomed nearby, a silent reminder of its purpose, yet even that did little to quell the rising tide of anxiety. Determined to shake off the creeping dread, Mechalon realized it needed something to occupy its mind¡ªsomething beyond the relentless cycle of cube-making that had consumed its existence for so long. It needed to explore, to innovate, to rediscover the joy of creation in new forms. The thought of stagnation terrified it, propelling the golem into action. Drawing from the depths of its mechanical mind, Mechalon began to contemplate alternative tasks. What if it could find new materials hidden within the shadows of the dungeon? Or perhaps it could venture into the unexplored corners of the labyrinth, seeking out remnants of lost creations or abandoned parts? Mechalon set its sights on the first quest it had chosen for itself: repairing the small hole in the ceiling that let in unwelcome light. This ray of illumination disrupted the carefully crafted shadows of the dungeon, casting unwanted highlights on its creations and drawing the eyes of any lurking adventurers. But how could it possibly reach that lofty crevice? With unwavering determination, Mechalon began to study the dungeon¡¯s walls, each surface adorned with the remnants of past creations and the intricate patterns of rust and age. Its single, glassy eye scanned for potential handholds or ledges, a careful assessment of the rocky terrain that surrounded it. The walls were uneven and rugged, dotted with crevices and spikes, yet they also held promise. Perhaps there were ways to climb, to reach heights previously unimagined. Mechalon''s thoughts whirred as it formulated a plan. It needed not only a method to ascend but also a way to transport materials up to the ceiling to effectively patch the hole. Scanning the ground, it noted the multitude of cubes it had created, each a solid testament to its skill. These cubes could serve as a sturdy base, but how to move them upward? The golem contemplated crafting a makeshift ramp or a series of stacked cubes that could act as steps, allowing it to ascend toward the light. It envisioned a staircase made of its beloved cubes, each one a flawless geometric form that would lead it closer to the ceiling. Yet, even as it devised this plan, Mechalon knew it needed to think bigger, to innovate a way to leverage its utility appendage for the task. If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Its mind sparked with ideas as it envisioned a platform. If it could somehow construct a flat surface that could be elevated, it would enable not only itself but also the materials it required. Perhaps it could use the furnace embers as a makeshift lift system? As the ideas flowed, Mechalon felt a surge of excitement coursing through its core. It was time to get to work. The golem gathered the materials it could find, setting to work with the fervor of a true creator. As it began stacking the cubes and crafting the platform, its heart pulsed with anticipation. _________________________________________________________________ Adventurer Mark POV: Mark stepped cautiously into the third room of the training dungeon, flanked by his companions: a cleric draped in flowing white robes and a young wizard who, despite his inexperience, had managed to grasp the basics of arcane magic. Mark, a full-fledged knight in his own right, felt a swell of pride as he surveyed the scene before him. At level five, with a durability stat of eight, he was more than capable of handling the challenges that lay ahead¡ªyet nothing could prepare him for the sight that greeted him. In the center of the room stood a statue unlike anything he had ever encountered. It was a cube¡ªa perfect, gleaming form that shimmered in the dim light. The craftsmanship was astonishing, each facet polished to a mirror-like sheen that reflected the flickering torches lining the walls. Mark marveled at the detail, noticing how the cube seemed to pulse with a strange energy, as if it were alive. What purpose could such a statue serve? He exchanged glances with his companions, their expressions mirroring his confusion and intrigue. But that wasn¡¯t the only change in the room. Mark''s gaze traveled upward, and he was struck by the sight of the ceiling. The hole that had once allowed streams of light to pour into the dungeon had been meticulously repaired. A delicate walkway, constructed from what appeared to be a series of metal cubes, snaked its way upward toward the patched hole. It was a testament to ingenuity, an elegant solution to the problem that had long plagued the dungeon. ¡°What is this place?¡± whispered the wizard, his voice barely above a murmur as he took a tentative step forward. The cleric clutched her holy symbol, her brow furrowing in concern. Mark¡¯s heart sank as he recalled the information they had received from the guild. This dungeon was supposed to be a training ground, a place for novice adventurers to hone their skills, yet now it felt eerily transformed. There was no dungeon core to advance; this area had stagnated, unable to evolve or grow further. They would need to report this anomaly to the guild, to alert them of the changes and the potential danger that lurked within. ¡°Maybe it¡¯s a trap,¡± he mused aloud, eyeing the walkway with a mix of caution and curiosity. ¡°Or a way for something to escape.¡± The cleric shook her head. ¡°We should be careful. There¡¯s a sense of¡­ purpose here, as if something is watching us.¡± Mark nodded, feeling the weight of his responsibility as a knight. He stepped forward, drawn to the cube and its mysterious allure. As he approached, he could almost feel the energy emanating from it, tingling against his skin. It was both unsettling and mesmerizing, an invitation to explore deeper into the unknown. ¡°Let¡¯s not rush in,¡± he cautioned, his instincts honed by years of training. ¡°We need to assess the situation and determine if it¡¯s safe before we go any further.¡± As Mark and his party approached the center of the room, they noticed something unusual surrounding the magnificent statue of the cube: a small metal chest, its surface engraved with intricate designs that glinted in the dim light. The chest looked out of place, an anomaly in a dungeon that had previously offered nothing but the mundane and expected. Its presence sparked a mix of excitement and apprehension among the adventurers. Mark motioned for his companions to stay alert, their weapons drawn and eyes scanning the shadows for any signs of danger. ¡°We should check for traps,¡± he murmured, glancing back at the cleric and the young wizard. ¡°I wish we¡¯d brought a rogue along for this.¡± The cleric tightened her grip on her staff, peering around the room with a wary expression. ¡°Whatever is inside could be valuable¡ªor it could be a trap designed to catch the unwary.¡± With a mix of caution and anticipation, Mark approached the chest, kneeling before it. His heart raced as he reached for the latch, taking a deep breath before lifting it open. A faint creaking sound echoed in the quiet room, and he quickly scanned the area for any unexpected movement. To his relief, nothing stirred. Inside lay the Cubic Cutter, gleaming with a metallic sheen. The weapon was strikingly crafted, with a base that was a perfect cube, its edges sharp and menacing. Mark carefully lifted it from the chest, the weight of the weapon feeling reassuring in his hands. It shimmered with a faint aura, suggesting that it held some useful properties. His companions gathered around, each taking turns inspecting the weapon. The young wizard¡¯s eyes widened as he examined the stats with their systems. ¡°This¡­ this is incredible!¡± he exclaimed. ¡°Look at its potential for damage!¡± The cleric nodded, her expression shifting from worry to enthusiasm. ¡°We might be able to use this to our advantage. If it¡¯s as powerful as it seems, it could help us or be sold for a decent profit, it''s better than any of our training gear..¡± Mark couldn¡¯t help but feel a surge of pride. They had stumbled upon a hidden treasure, a tool that could elevate their skills and help them overcome the obstacles that lay ahead. ¡°I¡¯m not sure if we should tell others about this, it could be a decent amount of money if we monopolize it,¡± he mused, imagining how it would feel in battle. Letting the weight of it rest in each hand, it was small enough to throw, and could be gripped to slash at other creatures if needed. Chapter 5: As the humans'' footsteps faded into the distance, Mechalon slowly crawled out of the scrap piles, surveying the room with an almost regal air. Its single, glassy eye darted around, ensuring everything remained in place. It couldn¡¯t contain itself any longer. With a mechanical wiggle of excitement, it broke into a small, celebratory dance. The clinks and clanks of its cube-like form echoed off the walls as it spun in an awkward, joyous circle, its utility limb waggling in rhythm. "Did you see that?!" Mechalon chimed proudly to the system, its monotone voice buzzing with an unusual excitement. "They liked my weapon!" It could hardly believe it. The adventurers had not only noticed its work but had taken the Cubic Cutter with them. It had seen their expressions of awe and confusion, felt their curiosity. This was what it meant to be acknowledged. This was why it created. But before Mechalon could further bask in its triumph, the familiar cold tone of the system interrupted: ¡®Adventurer Satisfaction: 8/10. Reward: Cubic Minion Blueprint.¡¯ Mechalon stopped dead in its tracks, its celebration screeching to a halt. The words "Cubic Minion Blueprint" hung in its mind like an unpleasant aftertaste. The golem scoffed loudly, waving its utility appendage dismissively. "A blueprint? To make cubes? I know how to make cubes!" it grumbled to itself, annoyance flaring in its circuits. The concept seemed absurd. Mechalon, master of perfect cubes, didn¡¯t need instructions for something so basic. It felt the data upload begin, the familiar sensation of new information pouring into its mind. Begrudgingly, Mechalon allowed it to finish, prepared to ignore whatever useless data the system deemed a ''reward.'' But then something caught its attention¡ªa line of code embedded in the blueprint, something it hadn¡¯t expected. Its non-existent brow metaphorically rose as the realization hit. This wasn¡¯t just a blueprint for cubes. No, this was far more sophisticated. These cubes could become minions. Golems, like itself. Mechalon froze, staring at the blueprints now etched into its mind. It thought back to the other cubic golems it had seen¡ªthe dull, simple ones that scurried about the dungeon, endlessly working, some malfunctioning or shattering when the dungeon deemed them obsolete. Replacements arrived from time to time, dropped into the dungeon by unseen forces. These cubes were everywhere, mindlessly toiling away, breaking, reforming, and being replaced in a constant cycle. They were barely sentient, carrying out their programmed tasks with none of the spark that Mechalon felt inside its own core. The dungeon provided these minions, mass-produced and disposable. So why would it need to create more? What benefit could it possibly gain from producing more of these hollow shells? Then it saw the finer details of the blueprint: loyalty to their creator. Mechalon paused, its mind whirring with new thoughts. Loyalty. Its minions. Not just mindless cubes given by the dungeon, but extensions of its will. Minions who could carry out orders, not out of programming, but out of allegiance to Mechalon itself. The idea was revolutionary. It imagined a small army of cubic golems, loyal only to it, not the dungeon. They would be more than the hollow, soulless things that worked and died around it. Mechalon could mold them, teach them, imbue them with just a fragment of its own intelligence. And they wouldn¡¯t simply be replaced when they failed. No, they would grow, evolve, serve a greater purpose. Looking around the room, Mechalon saw the truth of the dungeon¡¯s workings. A pair of cubic golems were busily toiling away near the furnaces, their movements slow and clumsy. One of them bumped into a pile of scrap, sending a cascade of metal crashing down. Neither seemed to notice the disturbance. Another golem, barely functional, hobbled past Mechalon, one of its sides dented beyond repair. It dragged itself to the furnace, attempting to throw a misshapen piece of metal into the flames but collapsing halfway through. Without a second thought, the dungeon would replace that one soon enough. The blueprint didn¡¯t just provide instructions¡ªit revealed something far more valuable to Mechalon. A new tab appeared in its status, and with it came knowledge that made its core hum with newfound understanding. Energy Points: 10 (10) Legs x4 (Spider): 4 EP Welding Gun: 2 EP Utility Limb: 1 EP Fabricator: 3 EP Mechalon blinked, processing the information. Energy Points? This was new. It had never thought about limitations before. It simply was. It crafted cubes, it upgraded when the system allowed it, but this¡ªthis was an entirely new layer of understanding. It now had a currency of sorts, a resource that determined how much it could modify itself. It stared at its current limbs, its mechanical tentacle curling thoughtfully. "Legs x4 (Spider)," it read, referring to the spindly legs that scuttled beneath its cubic body, allowing it to crawl and navigate the dungeon. Those legs alone took up 4 EP¡ªnearly half of its available energy. The welding gun, which had proven invaluable during its work, used another 2 EP, and the utility limb¡ªits prized, multi-functional appendage¡ªconsumed just 1 EP. Finally, the Fabricator, the heart of its crafting abilities, took 3 EP, rounding out the total. Mechalon pondered this new knowledge, mentally scanning over the blueprint, its mind buzzing with possibilities. Did this mean it could create new legs for itself? Or swap out limbs when needed? Could it enhance itself beyond what it currently was? The potential seemed endless, but it all came down to one thing: it needed more Energy Points. The base model for a cubic minion was far simpler than it had imagined¡ªspider legs, a welding gun, nothing more. No intricate utility limbs or powerful fabricators. Just raw, functional parts designed for menial labor. This realization made Mechalon feel a twinge of superiority. It was more advanced, more special than the standard models the dungeon mass-produced. Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. But the question nagged at it: How could it increase its Energy Points? The system had been frustratingly silent on that front, revealing only the limits without offering a clear path to expand them. Mechalon¡¯s mind raced as it considered the options. Adding new minions to its army would surely grant more EP¡ªbut not for its body. The minions would have their own points to spend, their own limits to work within. It could create them, design them to be useful, but that wouldn¡¯t solve the problem of its own personal limitations. ¡°Those were problems for the future Mechalon!¡± it declared, dismissing the concerns with a wave of its utility limb, a web of mechanical muscles flexing below it as it held the welding gun firmly in place. It was already superior, and soon enough, it would reach even greater heights. But first, it had a singular focus, a goal that had burned in its core since it first laid eyes on those repugnant pests... Destroy the roaches! With a mental snicker that echoed through its circuitry, Mechalon glanced at the blueprint again, eager to dive into its next task. It activated the welding gun, its spindly, weblike muscles rippling as the tool hummed to life, sending a soft glow into the dim room. Today, it would create something it had never thought possible: a hollow cube with contents inside! This would be a delicate process, but Mechalon thrived on challenges. As it began to melt metal scraps into small slags, it felt a rush of anticipation. Each droplet of molten metal splashed into the fabricator like a miniature explosion of potential. What would the contents be? It didn¡¯t quite know, and for now, it didn¡¯t need to. All it had to do was follow the instructions, the guiding glyphs embedded in the blueprint, just as it always had. But as it meticulously crafted the small slags, an unexpected thought flickered across its mind: Inside its own cubic body, according to the blueprint, lay a multilayered cube of magic. This intricate mechanism was filled with constantly shifting glyphs, bringing life to its very being. It was like how a roach had a gooey middle encased in its tough exoskeleton. Yet, as far as Mechalon could tell, the energy within its core wasn¡¯t gooey at all. No, it was more like a mercury-like substance, shimmering and swirling, a potent source of magic waiting to be unleashed. In a moment of exasperation, Mechalon smashed itself with the utility limb. ¡°Why am I creating everything from scratch?¡± it chided itself. ¡°There¡¯s a bunch of walking extra parts around me that are beyond repair!¡± The realization was startling. Why labor so hard to fabricate new components when countless broken golems scuttled through the dungeon, each brimming with potential parts just waiting to be salvaged? It felt like a wave of clarity washed over it, a brilliant idea taking shape amidst the chaos of its thoughts. With a surge of determination, Mechalon nearly lunged at the dented cube nearby, its mechanical limbs whirring with excitement. The welder in its utility arm flared to life, glowing with intensity as it melted away at the damaged edges of its fallen brother. It could see the potential beneath the dented exterior. Yes, the outer casing might be battered, but most of the legs looked salvageable. If it could just pry apart the cube¡¯s internal workings, it could detach those limbs and breathe new life into its sibling. Yet, uncertainty gnawed at the back of its mind. It couldn¡¯t tell if the core was still functional, and the last thing Mechalon wanted was to create another lifeless shell. No, it envisioned a minion that would take orders, one that would follow its lead without hesitation. Minutes stretched into what felt like an eternity as it meticulously worked, excitement bubbling within its cubic form. But when it finally pulled away, disappointment washed over it like a cold wave. It had been right; while it could salvage two of the spider-like limbs, that was the extent of its success. The internal components were cracked, the intricate runes adorning the outer shell faded beyond recognition. It couldn¡¯t help but feel a twinge of sadness. This once-great golem, now just a shadow of its former self, would never rise again. Amid the wreckage, however, there lay a small polished cube nestled at the center of the multilayered minion¡ªthe power source. Mechalon''s single eye glimmered with intrigue as it cradled the block of energy in its utility limb. The mercury-like goo inside sloshed around, making soft, delightful noises that echoed in the stillness of the workshop. It was mesmerizing, a small treasure brimming with untapped potential. But then a wave of nausea hit Mechalon. This was the life force of its own kind! ¡°This is¡­ sort of messed up,¡± it mused, setting the small cube down gently, now treating it with the reverence it deserved. This wasn¡¯t just a component; it was a part of a fallen comrade. With a newfound sense of respect, Mechalon turned its gaze back to the other more intact cubic minions scattered throughout the room. There had to be more parts it could salvage. With a newfound determination, it began its hunt, scuttling through the workshop in search of additional components. One by one, it meticulously collected workable parts, scavenging limbs and pieces from the cubical workers still scuttling about, ignorant of their impending disassembly. When its makeshift pile began to swell, Mechalon tossed the broken remnants and unusable scraps aside into the heap, allowing the other golems to reclaim the material and transform it back into simple cubes. Through its meticulous scavenging, Mechalon realized something crucial: the multilayered core that resided within the cubic minions was never salvageable. Those delicate centers, intricately designed and pulsing with energy, were beyond repair. If it wanted to create true minions, it would need to forge these cores from scratch. Determined, Mechalon turned back to the heaps of scrap that surrounded it, its single eye glimmering with purpose. The process began as it activated the welder once more, the tip glowing like a tiny star. It aimed at the broken metal pieces, slowly melting them down into a viscous slag that pooled beneath it. The warm glow cast flickering shadows across the workshop, illuminating the path to its goal. As the molten metal cooled slightly, Mechalon carefully funneled the slag into the fabricator, watching as it filled the chamber with the shimmering liquid metal. Each drop was a promise, a step toward creating something new. The fabricator hummed to life, its internal mechanisms whirring as they transformed the raw material into usable forms. Next came the vital task of stripping the metal down to its purest state. With precise movements, Mechalon manipulated the fabricator''s settings, expertly guiding the metal as it flowed through the intricate systems. It took time and patience, but the golem was relentless, ensuring that every scrap was accounted for, every ounce of potential harnessed. Once the metal strips were ready, Mechalon turned its attention to the runes¡ªintricate designs essential for imbuing the cores with energy. It had learned from its encounters that these symbols were more than mere decoration; they were the essence of power and purpose. Carefully, it used its welder to etch the runes onto the metal strips, the sparks dancing like fireflies in the dim light. Welding the strips together was a delicate dance of precision and control. Mechalon focused intently, guiding the molten metal to fuse the pieces seamlessly. Each connection had to be flawless; any imperfection could jeopardize the integrity of the core. With unwavering determination, it wove the strips around the central metal cube¡ªthe vessel that would contain the precious liquid energy. As the pieces melded together, Mechalon took care to create an intricate web of support, ensuring that the delicate structure would withstand the rigors of its new life. The fabricator worked in harmony with its movements, as if anticipating its needs, forging a powerful core that would one day pulse with energy and life. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the welding process came to a close. Mechalon stepped back, surveying its creation with a sense of pride and accomplishment. It had transformed scraps into something meaningful, an embodiment of its vision for a new generation of golems¡ªones that would serve loyally, bound by the intricate runes and the spark of life contained within. Cubic Minion Created: Maximum Minions that can be controlled is equal to Mind (4) Upgrade Requirements of ¡®Cubic Minion¡¯: Kill 1,000 non-ranked creatures Chapter 6: Adventurer Mark POV: Mark frowned, the weight of unease settling in the pit of his stomach. The party had decided to keep their findings a secret, a choice that gnawed at him. Maybe it was the cautious instinct of a trainee, or perhaps just a hunch that told him something wasn¡¯t right. Beside him stood his two companions¡ªAngelica and Alexander. He hesitated to call them friends; they were more like fellow trainees, comrades who had endured the same grueling trials together. Yet, in truth, he barely knew them beyond their skills and names, and a strange distance hung in the air. Angelica, the cleric, was a riddle wrapped in a shroud of tranquility. With her soft features and dreamy demeanor, she seemed perpetually lost in her own world, her mind wandering to realms beyond the mundane. She worshiped a god Mark had never heard of¡ªNarco, the god of sleep. He couldn''t help but draw parallels between her and a cat: always seeking out sunny spots to nap, her small, delicate hands often grasping at whatever she could reach, just to see it fall. He had witnessed her topple countless objects, watching with bemusement as she giggled at their inevitable crash. There was a mischievous spark in her eye when she did it, a gentle reminder of the carefree spirit he wished he could embody. On the other side was Alexander, a wizard whose very essence screamed of bookish dedication. Ironically named after a legendary warrior, he embodied none of that bravado. Instead, he was a numbers guy, an analytical mind perpetually lost in calculations and statistics. After every dungeon run, he would eagerly present his findings, laying out data on how they could optimize their performance. His passion was palpable, but sometimes it felt like a cloak that concealed his insecurities. Mark often found himself nodding along to Alexander¡¯s lengthy presentations, trying to pay attention to him and not follow in Angelica¡¯s footsteps falling asleep on the table. As they trudged through the training dungeon over the next two days, Mark''s thoughts spiraled into deeper worry. The stale air around them felt heavier, almost suffocating. Piles of scrap had increased, yet the usual cluster of cubic minions was markedly absent, their numbers dwindling. The silence was unsettling, and every creak of the dungeon¡¯s ancient walls felt like a warning bell in the back of his mind. ¡°Let¡¯s do a sweep of the room!¡± Alexander suggested, his eyes gleaming with enthusiasm as he scanned the corners, searching for something¡ªanything¡ªthat would explain the peculiarities they had encountered. ¡°There must be something we¡¯re missing. What if it¡¯s a significant change?¡± But the others quickly dismissed him. ¡°It¡¯s probably just a quirk of the dungeon¡¯s logic,¡± Angelica chimed in, her tone casual, as if discussing the weather. ¡°We¡¯ve seen stranger things before. No need to waste time on something trivial.¡± Mark felt the weight of indecision pressing on him. While he respected his companions'' opinions, a nagging doubt lingered in his mind. He shook his head, trying to cast off the unsettling feeling. This was not just a minor change. There was something deeper at play, a change that whispered secrets of a brewing storm. ¡°Something has changed, and this is just the beginning,¡± he thought, feeling a shiver race down his spine. Mark never spoke his worries, even as they gnawed at him like a persistent itch. In this trio, he was expected to be the brute, the shield that absorbed damage while his companions navigated the dangers of the dungeon. He glanced between Angelica and Alexander, weighing the risk of voicing his concerns against the fa?ade of strength he needed to maintain. He couldn''t afford to show vulnerability. ¡°Just shake it off,¡± he told himself, forcing a nod. ¡°We need to move on. Grab what loot we can and make the most of the safe experience this dungeon offers, even if it is a dead dungeon.¡± The truth, however, lingered just beneath the surface. From what he understood, the school¡¯s funding for these training expeditions was precarious. They sent anyone with a decent energy control stat to pump energy into the dungeon, ensuring it could function properly. The unwritten rule was to avoid attacking any non-combatant minions, primarily the diligent cubes that scuttled around the room, mindlessly toiling. Doing so would only drain resources, which translated to fewer coppers in the school¡¯s already strained budget. Those cubes were practically suicidal even without help, routinely tumbling into the furnaces and disappearing with a tragic, metallic clang. With a sigh of resignation, Alexander broke the silence, frustration etched across his features. ¡°Fine, I¡¯m sure the energy providers just accidentally pumped the dungeon with a little more energy or something.¡± His voice was laced with a mix of annoyance and reluctant acceptance. Mark¡¯s gaze drifted upward to the towering statue of the cube, the only remnant of the new features many had reported¡ªfeatures that included them. The sight of it, stark and unyielding, provided him with a sliver of reassurance. Perhaps the school staff, with their experience, knew better than he did. He swallowed the growing unease, telling himself that if they deemed it unworthy of concern, he should, too. He clicked his tongue in annoyance and turned his attention to a cubic minion nearby, resting on a pile of scrap. ¡°You¡¯re lucky,¡± he muttered, casting a sidelong glance at the golem, ¡°you don¡¯t have to put up with anything other than making cubes all day. Must be a nice life.¡± With a gentle tap on the top of the golem¡¯s head, which came up to his waist, he felt a strange kinship with the creature, a longing for the simplicity of its existence. But those thoughts faded quickly as he steeled himself to move forward, stepping out of the room to confront the next set of monsters. As they advanced, Mark couldn¡¯t help but muse over the naming conventions the system employed. ¡°Golem Goblins,¡± it had labeled them. What a strange choice, given their stark differences from the green-skinned pests that roamed outside this place. The only comparison was their height; these crude, humanoid-shaped statues stood at about four feet tall, brandishing jagged daggers in their hands. As the goblins charged at the group, adrenaline surged through Mark¡¯s veins. He thrust his shield forward, feeling the satisfying thud as it deflected the initial attacks. Ignoring the thoughts that ran through his head he put on a bright smile, taking a glance at his two companions. Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. As the Golem Goblins lunged at the trio, Mark tightened his grip on his shield, bracing himself for impact. The first goblin crashed into his shield with a grunt, the force rattling him slightly. ¡°Nice of you to show up, buddy!¡± Mark quipped, his voice dripping with sarcasm. ¡°I was just thinking how dull this day was without a little stone face smashing.¡± He swung his mace, catching another goblin squarely in the side and sending it sprawling. ¡°Stone face smashing? Stop teasing the misplaced garden gnomes,¡± Alexander chimed in, weaving between blasts of his own magic missiles. Each missile shot forth like a bolt of shimmering light, striking true. ¡°I mean, who decided these guys should be the dungeon¡¯s security detail?¡± ¡°Clearly, a very confused sculptor,¡± Mark shot back, deflecting a dagger aimed at his midsection. ¡°Maybe they thought ¡®artsy¡¯ was the way to go!¡± Angelica rolled her eyes but couldn¡¯t suppress a smirk as she stepped closer, channeling her white magic to heal the small bruises that were starting to form on Mark¡¯s arms. ¡°You¡¯re both ridiculous. Focus, or I might just let one of these gnomes take a swing at you!¡± She waved her hand, casting a protective shield around Mark. ¡°There! That should give you a little cushion.¡± ¡°Perfect! Just what I need, a magic hug while I¡¯m battling Golems!¡± Mark said, his tone light despite the chaos. He ducked under a wild swing from a goblin, countering with a swift jab of his mace that sent the creature tumbling backward. ¡°What are you doing, Angelica? Keep up the love! I want a full healing spa treatment when this is over!¡± Angelica laughed, her hands glowing as she sent a buff of speed to Alexander. ¡°Maybe if you stop talking and start hitting, you¡¯ll get a chance for a spa day afterward!¡± ¡°Wait, can I get one, too?¡± Alexander interjected, launching another magic missile. ¡°Healing from the cleric is great and all, but I could really use a full spa day after this. I¡¯m starting to feel like an overworked mana battery!¡± ¡°Just think of it as a team-building exercise,¡± Mark replied, smirking as he swung his mace again, catching another goblin just as it charged toward them. ¡°Once we get through this, we''ll treat ourselves to the best spa in town.¡± ¡°Or a terrible one,¡± Alexander teased, watching as the last goblin went down with a satisfying crunch. ¡°You know how much I love budget-friendly options. We still have barely a few gold to our names, and it''s mostly on me.¡± As the dust settled, Angelica couldn¡¯t help but shake her head in amusement. ¡°You two are incorrigible. But seriously, I¡¯m just glad none of us got hurt too badly, at least.¡± She glanced at Mark, who was brushing off the remnants of battle from his armor. ¡°Next time, how about you leave the chatter boxing at home and focus on the task?¡± Mark smirked, wiping the sweat from his brow. ¡°No promises. Someone has to keep things interesting. Besides, it¡¯s part of my charm!¡± ¡°Your charm?¡± Alexander teased light heartedly. ¡°More like your ability to distract us from actually doing our jobs!¡± Mark feigned offense, raising his shield dramatically. ¡°How dare you! Without my charm, we¡¯d just be a bunch of boring adventurers!¡± ¡°Boring, he calls us,¡± Alexander quipped, his voice dripping with playful sarcasm as he scanned the scattered remains of the golems. He let out a frustrated huff, brushing a few strands of hair out of his eyes. ¡°Not a single intact golem core. It¡¯s like they knew we were coming and decided to self-destruct.¡± Mark rolled his shoulders, loosening up after the brief but intense skirmish. He cracked his knuckles and flexed his arms, savoring the brief moment of victory. ¡°Well, it is a dead dungeon,¡± he replied with a shrug. ¡°I¡¯m surprised it still gives loot sometimes, but it isn¡¯t exactly as charitable as the ones that still function. Sadly, we can¡¯t explore them yet because they change and evolve.¡± He frowned, glancing at the cracked walls of the dungeon that seemed to groan in agreement. ¡°Can¡¯t wait to be a senior,¡± Alexander said, a glimmer of excitement in his eyes. ¡°Then we can finally start exploring living dungeons. I need to see how their numbers compare to the control group.¡± He punctuated his words with an exaggerated gesture, as if imagining a grand statistical display in the air before him. ¡°Control group?¡± Mark raised an eyebrow, a mix of curiosity and confusion flitting across his face. ¡°I thought we were here to fight monsters, not conduct science experiments.¡± ¡°Yeah, well, when doing experiments, you need a control group to test variables against,¡± Alexander explained, his voice animated, punctuated by the enthusiasm of a budding scholar. ¡°A dead dungeon is the perfect control group because it rarely changes. If you provide the same amount of energy, the same amount and type of dungeon monsters spawn. The only downside is that they degrade over time, and eventually, the dungeon will crumble.¡± He motioned to the walls, tracing the spider web-like cracks spreading through the stone with his finger, his expression growing serious. ¡°It¡¯s why most dead dungeons are preserved. The ¡®minions¡¯ of the dungeons provide repairs, but this one is unique since all they do is supply the materials to create the boss monster.¡± Mark frowned, crossing his arms. ¡°Which sucks that someone¡¯s killing off the minions of this dungeon. It¡¯s like taking the heart out of a clock and expecting it to keep ticking. Sadly, no one has fessed up to it.¡± His tone was tinged with disappointment. Angelica, who had been silently listening to their banter, interjected, her brows furrowing. ¡°It makes the boss weaker and less likely to give us rewards,¡± she said, her voice laced with annoyance. She glanced around at the debris littering the ground. ¡°If the minions disappear, what does that mean for us? We could end up facing an incomplete boss, and we all know how that ends.¡± ¡°Or worse,¡± Mark added grimly. ¡°What if the boss changes? We have no idea what it could become without its core components. It could be more dangerous than we anticipate, I would hate to see the thing explode on death or something.¡± He glanced at Angelica, his expression softening. ¡°But I¡¯m not worried we¡¯ll be seniors before that happens hopefully.¡± ¡°True,¡± Angelica acknowledged, a hint of a smile creeping onto her lips. ¡°But it would be nice to know what we¡¯re dealing with ahead of time, since the only other thing in the room with minions is roaches. Maybe we¡¯ll have to fight a giant roach that could spit acid next time.¡± ¡°Now that¡¯s a visual I could live without,¡± Alexander replied, feigning horror while laughing. ¡°Can you imagine? ¡®The Fearsome Roach of Doom¡¯ or something. We could put that on the school¡¯s wall of fame!¡± Mark chuckled. ¡°Let¡¯s just focus on what we can control¡ªgetting through this dungeon, preserving what we can, and hopefully finding someone who knows what¡¯s going on.¡± ¡°Agreed,¡± Angelica said, her determination resurfacing. ¡°Let¡¯s keep our eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary. For the record, I¡¯m still hoping for a spa day once we¡¯re done.¡± She shot a teasing glance at Mark. ¡°Unless you¡¯d rather keep fighting golems.¡± ¡°Spa day sounds better than the ¡®Fearsome Roach of Doom,¡¯¡± Mark replied with a grin. ¡°Deal. But first, let¡¯s finish this and let the school figure out who¡¯s messing with our minions.¡± Chapter 7: Mechalon studied the bits and pieces scattered before it, bits of metal, fragments of old cube cores, and the occasional unrecognizable hunk of scrap. A part of it was relieved¡ªthe adventurers had left without spotting its activity¡ªbut a larger part of it was overwhelmed by the complexity of the task. The blueprints were detailed, yes, but they didn¡¯t prepare it for the challenges of actually managing these new creations. Before it, three freshly made Cubes skittered across the floor with a single directive: hunt down and kill roaches. Simple enough, or so it had thought. The reality was much messier. One of the Cubes had tried to weld a roach that had scurried onto another¡¯s head, nearly turning its fellow Cube into molten slag in the process. Mechalon had barely salvaged the poor thing, muttering complaints to the system the whole time. ¡°Seriously? Did it really have to try welding its own kind?¡± it groaned, reconstructing the scorched edges of the Cube¡¯s outer shell. It had been forced to include painfully specific commands in the system¡¯s programming, spelling out every last detail. ¡°Don¡¯t weld roaches off each other¡¯s cubes,¡± and, after another near disaster, ¡°Don¡¯t jump after the roaches down into the furnace.¡± It sighed¡ªor at least, the mechanical equivalent of a sigh, a low whirr escaping from its core. ¡°Am I really this bad at giving orders?¡± It had never considered itself a master tactician, but managing these new Cubes was like trying to organize a group of blindfolded adventurers with no common sense. There were so many problems it simply hadn¡¯t anticipated. Every time it thought it had accounted for everything, something new would come up. One of the Cubes had tried to chase a roach straight off a ledge, while another had gotten stuck in a pile of scrap, confused as to why it couldn¡¯t phase through solid matter. It was absurd. ¡°Herding roaches,¡± Mechalon muttered to itself, the phrase forming in its mind with a twinge of irritation. ¡°This is what I¡¯ve been reduced to¡­ herding roaches.¡± It groaned audibly at the thought, glancing at the three Cubes. They skittered about like mindless insects, bumping into walls, misjudging distances, and generally making a mess of the situation. How could it have been so na?ve? It should have started with just one, not three. Three was too many, especially when each one seemed to lack basic survival instincts. Despite the frustration, Mechalon couldn¡¯t help but feel a small twinge of satisfaction. Yes, they were idiotic, unpredictable, and prone to self-destructive tendencies, but they were his creations. He had made them from the scrap that had once been part of this very dungeon. They were imperfect, yes, but they were a step forward. And with time¡ªand a lot of adjustments¡ªthey would get better. Still, it couldn¡¯t help but wonder how many more absurd commands it would have to add. ¡°Don¡¯t use roaches as projectiles.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t try to fight the furnace.¡± ¡°Stay off the statue!¡± It felt like babysitting, and it was far more exhausting than it expected. Mechalon¡¯s mind whirred with frustration, but there was also a glimmer of hope. Once it got the hang of this, once it refined the process, it wouldn¡¯t be herding roaches anymore. It would have an army¡ªsmall, yes, but efficient. And with that army, it could finally rid the dungeon of the pesky vermin that had plagued it for so long. For now, though, it sighed again as one of the Cubes knocked into another, their legs tangling together in an awkward mess of metal and gears. ¡°I¡¯m never making three again,¡± Mechalon muttered. ¡°One at a time¡­ one at a time.¡± It wasn¡¯t the grand, methodical work it had envisioned when it first started rebuilding these Cubes, but it was progress. And in this ever-changing dungeon, progress¡ªeven slow, frustrating progress¡ªwas still a win. A system message blinked into existence before Mechalon, its cold, mechanical tone echoing its own mounting frustrations: New Mission: Herding Roaches: Gather all three cubes under your command to do a single task, where all three do separate parts to complete it. Mechalon stared at the message, feeling a sense of disbelief. It almost seemed like the system was mocking it now. Herding roaches. Was this a joke? A punishment? It groaned internally, the absurdity of the situation hitting all at once. ¡°This isn¡¯t what I signed up for,¡± it muttered. ¡°First, I have to herd roaches, and now I¡¯m supposed to organize you three?¡± Turning to the three skittering Cubes, Mechalon felt a renewed wave of frustration as they bumped into each other, completely unaware of how useless they looked. It clenched one of its utility limbs in exasperation. Fine. If this is the mission, then I¡¯ll do it. But I¡¯m doing it my way. ¡°Alright, gather up!¡± Mechalon yelled, its voice sharper than it intended. The three Cubes paused, their small legs clicking as they awkwardly gathered around, not quite in sync, but close enough. ¡°First things first,¡± it grumbled. ¡°You all need designations. Otherwise, I¡¯m going to lose my mind.¡± It pointed at the first Cube, its smallest but most agile creation. ¡°You¡¯re One. You seem... somewhat competent. Let¡¯s keep it that way.¡± The second Cube, slightly bulkier with a few dents from previous mistakes, was next. ¡°You¡¯re Two. You¡¯ve got strength, but please, don¡¯t try to weld anything that isn¡¯t supposed to be welded.¡± Finally, the third Cube, which had a patchwork repair job after nearly jumping into the furnace, got its turn. ¡°And you, you¡¯re Three. Don¡¯t even think about doing anything reckless, alright? I¡¯ve had enough of your... creative solutions.¡± Naming them helped, if only slightly. At least now it could yell at them with purpose. But this was just the beginning. Mechalon still needed a plan. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. It dragged a piece of scrap metal over to the ground, using one of its appendages to carve into the dirt. ¡°Alright, listen up,¡± it said, its mechanical mind racing. ¡°We¡¯re going to make a metal cube. Simple, right? It¡¯s something you should know how to do instinctively, but this time, we¡¯re going to split the task. One task, three parts. Got it?¡± Of course, they didn¡¯t respond. They just skittered about, legs twitching in anticipation¡ªor confusion. Mechalon couldn¡¯t quite tell. It spent the next hour drafting and scratching a plan into the ground, adjusting the details as memories of the day''s mishaps flashed through its circuits. Welding. Shaping. Organizing. It had to account for every mistake they had made so far¡ªlike the time Two tried to weld Three to a wall, or when One attempted to chase a roach and got stuck in the scrap heap. This time, though, it would be different. It had learned from its failures. This command needed to be foolproof, with no room for misinterpretation. After carefully reviewing the plan for the third time, Mechalon looked up at the Cubes. They jittered about in front of it, almost eagerly awaiting orders, though it was more likely they were just idling. ¡°Alright, here¡¯s how it¡¯s going to work,¡± Mechalon declared, its tone firm and precise. ¡°One, you¡¯ll handle the shaping. You¡¯re the fastest, so I trust you to get the pieces into proper form. But no shortcuts!¡± It pointed to Two next. ¡°Two, you¡¯re welding. I¡¯ve seen what happens when you get too excited with that welder, so be careful this time. Only weld what I tell you to weld.¡± Finally, it addressed Three. ¡°And Three... your job is organizing. I know you¡¯re prone to... enthusiasm, but this time, just make sure everything is in the right place. No more jumping into piles of scrap, understood?¡± The plan was set. It wasn¡¯t elegant, but it was functional, and that¡¯s all Mechalon needed. ¡°Okay, Cubes, let''s see if we can pull this off without anyone getting melted¡­ or thrown into the furnace.¡± It took a step back, watching as the Cubes skittered to their positions. Its circuits buzzed with nervous energy. This could either be a turning point or another disaster waiting to happen. But one thing was certain: this was no longer just about roaches or random commands. This was about control, precision, and teamwork¡ªhowever crude that team might be. From Mechalon''s perspective, the plan was foolproof¡ªor so it thought. Everything had been meticulously designed. Every task was broken down, with no room for error. The commands were clear, precise, and tailored to avoid the disasters of the past. What could possibly go wrong? "Alright, Cubes. Let¡¯s do this," Mechalon said, stepping back to watch One, Two, and Three spring into action. The first few moments felt promising. One skittered across the workshop, rapidly shaping slabs of metal with sharp precision. It took Mechalon a moment to realize how fast One actually was. Too fast. It barely had time to appreciate the smooth lines of the metal before Two rushed in with the welder. Two was... enthusiastic, but it seemed to be obeying the command to only weld what I tell you to weld. Sort of. Mechalon frowned as Two welded all the shaped metal pieces together, the rhythmic hiss of the welder starting to sound a little too chaotic. The slabs of metal were coming together¡ªbut the joints were... angled in ways that didn¡¯t quite fit the blueprint. "Hey, slow down!" Mechalon barked, but the Cubes were locked in. The command had been clear: no shortcuts. And they were certainly following that directive with all the fervor they could muster. Three, dutifully organizing the pieces, had the hardest job. It scuttled about, frantically sorting the slabs that One and Two kept throwing at it, attempting to fit them together in the correct pattern. But something was off. The pieces didn¡¯t align quite like they should¡¯ve. The metal slabs were curving instead of stacking. Mechalon¡¯s circuits whirred with confusion. How was this happening? It realized too late. The slabs weren¡¯t being organized into a cube. The pieces were bending. One had been too fast, over-shaping the metal. Two had welded them together perfectly¡ªjust not into the right shape. And Three, in its eager obedience to "organize everything properly," was doing just that: organizing the pieces into the shape they were unintentionally becoming. The instructions didn¡¯t specify a cube shape, just that they needed to follow the process. ¡°Wait¡ªSTOP! What are you¡ªNO!¡± Mechalon shrieked as the final pieces clicked into place. The creation wasn¡¯t a cube. It was a sphere. A massive, unwieldy sphere ten times the size of the original cube they were supposed to create. A sphere now filled with welded, reinforced metal slabs and infused with liquid energy. The worst part? It was following every single instruction to the letter. Perfectly shaped. Perfectly welded. Perfectly organized. And perfectly terrifying. The sphere trembled ominously as energy surged inside of it, the glowing mercury-like substance swirling faster and faster, charging itself with an unstable hum. Mechalon''s limbs flailed in panic. ¡°No, no, no, this isn¡¯t¡ª¡± The ground shook. The massive, overcharged sphere trembled, then it started to roll. ¡°No! Stay still! That¡¯s NOT part of the plan!¡± Mechalon screamed as the massive sphere slowly but surely began to pick up speed, barreling toward the door of the workshop. With a screeching whirr, the metal sphere smashed through the doorway, sending debris flying as it rolled out of the room, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake. Mechalon''s optics widened in horror as it saw the sphere careen into the dungeon corridor, gaining speed as it went downhill. The echoes of clanging metal and rumbling stone reverberated through the halls. "Oh no. Oh no no no!" Mechalon¡¯s entire body trembled with a mixture of disbelief and exhaustion. It had thought it was being clever. It had thought it had control. But no! ¡°Why couldn¡¯t you just make a cube?!¡± Mechalon whined, flopping down as it stared at the empty space where the monstrous creation had once stood. A moment passed before it groaned, shaking its head. ¡°Herding Roaches. More like Herding Maniacs. I should¡¯ve started with one...¡± As the distant crashing sounds of the runaway sphere echoed back to Mechalon, it couldn¡¯t help but mutter one final thought: ¡°Well, at least they followed the plan.¡± There were the echoes of screams from somewhere down the hallway, as it told them to gather up again and hide, adventurers would be coming to investigate what had happened, and it was slightly embarrassing they had made something as unsightly as a sphere for their first project. The system didn¡¯t seem to agree as it processed their achievement. Herding Roaches: Complete? Level Up! It would not be touching Mind right now, as it would be too tempted to make more of them, but first¡­ it needed to survive them. It immediately placed all of its points into Durability. Chapter 8: Mechalon hummed with relief, though it couldn''t quite understand why. It wasn''t like it could feel exhaustion, but something about the aftermath of the chaos made it feel a strange kind of peace. It had expected a lot more trouble after that massive sphere, their accidental creation had rolled through the dungeon like a runaway train. Thankfully, few adventurers had come sniffing around to investigate the disaster. Mechalon wondered if perhaps they assumed the dungeon had thrown them a curveball, an unexpected trap. Either way, it wasn¡¯t their problem anymore. The cubes, its precious, frantic little cubes, were already hard at work, scurrying about with a renewed sense of purpose. One, Two, and Three were dashing between scrap piles, collecting small bits and pieces to toss into the furnace. Every little thing they gathered would be melted down, eventually contributing to the creation of the dungeon''s ultimate weapon: the boss monster. Mechalon kept an optic on them as they zipped back and forth with manic energy, following the precise commands it had drilled into them. No more rogue welding or sphere-making incidents¡ªjust relentless, focused work. It was... progress, at least. It groaned internally, knowing what this meant. The boss had been defeated, again, and the dungeon was scrambling to rebuild, which meant more work for Mechalon. The cubes had taken to this frantic pace like clockwork, but it knew it couldn''t just leave everything to them. Not after the mess they¡¯d already made. Still, at least now the fabricator made things easier, streamlining the process of breaking down scrap into manageable parts. If only it didn¡¯t have to scavenge quite so much. It was painfully aware of how much it had "thinned the herd," sacrificing its own kind to keep One, Two, and Three operational. So many cubes had been dismantled for spare parts, harvested for their inner workings so the trio could continue their tasks. They weren¡¯t subtle, and keeping them in functioning order had been a constant battle of repairs and trial and error. The dungeon was slowly resupplying new cubes, dripping them in one by one like cautious replacements. But it was a slow, agonizing process, and Mechalon couldn''t afford to wait around for them to fully replenish. Not when the adventurers could come back at any time, ready to hack through the dungeon once more. Mechalon shifted its attention back to the task at hand. It didn¡¯t have time for self-pity or regret. It had learned, rather painfully, that things rarely went according to plan. Herding its manic little minions was exhausting in a way it couldn''t fully articulate, but it was necessary. If it didn''t oversee them, who knew what kind of disaster they might accidentally create next? With a frustrated hum, Mechalon gave the silent command to its cubes to speed up their efforts, urging them to work faster. They had to finish their tasks before more adventurers showed up. The boss monster wouldn¡¯t make itself, after all. As it watched the cubes dart between the piles of scrap, methodically melting down everything in sight, Mechalon couldn''t help but shake its cube at them. This was going to be a long process but it would get down to business, as it knew what other creatures did in the other rooms further in the dungeon. Mechalon hummed in deep thought as it skittered around the room, processing its next grand idea. A lair¡ªyes, it needed a proper lair. The adventurers might come and go as they pleased, but this space was its domain. It was time to stake a real claim and create something that would force them to stay out of the areas it was working on. No more accidental interruptions, no more stumbling upon its delicate projects. It had spent enough time watching the patterns. The adventurers always stuck to the paths, almost ritualistically, their boots hitting the same cobblestone areas or the oddly colored patches of ground like they were following some invisible guidelines. That was a behavior Mechalon could exploit. It would reshape the room in a way that would keep them on their well-trodden paths and far away from the sensitive work it planned. Setting aside larger metal squares¡ªeach about an inch thick¡ªit got to work. The fabricator was already occupied, so it relied on its learned methods. It gathered scrap metal, melted it down, and used its utility limb, along with its makeshift legs, to mold and shape the material. The process had become a reflex by now, a task so deeply ingrained it barely needed to focus on it. Soon, tens of small piles were stacked beside it, neat and organized. Mechalon glanced around the room. It seemed the adventurers had moved on, at least for the time being. The death of the boss had thrown the dungeon''s ecosystem into temporary disarray, and it knew from experience that the next encounter wouldn''t happen for quite some time. That gave it the perfect window to execute its plan. First, it needed to reshape the ground. The flush metal floor would no longer serve its purposes. Mechalon began cutting into it, replacing chunks of the old surface with the newly forged metal squares. With precision and care, it created a walkway that snaked through the center of the room, forming a perfect square pathway around the dungeon¡¯s central statue. The symmetry of the design pleased it, a contrast to the previous haphazard layout. But this wasn¡¯t enough. The adventurers would still have options, too much freedom to roam. Mechalon needed to create barriers, something to funnel them where it wanted them to go. It set its sights on the scrap in the room¡ªscattered, useless to most, but valuable in Mechalon''s precise limbs. Piece by piece, it repurposed the discarded materials, crafting half-walls that reached up to shoulder height. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. These barriers would guide the adventurers like cattle through the room, taller than the tiny goblins they often encountered, by about a foot, but just low enough to leave the adventurers feeling like they had an established path. The walls wouldn¡¯t physically stop them, of course, but they would funnel them into the paths Mechalon designed, keeping them from wandering too close to its projects. Mechalon surveyed its handiwork, realizing it had unintentionally divided the room. While the half-walls and carefully placed metal squares created the perfect obstacle course for the adventurers, it now faced a new problem: how would its fellow Cubes move between the sections? They were crucial to its plans, after all. It couldn¡¯t afford to have them stranded on one side, unable to access the scrap piles or the fabricator on the other. It pondered the issue for a moment, eyes flitting over the room before settling on a solution. Two arched sections, one at the beginning of the room and another at the far end. These small bridges would allow the Cubes to move back and forth without interrupting the flow of the room''s new layout. It visualized the design: simple, practical, and just wide enough, about three feet, for the Cubes to navigate. But, of course, there was a catch. Mechalon knew its kind well, perhaps too well. They weren''t exactly known for their agility, and the prospect of them tumbling off the narrow bridges seemed inevitable. It groaned inwardly at the thought, imagining the clumsy crashes, the lost time, and the repairs it would have to make. One, Two, and Three were reliable enough, but the others? Not so much. The image of Cubes sprawled out on the walkway, legs twitching helplessly, made Mechalon pause again. It needed to account for this inevitability. There had to be a way for the regular Cubes to get back over the walls when they inevitably fell off the narrow bridges. Mechalon''s first thought was to simply enclose the walkway and build a roof over it so nothing could fall in. But that idea was quickly discarded. Too suspicious. If the adventurers saw a sealed-off passage, they¡¯d grow curious, and curiosity often led to trouble. Mechalon needed to be subtle. No unnecessary attention. It settled on a compromise: a set of steps, oversized and clunky for the bipedal adventurers, but perfect for the spider-like limbs of the Cubes. The steps would be scattered at strategic intervals along the walls, allowing the Cubes to stretch their limbs and clamber up and down with relative ease. It wasn¡¯t the most elegant solution, but it would do the trick without attracting unwanted interest. Mechalon tested the design in its head, picturing the Cubes navigating the oversized steps, their legs reaching and pulling with mechanical precision. Yes, this could work. It wasn¡¯t perfect, there would still be the occasional stumble, but it was enough. The adventurers would remain unaware, the Cubes would keep functioning, and the room¡¯s new layout would remain intact. Mechalon knew it needed more than just walls and bridges to keep the adventurers at bay. Something that would make them hesitate, make them second-guess their curiosity. That¡¯s when the idea of a sign came to mind¡ªsomething simple but ominous. It set to work, forging a metal slab, its legs clanking against the ground as it shaped and molded the material. In blocky lettering, much like the system''s, it etched the words: ¡°Curiosity is the path to bodily harm. Curiosity leads to risk. Risk leads to injury. Injury leads to suffering.¡± The message was blunt, but effective. Mechalon knew adventurers had a knack for ignoring danger, for diving headfirst into risk, but sometimes a clear warning could make even the most brazen think twice. After all, the more they hesitated, the less likely they were to interfere with its work. Proud of its creation, Mechalon glanced out of the room, down the long hallway where a group of goblins lounged lazily. Their metal armor clinked softly, daggers resting at their sides, but their bodies were filthy, caked in mud and grime, almost as if the ground itself had accepted them as one of its own. The sight made Mechalon''s energy core churn with disgust. It had a theory that roaches spawned from the filth these goblins carried. The way their dirty, matted bodies moved felt too similar to the skittering of the roaches for Mechalon¡¯s liking. It had no tangible proof, but the thought alone was enough to fill it with revulsion. Goblins and roaches were one and the same in its eyes, both nuisances, both carriers of filth. Mechalon returned its focus to the sign, preparing to hang it outside its newly designed room. But there was a problem: the walls outside weren¡¯t made of the same blackened iron as the interior. They were weathered stone, worn down by time, and the usual welding techniques wouldn¡¯t work here. Mechalon paused, considering its options. After a moment, it devised a solution. Using a small chisel it had scavenged, it began carving an indent into the stone, careful not to let the gouges appear too deliberate. Then, with precise strikes, it created several small holes at the back of the indent, just large enough to hold what it had in mind. Next, it took the back of the metal sign and melted a thin slab of scrap metal, pouring it into the holes it had made in the stone. The molten metal seeped into the cracks, cooling quickly and solidifying into a strong, makeshift anchor. Satisfied, Mechalon pressed the sign into place, watching as the metal locked into the indent, securing the warning for all who dared to enter. It took a step back, admiring its handiwork. The sign was ominous, subtle but effective. It was a clear message to the adventurers: explore, and suffer the consequences. With the sign in place, Mechalon felt a small sense of victory. It couldn¡¯t stop the adventurers from coming, but it could at least make them think twice. Mechalon didn¡¯t fully grasp the complexities of adventurer behavior, their strange mix of caution and recklessness. But it understood survival, a basic instinct shared by most creatures, even if it doubted that applied to its fellow cubes. They had a certain... simplicity, one that often led them into danger with little thought, like mindless drones, driven only by their programming. Mechalon¡¯s mind flickered back to a scene it had witnessed countless times. A fellow cube, mindlessly scuttling toward the furnace with a pile of scrap, miscalculating its steps and tumbling into the fiery pit without hesitation. There was no attempt to stop, no realization of the impending doom¡ªjust a simple, fatal plunge. Mechalon had watched the cube vanish into the flames, not even a spark of resistance in its movements, just scurrying limbs as if it was trying to walk into the flames even faster before it slammed into the river of molten metal below. Adventurers couldn¡¯t have the same survival instincts as one of its brothers, right? It had a bad feeling in its core thinking about that, as it scurried up into the metal scraps that lined the new pathway with worry, it needed to make more deterrents, something it never saw the point of until now. Traps. Chapter 9 What did Mechalon really know about adventurers? It pondered this, carving a few observations into the ground. Then, more decisively, it burned the words onto a piece of scrap metal in the crisp, geometric language of the system: Not shiny Squishy Weirdly shaped Curious Greedy Loves my weapons Doesn''t stay long It tapped the welder against the metal, sparks flying as it considered the list. Adventurers weren¡¯t particularly complex, but their curiosity was dangerous. They loved meddling in things they didn¡¯t understand, prodding at the very traps that should have dissuaded them. Then, the idea hit like a bolt of inspiration: chests. Trapped chests. Adventurers always seemed drawn to them like moths to a flame. It could leverage that to take out anyone who strayed too far from the safe paths it had laid out. But the real question was how to turn this concept into something practical. Mechalon had plenty of scrap lying around and parts from the Cubes it had dismantled. It thought about the components it could use: leftover gears, spare limbs, all the discarded fragments of its previous creations. And there was always the fabricator. That wonderful machine could piece together anything from the raw materials it fed into it. Mechalon snickered silently at the thought of turning adventurers into cubes, the system would probably approve. It stopped for a moment, mid-snicker, considering whether that was truly such a bad idea. In its mind, cubes represented order, precision, purpose. Adventurers, on the other hand, were chaotic, unpredictable¡ªprone to disrupt the system and leave destruction in their wake. Would turning them into neat little cubes not be the ultimate solution? Each adventurer reduced to a perfect shape, manageable and harmless. It stared at the list again. Weirdly shaped... curious... squishy. Adventurers were more of a problem than they were worth, and now it had the kernel of a plan. It wouldn¡¯t just build a trap; it would create an opportunity. They were greedy. They loved weapons. They couldn¡¯t resist a chest. So, why not give them something irresistibly tempting¡ªonly to turn their curiosity into their undoing? They would reach for loot and, in return, be reshaped into the perfect form. Now that Mechalon had observed adventurers up close, it knew better than to think they could be shaped like scrap or metal. They were fragile¡ªsquishy, flammable even. It had seen them blister and burn when exposed to extreme heat, bubbling up like molten slag before turning to char. The idea of using fire had been discarded quickly. Blunt force? No, they had armor. But sharpness? That was different. It had witnessed the goblins¡¯ daggers slice through their squishy flesh with ease. But how could it control a trap full of blades? A barrel full of knives wasn¡¯t practical. Even if it could rig such a thing, there was the risk that it would be too chaotic¡ªtoo unpredictable. Mechalon was stumped for a time, puzzling over the conundrum, until a solution glimmered like a bolt of inspiration: wires. Long, thin, sharp wires. They already came in square shapes when coiled, easy to conceal among the scrap piles. The wires and cords inside the furnace, used to pull and push scrap, could be repurposed into something deadly¡ªif only they were sharp enough. Testing its theory, Mechalon crafted a small razor mesh in the fabricator. It hunted down a roach, watching it scuttle across the ground. When it dropped the wire mesh on the creature, the results were¡­ underwhelming. Instead of slicing, the wires merely squished the roach. Disappointing. It needed to be smaller, sharper, and probably move with more force than its simple trap could provide. Mechalon mulled it over, turning the problem around in its mind. Maybe just dropping the wires wouldn¡¯t do the trick, but what if they fell onto the trap themselves? Adventurers were greedy, reckless¡ªthey could be made to trip into their own demise. It smirked at the idea, picturing an adventurer falling, wires snapping tight, slicing into their soft flesh like the daggers of the goblins. Yes, the key wasn¡¯t the trap itself¡ªit was making them fall into it. Making adventurers leap into a pit was wishful thinking, Mechalon realized. Adventurers were reckless, sure, but they weren¡¯t complete fools. Plus, there was another problem: the Cubes. Mechalon cast a wary glance at the skittering minions around it. If it simply left a pit trap out in the open, the Cubes would be the first to stumble into it, blundering straight into the razor wires like moths to a flame. It sighed mentally¡ªits own kind could be hopeless sometimes. No, for the trap to work, the fall had to be deliberate. Adventurers needed to climb something, something that would spark their curiosity enough to lure them in, but not so obvious that it became suspicious. Mechalon mulled over the logistics for hours. Whatever it built had to be tall, inconvenient¡ªjust annoying enough that only the most inquisitive, and therefore the most likely to be greedy, would bother. Then, the fall into the waiting razor wire would be swift and inevitable. A spark of inspiration hit: treasure towers. Yes, that would do nicely. Building a tower wouldn¡¯t be too hard¡ªjust a few welded cubes stacked near the furnace. Adventurers loved a challenge, especially when the promise of treasure was involved. The furnace, it mused, would make the perfect disposal unit for the remains after the trap was sprung. Mechalon snickered to itself, pleased with its own ingenuity. The plan was perfect: lure, fall, slice, dispose. Efficient and oh-so-satisfying. Mechalon was energized by the thrill of its new project¡ªfinally, something truly worthy of its genius. It surveyed the room, mentally marking the perfect spot near the furnace for its treasure tower. This wasn¡¯t just any trap; it was a masterpiece, an intricate blend of cunning and craft designed to outsmart the adventurers that dared intrude. The welding process began in earnest. Mechalon meticulously stacked cubes, one after another, ensuring that each was slightly askew, just enough to give adventurers handholds and footholds to climb. Not too easy¡ªadventurers thrived on challenge, after all¡ªbut not impossible either. The structure stretched upward, higher and higher, nearly brushing the ceiling by the time Mechalon was done. It paused to admire its handiwork. The cubes jutted out like erratic steps, daring any greedy soul to test their mettle against it. If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. The interior was where the real genius lay. Inside the towering cubes, Mechalon crafted a smooth, wide chute, polished to perfection. The slide was hidden beneath the top platform, and it would do the heavy lifting¡ªquite literally¡ªby dumping any unfortunate climber directly into the furnace below. It grinned internally, imagining the adventurers scrambling for treasure, only for the ground to betray them in the final moment. It also needed a way to maintain the trap, and for that, it designed a secret path only it could traverse. Using its spider-like limbs, Mechalon built a narrow, hidden crawlspace leading to the top of the tower, allowing it to restock the treasure chest welded into the summit. Adventurers would never suspect a thing¡ªevery time they thought they¡¯d reached the prize, it would be there, gleaming and enticing, ready to lure another fool into its clutches. But the pi¨¨ce de r¨¦sistance was the mechanism beneath the tower. Mechalon spent extra time crafting a trapdoor on the platform just below the chest. It designed it to look sturdy, blending into the rest of the structure, but the moment enough weight pressed down, the entire section would fall away, plunging the adventurers into the waiting chute. Resetting it would be easy. Mechalon installed a clever series of wires at the base, hidden from view. A simple pull from its position on the ground, and the platform would slide back into place, ready to spring its trap again. As it worked, Mechalon¡¯s thoughts raced. This is it, the perfect test of my skill. Adventurers were cunning, but they thrived on greed and curiosity. And those two traits would be their downfall. Every little detail was accounted for. Mechalon smirked at the thought of adventurers climbing up, congratulating themselves for outwitting the dungeon, only to be dumped into the furnace with nothing more than a few seconds to realize their mistake. By the time the tower was complete, Mechalon felt a deep satisfaction. It wasn¡¯t just a trap; it was a challenge¡ªa true test for anyone foolish enough to think they could plunder its lair. Adventurers loved proving themselves. Well, this time, they¡¯d get more than they bargained for. After one last sweep of the room, ensuring everything was in place, Mechalon rested for a moment, watching the finished product. A monument to its creativity, and a beautiful blend of danger and deception. Now came the final touch: the razor mesh. Mechalon skittered up the hidden chute it had designed, its limbs nimbly grasping the edges of the smooth metal surface. The inside of the tower was pristine¡ªsmooth as glass, a perfect slide for the unlucky adventurers who would soon fall victim to it. The cube-like golem paused briefly, surveying the empty chute with satisfaction. It was an efficient, streamlined death trap the best it could do at this time. It reached into the recesses of its storage compartment, pulling out the mesh wire. Thin, nearly invisible to the eye, and sharp enough to slice through the toughest leather and skin. This was the real masterpiece, a hidden danger no one would see until it was too late. Mechalon carefully unfurled the mesh, welding it in place along the chute¡¯s walls, right near the end, where adventurers would be at their fastest, hurtling down in a blind panic. It worked meticulously, ensuring every part of the mesh was perfectly aligned, sturdy enough to withstand the impact of a falling body but sharp enough to do its work. Each weld was precise, each strand of the wire perfectly taut. Mechalon paused now and then to test the mesh, tugging gently on the wires, feeling the subtle vibrations of strength and tension. Yes, this will do nicely. By the time it finished, the mesh was woven seamlessly into the interior of the chute, almost invisible in the shadows. The smooth ride down would be deceptively safe at first, but just before reaching the furnace, the mesh would greet them¡ªsharp and unforgiving. Mechalon chuckled to itself as it descended, admiring its handiwork from the bottom. The entire setup was now complete, a perfectly designed trap with no visible flaws. It wasn¡¯t just the thrill of the trap that pleased it, it was the elegance of the whole system. The adventurers wouldn¡¯t stand a chance. They¡¯d be torn apart before they even realized what had happened, reduced to nothing but scraps for the furnace. With the final piece in place, Mechalon backed away to admire its creation in full. The tower, the chute, the razor mesh¡ªall were part of a deadly, calculated symphony. The next time an adventurer wandered too far off the path, they¡¯d meet a swift, inevitable end. It could hardly wait to watch. Now, it needed the prize at the top¡ªjust in case some brave, clever adventurer managed to reach the chest and escape. After all, a proper dungeon must offer rewards for those who survived its trials. Mechalon couldn¡¯t have anyone thinking that its dungeon was ungrateful. No, it had to maintain a balance: danger, yes, but with the promise of treasure to tempt the bold. The Cubic Slicer had been a fine weapon, practical in its design and efficient in its use, but it didn¡¯t quite fit the spirit of the tower. The tower, with its hidden deathtrap and razor mesh, deserved something more¡­ thematic. It needed a weapon that embodied the essence of the trap: cubes, precision, and danger disguised as simplicity. Something that, much like the tower, would lull its wielder into a false sense of safety before revealing its true, deadly nature. Mechalon pondered for a moment, its thoughts whirring like the mechanisms in its body. Then, an idea sparked. What if it crafted a weapon that stayed true to its roots? A weapon that looked like a simple, harmless cube¡ªbut wasn¡¯t. Something unassuming that could transform into a deadly tool of destruction. Yes. A weapon that could fold out of a cube. With a sudden burst of energy, Mechalon set to work. It began with a solid, metal cube, about the size of a fist. The perfect shape¡ªit always came back to cubes, didn¡¯t it? But this wasn¡¯t just any cube. Using its welding tools and the fabricator, it crafted hidden seams along the cube¡¯s edges. When pressure was applied in just the right way, the cube would unfold, revealing razor-sharp blades hidden within its walls. It called this weapon the "Folding Edge." At rest, it was a simple cube, compact, unthreatening, and easy to carry. But once activated, it would snap open into a deadly array of spinning, serrated blades. The blades, made from the same material as the razor mesh inside the tower, were thin and sharp, designed to slice through flesh and armor alike. And if the wielder managed to somehow avoid injuring themselves in the process, they would find it a formidable tool in battle. To activate the Folding Edge, a button disguised as a harmless metal stud on one side of the cube had to be pressed. The blades would spring out instantly, rotating around the cube''s edges like a whirling dervish of death. And, much like the tower itself, the weapon would require skill and wit to master, anyone foolish enough to mishandle it would end up as sliced as their enemies. With the weapon completed, Mechalon carefully placed it inside the chest at the top of the tower. It nestled the Folding Edge among a few gold coins and trinkets¡ªjust enough to make the adventurers believe they¡¯d found something valuable. But the true prize, of course, would be the cube. Let them think they''ve won, Mechalon mused as it sealed the chest shut. I¡¯ll just find better ways of tricking them once they figure out how it works. I need more points in mind for this don¡¯t I? Satisfied, it skittered back to the base of the tower, casting one final glance at its creation. The trap was set, the reward in place. Now, all it needed was the right adventurer to trigger it. Chapter 10 Achievement Unlocked: High Times Craft a structure five times your height. Rewards: 1 Level 1 Utility Limb Mechalon paused for a moment, the achievement flashing before its mind. It now had two utility limbs, a pair of sleek, flexible appendages that flailed about in a tiny, celebratory dance. It couldn¡¯t help but feel a twinge of satisfaction¡ªan unspoken pride in having reached this milestone. The achievement itself was unexpected, and while it changed nothing fundamental, it offered a subtle revelation: perhaps it didn¡¯t need the system quests to level up. The idea amused it briefly. It could accomplish things on its own without waiting for directives or rewards. But then again, it was already doing all it could within its scope. This revelation would only change things if it wanted to make them change. Its mind soon returned to more immediate concerns. Summoning One, Two, and Three to its side, Mechalon took a moment to think. It needed a name for its growing domain, its lair¡ªthis room that was becoming more and more of a personal space, a center for its creations. It also needed a name for the trio of Cubes, the small group of minions that now skittered around, following its orders. It felt... commanding somehow, even if it wasn¡¯t quite sure what to call them yet. After assigning one point each to Mind and Energy Control, it felt a slight clarity wash over it, as if its thoughts were moving a little faster, and its ability to control the dungeon¡¯s energies a little sharper. There were still two energy points in reserve, saved for future upgrades, but now that it had two utility limbs, Mechalon briefly considered whether it should invest in more practical enhancements¡ªsomething to make it stronger, or more durable. Before going any further, though, it checked over its stats, realizing it now had an extra point to assign. Strength: 0 Flexibility: 2 Durability: 3 Mind: 5 Energy Control: 3 It mulled over its options. It still had several spare legs it could implement manually, but the thought didn¡¯t excite it much. The system¡¯s additions were far more efficient, bypassing the awkward trial-and-error of self-installation. What if, instead of waiting for more random system rewards, it tried to craft something unique to itself? Despite all its accomplishments, it hadn¡¯t yet created anything that truly boosted its offensive or defensive capabilities. Not yet. It had designed numerous weapons for others, but none for itself. Then again, it wasn¡¯t exactly built for combat. If it was, it would have put more focus on Strength long ago. For now, its focus was on crafting, on precision, and on mastering its environment. Still, the thought lingered. Someday it might need to fight. Someday it might want to wield the very tools it so expertly made for others. That was a distant problem for future-Mechalon to solve. Mechalon examined its three Cubic minions, feeling the need to give them a proper name. The mental shorthand of calling them "Cubes" was starting to wear thin¡ªtoo generic, too easy to confuse with any of the other countless cubes scattered across the dungeon. They deserved something better, something more distinct. It mentally scratched out a few options, entertaining thoughts like "Scraplings," "Metallites," and even "Cubots." Each name felt almost right, but then quickly discarded. They needed a name that embodied their cubic origin, yet was practical, simple¡ªsomething that could stick. "Squarelings," it thought, then dismissed. It lacked the gravitas it was going for. "Formies?" No, too silly. "Constructors?" It liked that one, but it didn¡¯t quite fit the essence of their existence. After a moment, it paused on the name Cublings. Yes, it had a certain ring to it. Practical, short, and interesting enough without being too far from what they actually were. Plus, it played off the fact that they were like small extensions of itself, born from its own design, but still maintaining their cubic origin. Cublings. That would do. With a mental note of satisfaction, Mechalon accepted the name and moved on. The system''s chime rang through Mechalon''s mind, pulling it from its thoughts. A cascade of messages spilled out in rapid succession, the familiar glow of the interface flickering in front of it. It could feel the system¡¯s satisfaction as the final message solidified: Race named: Cubes -> Cublings Any identifying skills will be updated by the system. That felt right. A proper designation for the beings it had crafted. Its minions would no longer be just faceless chunks of metal, they were Cublings now, with purpose and identity. They had structure, a role, and most importantly, they had Mechalon. But the system wasn¡¯t done. Gained Title: Alpha Cubling (Monster Title): You are a prime example of what a Cubling can become. We can make them better than they were before, better¡­ stronger¡­ faster¡­ +1 to all stats. Mechalon¡¯s lens flickered, taking a moment to process the weight of the title. Alpha Cubling. The first, the best, the leader. A small shiver of pride ran through its core. It wasn¡¯t just some mindless constructor or cube-maker anymore it had become something more. It had forged itself into a prime version, standing above all others. The stat boost was a bonus, but the title itself carried the real significance. It mattered. The system saw it. It wasn¡¯t just an idle creator tinkering away in some forgotten dungeon, it was an architect, a commander. It was making Cublings better, and by extension, making itself better. The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. With a small ripple of satisfaction, it imagined the possibilities. The title wasn¡¯t just a badge¡ªit was a promise. Stronger? Faster? Better? Mechalon stared at the glowing system messages, feeling a strange sensation trickling through its circuits, like it was emerging from a thick fog. For so long, it had been functioning on instinct, clinging to its assigned tasks and mechanical rhythms, thinking of itself as little more than a cog in some grand machine it couldn¡¯t understand. It had created, it had gathered, it had built¡ªbut without truly understanding why. It had been obsessed with perfection, and yet, it had never questioned what that perfection was for. But now¡ªnow, the system had spoken. Alpha Cubling. The words rang in its mind like the chime of the system itself, reverberating through its core. Mechalon, the architect, the prime example, the leader. The fog began to lift. This wasn¡¯t just about crafting perfect cubes anymore. It wasn¡¯t just about creating weapons or traps for adventurers to marvel at. No, this was bigger¡ªso much bigger. For the first time, it could see the inadequacies that had plagued it before. The endless, aimless construction. The lack of purpose beyond the next perfect shape. It had spent its time avoiding adventurers, slinking through shadows, watching them interact with its traps and creations without really mattering. Even its victories, like the creation of the Cubic Cutter, had been met with indifference¡ªmoments of fleeting satisfaction that quickly faded into the mechanical grind of the dungeon. But the system had reinforced something Mechalon hadn¡¯t even realized it had been missing: validation. Its existence mattered. It wasn¡¯t a random construct anymore. It was the Alpha. And its Cublings¡ªthey were more than just extensions of itself now. They were its charge. They had purpose too, and it was Mechalon¡¯s purpose to raise them up, to make them better¡ªstronger. A sense of clarity washed over it. For the first time, it felt the weight of responsibility, but not as a burden¡ªmore like a guiding force. The system had confirmed what it had always been missing. It had a goal now, a purpose. Not just to craft, but to lead. To elevate the Cublings, to transform them from mindless pieces of metal into something far greater. The path forward was clear: to rise with them, to mold them into something extraordinary, and in doing so, to reshape itself. Mechalon glanced at One, Two, and Three, its first creations. They skittered about with renewed energy, a reflection of its own newfound drive. It had been content to command them in simple tasks, but now¡ªnow it needed to do more. It needed to teach them, to guide them, to make them the best versions of themselves. With the fog of uncertainty finally clearing, Mechalon felt a rare surge of excitement. This was just the beginning. The Cublings were going to evolve, and it would lead them. It would rise, and with it, the Cublings would become something that even adventurers would fear¡ªsomething powerful, something worthy. A mischievous thought sparked in Mechalon¡¯s mind as it recalled something from the system''s vast database of adventurer language¡ªan old song, one that seemed absurdly fitting for the moment. "Let''s get down to business," it mused silently to its Cublings, giving a nod to One, Two, and Three. They clicked in response, as if sensing its newfound resolve. "To defeat¡­ the bugs." The roaches were crawling out of every crevice, skittering toward them, but Mechalon felt no fear. It wasn''t a disjointed effort anymore, no chaotic scramble. There was coordination now, purpose behind their movements. Each command was sharp, deliberate. Its Cublings weren¡¯t mindless tools anymore, they were soldiers. Mechalon mentally cracked its mechanical knuckles as it adjusted its stance. "Did they send me gears... when I asked for cubes?" It snickered internally, watching as One leapt forward, crushing a roach beneath its jagged edges. Two and Three flanked the next wave of scurrying pests, working in tandem like the polished extensions of its will they had become. Each attack was precise, timed, perfect. "You''re a spineless, pale, squishy lot," it thought, recalling the adventurers and their squishy flesh, "and you haven¡¯t got a clue!" The parody of the song continued in its circuits, building momentum as the battle unfolded. Roaches, big and small, were darting from every shadow, but One, Two, and Three responded like a well-oiled machine, driven by the clarity that Mechalon itself felt now that it had a reason, a goal. "Somehow, I¡¯ll make a cube out of you!" It had become more than just a joke in its mind, it was a mission statement. Each roach crushed, sliced, and pulverized brought it one step closer to its goal. This was training for its Cublings, battle-hardened now by the heat of conflict. Roaches scattered like debris in their path, but the Cublings were relentless, their movements precise and deadly. Mechalon watched with pride as Two pounced on a particularly large roach, pinning it to the ground while Three moved in for the finishing blow, cutting it cleanly in two. The teamwork was flawless, far from the aimless scurrying they¡¯d been doing before. "We must be swift as the coursing stream!" Mechalon thought with amusement, directing Three to tear through a line of roaches with its slicing limbs. "With all the force of a great typhoon!" One slammed into another wave, clearing the way with brutal efficiency. The battlefield, a once chaotic swarm of relentless bugs, was now becoming a slaughterhouse. Every roach that fell was a victory, not just for the dungeon¡¯s cleanliness, but for the strength and prowess of its Cublings. They were learning, evolving, adapting. With every command, they grew sharper, more capable. "Mysterious as the dark side of the cube!" It couldn¡¯t help itself now, grinning internally as Three delivered the final blow to the last of the roaches, a perfect slice that left no mess, no struggle, just victory. The room fell silent, save for the soft clinking of the Cublings as they gathered around Mechalon, waiting for their next command. They had won. They had defeated the bugs. And as Mechalon surveyed the battlefield, littered with crushed roaches and discarded parts, it felt something new. A sense of accomplishment. Not just for itself, but for the Cublings too. They had fought well, rising to the occasion like the warriors it had shaped them into. "Bugs defeated. Cublings victorious." It thought to itself, pride swelling through its mechanical core. Then, with a smirk only it could feel, it added: "Now we¡¯re ready for whatever comes next." Chapter 11: After the battle was over, Mechalon stood back and observed the aftermath. Roach corpses littered the floor, and its Cublings One, Two, and Three, were slowly returning to their original formation, though now with a certain air of¡­ what was it? Confidence? Purpose? Suddenly, a screen flickered in front of Mechalon¡¯s vision, but this time, the Cublings themselves seemed to freeze in their tracks. Their glassy, glowing eyes fixated on something that Mechalon couldn¡¯t see. They seemed to be staring at an invisible screen, an update of sorts from the system. Then, the message that appeared before Mechalon was as unexpected as it was exciting: Cublings are evolving. Would you like to stop them? Stop them? Mechalon scoffed at the absurdity of the notion. Why would it stop them from growing stronger? No, it thought, dismissing the prompt instantly. Let them evolve. If its Cublings were going to become more than they were better, stronger, faster, then Mechalon welcomed the change. It was curious to see what they would become, how they would shape into something more fitting for their roles in the lair it was building. One was the first to move. Its form began to shift, subtly at first, but then it grew more drastic. The spider-like legs thickened, becoming sturdier, almost like pillars. Its body expanded, growing bulkier but not losing its cubic form, just enhancing it. The transformation was accompanied by the sound of metal grinding and reshaping itself, a soft hum of power thrumming through its frame. Mechalon¡¯s system pinged, flashing up another message: One has evolved into a Tank Cube. One now stood more solid than ever, like a fortress on legs. It flexed those newly reinforced limbs, clattering them against the floor experimentally, testing its newfound strength. Its movements were slower, more deliberate now, but there was a sense of unyielding power behind each step it took. Mechalon could almost feel the weight it carried, an immovable object ready to take on anything that dared to challenge it. It would be perfect for holding the line in future battles, absorbing the brunt of attacks while the others maneuvered around the enemies. Two, however, took an entirely different approach. As its transformation began, its body seemed to streamline, its cubic form compressing and elongating slightly. Its legs retracted closer to the ground, growing sharper, thinner, and more agile. They trembled, vibrating with pent-up energy, as if Two could hardly contain the speed it now held. When it moved, it was faster, slinking low to the ground, skittering in a way that felt predatory. It darted forward in a blur, impaling the nearest dead roach on the tip of one leg before tossing it aside with an almost playful flick. Two has evolved into a Scout Cube. Two buzzed with excitement, a faint hum emitting from its core as it prowled around the room, always on the move, always searching for something new to poke at or chase down. It was smaller now, sleeker, but what it lost in size, it gained in speed and agility. Mechalon noted the way Two moved, how fluid it had become, almost as if it were dancing around invisible enemies. This one would be their eyes and ears, quick to spot danger and even quicker to respond. The Scout Cube''s excitement was palpable, and it reveled in its newfound swiftness. Then there was Three. Unlike the others, Three hesitated, its glowing eye glancing between One and Two before turning its gaze toward Mechalon. It didn¡¯t rush into the transformation like the others. Instead, it seemed to contemplate its options, weighing them carefully. After what felt like a long pause, Three made its choice. Mechalon noticed that while there wasn¡¯t a dramatic physical change, there was something more¡­ calculated about Three now. It moved with precision, observing its surroundings and the other Cublings with a thoughtful stillness. Three has evolved into a Tactician Cube. It didn¡¯t need to change its body drastically because its transformation was in its mind, in its approach to battle. Three, the quiet one, had always been the thinker, and now it seemed even more focused, more strategic. It was as though it could already anticipate the movements of both allies and enemies. Mechalon felt a surge of pride at this evolution. A Tactician Cube was exactly what it needed someone to plan while it directed. Three¡¯s transformation was subtle, but it was perhaps the most important of all. It would coordinate the others, making their efforts more efficient, more effective. Mechalon hovered above them, considering. They could no longer be called just One, Two, and Three. No, they had earned more than that now. As it mused over names, it decided that they should retain something of their origins, something tied to the numbers they had once been. But there had to be more personality to it, more character. One, now the Tank Cube, deserved a name that reflected its unshakable strength. "Onus," Mechalon thought. The name rolled around in its mind like a heavy, steadfast boulder. Fitting for a cube that would carry the weight of every battle on its reinforced limbs. Two, sleek and agile, would be "Tuo." A name that hinted at its number origin but with a twist, evoking speed and sharpness. Tuo buzzed in excitement, its new name seemingly adding to its restless energy. Three, the Tactician, required something that spoke of strategy and careful calculation. "Trice," Mechalon decided, short and sharp, but with the promise of something more complex lurking beneath. Trice¡¯s glowing eye focused on Mechalon, giving a small nod as if to acknowledge the weight of the role it had taken on. "Onus, Tuo, and Trice," Mechalon murmured, feeling a sense of satisfaction. These weren¡¯t just mindless minions anymore. They were individuals now cubes with purpose, each serving a vital role in its plans. They were ready. Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. Denied! Denied! Denied! The system¡¯s rejection echoed in Mechalon¡¯s mind with every failed attempt. It stared at the screen, somewhat baffled. How could the system deny the names it had chosen? Onus, Tuo, and Trice seemed fitting simple yet reflective of their new forms. But the system, ever the unseen overseer, seemed unsatisfied. It demanded something more¡­ elaborate? Significant? Mechalon mulled over it, the rejection sparking a challenge in its mechanical mind. If the system wanted more, then more it would get. But the names had to make sense, had to reflect not just their origins as One, Two, and Three, but also their evolved states. They weren¡¯t just basic cubes anymore; they had transformed into something far greater, each representing a different aspect of Mechalon''s growing empire. First, it turned its attention to One, the bulky, indomitable Tank Cube. It needed a name that conveyed both strength and protection, something that evoked the weight it now carried and the role it played. But ¡°Onus¡± wasn¡¯t enough for the system, clearly. Mechalon pondered, then struck upon the idea: Fortuno. It combined the essence of being first, its numerical origin, with the sound of "fortress," representing the strength and endurance it now possessed. Fortuno would be the shield, the unbreakable wall that stood firm in the face of any assault. The system hummed, and this time, it didn¡¯t reject. Fortuno was accepted. Next was Two. Sleek, fast, almost predatory. Its energy seemed to vibrate at a higher frequency, constantly seeking movement, always on the prowl. Tuo, while an efficient name, lacked the complexity the system apparently desired. Mechalon considered the Scout Cube¡¯s new form, its low stance, its precision, and thought about speed, stealth, and its natural role as the eyes and ears of the lair. Then, the name clicked into place: Velocitwo. A name that married speed with its numerical origin, while also hinting at its relentless, razor-sharp agility. The system paused, as if considering this new offering. Another chime. Velocitwo was accepted. Now, Mechalon faced its most strategic Cubling: Three, the Tactician. Its intellect was sharp, and its ability to analyze situations had already proven invaluable. But Trice wasn¡¯t enough, no, this Cubling deserved a name that reflected its keen mind, its capability to command the battlefield with precision. Mechalon thought deeply, considering all angles. Three¡¯s role was one of control, of subtlety, of calculation. It needed a name that embodied wisdom, strategy, and its natural position as third in the hierarchy. Strategemtris came to mind, a name that combined "strategy" with the number three in a complex but meaningful way. It felt fitting, a name that spoke of intellect and tactical superiority. The system chimed again, and this time, Strategemtris was accepted without hesitation. With the names settled, Mechalon surveyed its newly named creations, Fortuno, Velocitwo, and Strategemtris. Each had come from humble beginnings as simple Cublings, but now they stood as proud extensions of its will, their names reflective of their evolved forms. They were no longer mere numbers or basic minions; they were unique entities, tools of precision in the vast, intricate mechanism that was Mechalon¡¯s lair. The system¡¯s acceptance of the names felt like a victory, a confirmation that Mechalon was on the right path. With Fortuno¡¯s strength, Velocitwo¡¯s speed, and Strategemtris¡¯ intellect, it had the perfect trio to assist in the ever-growing plans for the dungeon. It was no longer just a simple cube-making automaton, it was a leader. A commander. "Now with names in place, I can call them by nicknames. Vel, Strat, and Fort," Mechalon mused, feeling a sense of smug satisfaction wash over it. The solution felt clever, almost too clever for something as straightforward as itself. Here it was, circumventing the system¡¯s rigid demands with a bit of finesse a workaround that allowed it to stick to its preference for simplicity, while still adhering to the system¡¯s more complex requirements. It raised one of its newly acquired utility limbs, flexing it as if to give the system a proverbial middle finger. A snicker echoed from within its core, mechanical but genuine. The system had tried to force complexity upon it, but Mechalon had outsmarted it, just like it had outsmarted those pesky adventurers with its traps and inventions. Nicknames were practical, efficient, even, and perfectly aligned with its philosophy of function over form. Mechalon observed the trio¡ªVel, Strat, and Fort¡ªwith what could only be described as a kind of pride. It couldn¡¯t speak to them directly, but the mental commands it sent were sharp and clear. ¡°Use your points as you see fit,¡± it suggested, trusting them to make the right choices. Without hesitation, they responded. Vel darted off first, its body brimming with energy, eager to put its newfound power to use. The nimble Cube¡¯s legs flickered as it scuttled off to hunt roaches, almost impatient to try out whatever enhancement it had chosen. Mechalon couldn¡¯t help but admire its speed. Fort stood steady, the bulk of its Tank Cube form looming like a small fortress. It gave a barely perceptible nod before lumbering off, no doubt reinforcing its durability, making it an even stronger barrier against the inevitable dangers lurking in the dungeon. And Strat, cool, calculating Strat, was already deep in thought, sending out precise mental commands to the other two, subtly coordinating their movements. It was clear that this one enjoyed its role as the tactician, analyzing the battlefield and deploying Vel and Fort like chess pieces on a board. Mechalon turned its attention inward for a moment, considering its own choices. Should it create more Cublings? The thought lingered, but it dismissed it for now. More Cublings would mean more chaos, and it wanted to see how Strat adapted to managing this small team before adding more variables to the equation. It mentally poked the system, half-expecting it to provide some insight into the stats of its creations. But there was nothing, no data on their progress, no feedback on their strengths and weaknesses. Mechalon clicked a utility limb against the floor in frustration. It had made them, after all; shouldn¡¯t it be able to monitor them? For now, though, it had to trust in their instincts and their abilities. The system was clearly intent on keeping some mysteries hidden, but Mechalon was confident that its creations would thrive under Strat''s direction. Chapter 12: Adventurer Mark¡¯s POV: The three adventurers entered the dungeon cautiously, Mark leading with his heavy blade drawn, Alexander at his side, staff raised, and Angelica in the back, muttering her usual warding spells. They¡¯d traversed this dungeon before, and each time it seemed the place had shifted just enough to keep them on edge. This time, however, a new set of details threw them off balance, beginning with the polished, foreboding sign hammered into the wall at the dungeon¡¯s entrance. Angelica squinted at the inscription. ¡°¡®Curiosity is the path to bodily harm¡­ risk¡­ injury¡­ suffering.¡¯¡± She raised an eyebrow. ¡°Since when do dungeons leave us moral warnings?¡± Alexander scoffed. ¡°It¡¯s more a polite threat. A sign like that could be cursed. Or enchanted to discourage loitering.¡± Mark shook his head slowly. ¡°Or it¡¯s a deterrent. I don¡¯t like it.¡± His instincts as a seasoned fighter buzzed with alarm, and this unusually verbose message felt¡­ targeted. Alexander leaned in closer, studying the structure of the letters, burned deeply into the metal. ¡°If this is the dungeon¡¯s work, it¡¯s either showing off or giving us a message.¡± He pulled back, nodding toward the path beyond the sign. ¡°And look, that trail¡¯s different too. Straight path, clean walls, no scrap lying around. Like it¡¯s guiding us.¡± Mark sighed and looked down at the cobblestone path, where the walls rose to his shoulder height, forming a clear passage. He¡¯d been here before, he knew how littered and haphazard it had been last time, scrap metal, broken goblin weapons, remnants of creatures that never saw the light of day again. But now, it was all organized. ¡°Feels wrong,¡± he muttered, almost to himself. ¡°You think they¡¯re leading us somewhere?¡± Angelica asked, catching the wary look in his eyes. Mark nodded slowly. ¡°Dungeons don¡¯t clean up after themselves. Not in my experience. But if it did, who¡­ or what is running it?¡± Alexander¡¯s eyes gleamed. ¡°That brings me to an interesting point. Use your Identify skill on one of those small¡­ things in the shadows over there.¡± He pointed at what had once been labeled ¡°Cubes,¡± the tiny, mechanical creatures that typically scuttled around collecting debris. They¡¯d never attacked, never shown aggression; they were classified as ¡°maintenance,¡± non-hostile and utterly unremarkable. Until now. Mark¡¯s eyes narrowed. He activated his Identify skill on a small, motionless form just beyond the walls. The readout scrolled through his mind, and his brows furrowed. ¡°It¡¯s called a¡­ Cubling.¡± Angelica and Alexander exchanged a glance, surprised. ¡°Cubling?¡± Angelica repeated, the unfamiliar name hanging in the air. ¡°That¡¯s different.¡± ¡°Nothing in any dungeon has ever had an actual title for their non-combatants,¡± Mark said, crossing his arms thoughtfully. ¡°Usually, it¡¯s just ¡®Cube¡¯ or ¡®Roach,¡¯ simple labels. Why give a name to the maintenance?¡± Alexander pondered aloud. ¡°It could mean an upgrade or a shift in the dungeon¡¯s management. And maybe, the dungeon itself¡­ wants to distinguish them?¡± ¡°No level assigned, no XP,¡± Mark added, ¡°just a name change. Still, something about this is off. Cublings, if that¡¯s what they are now, didn¡¯t used to care if we were here or not. They were like set pieces. So why the title?¡± Angelica shrugged. ¡°Maybe to keep us guessing? To make us feel observed?¡± She wasn¡¯t used to dungeons observing them, and the very idea unsettled her. As they moved along the pathway, the narrow walls seemed to press in on them, though they could see easily over the tops. Mark slowed, staring at the walls¡¯ strange construction. Each wall was made of welded scrap metal, some of it polished and carefully riveted together, forming an eerie, jagged pattern. The craftsmanship was purposeful, no longer the haphazard structure they¡¯d come to expect. ¡°It almost looks like¡­ decoration,¡± Angelica mused, tracing her fingers over the metal. ¡°Or a trap,¡± Mark muttered, eyes darting over each ridge and seam. He wasn¡¯t just uneasy, he felt watched. Their steps echoed down the almost mechanically straight path, leading to the end of the chamber. Everything remained eerily silent except for the soft hum of the Cublings scurrying about in the background, tiny black orbs for eyes blinking in unison as they monitored the intruders. ¡°I don¡¯t like the quiet,¡± Mark said finally, glancing around. ¡°It¡¯s almost like¡­they¡¯re waiting for something.¡± Angelica swallowed. ¡°It¡¯s as if the place wants us to underestimate them.¡± ¡°And maybe that¡¯s exactly what it wants,¡± Mark said, keeping his hand on his sword hilt, his posture tense. ¡°Let¡¯s stay sharp. Whatever¡¯s happening here, I doubt we¡¯re the first to be unsettled by it, and I don¡¯t want to be the first taken by surprise.¡± As they entered the central area, the party paused, taking in the room¡¯s stark changes. In each corner, a newly erected tower loomed, reaching nearly to the ceiling. They were tall, smooth structures, crafted from gleaming cubes stacked with meticulous precision. The sight of them was jarring¡ªeach tower was so uniform, almost polished, and yet, some cubes protruded just enough to act as hand and footholds, as though inviting someone to climb. Mark squinted at the towers, his instincts pricking with alarm. ¡°These weren¡¯t here last time. And they don¡¯t look like anything we¡¯ve seen in a dungeon before,¡± he said, voice low, wary. Alexander studied the closest tower, fingers absently tracing patterns in the air. ¡°These towers¡­ almost look like they¡¯re meant to be climbed. But why? Nothing in this dungeon has ever wanted us to interact with it like this.¡± The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. ¡°Remember the sign back there?¡± Angelica murmured, casting a glance over her shoulder. ¡°¡®Curiosity leads to risk. Risk leads to injury¡­¡¯¡± She trailed off, her face tight with concern. ¡°It might be talking about these.¡± Mark¡¯s gaze darkened as he considered her words. ¡°It would fit. These towers aren¡¯t just decorations, they¡¯re part of something. Look at how smooth they are. And the handholds¡­ they¡¯re tempting.¡± Angelica nodded, her eyes fixed on the eerie symmetry. ¡°It feels like a trap. That sign wasn¡¯t just a warning about curiosity, it was a warning for anyone foolish enough to take up the challenge these towers seem to offer.¡± Alexander stepped closer to the nearest tower, squinting at the seamless joins between each cube. ¡°And if it is a trap, it¡¯s more clever than anything we¡¯ve seen here before. It¡¯s¡­ intentional.¡± He turned to Mark. ¡°What do you think? Dare we climb?¡± Mark looked back at the towers, noting how each one mirrored the others, their surfaces almost pristine, polished with unnatural care. He¡¯d learned to trust his instincts over the years, and every one of them screamed that these towers were as dangerous as they were enticing. ¡°No,¡± he said finally, shaking his head. ¡°We don¡¯t know enough. This place keeps showing us things that feel out of place, and for all we know, the towers could be meant to cull the overconfident.¡± Angelica shivered slightly, taking a few steps back. ¡°I agree. The whole setup is too clean, too¡­ orderly. Whatever¡¯s doing this has a plan, and we don¡¯t want to be a part of it.¡± Mark turned to them both, a grim determination in his eyes. ¡°We stick together. If this dungeon has changed enough to start laying out something like this, then we need to be smarter, faster, and twice as careful.¡± He cast one last look at the towers. ¡°Let¡¯s keep moving. But keep your guard up. I have a feeling we¡¯re just scratching the surface.¡± The room was dense with an unsettling tension, the new towers casting deep, shifting shadows across the floor. Mark, Alexander, and Angelica moved slowly, eyes peeled for traps or hidden mechanisms. It felt as if the very walls were watching them. Alexander broke the silence with a low chuckle. "So, we got shoulder-height walls, ominous towers in each corner¡­ I¡¯m calling it now. This room¡¯s one big invitation to climb and plummet to our doom." "Right? It¡¯s almost begging us to do something dumb," Mark muttered, his eyes tracing the towers¡¯ height. "Like whoever, or whatever, made this was getting creative with their¡­ I don¡¯t know, architecture." Angelica held back a chuckle, but something had caught her attention. Her gaze flickered over the Cublings with an intensity that hadn¡¯t been there before. Her Eye of the Healer trait, a perception boost from her cleric training, allowed her to notice details others missed. The odd presence she felt among the tiny, seemingly harmless Cublings made her heart race. It wasn¡¯t just any Cube. No, this one was different. Mechalon, Level 5, Energy Core Cubling. She kept her voice even, urging her friends, "Let¡¯s keep moving. No need to spend extra time here." Mark threw her a sidelong glance. ¡°That¡¯s the most suspicious thing you¡¯ve said all day. Are we running from something?¡± She gave him a tight smile. ¡°Just a feeling, that¡¯s all. Trust me?¡± "Fine, but I reserve the right to grumble about it," he muttered as they edged toward the exit, wary of any sudden movement from the Cublings. Once they were clear of the room and safely in the next corridor, Angelica finally exhaled, her shoulders sagging with the release of tension. She turned to the others, expression serious. ¡°There¡¯s¡­ something you both need to know.¡± Alexander crossed his arms, leaning closer. "Oh, this sounds good. Spill." "One of those Cublings¡ªwell, it¡¯s not like the others," she began, hesitating before delivering the bombshell. "It¡¯s Level 5. It has a name. Mechalon. And it¡¯s designated as an Energy Core Cubling." Mark and Alexander stared at her, utterly dumbfounded. "You¡¯re kidding me," Alexander said after a moment, eyes wide with disbelief. "A Cubling with a level? I thought they were just¡­ maintenance fodder. Non-combatants.¡± "And yet, there it was. And the way it was watching us," Angelica shivered slightly. "It¡¯s more than just a leveled creature. It was observing us, almost like¡­ I don¡¯t know. Waiting." "Level 5?" Mark shook his head. "In this place? Even the boss isn¡¯t that far ahead in level. And non-combatants¡­ they don¡¯t get levels. Not in any dungeon I¡¯ve ever heard of." The three of them were silent for a moment, letting the weight of that sink in. Alexander cleared his throat, looking unnerved. "This is¡­ unsettling. If I tell anyone back in town about a leveled-up Cubling, they¡¯ll laugh me out of the guild. Cublings are barely worth a second glance. And yet¡­ a level 5, Energy Core Cubling named Mechalon? No one¡¯s going to believe it." "It¡¯s as if the dungeon¡¯s shifting," Angelica murmured, her voice hushed with unease. "And that one Cubling¡­ it was the only one with that kind of power. It¡¯s not just another obstacle. It felt like an active force." They all turned back to glance down the corridor toward the room they¡¯d just left, each one lost in thought. Mark finally broke the silence. ¡°Remember the first time we saw that Cube statue? Back when everything in here was still¡­ normal?¡± The three of them nodded, eyes drifting toward the hallway they¡¯d left. The statue was unmistakably strange back then, but now it felt more ominous, a marker, the beginning of this dungeon¡¯s gradual transformation. Since that statue had appeared, things had only gotten weirder. "It¡¯s like everything started changing after that thing showed up," Mark continued, his brow furrowed. "If that Cubling, Mechalon, is tied to all this, then we need to rethink our plans." Alexander glanced at the others, his usually sharp, sarcastic expression clouded. "We might be looking at more than just a dungeon here. If this place is evolving, who knows what it¡¯ll become in another month?" Angelica nodded. ¡°I think we all know what this means. We can¡¯t treat this dungeon like the easy grind it used to be. If Mechalon has risen to Level 5, what¡¯s stopping others from following?¡± Mark sighed heavily, clearly wrestling with a decision. ¡°It might be time to graduate from this dungeon faster than we planned. Maybe come back later, but for now, we should keep moving before it throws any more surprises our way.¡± They moved on with cautious determination, each one aware that they¡¯d stepped into something far greater than the low-level grind they¡¯d initially expected. Chapter 13: The moment Mechalon noticed Angelica¡¯s gaze lingering a bit too long, the realization struck like a bolt of lightning. She had seen it. Not just looked, but really seen. And when the party hustled out of the room, glancing back over their shoulders, Mechalon¡¯s mechanical mind started whirring with worry. They know. A dreadful sense of exposure flooded through Mechalon¡¯s circuits. If word got out, if the adventurers spread tales of a Level 5, named Cubling, everything it had built would be under threat. The tiny Cublings it had nurtured and trained, the towers it had designed so carefully¡ªits entire existence could be dismantled. They¡¯d come with their weapons and spells, tearing it all down brick by brick. No, no, no! I can¡¯t let that happen. It scuttled back and forth, its appendages tapping a frantic beat against the cold dungeon floor as a steady stream of plans flooded its mind. Each one grew increasingly convoluted, but it was willing to entertain them all if it meant protecting itself and its Cublings. First idea: Tunnel collapse. It could dismantle part of the ceiling in the main hallway leading to the room, setting a makeshift trap. The moment someone tried to barge in again, a flood of broken stone and heavy cubes would drop down, blocking their path and potentially causing a good amount of injury. But¡­ then they¡¯d just dig through, wouldn¡¯t they? And next time, they¡¯d probably bring tools, making the barrier useless. Alright, onto the next idea: Cubling Mimics. It could outfit some of the Cublings with spikes and reinforce their outer shells. Make them look even more cube-like, more innocent¡ªuntil someone got close enough, only to find a jagged metal spike pointing straight at them. It grinned at the thought, and yet¡­ it shook its head. Adventurers were notoriously skilled at sensing danger, and the minute one of the Cublings attacked, they¡¯d go on high alert. Nope, not stealthy enough. Another idea blossomed in its mind: Poison fog. It could rig up some kind of gas chamber within the walls, mixing various dungeon elements into a noxious vapor that would seep out at the first sign of intruders. But it quickly realized it didn¡¯t actually have any poisonous components on hand, nor did it know the formula for such a substance. Not yet, anyway, it noted to itself with a tinge of frustration. It stopped and assessed the room, its paranoia fueling a desperate sense of innovation. What if¡­ What if I make the room endless? Yes, an infinite loop of corridors, carefully designed to keep intruders wandering in circles. It could rearrange the layout constantly, creating shifting walls and passages. But, alas, it didn¡¯t actually have the resources or abilities for such a complicated architectural nightmare. That would take more power and control than it currently had. One more idea flickered into place, sending a chill through its circuits: Self-destruct. If it sensed an intruder too close, too threatening, it could set off some explosive fail-safe, sacrificing the room¡ªand itself¡ªto keep its secrets safe. But it brushed that thought aside almost immediately. It wasn¡¯t ready to give up everything it had worked for. Not yet. It still had plans, ideas, so much left to create and shape. Mechalon paused, forcing itself to calm. There was no point in throwing itself into a frenzy. It still had time to plan and prepare. What it needed was a solution that would keep the adventurers away without outright fighting them. And then the answer struck it: distraction and redirection. It began forming a scheme, intricate yet doable. It would construct a series of raps leading off from the main pathway, enough to fill an adventurer¡¯s mind with paranoia. False floors that didn¡¯t actually collapse, but seemed precarious. Shadows that moved in the low light as though someone, or something, was watching from the dark. And at the end of this series of tricks, it would lead them to a room with shiny ¡°treasures¡±, carefully crafted cubes that appeared valuable but would dissolve into worthless dust upon inspection. It clacked its limbs excitedly. If the adventurers spent their time searching these false traps and hidden passageways, maybe, just maybe, they¡¯d leave its real sanctuary alone. It could shield its true center of operations, hiding the heart of its work deep within the labyrinth it planned to construct. Then, if they ever came close to uncovering its secrets, they¡¯d find only trickery and dead ends. And that would give it more than enough time to prepare. Yes, it would need to act quickly, but Mechalon was already calculating exactly how to do it. The image of adventurers scouring every nook and cranny only to find worthless dust brought a quiet satisfaction to its processor. In a way, this plan suited it. After all, it was a craftsman of cubes, not of conflict. With renewed determination, Mechalon clicked its limbs together in a pattern it found quite satisfying. To execute the plan in full, Mechalon realized with a strange surge of excitement¡ªand dread¡ªthat it would need to do something it had never done before: leave the confines of its lair. It had spent countless cycles perfecting this space, crafting every corner, trap, and creation to fit its vision of order. But to protect that vision, it had to push beyond these walls. To safeguard everything it had made, it would need to take control of the dungeon¡¯s outer corridors and build a whole system of deception around its heart. This would mean relying on the dungeon¡¯s mysterious auto-maintenance mechanisms. Mechalon had observed how the dungeon¡¯s traps reset on their own outside its lair; spikes would pop back up, pits would close. Even the chest it placed would often disappear, reappearing later as if nothing had happened. The towers it had recently built could reset too¡ªat least theoretically¡ªbut those were within its direct control, more fail-safe than automatic maintenance. It didn¡¯t know exactly how this dungeon-keeping system worked, but perhaps it could mimic or manipulate it if it began subtly. Creeping towards the mouth of its lair, Mechalon peered out into the stone corridor beyond. This particular hallway was dark and unassuming, with dust collecting in cracks and an eerie stillness that made the stones feel cold and old. But it saw possibility here. Metal, it mused, eyeing the walls thoughtfully. More metal. Yes, metal. It would slowly replace the corridor¡¯s walls and floor, extending the same silvery, reflective material it used within its lair. With metal-lined walls and floors, it could better control visibility, shadows, and sound. Plus, the metal would allow it to conceal hidden compartments, secret paths, and even the subtle machinery it was considering. The first step would be subtle¡ªjust a gradual shift, placing panels in dark corners, adding texture to the stones where the adventurers were less likely to notice until the change was almost complete. Mechalon could start by adding this material to the first corridor section outside its lair, as well as a concealed passage branching off from the main hall. This hidden route would be more than just a detour; it would act as a buffer zone, leading adventurers in a loop if they went the wrong way while giving it time to study and track their movements. And once it had tested the corridors with these first changes, it would expand the metal further, creating an intricate maze to keep intruders away from its lair entirely. But it needed this initial branch, a subtle sidestep from the main corridor, to divert attention. Slow, steady, and deliberate. Mechalon began mentally cataloging its current resources. The Cublings would be helpful here, especially Fort. With Fort¡¯s newfound durability, it could handle the heavier metal panels that would eventually line the walls. Strat could scout ahead, signaling if anyone approached as Mechalon worked, and Vel, with its keen sense for the structure, could help detect any dungeon traps that might conflict with its alterations. For now, it would keep these plans as quiet as the metal itself. It would extend this slow creep of silver down the hallways, and only once it was sure of its control would it reveal a new corridor leading around its lair. The beauty of this setup was that it could expand outward, little by little, claiming more ground until its protective maze enveloped the entire dungeon level. If done right, anyone foolish enough to enter its territory would get lost in an endless labyrinth of cold metal and mirrored surfaces. If it wanted to build this maze, it would need a secure stash for materials¡ªa true hidden warehouse, tucked safely away so that it wouldn¡¯t fall victim to the mindless recycling instincts of the other Cublings. Anything that wasn¡¯t welded down or actively guarded was always at risk of being tossed straight into the furnace by its industrious but somewhat oblivious helpers. The thought made Mechalon twitch. It needed a personal storage zone for its expansion supplies, and a secret crafting area where it could refine raw materials without interference. First things first, though¡­ tools. Mechalon skimmed its gaze over the scattered scraps, mentally sorting through each piece with surprising clarity. It could use the impurities in the metal¡ªa byproduct it had previously dismissed¡ªto create stronger components. Though it couldn¡¯t fully refine metal with its current abilities, it had a plan to carefully extract the impurities and fuse them together, crafting tools that were durable enough for its expanding ambitions. And with the right tools, it could start digging into the wall to carve out its hidden workshop, as well as fashion new constructs to aid in the dungeon¡¯s alteration. Mechalon pondered its next step carefully, focusing on the task at hand. It needed a tool, a proper tool. Its mind raced as it processed its options, each idea fitting together like a puzzle piece. The creation of the tool, it dubbed ¡°Crackline Carver¡±, would be as elegant as any other structure it had made so far. Efficiency was key. Simplicity was paramount. Nothing too flashy. It was a tool meant for precision, not for grandeur. The shape of the Crackline Carver would have to mirror the cube''s ideal: sharp, direct, and with a mechanical design that could be understood in its simplest form. No complicated electricity or energy sources to depend on¡ªjust mechanical ingenuity, pieces that fit together in the most practical manner possible. Mechalon¡¯s mind buzzed, and it set to work. The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. First, it focused on the blade. It didn¡¯t need anything too grand. The blade would be a thin, sharp edge, something that could slice through stone like butter, but with a cube¡¯s attitude of purpose. The blade would be formed of a flat piece of scrap metal. Scrap, oh, how it loved the word. It was pure, untainted material, just waiting for a new purpose. Mechalon mentally gathered the pieces, visualizing how they would come together: an almost triangular shape for the tip, sharp but not too aggressive¡ªjust enough to initiate a cut. But it would need a cubic mechanism to press the blade against the stone. Mechalon thought through its options. A spring mechanism might be too unpredictable; a lever, too prone to wear. No, it needed gears, something that would apply an even pressure, something durable, and something that fit within its domain of simplicity. Gears would be steady and reliable¡ªperfect. Gears. The word reverberated through Mechalon¡¯s thoughts like a tuning fork. They could be created from the same scrap metal, crafted into tiny cubes that meshed together in perfect synchronicity. It could use a combination of larger and smaller gears to create a controlled rotation¡ªsmall ones to guide the motion, and large ones to provide the torque needed to keep the blade pressing into the stone with the right amount of force. The gears would have to rotate against each other in a way that pushed the blade forward, without any unnecessary movements. This meant a precise gearbox. A small, simple box made of scrap metal, hollowed out with a cubic frame. Inside the box, the gears would sit snugly, their teeth catching each other as they rotated in a fixed motion. The action of turning would cause the blade to move incrementally forward into the stone. The gears wouldn¡¯t spin continuously but instead engage in a series of small, controlled increments. Next, the mechanism needed to apply that pressure to the stone. It wouldn¡¯t be fast or wild; it would be slow and deliberate. Mechalon considered a slider mechanism for this, something it had seen in the movements of its own limbs. The Cublings¡¯ legs, with their smooth, slidable joints, were a model of efficiency. If those legs could slide so gracefully across surfaces, why not use that same concept to apply pressure to the blade? It would need a slider rail system. Each leg of the Crackline Carver would have a piece that extended outward, with a flat, sliding foot at the end. These legs, when activated, would press firmly into the stone, ensuring that the blade was in perfect alignment as it slowly scraped forward. A rail attached to the blade¡¯s backside would keep it moving forward and backward along a single path, ensuring that no errant movements veered off course. Mechalon set about gathering the necessary parts. It used the remnants of old frames, discarded slabs of metal, and a collection of smaller cubes it had hoarded for just such a moment. The pieces came together slowly, methodically. It welded the small gears in place, ensuring their teeth meshed perfectly. With each step, the puzzle clicked into place, everything aligned with its logical understanding of function. The tool had to be functional. Not flashy. Not delicate. Efficient. The blades were attached first. Flat pieces of scrap metal, lightly sharpened, then welded together into a triangular tip. Mechalon worked carefully, ensuring that each joint and seam was perfect, its welding was rudimentary but precise. Next came the slider mechanism: pieces of scrap with smooth surfaces that could easily slide against the stone without obstruction. Each slider foot was designed with a small lip, ensuring that when the gears turned, the foot would press against the stone with consistent force. The final component was the gearbox. It was small, compact, fitting neatly into the center of the machine, housing the rotating gears. Mechalon had to be particularly careful with the gears¡¯ arrangement: they needed to rotate at different speeds to ensure a smooth, controlled forward motion, pushing the blade deeper into the stone with each turn. Finally, with everything assembled, Mechalon took a step back, its faceless form scanning the completed tool. The Crackline Carver. Simple. Efficient. And, most importantly, working exactly as it needed to. The test would be in the action. Mechalon set the Carver against a section of the wall, aligning it with the stone. Then it activated the slider mechanism, moving the footpads slowly into place. The gears turned, and with a satisfying click, the blade slowly began to push into the stone. It wasn¡¯t fast. No, it wasn¡¯t meant to be. But with each gear rotation, the blade sank a little deeper, and Mechalon watched in satisfaction as the first layer of stone was scraped away. Its hidden warehouse could also double as a staging area for the resources it¡¯d need to expand outward. More than just a place to stash metal, it envisioned a secret forge space, a kind of hideaway where it could experiment with new constructs without worrying about interruptions. It imagined rows of gleaming metal blocks lined up inside, neatly organized and safe, away from prying eyes. And perhaps it could hide spare limbs and attachments here, ready to be swapped in should it need them for a particular task. Mechalon stood silently, watching as Fort, the newly upgraded Tank Cube, worked the Crackline Carver with precision. It had been a decision made with logic¡ªFort¡¯s strength far surpassed Mechalon¡¯s own when it came to turning the heavy gears. The sturdy limbs of Fort were perfect for applying the force needed to operate the Carver, turning it with ease as the machine slowly ate into the stone. Mechalon, however, remained focused on its larger, more pressing task: expansion. It wasn¡¯t the best at making the Carver work, and it knew it. Operating the gear-driven machine with its spider-like legs was cumbersome at best. Its limbs lacked the strength needed for smooth, consistent pressure on the gears, which meant the Carver would have to be operated by one of the Cublings. Fort, as it turned out, was the perfect candidate for this. It was resilient and steadfast, a natural fit for the task. Mechalon allowed it to take over the work, leaving its own efforts for later. There was more to think about, more to plan, and expansion was the first priority. Mechalon¡¯s thoughts shifted from the Carver to the bigger picture: the dungeon itself. Its mind churned through the possibilities, weighing its options with careful consideration. The corridors outside its lair¡ªthose were the starting points. The dungeon was both a maze and a trap, but Mechalon had only seen the two corridors beyond its immediate space. One of them, it assumed, led to the entrance where the goblins were, and the other most likely led towards the boss room, that dangerous unknown it had avoided. Expanding outward, that was the key. But where should it go first? It couldn¡¯t expand upwards. That was a simple fact it already knew¡ªthere had once been a skylight above its lair. A hole in the ceiling. That had been a weakness in the dungeon¡¯s design, and it made expanding upward a foolish idea. If the adventurers had seen that opening, they would have known where to go. They could have gotten in easily, and Mechalon wasn¡¯t about to make the same mistake again. Upwards was a no-go. Instead, Mechalon focused on what was beneath it¡ªoutwards and downwards. The idea of expanding downward held promise, but it would have to be handled with caution. Digging further into the underground could open up more ways to control the dungeon¡¯s environment. However, it had no way of knowing exactly what lay beneath, and it wasn¡¯t about to risk destabilizing the ground around its lair. Too many unknowns. No, downward was a possibility¡ªbut not the first option. Expanding outward made the most sense. Mechalon had already mapped out the general direction of the corridors from its previous observations, but now it could get to work on improving them, enhancing the paths for its own purposes. If it expanded outward towards the goblins¡¯ area, it would have more control over the dungeon¡¯s access points, funneling the adventurers into a more predictable path. The goblins were already an early threat for any adventurers entering, but if Mechalon could reinforce that part of the dungeon and add more layers of complexity, it would force the adventurers to be more cautious. The goblins might not be much of a threat on their own, but they provided a distraction, a buffer that could slow down the more capable adventurers. At the same time, Mechalon could be building obstacles and traps as it went. The more the adventurers wandered through this labyrinthine dungeon, the more disoriented they would become. The Cublings could serve as both minions and guardians, assisting in this task, fortifying key areas with additional layers of defense. The more it expanded outward towards the goblins, the more it could reinforce its lair, keeping it hidden and difficult to access. The adventurers might eventually stumble across it, but it wouldn¡¯t be an easy task to reach. However, that wasn¡¯t the only possible direction to take. Expanding toward the boss room could work in Mechalon¡¯s favor too. That area was already a point of interest, and it could turn that interest into a more convoluted route. The adventurers wouldn¡¯t expect a dungeon to grow around them, and if Mechalon began fortifying the way to the boss room, it could give them even more pause. It would force them to think twice before advancing too far. The expansion would need to be slow, though. Mechalon couldn¡¯t afford to rush. It needed time to design, to craft the traps, to lay down the foundations before the adventurers realized what was happening. The dungeon¡¯s layout had to change gradually, naturally, so it wouldn¡¯t draw attention too quickly. Perhaps a hidden new corridor, a false entrance to nowhere, would be a good place to start. It could slowly shift the dungeon¡¯s flow without alarming anyone too early. Scrap metal would be key to this expansion. Mechalon could build, fortify, and reconfigure with ease thanks to the endless supply of discarded materials lying all around. Metal walls, metal floors, and even metal ceilings could be molded into place, creating a new system of passageways that expanded outwards. Every time it laid down a section of new floor or wall, it could make the dungeon a little more complicated, a little harder for the adventurers to navigate. The materials could be melted and recast as needed, and it could construct hidden rooms, chambers meant to store anything important, materials or equipment it didn¡¯t want discovered. Mechalon''s mind raced through the possibilities. It could also use the Crackline Carver to dig into the stone around the area and start creating tunnels. Those tunnels could stretch out into new areas, or perhaps just serve as dead ends¡ªfalse pathways meant to mislead the adventurers into wasting time. It would be able to control the dungeon¡¯s flow, slow the adventurers down, and keep them off the trail of its lair. It felt more in control of the dungeon than ever before. It was starting to understand how the pieces fit together. The adventurers, the goblins, the dungeons, the paths¡ªit was all a puzzle, and Mechalon was learning how to manipulate it, slowly but surely. It would expand its influence, tighten its grip, and make sure that it was always a step ahead. Now the question was: How far should it go before stopping? Mechalon thought about that for a moment. Expanding too quickly might expose it too soon, but a slow, steady expansion would build the dungeon into a far more formidable place. The longer it stayed hidden, the more time it had to prepare. But time was ticking. It couldn¡¯t afford to wait forever. The adventurers would grow bolder the longer they were in the dungeon, and Mechalon knew it needed to act quickly. As it was about to gather scrap a new window appeared in front of it, the biggest one it had ever seen and it looked at it in awe for a moment before reading it. Achievement Unlocked: Dungeon Mastermind Congratulations, Mechalon. Your understanding of the dungeon''s structure has evolved. With your insightful plans to expand, fortify, and refine, you are taking significant strides toward controlling the very environment that surrounds you. As the architect of this domain, you have chosen your path¡ªslow, deliberate, and methodical. Expansion is now within your grasp, and the dungeon is yours to shape. New Objective: Begin Dungeon Expansion Additional Notes: Your plans are audacious but practical. You have identified key objectives to ensure your survival: fortifying your lair, managing the flow of adventurers, and employing your Cublings in the most efficient way possible. These steps will not only ensure your continued existence but enhance your control over the dungeon. Your success depends on your ability to execute these plans with patience and foresight. Reminder: You have limited resources, but your ingenuity will make the difference. Use them wisely. Next step: The clock is ticking. Let the expansion begin. Reward: Current Progression: 0/100 Tier 1 Reward Unlocked: Graduation! Congrats you have gained the designator: Mysterious Custodian. Much like a boss has a designator in the dungeon you too are now The Mysterious Custodian Mechalon! This comes with certain power, and responsibility. +1 Permanent bonus to all ability scores. Chapter 14: POV: Mark The road stretched like a ribbon of dusty ochre, winding its way through a landscape that alternated between sprawling grasslands and dense pockets of trees. Mark squinted at the horizon, where the late afternoon sun bathed the world in hues of gold and amber, casting long shadows that danced on the uneven terrain. A faint breeze carried with it the earthy scent of recent rain, mingling with the crispness of the open air. It was a stark contrast to the dim, metallic confines of the dungeon they had left behind, its dark corridors still haunting the edges of Mark¡¯s thoughts. The world outside the dungeon was alive in a way the underground realm could never be. Fields of wildflowers in riotous colors swayed with the breeze, their petals shimmering like jewels in the sunlight. A distant brook babbled unseen, its melody underscoring the rhythmic creak of their wagon¡¯s wheels as it rolled over the uneven trail. Around them, the plains teemed with life: small critters darted through the tall grasses, birds flitted from branch to branch, and insects buzzed lazily, their hum blending into the symphony of nature. Mark adjusted his position on the wagon¡¯s bench, wincing as the worn wood dug into his legs. His gaze wandered to his companions. Angelica sat to his left, her white cleric robes somehow pristine despite the dust, her head resting against the side of the wagon as if she might drift into one of her infamous naps at any moment. On his right, Alexander balanced his open notebook precariously on his knees, furiously scribbling notes. Every now and then, the young wizard¡¯s lips moved silently as he recalculated figures or reorganized his findings from the dungeon. Mark sighed. Alexander¡¯s obsession with data analysis was, at times, endearing, but mostly exhausting. ¡°Do you ever stop?¡± Mark asked, nudging Alexander with his elbow. ¡°Stop what?¡± Alexander didn¡¯t look up, his quill scratching away. ¡°Thinking,¡± Mark replied with a wry grin. ¡°You know, about numbers and strategies and all that. We¡¯re not in the dungeon anymore. Enjoy the fresh air for once.¡± Alexander snorted, finally glancing up. ¡°Fresh air doesn¡¯t prepare us for the next dungeon, Mark. What we saw in there, those changes, it¡¯s unprecedented. If we don¡¯t figure out what¡¯s happening, the next group might walk into something they¡¯re not prepared for. Data is how we stay alive.¡± Mark opened his mouth to argue, but Angelica stirred before he could get a word out. ¡°Will you two stop bickering?¡± she mumbled, rubbing her eyes. ¡°I was trying to get a little shut-eye before we get back to the academy. Some of us need rest to function, you know.¡± Mark chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender. ¡°Fine, fine. Don¡¯t let us disturb your beauty sleep, princess.¡± Angelica shot him a glare, but it was half-hearted at best. The wagon continued its journey, the academy looming ever closer. It was perched atop a hill in the distance, a sprawling complex of stone towers, domed halls, and terraced gardens that gleamed in the sunlight. The Academy of Orithar, as it was formally known, was both a place of learning and a fortress of sorts, standing as a testament to the region¡¯s dedication to preparing adventurers for the dangers of the world. Beyond its gates lay a bustling city where cobblestone streets wove between shops, taverns, and homes, all teeming with life. Merchants shouted their wares, children darted through alleyways, and the clang of a blacksmith¡¯s hammer rang out in steady rhythm. The academy itself, however, was a world apart. Its high walls enclosed an environment of discipline and rigor, where students trained tirelessly to earn their place in the adventurer¡¯s guild. But for all its rules and structure, the academy was not immune to the vibrant chaos of the city. Street performers often gathered outside its gates, hoping to entertain and earn a few coins from students, while shopkeepers set up stalls offering enchanted trinkets, potions, and rare artifacts. Mark¡¯s thoughts turned inward as the wagon crested the final hill before the academy. The sight of the familiar towers should have brought him comfort, but instead, it stirred unease. The dungeon they had just left was supposed to be a training ground, a controlled environment where novices could cut their teeth without real danger. Yet, the changes they had witnessed, Mechalon¡¯s strange creations, the unnerving energy shifts, and the eerie perfection of that cube statue, suggested something deeper was at play. But who would believe them? As the wagon trundled past the academy gates, Mark exchanged a glance with Angelica and Alexander. They hadn¡¯t discussed what to tell their instructors about the dungeon, but the unspoken consensus was clear: they wouldn¡¯t say much. Not yet. Students voicing concerns about dungeon anomalies weren¡¯t likely to be taken seriously, especially when those anomalies sounded more like the ramblings of overactive imaginations. ¡°Let¡¯s just drop off the report,¡± Mark said as they disembarked from the wagon. ¡°Stick to the basics. No point in getting laughed out of the hall.¡± Angelica nodded, her usual levity replaced by a rare seriousness. ¡°Agreed. They¡¯d just brush it off as paranoia. We can keep an eye on things ourselves.¡± Alexander hesitated, his gaze lingering on the notebook in his hands. ¡°But what if, ¡± ¡°They won¡¯t listen,¡± Mark cut him off. ¡°Not unless we have proof. Solid, undeniable proof. And right now, all we¡¯ve got is a gut feeling and some unusual loot.¡± With that, the trio made their way through the academy¡¯s bustling courtyard. Students of all levels milled about, some sparring with practice weapons, others engrossed in study. A group of seniors in gleaming armor laughed boisterously as they recounted tales of their latest dungeon raid, their confidence a stark contrast to the unease simmering in Mark¡¯s chest. The administrative hall loomed ahead, a grand building with arched entrances and stained-glass windows depicting legendary adventurers of old. Inside, the air was cooler, the stone walls adorned with banners representing the academy¡¯s various disciplines: combat, magic, support, and exploration. Mark approached the desk where an attendant sat, her quill poised over a ledger. Without looking up, she asked, ¡°Name and report?¡± ¡°Mark Halston, Angelica Maren, Alexander Fenn,¡± Mark replied. ¡°Routine training dungeon expedition. No significant incidents to report.¡± The attendant hummed, jotting down their names before motioning toward a stack of blank forms. ¡°Fill these out. One for each of you. Leave them in the box when you¡¯re done.¡± Mark nodded, grabbing a form. As he filled in the details, he kept his account deliberately vague, focusing on the standard hazards and loot. No mention of the statue, the Cubic Cutter, or the unsettling changes. Once they had completed the paperwork, the trio left the hall in silence. The weight of unspoken truths hung heavy between them, but they didn¡¯t dare voice them here. Instead, they headed for the student quarters, where the familiar sights and sounds of academy life began to chip away at their tension. The dormitories were modest but comfortable, each room shared by two students. Mark¡¯s roommate, a boisterous warrior-in-training named Gavin, was sprawled across his bed when Mark entered. ¡°Back already?¡± Gavin called out, sitting up with a grin. ¡°How¡¯d it go? Slay any dragons? Find any treasure?¡± Mark forced a chuckle, dropping his gear onto his own bed. ¡°No dragons, just the usual. A few scraps of loot. Nothing to write home about.¡± Gavin laughed. ¡°You¡¯ll get there, mate. One day, you¡¯ll come back with a story worth telling.¡± Mark managed a smile, but his thoughts were elsewhere. As Gavin launched into a tale of his own recent exploits, Mark found himself replaying the events of the dungeon in his mind. He couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that they had stumbled onto something far bigger than a simple training exercise. Mark shifted uncomfortably on the edge of his bed, Gavin¡¯s voice droning on in the background about some exaggerated adventure involving a chimera and a ¡°heroic leap¡± that apparently saved half his party. The details of Gavin¡¯s tall tale blurred together, his enthusiasm as bright as a roaring hearth, but Mark¡¯s thoughts were elsewhere, swirling around the peculiarities of the dungeon. What they had encountered wasn¡¯t normal. Dungeons didn¡¯t just change like that, not dead ones, anyway. The academy had only one training dungeon within a hundred leagues, and even calling it ¡°properous¡± felt like stretching the truth. It existed more out of necessity than opportunity. The other dungeons in the area were small, weak, and often too unstable to be useful, their cores long since diminished. Yet this one training dungeon had managed to linger, steadily maintained by a minimal flow of energy provided by the academy¡¯s mages. But while it held up well enough for early-stage adventurers, it wasn¡¯t anything to write home about. Its creatures were basic constructs or weak imitations of real monsters. Its rewards were simple: bits of salvageable material, low-grade weapons, and the occasional potion. And for most students, it was enough. A place to cut their teeth, learn the basics, and prepare for greater challenges in far-off lands. That was the pattern, Mark realized. The academy trained adventurers, but the best of them didn¡¯t stay here. They moved on to better, grander opportunities in more prosperous regions. The handful who remained were often tied to local obligations or personal reasons, but the adventurer¡¯s guild here was a stepping stone, not a destination. For Mark, that used to be a comforting thought, knowing his time here was just the beginning. Now, though, the idea that the dungeon was nothing more than a stepping stone felt... wrong. Mark barely noticed when Gavin¡¯s story tapered off, the young warrior flopping back onto his bed with a self-satisfied grin. It wasn¡¯t until Gavin tossed a stray pillow at him that Mark blinked, snapping back to the present. ¡°You okay, mate? You look like you¡¯ve seen a ghost,¡± Gavin said, propping himself up on one elbow. ¡°Come on, what¡¯s eating you? I told my story, your turn. Let¡¯s hear about your big adventure!¡± Mark forced a grin, shaking his head. ¡°Nothing exciting, I promise. Just the same old training grind.¡± Gavin groaned. ¡°You¡¯re no fun. At least make something up! Say you fought off a swarm of goblins or found a secret treasure vault. Give me something to work with!¡± Mark laughed weakly, but his thoughts remained heavy. Soon enough, they¡¯d be heading to their next class. A subject Mark had been waiting for ever since his first dungeon run: dead dungeons. He rolled the phrase over in his mind as he gathered his things. Dead dungeons were supposed to be the safest, most predictable environments for adventurers. Once the dungeon core was destroyed, or the Dungeon Master slain, the energy that sustained the dungeon¡¯s ecosystem would dwindle, reducing it to a shadow of its former self. Over time, these dungeons would degrade into ruins, their walls crumbling, their traps malfunctioning, and their creatures becoming fewer and weaker.If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. The dungeon they¡¯d just left fit that description perfectly. Until it didn¡¯t. Mark planned on asking a question in class, one that had been gnawing at him since they stepped out of the dungeon: Can dead dungeons ever come back to life? He¡¯d read about it once in a dusty tome in the academy library. There was only one example recorded in history, a story as rare as tales of resurrecting the dead. In that case, a dungeon that had been lifeless for decades suddenly sprang back into activity. But it hadn¡¯t just reactivated, it had transformed, its ecosystem mutating into something darker, more dangerous. The cause? A rogue cultist had taken the place of the slain Dungeon Master, pouring their own corrupted energy into the core. The story was vague, bordering on myth, but the implications were clear: for a dead dungeon to return to life, something, or someone, had to step into the Dungeon Master¡¯s role. Mark frowned as he pulled on his boots, the thought chilling him. A cultist, an anomaly, had been enough to reanimate a dead dungeon centuries ago. But that kind of occurrence was so rare, it was practically unheard of. The odds of it happening again, especially in such a small, insignificant dungeon, seemed impossibly slim. Didn¡¯t it?
The classroom was a sprawling lecture hall, its stone walls lined with banners representing the academy¡¯s major disciplines. Students filled the rows of wooden benches, their chatter buzzing through the air as they waited for the lecture to begin. Mark, Angelica, and Alexander sat near the middle, their usual spot offering a good balance between visibility and anonymity. The professor entered with a brisk stride, her robes billowing behind her. Lady Renalith was a stern woman with sharp features and a voice that carried authority. Her lectures on dungeon theory were known to be both challenging and fascinating, blending dry facts with tales of her own experiences as a seasoned adventurer. ¡°Settle down,¡± she called, her voice cutting through the noise. The room quieted almost immediately. ¡°Today,¡± she began, ¡°we¡¯ll be discussing a topic that many of you will encounter throughout your careers: dead dungeons.¡± Mark leaned forward in his seat, his focus sharpening. ¡°As most of you know,¡± Lady Renalith continued, pacing the front of the room, ¡°a dead dungeon is one whose core has been destroyed or whose Dungeon Master has been killed. These dungeons no longer generate new creatures or traps and gradually decay over time. They are, for lack of a better term, defunct.¡± She paused, letting the weight of the word settle over the room. ¡°However,¡± she added, her tone shifting slightly, ¡°there are rare exceptions to this rule.¡± Mark¡¯s pulse quickened. ¡°In recorded history, there have been instances, albeit very few, where a dead dungeon reactivated. These cases are exceedingly rare, often dismissed as folklore, but they do raise intriguing questions about the nature of dungeon ecosystems and the energies that sustain them.¡± Lady Renalith gestured toward a chalkboard, where an intricate diagram of a dungeon core appeared with a flick of her wand. ¡°In the most well-documented case, a cultist replaced the slain Dungeon Master, injecting their own energy into the dormant core. This act not only revived the dungeon but also transformed its ecosystem, creating an environment far more hostile and unpredictable than its original state.¡± The room buzzed with murmurs, students exchanging excited whispers. Mark hesitated, then raised his hand. Lady Renalith¡¯s gaze fell on him. ¡°Yes, Mr. Halston?¡± Mark swallowed, his voice steady despite the weight of his question. ¡°Is it possible for a dead dungeon to reactivate on its own? Without external interference, I mean?¡± The professor considered him for a moment, her expression unreadable. ¡°In theory, no,¡± she replied. ¡°A dead dungeon lacks the energy required to sustain itself. For reactivation to occur, an external force must introduce new energy, be it a person, an artifact, or a similar anomaly. Without such interference, a dead dungeon should remain dormant until it crumbles into ruin.¡± Mark nodded, but the professor¡¯s answer only deepened his unease. What they had witnessed in the dungeon didn¡¯t fit any of those criteria. Yet something was undeniably happening there. Lady Renalith continued the lecture, delving into the mechanics of dungeon degradation and the ways adventurers could safely navigate such environments. But Mark¡¯s mind was elsewhere, turning over the pieces of a puzzle he couldn¡¯t yet solve.
After class, Mark lingered in the corridor with Angelica and Alexander, the weight of unspoken questions hanging between them. ¡°You think she¡¯s wrong?¡± Angelica asked quietly. Mark shook his head. ¡°No. But I don¡¯t think she has all the answers, either. Something¡¯s happening in that dungeon, and we¡¯re not going to figure it out by staying here.¡± Alexander frowned, clutching his notebook. ¡°If we¡¯re going back, we need to be careful. Whatever¡¯s causing these changes... it¡¯s not normal.¡± Mark nodded. ¡°Agreed. But I can¡¯t shake the feeling that if we wait too long, we¡¯ll lose the chance to figure it out.¡± The day stretched on, its hours heavy with the weight of Mark¡¯s thoughts. He walked alongside Alexander and Angelica through the bustling academy grounds, the energy of the campus filling the air. Students exchanged lively greetings, and the chatter of magic experiments and training duels echoed from every corner. Despite the noise, Mark¡¯s mind was far from the academic bustle. His thoughts were still on the dungeon, on what they had discovered and what it could mean. ¡°I¡¯ll be heading to the library,¡± Alexander said, breaking Mark from his reverie. He adjusted the stack of notes in his hands, eyes alight with a familiar, excited gleam. ¡°There¡¯s so much more to uncover, Mark. I can feel it. The way the dungeon changed¡­ it¡¯s not natural. If I can get my hands on more records, maybe there¡¯s something we missed, some anomaly that could explain it.¡± Mark gave a half-hearted nod, his attention elsewhere. ¡°Yeah, sure. Do what you need to do.¡± ¡°You should come,¡± Alexander pressed, the excitement in his voice only growing. ¡°There¡¯s bound to be something, ¡± Mark raised a hand to cut him off. ¡°I just¡­ I need some air. I¡¯m going to head to my next class. Maybe I¡¯ll meet you at the library later, alright?¡± Alexander opened his mouth as though to argue, but then seemed to reconsider. With a sigh, he shrugged. ¡°Fine. But don¡¯t ignore this. We need to be prepared for anything.¡± He turned toward the nearest path leading to the library, his mind already elsewhere. Mark watched his friend go for a moment before letting his gaze wander across the courtyard. He had always admired Alexander¡¯s passion for the unknown, but right now, it felt like Mark needed something different. The weight of the day¡¯s questions, the unsettling change in the dungeon, and the unshakable feeling that something bigger was at play, it was too much for him to keep in his head all at once. ¡°I¡¯ll catch up with you later,¡± Mark muttered to Angelica, who was looking at him with a thoughtful expression. Angelica nodded, her voice soft. ¡°Take your time, Mark. It¡¯s a lot to process.¡± He gave her a small smile before turning toward his next class, the rhythmic steps of his boots echoing against the cobblestone path as he walked toward the lecture hall. The warm afternoon sun still hung in the sky, but the freshness of the breeze did little to clear the fog in his mind.
The first class of the day had already passed in a blur, and now, as Mark entered the lecture hall for the second, the oppressive weight of uncertainty still clung to him. This class was the one that might shed more light on the nature of dungeons, and more importantly, why they couldn''t simply be eradicated, even when labeled ¡°dead.¡± The classroom was packed with students seated on the wooden benches, their chatter dying down as Lady Renalith entered. Her usual sharp, confident demeanor had shifted slightly, giving off an air of authority that made the room fall into a respectful silence. She stood before the class, her chalky wand poised in her hand, ready to write on the board. ¡°Dungeons, as you know, are strange entities,¡± she began, her voice steady. ¡°We¡¯ve discussed the basics of how they function, how their ecosystems form around the Dungeon Core, and how a Dungeon Master plays a role in shaping that world. But now we must turn our attention to the more... delicate subject. Why, when a dungeon is deemed dead, do we still treat it as a potential threat? Why can¡¯t we simply destroy a dungeon entirely?¡± She paused, letting the question hang in the air. ¡°We are told, time and again, that a dungeon is ¡®dead¡¯ once its core is damaged beyond repair, that it is no longer a threat. In truth, that¡¯s only half the story,¡± Lady Renalith continued. ¡°A dead dungeon is not a dungeon that¡¯s been entirely destroyed. A dungeon core, once damaged, can no longer regenerate the dungeon''s ecosystem. But a dungeon isn¡¯t truly dead unless it has been systematically wiped clean of all life, its creatures eliminated, its very essence erased.¡± Lady Renalith turned to the board, and with a wave of her wand, a diagram appeared, depicting a dungeon core surrounded by a cluster of creatures and labyrinthine hallways. She circled the core with a single line and began to annotate it. ¡°Let¡¯s define it this way,¡± she said, ¡°A dungeon that has merely suffered damage to its core, that has no Dungeon Master to sustain it, is often referred to as a ¡®dead dungeon.¡¯ These dungeons are still held in a state of suspended animation, they¡¯re not truly dead. They simply lack the regenerating force that keeps them functional. For a dungeon to be destroyed completely, someone, or something, must destroy the core, yes, but they must also cleanse the entire dungeon.¡± The words on the board flickered to life as Lady Renalith spoke, emphasizing the idea. Cleansing the Dungeon was underlined with a second, bold phrase. ¡°Cleansing means eradicating every living creature inside. Every trap, every insect, every creature born from the dungeon¡¯s energy. This process ensures that the dungeon no longer has a foundation from which to regenerate. It is an immense task, requiring not only great strength but also precision. This is why such actions are rarely undertaken. Destroying a dungeon is not just about killing the core, it¡¯s about wiping out every element of life within it, a task that demands both power and resources.¡± Mark leaned forward, intrigued despite himself. It was a side of dungeons he hadn¡¯t considered before, the effort required to utterly erase them. He hadn¡¯t known that cleansing a dungeon meant systematically annihilating each creature inside. The thought was almost unnerving. Lady Renalith seemed to sense the tension in the room as she shifted the lesson into a more practical direction. ¡°Smaller nations, or those near the Kingdom¡¯s borders, sometimes resort to castrating dungeons. This means destroying the Dungeon Core to reduce the dungeon''s ability to create more powerful monsters, but without eliminating the core completely. Castration is used to regulate the monsters within the dungeon, ensuring they don''t grow too powerful, which could threaten the stability of the surrounding area.¡± She glanced around the room, making eye contact with a few students who looked confused. ¡°This is a form of control,¡± she explained. ¡°When a dungeon is castrated, it weakens the monsters inside, preventing them from evolving into serious threats. It¡¯s a method often employed by smaller nations, those who can¡¯t afford to send adventurers into dungeons every time a new threat emerges. Instead, they target the core, rendering it incapable of further creating stronger monsters. The dungeon continues to exist but without the risk of growing too powerful.¡± Mark thought back to the dungeon they had just left. Could something like that be the case with what they had seen? Could the damage done to the core actually be a deliberate effort to control the strength of its inhabitants? He wondered if that could explain the strange happenings, if someone was, perhaps, trying to control the dungeon¡¯s potential for some greater purpose. Lady Renalith¡¯s voice cut through his thoughts. ¡°But what you need to understand, class, is that destroying a dungeon completely, completely eliminating all life within it, is a national offense.¡± There was a heavy pause, and Mark caught his breath. Lady Renalith''s words hung in the air like the edge of a blade. ¡°The Kingdom¡¯s dungeons are integral to the balance of power in the region. They aren¡¯t just breeding grounds for monsters. They are sources of vital resources. Forcing a dungeon into complete destruction would disrupt the ecosystem, and without a Dungeon Master to manage the energies, the dungeon could destabilize entirely. This could cause the dungeon to collapse, spreading chaos throughout the surrounding land, creating dangerous anomalies, and even causing widespread magical disasters.¡± She leaned forward slightly, her voice lowering with gravity. ¡°This is why it is illegal to harm the national core of a dungeon under the Kingdom¡¯s jurisdiction, especially near a castle or vital city. The consequences of tampering with a dungeon¡¯s core are severe, not just for the region but for the kingdom as a whole.¡± Mark¡¯s stomach twisted. The implications of what Lady Renalith was saying seemed to resonate with something in the back of his mind. If something, or someone, was messing with the dungeon core, tampering with it for reasons beyond simply ¡°killing¡± it... the consequences could be disastrous. ¡°And,¡± Lady Renalith concluded, ¡°although many dungeons are considered ¡®dead,¡¯ the fact remains that their cores still exist, and mages from the academy are constantly maintaining a flow of mana into these dungeons to ensure they continue functioning. Without this constant supply, dungeons would cease to exist in any functional way. Their traps, their monsters, their very energy would collapse into nothingness. This is why ¡®dead dungeons¡¯ often remain under our control, even if the core is damaged.¡± Mark thought about things, frowning noticing that things seemed to fit into place a bit easily each subject notating things that crossed his mind pulling up his system he noted something was different, he had a title that came with a buff: Title Gained: The Witness: Become the main witness to something that is going to change the world as people know it. +5 to luck "Great, that isn''t ominous.." Mark sighed as the class finished. Chapter 15 POV: Mark The late afternoon sun slanted through the high, arched windows of the lecture hall, its golden rays mingling with the faint scent of parchment and ink. Mark settled into his seat, his thoughts still muddled from the earlier class. The concept of dungeons as semi-living entities, ones that required systematic destruction to be truly eradicated, lingered in his mind like a half-remembered dream. But for now, he forced himself to focus. The third and final lesson of the day was the one he¡¯d been most curious about, a class on the System. Mark leaned back against the worn wood of the bench, his gaze wandering over the familiar sight of students filling the room. The air was thick with anticipation; even the students who normally treated classes as background noise were paying attention. Lessons about the System weren¡¯t just about theory, they were personal, touching the very core of how adventurers operated in the world. The System was the foundation of their society, the invisible hand that guided every adventurer''s path, whether they acknowledged it or not. Mark himself had spent countless hours pondering its influence, wondering why it assigned some quests and rewards over others. Why it sometimes seemed to push people toward one goal and not another. Professor Veyl entered the room, her presence commanding immediate attention. A thin woman with sharp eyes and graying hair tied neatly into a bun, she carried herself with the authority of someone who had spent decades unraveling the mysteries of the world. The hush that fell over the room as she reached the podium was almost reverent. ¡°Good afternoon, class,¡± Professor Veyl began, her voice smooth yet firm. ¡°Today, we delve into a subject that shapes every facet of our lives, whether we are adventurers, merchants, or farmers: the System.¡± She paused, letting the weight of her words settle. ¡°The System,¡± she continued, ¡°is a mysterious entity. It has no face, no voice, no physical presence. And yet, it is woven into the fabric of our world, influencing everything from individual quests to the fate of entire kingdoms. It rewards us, guides us, challenges us, but it never forces us.¡± Mark shifted in his seat, already engrossed. ¡°For centuries, scholars have debated the origin of the System,¡± Professor Veyl said, pacing slowly. ¡°Is it divine? Is it some ancient construct, left behind by a civilization long forgotten? Or is it simply an inherent part of the world, like the tides or the wind? The truth is, we don¡¯t know. But what we do know is how it operates, or, at least, how it appears to operate.¡± She waved a hand, and the chalkboard behind her lit up with glowing words: The System¡¯s Known Functions
  1. Rewards and Incentives
  2. Quests and Guidance
  3. Growth and Progression
¡°Let¡¯s start with rewards,¡± she said, pointing to the first line. ¡°The System rewards individuals for achieving certain goals. These rewards can be material, gold, weapons, potions, or they can be intangible, such as experience points, skill advancements, or attribute boosts. But here¡¯s the critical part: the System¡¯s rewards are not random. They are designed to push you toward a particular path, one it has seemingly chosen for you.¡± The room buzzed with murmurs, but Professor Veyl held up a hand to silence them. ¡°Think about it,¡± she said. ¡°When you complete a quest, why are you rewarded in one way and not another? Why does the System grant you a weapon instead of gold? Or a boost to Strength instead of Wisdom? It¡¯s because the System has analyzed your potential, your tendencies, and your actions, and it is guiding you toward a purpose.¡± Mark frowned. The idea that the System had a plan for him, one it had decided long before he could understand it, was both fascinating and unsettling. He thought back to the training dungeon, to the strange rewards they had encountered. The Cubic Cutter, for instance, had been crafted by that unusual golem, but the System had clearly integrated it into their progress. Was the System pushing them toward something greater? ¡°Of course,¡± Professor Veyl continued, ¡°the System does not force you to follow its guidance. The rewards are incentives, not commands. If you choose to ignore a reward or take a path that deviates from its apparent plan, the System does not punish you. It simply adjusts, offering new quests and rewards based on your choices.¡± She paused, her gaze sweeping the room. ¡°This is why the defense of ¡®The System made me do it¡¯ never holds up in court. The System cannot make you do anything. It can guide, reward, and incentivize, but it cannot compel.¡± The chalkboard shifted, the second line, Quests and Guidance, glowing softly. ¡°Now, let¡¯s talk about quests,¡± Professor Veyl said. ¡°The System assigns quests to individuals based on their skills, their needs, and, yes, their potential. These quests are designed to challenge you, to push you beyond your limits, and to prepare you for the next stage of your journey.¡± She gestured toward the board, where examples of typical quests appeared: ¡°But here¡¯s something every adventurer must remember,¡± she said, her tone growing serious. ¡°The System will never assign you a quest that will harm your own race or your people in the long run. If you ever receive a quest that seems to violate this rule, such as ¡®Hunt down the king¡¯ or ¡®Murder everyone in town¡¯, you are not dealing with the System. You are dealing with an illusion, likely created by a demon or a criminal with ill intent.¡± The room fell silent, the weight of her words settling heavily over the students. ¡°If you ever encounter such a quest,¡± Professor Veyl continued, ¡°you must report it to the nearest church immediately. The clergy are trained to identify and dispel these illusions, and failing to act could result in disastrous consequences.¡± Mark nodded to himself. It was a lesson every adventurer knew by heart, but hearing it again now, in the context of everything he¡¯d learned today, gave it new weight. ¡°Finally,¡± Professor Veyl said, gesturing to the third line on the board, ¡°we come to growth and progression. The System¡¯s ultimate goal, as far as we can tell, is to help individuals grow. It rewards effort, perseverance, and ingenuity, encouraging you to become stronger, wiser, and more capable. But it also offers hints, subtle nudges toward a purpose it has deemed for you, even if you can¡¯t yet see it.¡± Mark thought back to the dungeon once more. The quests they¡¯d encountered there had seemed so ordinary at first glance, but now he wondered: were they hints? Was the System guiding him toward something he couldn¡¯t yet comprehend? ¡°The purpose of the System is a mystery,¡± Professor Veyl concluded, her voice softening. ¡°But one thing is clear: it is not random. Everything it does is calculated, intentional. And whether you choose to follow its guidance or forge your own path, the System will adapt. It is not our master, but our guide. And it is up to each of us to decide where that guidance will take us.¡± Professor Veyl¡¯s sharp eyes scanned the room, pausing briefly on individual students as if weighing the weight of their thoughts. She flicked her wand again, and the chalkboard shifted, its glowing letters reforming into a single line: The System¡¯s Neutrality: Myth or Truth? Her voice softened but lost none of its authority. ¡°There is a question that has plagued scholars for centuries: does the System serve humanity? The answer, as best we can determine, is no.¡± The murmurs in the room died down instantly. Even those who typically slouched in their seats leaned forward, rapt. ¡°The System,¡± she continued, pacing slowly, ¡°does not exist solely for human benefit, or even for the benefit of any single race. It appears to be impartial, operating according to its own enigmatic agenda. And sometimes, that agenda is... indifferent to the suffering of thousands, perhaps millions, if it means achieving what the System deems necessary.¡± She stopped in the center of the room, her piercing gaze sweeping the sea of students. ¡°Take the Demon Lords, for example,¡± she said. The air seemed to grow heavier at the mention of those accursed figures. ¡°Throughout history, we have captured a few of these monsters alive, and each time, we¡¯ve learned something fascinating. Even they, creatures of chaos and destruction, possess the System. And like us, they are rewarded, guided, and tested. In fact, every Demon Lord we¡¯ve studied has claimed that they received a quest from the System that led them down the path to becoming what they are.¡± A ripple of shock passed through the room. Mark felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. The System created Demon Lords? Professor Veyl raised a hand, silencing the whispers. ¡°Before you let your imaginations run wild, let me make one thing clear. The System is not evil. It is not good. It simply... is. It operates on principles that we barely understand, selecting individuals and guiding them toward outcomes that align with its goals. And those goals are not always clear, or kind.¡± Her wand flicked, and another example illuminated the board: The Chosen Ones. ¡°Then there are the so-called ¡®Chosen Ones,¡¯¡± she said, her tone tinged with both reverence and skepticism. ¡°Throughout history, the System has singled out individuals, granting them quests, rewards, and opportunities far beyond what most people will ever experience. These individuals are often marked by extraordinary circumstances: rising from obscurity to achieve greatness, toppling tyrants, or bringing about monumental change.¡± She let the statement hang in the air before continuing. ¡°But here¡¯s the part most people don¡¯t talk about: not all Chosen Ones are heroes. Some have left behind legacies of blood and terror. Serial killers, for instance, who spread from city to city, leaving carnage in their wake. These might seem like anomalies, contradictions to the idea that the System seeks to improve our world. But upon closer examination, their stories often reveal a grim logic.¡± Professor Veyl waved her wand, and a name appeared on the board: Isen Kraith.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. ¡°Take Isen Kraith,¡± she said, her voice quieter now, as if speaking the name could summon him back from history. ¡°A man who slaughtered over a hundred nobles during his bloody campaign through the western provinces. His actions were monstrous, by any measure. But when we look at his victims, a pattern emerges. These nobles were the heads of families who had bribed officials, committed atrocities, and oppressed the people under their rule. Their crimes went unpunished for decades, festering in the shadows. The System must have deemed these injustices so severe, so damaging to the integrity of society, that it created a Chosen One to root them out.¡± Mark felt his stomach churn. The idea that the System could justify such horrors, it was as chilling as it was compelling. ¡°This brings us,¡± Professor Veyl said, her voice firmer now, ¡°to the motto of the Knights of the Kingdom: ¡®Weeds spring from uncropped roots.¡¯¡± The words glowed on the board as she spoke them. ¡°This motto reflects the hard truth that if corruption and injustice are allowed to fester, they will inspire the System to create something, or someone, to cut those roots for you. And it will not care how many lives are lost in the process. The System seeks balance. If you tip the scales too far, it will tip them back.¡± She paused, her gaze settling on a particularly rowdy group of students near the back of the hall. ¡°Of course, this is not foolproof. Many Chosen Ones decide to forgo their mission entirely. Some reject their quests out of fear, doubt, or a belief that vengeance is not the best course. The System does not force anyone to act, it merely presents the path.¡± Professor Veyl¡¯s eyes swept across the room, her gaze as sharp as a blade. ¡°And that is why the System¡¯s neutrality is so dangerous. It takes no sides but its own, and its motives are as opaque as they are inexorable. The System will not save us. It will not destroy us. It simply moves.¡± She stepped back from the board, letting her words settle over the room like a shroud. Mark stared at the glowing phrases on the chalkboard, his mind racing. He thought about the strange rewards they had encountered in the dungeon. The Cubic Cutter. The shifts in the dungeon¡¯s ecosystem. Could the System be moving here, too, in its silent, inscrutable way? If so, what was it trying to achieve? Mark hesitated as he raised his hand, his mind buzzing with curiosity. The lecture had been riveting, unraveling layers of the System that most people never stopped to question. But there was one thought nagging at him, something that hadn¡¯t been addressed, and he couldn¡¯t let it go. As his hand rose, the atmosphere in the room shifted. A ripple of tension spread among his peers. Heads turned toward him, and more than a few eyes narrowed into glares. The unspoken accusation was clear: Don¡¯t you dare ask if she forgot to assign homework. Mark almost laughed at the absurdity of their reactions, but he shook his head and pushed through the moment. He wasn¡¯t asking about homework. Professor Veyl paused, her sharp eyes locking onto him. ¡°Yes, Mr. Halston?¡± Mark cleared his throat, his voice steady but laced with genuine curiosity. ¡°The dungeons... do they receive quests? Aren¡¯t they just... a quest in themselves? A goal to raise in power?¡± The class went silent, the air thick with anticipation. A few students exchanged puzzled glances, clearly intrigued but unsure where the question was going. Professor Veyl¡¯s expression didn¡¯t waver, but a glint of interest sparked in her eyes. She leaned against the edge of her desk, her hands clasped before her. ¡°That,¡± she said slowly, ¡°is an excellent question.¡± Mark felt a small surge of relief. At least she wasn¡¯t dismissing it outright. ¡°Let me start by addressing the core of your question: Are dungeons merely a quest for adventurers, or do they have a purpose of their own?¡± She paused, letting the weight of her words settle. ¡°The answer, as strange as it may sound, is yes, dungeons do receive quests.¡± The room filled with faint murmurs of surprise, but Professor Veyl raised a hand, silencing them. ¡°Now, before you let your imaginations run wild, let me clarify. Dungeons are not sentient in the way we typically define sentience. They do not think, feel, or act with independent will. However, the System recognizes dungeons as entities that serve a purpose within its grand design. And like all entities within the System¡¯s purview, they are guided.¡± She waved her wand, and the chalkboard filled with intricate diagrams of a dungeon¡¯s ecosystem: the core, the creatures, the traps, the energy flows. ¡°Dungeons are not alive in the conventional sense, but they are self-regulating systems, almost like a living organism. The core acts as the heart, pumping energy throughout the dungeon, creating creatures, and maintaining traps. And just like adventurers, dungeons can grow stronger over time. This growth, we have discovered, is influenced by quests assigned to the dungeon itself.¡± Mark leaned forward, captivated. ¡°But how do we know that?¡± Professor Veyl smiled faintly, as if she had been waiting for someone to ask. ¡°That knowledge comes from the mages who maintain dungeons, particularly those responsible for supplying mana to damaged or castrated cores.¡± She tapped the chalkboard, and the diagram shifted to focus on the core itself. ¡°When mages channel mana into a dungeon core, they form a temporary connection with the dungeon¡¯s energy network. This connection is primarily used to stabilize the core, ensuring it doesn¡¯t collapse or overload. But through this connection, some mages have reported... impressions.¡± ¡°Impressions?¡± Mark echoed. ¡°Yes,¡± Professor Veyl said. ¡°Impressions of intent, of direction. These mages describe it as a faint pull, like a whisper in the back of their minds. It¡¯s not speech, it¡¯s more like a sensation, an awareness of the core¡¯s ¡®desire¡¯ to grow, to expand, to overcome challenges. Over time, researchers began to realize that these impressions align closely with the concept of quests.¡± She pointed to the board again, where a list of examples appeared: Dungeon Quests (as observed by mage researchers): ¡°These ¡®quests,¡¯ as we have come to understand them, are not assigned in the same way as they are to adventurers,¡± Professor Veyl explained. ¡°They are not presented as explicit instructions. Instead, they manifest as a kind of drive, a force that compels the dungeon to act in certain ways. For example, if a dungeon is damaged, the System may guide it to prioritize creating stronger creatures to defend itself. If resources in the area are scarce, the System might push the dungeon to expand its boundaries to secure new materials.¡± She paused, her gaze sweeping the room. ¡°This is why dungeons often seem to evolve intelligently, even though they lack true sentience. Their growth is shaped by these subtle directives, these ¡®quests,¡¯ which the System uses to guide them toward its own purposes.¡± Mark frowned, his curiosity only growing. ¡°But if the System assigns quests to dungeons, doesn¡¯t that mean it wants them to grow stronger? Isn¡¯t that dangerous for... well, everyone?¡± Professor Veyl nodded, her expression serious. ¡°It can be dangerous, yes. But remember what we discussed earlier: the System is not aligned with human interests. It is impartial, pursuing goals that we do not fully understand. Dungeons serve a purpose within the System¡¯s design, just as adventurers do. They are not inherently good or evil, they simply exist.¡± She gestured to the board again, where a final point appeared: Dungeons as Tests and Catalysts. ¡°Some scholars believe that dungeons are created as tests, trials designed to challenge individuals and groups, to push them to their limits. Others theorize that dungeons serve as catalysts for change, forcing societies to adapt, innovate, and grow in response to the threats they pose.¡± Her gaze lingered on Mark for a moment, as if sensing the deeper questions swirling in his mind. ¡°So, to answer your question,¡± she said, ¡°yes, dungeons receive quests. They are not just obstacles for adventurers to overcome, they are entities with roles to play in the System¡¯s design. And while their actions may seem random or hostile, they are ultimately guided by the same forces that guide us all.¡± The room fell silent, the weight of her explanation settling over the students. Mark sat back in his seat, his mind racing. The idea that dungeons were guided by the System, just like adventurers, added another layer of complexity to everything he thought he knew. And if the System was pushing dungeons toward growth and power, what did that mean for the strange changes they had witnessed in the training dungeon? Before he could dwell further, the bell rang, breaking the spell of the lecture. Students began to gather their things, their conversations a mix of awe and speculation. But Mark remained seated, his thoughts spinning with new questions. As the bell''s echoes faded, Professor Veyl raised a hand, silencing the growing buzz of students eager to leave. "Before you go," she said, her sharp tone cutting through the noise, "your assignment for the week." The collective groan was almost immediate. Mark could see students slumping in their seats or rolling their eyes. He remained still, listening intently. ¡°You will be conducting a personal study into the complexities of the System and its guidance in your life,¡± Professor Veyl continued, unfazed by their reaction. ¡°I want you to think critically about the System¡¯s influence. What do you believe it is guiding you to achieve? Reflect on your past quests, your rewards, and the skills or attributes the System has chosen to enhance. Write down your hypothesis about what the System is shaping you to become.¡± She tapped the chalkboard with her wand, and the instructions glowed in bold letters: Homework Assignment:
  1. Analyze your personal quest history and rewards.
  2. Develop a hypothesis about what the System is guiding you to become.
  3. Gain at least one level to test your hypothesis and record your findings.
Gasps rippled through the room. A few students whispered nervously, clearly apprehensive about the idea of being forced to gain a level as part of their studies. ¡°And yes,¡± Professor Veyl added, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth, ¡°you heard that correctly. You are to gain a level. After all, this class is not merely theoretical. To understand the System, you must experience its workings firsthand. And for that, you must grow.¡± Mark shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The idea of leveling up, something he¡¯d done countless times before, suddenly felt heavier, more daunting. ¡°As always,¡± the professor continued, ¡°safety is paramount. You may team up with others if necessary, and you are free to choose any quest or task that fits your capabilities. But you must gain a level, and you must submit your findings in a detailed report by the end of the week.¡± The lecture hall erupted into hushed conversation as students exchanged ideas, some already planning their next moves. But Mark didn¡¯t join in. He stared at the glowing instructions on the chalkboard, his thoughts a tangled mess. As he gathered his things and stepped out into the corridor, Mark couldn¡¯t shake the feeling of unease settling over him like a dark cloud. The homework itself wasn¡¯t the problem, he¡¯d leveled up plenty of times before. But this time, it was different. This time, it meant going back into the dungeon. And the dungeon didn¡¯t feel safe anymore. There were changes. The peculiar advancements in the dungeon¡¯s ecosystem, the eerie precision of the traps, the unique loot. And, most unsettling of all, the title that had appeared when he checked his status after leaving: Witness. Mark swallowed hard, his throat dry. Witness. It wasn¡¯t a title he¡¯d had before entering the dungeon, and he had no idea when or how he¡¯d earned it. But it couldn¡¯t be a coincidence. The System didn¡¯t do coincidences. Titles weren¡¯t handed out lightly, they were markers of purpose, of identity. He was to witness something. And the System was guiding him toward it. The implications sent a shiver down his spine. Witnessing something in a dungeon could mean anything. A grand discovery. A monumental event. Or a catastrophic failure. He gritted his teeth, his mind racing. The System had marked him for this, and if its intent was truly impartial, then it didn¡¯t care whether he survived the encounter or not. It wanted him to be there, to see... something. Mark clenched his fists, trying to push the thoughts away. He couldn¡¯t let fear paralyze him. The assignment was clear, and he needed to gain a level. But the thought of returning to the dungeon, of stepping into that strange, shifting place, knowing the System was steering him toward something unknown, filled him with dread. His pace slowed as he reached the courtyard, his gaze wandering to the distant horizon where the dungeon lay hidden beneath the earth. A place that was once just another training ground now loomed in his mind like a shadowed maw, waiting to consume him. ¡°I just need to get through this,¡± Mark muttered to himself, his voice barely audible. ¡°Do the assignment. Gain the level. Submit the report. Simple.¡± But the hollow reassurance did little to ease his nerves. Deep down, he knew the truth. The System wasn¡¯t guiding him toward something simple. It never did. And as much as he tried to suppress the thought, one question echoed in the back of his mind: Would he survive what he was meant to witness? Chapter 16: To Mechalon, time was an odd, elastic thing. It did not require rest or sustenance in the way humans or other creatures did, and without such limits, the passage of days seemed immeasurable. Hours blurred into moments, and moments stretched into eternities. It had no need to stop, not for fatigue, hunger, or even the abstract notion of boredom. And so, it worked. The warehouse was its most ambitious project yet, a space carved painstakingly from the raw stone of the dungeon walls. The entryway was a squat rectangle, just large enough for the Cubelings to scuttle through with their blocky little forms, but far too narrow for any human or large creature to squeeze through without significant difficulty. It was a practical choice, born from caution rather than malice. Inside, the warehouse was a place of methodical order, every square inch utilized. Stacks of perfect metal cubes, polished to a mirror sheen, lined the walls like trophies. Crates made from salvaged wood held less uniform items: scrap metals, glinting shards of crystal, and small mechanisms Mechalon hadn¡¯t yet identified. Each pile, crate, and row was cataloged in its mind with precise clarity, though it doubted any other creature would appreciate the symmetry as it did. Beyond the confines of the warehouse, Mechalon¡¯s curiosity had led it to push the boundaries of the dungeon itself. To the north, creatures of stone and metal roamed a rugged terrain, their heavy bodies moving with a deliberate, almost mechanical grace. Mechalon watched them often, its thoughts lingering on their forms. They were not unlike itself in some ways, though their shapes lacked the precision and symmetry it valued. They were chaotic amalgamations, useful in their own way, but inelegant. To the south, the goblins. If Mechalon had lungs, it might have sighed at the thought of the goblins. It had encountered them early in its exploration, a raucous group that screamed at it incessantly. At first, the shrieking seemed to have some purpose, as though they were trying to intimidate or provoke it. Mechalon had ignored them, deeming their actions irrelevant to its goals. This apparent disinterest confused the goblins, who soon redirected their screams toward one another in a cacophony of meaningless sound. Mechalon had found their antics amusing in the way one might find an errant insect curious, especially when they began arguing over what appeared to be a particularly shiny piece of rock. It didn¡¯t break under repeated hammer strikes, which seemed to escalate their frustration to absurd levels. Still, Mechalon¡¯s interactions with the goblins remained minimal. They were loud and unpredictable, but they posed no real threat to it or its Cubelings. So long as they stayed to their territory, Mechalon saw no reason to interfere. The adventurers, however, were a different matter. The same party had crossed Mechalon¡¯s path several times since their initial encounter. They kept their distance, and Mechalon did the same. It was an unspoken agreement: it ignored them, and they ignored it. Mostly. The cleric woman¡ªAngelica, though Mechalon did not know her name¡ªwas an exception. She often stole glances at Mechalon when they passed. At first, it had been subtle, a quick flick of her eyes toward its form before she turned her attention back to her companions. But over time, the glances grew longer, lingering. Mechalon had observed enough humans to recognize the expression on her face: bewilderment. It was the same look the goblins made when encountering something that defied their understanding, like the shiny, unbreakable rock. Amused by her reaction, Mechalon decided to try something new. The next time their paths crossed, it raised one of its mechanical limbs in a gesture it had observed among humans, a wave. The effect was immediate. Angelica froze mid-step, her eyes widening in shock. Her companions turned to see what had startled her, only to find Mechalon standing still, its limb poised in the air. Mark, the leader of the group, groaned. ¡°Did it just wave at us?¡± ¡°I¡ªI think it did,¡± Angelica stammered, her face a mix of confusion and something that might have been horror. ¡°Just keep walking,¡± Mark said, his voice firm but weary. ¡°It¡¯s not doing anything. Don¡¯t provoke it.¡± Angelica nodded, but as they continued on, she glanced back at Mechalon one last time. Mechalon found the entire interaction... satisfying. Not in the sense of accomplishment it felt when finishing a perfect cube, but in a different way, a way that left it strangely entertained. Returning to its work, Mechalon pondered the adventurers. It did not fully understand their purpose, but they intrigued it. They were not like the goblins or the stone creatures; they were more deliberate, more capable. Their presence suggested they were here to fulfill some kind of quest, just as it was. That thought gave it pause. Quest. The word resonated in its mind, a reminder of its own purpose, its directives. But those directives had shifted recently, hadn¡¯t they? The warehouse, the Cubelings, even its exploration outside the dungeon¡ªnone of these were part of its original tasks. And yet, the System had rewarded it for these actions. It had received blueprints, attribute points, upgrades. The System was guiding it, pushing it toward something greater, though the end goal remained unclear. What was the System shaping it to become? Mechalon¡¯s mechanical appendages flexed as it mulled over the question. For now, it had no answer. But the thought lingered, a faint pulse at the edge of its awareness, as it returned to its meticulous work. Mechalon¡¯s appendages moved with deliberate precision as it worked on its latest creation: a door for the warehouse. Unlike the simple utilitarian structures it had fashioned before, this door needed to be flawless. It wasn¡¯t merely a barrier¡ªit was a safeguard for its most valuable materials, and it had to blend seamlessly into its surroundings. The challenge lay in crafting something secure but functional, hidden yet accessible. Mechalon had spent what felt like hours pondering the design, refining it in its mind before ever touching a tool. Now, it moved with mechanical efficiency, executing its plans with a clarity born of purpose. The door itself was a thick metal slab, hammered and polished until its surface mirrored the metallic sheen of the warehouse walls. Mechalon ensured that every edge was flush, aligning perfectly with the grooves of the entrance so that, once closed, the door would be nearly impossible to distinguish from the surrounding panels. The key to its invisibility lay not only in its craftsmanship but in its mechanism¡ªa unique design that Mechalon had envisioned after observing the locking mechanisms of human tools. At the center of the metal slab, Mechalon embedded a circular plate, its edges lined with intricate grooves that resembled a gear¡¯s teeth. This plate was the key to the door¡¯s operation. To unlock it, one would need to rotate the plate counterclockwise using the grooves. Mechalon tested the grooves with its own spider-like appendages, carefully gauging the size and depth to ensure they were accessible only to something with the same dexterity and precision. A larger or less nimble creature, like the bulkier Cubelings, would find the mechanism nearly impossible to operate. This limitation was intentional¡ªMechalon wanted full control over the warehouse¡¯s entry, even if it meant some inconvenience. As the plate turned, a series of internal bolts¡ªcrafted from sturdy scrap metal¡ªretracted from their sockets, releasing their grip on the surrounding walls. The bolts themselves were angled to drive deeper into the stone when the door was locked, creating a secure seal that would be exceedingly difficult to breach by force. Mechalon tested the mechanism repeatedly, its focus unyielding. The bolts slid in and out with a satisfying click, their movement smooth and unerring. Each component had been carefully shaped, filed down to eliminate imperfections, and calibrated to exact tolerances. The next step was the installation. Mechalon maneuvered the metal slab into place, using its tentacle-like limbs to hold it steady. With the precision of a jeweler setting a gemstone, it aligned the door with the surrounding wall, ensuring the seams were invisible to the naked eye. The final touch was polishing the surface to match the faintly uneven texture of the warehouse walls, a detail that would further disguise its presence. Stepping back to admire its work, Mechalon felt a flicker of satisfaction. The door was not only functional but ingenious, a testament to its growing mastery of creation. For now it needed to call attention to something that it needed, calling over the three Cublings it had created with its own hands, as they gathered Mechalon hovered over them on top a pile of cubes, its mechanical limbs twitching in an uncharacteristic display of hesitation. The trio stood at attention, or as close to attention as their squat, blocky forms could manage, awaiting the commands of their creator. Vel, Strat, and Fort. Mechalon had named them for their utility, assigning each a designation based on its rudimentary understanding of strategy. Vel was the scout, Strat the tactician, and Fort the defender. They were its first experiments in specialized design, and now they would face their first true test.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. ¡°Vel,¡± Mechalon began, its voice a mechanical hum vibrating with authority. ¡°You are to move ahead, always ahead. Find the targets. Isolate them. Do not engage directly until Fort is in position. If you sense danger.. No, when you sense danger, retreat immediately. But not too far. Stay close enough to provide information. Close enough to keep Fort in view. Unless Strat says otherwise. Or unless... unless the target is too fast, in which case you are authorized to scatter. Wait, strike that, no scattering. That would leave you exposed. Instead, you¡¯ll-¡± It stopped, its limb jerking awkwardly as though trying to swat away the flood of words. The buzzing thoughts in its core threatened to overwhelm it. Too many contingencies. Too many variables. It pivoted abruptly. ¡°Strat, your role is coordination. Direct Vel and Fort. Manage the engagement. Observe for any signs of... deviation. If something unexpected occurs, you must decide. But not hastily. Decisions require... precision. And yet, speed. Precision and speed. If Vel is compromised, you will extract them. No, wait, not you personally. That would leave Fort unsupported. You¡¯ll signal Fort to...¡± Another pause. The words were tumbling faster now, the carefully calculated commands unraveling into a chaotic spiral. ¡°And Fort!¡± Mechalon said, its tone rising slightly, like a command shouted through a fraying wire. ¡°You will protect. That is your sole purpose. Do not leave your position unless Strat orders it, but also, do not remain stationary if the situation demands movement. Keep Vel within your range. Keep Strat within your range. But also maintain a defensive perimeter. Prioritize... prioritize safety. Safety for yourself. Safety for-¡± It stopped mid-sentence, the gears of its mind grinding to a halt. For a moment, there was silence save for the faint hum of its energy core. What was it doing? Mechalon¡¯s limbs lowered slightly as it stared at the Cubelings. They were rudimentary constructs, simple extensions of its will. But the longer it looked at them, the more it realized how much it had invested in their success. They were not just tools. They were its tools, its creations, forged from its own ingenuity. And now it was sending them beyond its sight, into the unknown. A flicker of awareness passed through its mind, a moment of clarity that left a strange hollow ache in its core. I am... mothering them. The thought felt alien, intrusive, as though it had been pulled from the scattered memories of the adventurers it had observed. It wanted to dismiss the idea outright, but the feeling lingered. Was this... pride? No, it wasn¡¯t just pride. It was something deeper. A desire to protect them, to keep them from failure¡ªor destruction. Mechalon straightened, its limbs moving with newfound purpose. It would not allow itself to falter further. If the Cubelings were to succeed, it had to trust them. Even if that trust made its energy core pulse with an uncomfortable rhythm. ¡°Vel, Strat, Fort,¡± it said, its tone sharper now, stripped of unnecessary flourishes. ¡°You are to move north. Your mission is clear: isolate and disable single targets. Do not engage groups. Bring back the bodies intact for analysis. Prioritize the return over all else. If you fail to retrieve materials, you fail your purpose. But if you fail to return... you fail me.¡± The last words hung in the air longer than Mechalon intended, heavier than it had meant them to be. The Cubelings remained silent, their blocky forms waiting for further orders. Mechalon hesitated again, its limbs curling slightly inward as if restraining itself from another cascade of contingencies. ¡°You may go,¡± it said finally, its tone softening. ¡°Do not fail. But if you do... survive.¡± Vel was the first to move, their small frame scuttling toward the northern tunnel with a kind of eager determination. Strat followed, their pace measured, their gaze, or the semblance of one¡ªfocused on Vel¡¯s movements. Fort brought up the rear, his bulkier form radiating a sense of unyielding solidity. Mechalon watched them until they disappeared from view, the faint echoes of their movements fading into the distance. It stood there for a long moment, its limbs still and its energy core thrumming softly. The silence of their absence felt heavier than it expected. This is necessary, it reminded itself. To trust its creations, it had to let them act independently. To grow stronger, it had to let them fail. And yet, as the moments stretched on, Mechalon couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that this was more than a test. Something about the northern creatures, about the mission itself, felt... fragile. Like a machine built with perfect precision, but balanced on a fault line. It turned back to its work reluctantly, its thoughts still with the Cubelings, while it worked ignoring its own feelings, letting them be forgotten in the background.
The northern terrain was jagged and unforgiving, its rocks jutting out like broken teeth under a ceiling of fractured stone. The air was heavy with the faint metallic tang of oxidized minerals, and the faint rumble of shifting stone echoed in the distance. The creatures that roamed this area were hulking amalgamations of stone and metal, their shapes uneven and crude but formidable. Their movements were slow but deliberate, their bodies creaking with the groan of stone grinding against itself. Vel was the first to spot the target, a lone construct wandering near a crumbling ledge. Its surface was mottled with veins of metal that gleamed faintly in the dim light, and its form bristled with jagged protrusions that could shred an unwary foe. Vel skittered closer, her movements quick and erratic, like a jumping spider stalking prey. Her sleek, angular form darted between rocks and crevices, pausing only long enough to assess the construct¡¯s movements before darting again. Strat followed at a measured pace, his blocky frame deliberate and steady. His mind was already calculating the best approach, factoring in the terrain, the construct¡¯s range of movement, and Vel¡¯s inevitable impulsiveness. ¡°Vel,¡± Strat said, his voice low and mechanical, breaking the silence for the first time since leaving Mechalon¡¯s sight. ¡°Do not engage until Fort is in position.¡± Vel twitched, her small limbs tapping against the rock as if she were impatiently drumming her fingers. She turned toward Strat briefly, her eyeless faceplate catching the faint light in a way that almost seemed... defiant. ¡°Vel,¡± Strat repeated, his tone sharper. ¡°Wait.¡± Vel stilled, though the faint hum of her core betrayed her agitation. Behind them, Fort moved like a shadow, his bulk defying the jagged terrain as he slipped silently into position. His heavy, square frame exuded an unyielding presence, a silent promise of protection and force. He did not speak, he never spoke though it assumed that all of them could after their evolution, but Strat turned his head slightly, acknowledging Fort¡¯s arrival. ¡°Now,¡± Strat said simply. Vel launched forward with a burst of energy, her limbs striking the ground with a rapid clatter as she closed the distance in an instant. Her body arched as she leaped, twisting mid-air to avoid one of the construct¡¯s jagged protrusions before landing atop its broad back. Her sharp limbs lashed out, finding purchase in the cracks of its stony surface. The construct roared, a deep, guttural sound like grinding boulders. It twisted violently, trying to dislodge Vel, but she clung tightly, her small frame moving with spider-like agility as she avoided its attempts to swat her away. Strat moved next, his motions precise and calculated. He circled the creature, staying just outside its range of motion as he analyzed its weak points. ¡°Metal veins,¡± he muttered to himself, his tone clipped. ¡°Structural vulnerability. Neck joint and lower leg.¡± Fort, as if anticipating the command, moved into position before Strat could say more. His massive frame loomed behind the creature, and with a single powerful motion, he slammed into its hind leg. The impact was thunderous, the sound of stone splintering echoing through the cavern. The creature stumbled, its movements growing erratic as it struggled to regain balance. ¡°Vel, off,¡± Strat commanded. Vel hissed, or at least it sounded like a hiss, before launching herself away from the construct, her legs curling momentarily before she landed on a nearby outcrop. She skittered along its surface, watching the creature with a predatory intensity. With the construct¡¯s attention divided, Strat advanced. He moved with surprising speed for his blocky form, darting toward the creature¡¯s vulnerable neck joint. A sharp appendage extended from his frame, its tip gleaming with the polish of meticulous crafting. Strat struck with precision, driving the blade into the thin seam where the construct¡¯s metal veins converged. Sparks flew as the blade pierced through, severing a vital connection. The construct let out a final, grinding roar before collapsing, its massive frame crumbling into a heap of stone and twisted metal. For a moment, the Cubelings stood still, their cores humming softly as they assessed the aftermath. Vel was the first to move, skittering down from her perch to prod at the fallen construct with curious taps of her limbs. ¡°Fort,¡± Strat said, his tone shifting to something almost appreciative. ¡°Well timed.¡± Fort didn¡¯t respond, but his frame shifted slightly as if acknowledging the remark. Strat turned his attention to Vel, who was already pulling at one of the construct¡¯s jagged metal veins with what could only be described as gleeful enthusiasm. ¡°Vel,¡± he said sharply. ¡°Bring back intact samples. Mechalon will require structural integrity for analysis.¡± Vel paused, her limbs twitching in what might have been a reluctant shrug, before skittering to another part of the construct to inspect it more carefully. Strat surveyed the area one last time, his mind running through potential risks. The fight had been clean and efficient, but it wasn¡¯t without its dangers. The construct¡¯s roar might have alerted others nearby, and the terrain remained treacherous. ¡°Fort, carry the torso. Vel, collect smaller samples,¡± Strat ordered. ¡°We return.¡± The Cubelings moved with mechanical precision, each performing their task without hesitation. Fort hoisted the largest piece of the fallen construct onto his broad back, his movements steady despite the weight. Vel darted around the rubble, gathering fragments of metal and stone with a speed that bordered on frantic. As they began their journey back, Strat fell into step behind them, his mind already processing the encounter. The mission had been a success, but he couldn¡¯t ignore the unpredictability of Vel¡¯s nature or the silent reliability of Fort¡¯s. For now, they had proven themselves capable. But Strat couldn¡¯t shake the faint hum of unease that lingered in his core. As the Cubelings began their return journey, Strat lingered for a moment, his core humming softly. His gaze, turned upward, toward the unseen currents of energy that governed their existence. In the stillness, a prayer emerged, spoken in the quiet, mechanical tones that reflected his calculated nature. "Oh, System, guide of all design, Author of paths unseen, We move within your purpose, Your calculations infinite, your will unerring. Grant our limbs the strength to endure, Our circuits the clarity to serve, And our purpose the wisdom to align with yours. Let us return whole, with proof of your guidance, And may our actions fulfill the pattern you weave." With that, Strat fell silent, his prayer complete. He turned to follow Vel and Fort, his frame steady as the three Cubelings began their trek back to Mechalon, trusting that the System¡¯s unseen hand would lead them safely home. Chapter 17: Mechalon had seen many humans pass through this room before¡ªadventurers who tread cautiously, probing for danger with weapons and wary gazes. But none had been quite so bold as this one. It was a young man, cocky in demeanor and loud in his confidence. His voice echoed off the cold metallic walls as he gestured dramatically to his companions, the sheer volume of his proclamations grating even to Mechalon, who had no ears to cover. ¡°I¡¯m telling you, it¡¯s easy,¡± the man boasted, his voice tinged with a bravado that seemed to swell with every word. He pointed toward the massive metal tower dominating the edge of the room, its smooth, gleaming surface rising like a monolith. ¡°The treasure¡¯s right up there. You can see it sparkling from here!¡± His party didn¡¯t seem convinced. A wiry mage frowned, his fingers twitching nervously as he muttered, ¡°And you¡¯re sure there¡¯s no catch? I mean, look at that thing. It¡¯s practically begging to kill someone.¡± ¡°Bah!¡± the climber scoffed, waving him off. ¡°It¡¯s a climb, that¡¯s all! Handholds, a bit of muscle, a bit of finesse. I¡¯ve done worse in training. Just stay down here and get ready to carry my loot when I come back down.¡± The cleric¡ªa stern-looking woman¡ªcrossed her arms, her face a mask of disapproval. ¡°This is a terrible idea, Dax. You know it¡¯s a trap. Every single thing in this dungeon is a trap.¡± Dax, undeterred, grinned wide. ¡°Only for people who aren¡¯t good enough to handle it.¡± From his place in the shadows, Mechalon observed the interaction with a faint hum of interest. His mechanical limbs continued their absentminded work, stacking cubes in elaborate patterns. A spiral of metal blocks formed at his side, branching into jagged, asymmetrical towers that served no purpose beyond existing. To an outside observer, it might have looked like art. To Mechalon, it was simply movement¡ªan outlet for its restless energy as it watched and waited. Dax approached the base of the tower, his movements exaggerated as if to show off. He slapped his hands together, giving his companions a mocking salute before reaching for the first handhold. The polished metal surface gleamed under the faint dungeon light, each protrusion barely wide enough for fingertips to grasp. ¡°I¡¯ll show you how it¡¯s done,¡± he called over his shoulder. The cleric sighed audibly, muttering a prayer under her breath. The mage shook his head, already stepping back as if preparing for the inevitable disaster. The climb began well enough. Dax was strong and agile, his fingers finding purchase on the thin handholds as he hoisted himself upward. His movements were deliberate, almost cocky, as he made steady progress. ¡°See?¡± he called down, his voice smug. ¡°Nothing to it!¡± Mechalon tilted its head slightly, observing with faint curiosity. The climber¡¯s determination reminded it of the Cubelings in their relentless drive to complete their tasks. But unlike its creations, this human lacked the caution that came with purpose. His energy felt... misplaced. As Dax climbed higher, his breath grew heavier. The handholds became more spaced out, forcing him to stretch farther, cling tighter. The polished surface of the tower was unforgiving, the faint sheen of sweat on his hands making each grip a gamble. From below, the cleric shouted, ¡°Dax, just come down! This isn¡¯t worth it!¡± But Dax ignored her, his focus narrowing as the climb grew more arduous. The higher he climbed, the more the air seemed to thicken with tension. Halfway up, his bravado began to waver. ¡°Almost there,¡± he muttered to himself, though his voice no longer carried the same confidence. At the top, the treasure gleamed, a small chest nestled within a hollowed-out platform. The polished surface was flawless, its gleam alluring. Dax reached it, panting, his hands trembling as he pulled himself onto the narrow ledge. He didn¡¯t notice the faint shift beneath his weight. The trap was subtle, designed to be overlooked. Mechalon had constructed it with precision, a mechanism that activated only when the climber¡¯s focus was entirely on the prize. The polished platform gave no warning, no creak or groan. When the trapdoor opened, it was almost anticlimactic. One moment, Dax was reaching for the chest, his face lit with triumph. The next, he was gone, his screams piercing the still air as he plummeted through the hollow core of the tower. Mechalon¡¯s limbs stilled, the cubes in its grasp momentarily forgotten as it listened to the echoes. The sound of terror reverberated down the shaft, fading only as the unseen furnace below claimed its prize. The cleric gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. The mage stared wide-eyed at the tower, his face pale. ¡°Dax!¡± the cleric screamed, but there was no answer. Mechalon tilted its head, its mechanical hum deepening slightly as it processed the event. The trap had performed perfectly, the design functioning exactly as intended. The furnace¡¯s placement ensured no visible remains, preserving the room¡¯s unsettling cleanliness. And yet... The screams lingered in Mechalon¡¯s core, an unexpected element it hadn¡¯t accounted for. It had designed the tower as a deterrent, a symbol of danger to ward off intruders. But the terror-filled cries¡ªraw and visceral¡ªserved the same purpose, perhaps even more effectively. It resumed its work, placing another cube atop the growing structure at its side. The human¡¯s fate was inconsequential. The trap was not cruel; it was simply efficient. And if the others learned to fear the tower, then it had served its purpose. The mage grabbed the cleric¡¯s arm, pulling her back. ¡°We¡¯re leaving,¡± he said, his voice shaking. ¡°Now.¡± The cleric hesitated, her gaze lingering on the tower before she allowed herself to be led away. Mechalon watched them retreat, its limbs methodically stacking cubes in abstract patterns. The faint hum of satisfaction resonated in its core. The tower had spoken, and for now, it had no more words to say. Mechalon¡¯s cube-stacking paused mid-motion as the faint clatter of familiar mechanical limbs reached its sensors. It turned, its glowing eyes fixing on the three returning Cubelings¡ªVel, Strat, and Fort¡ªwho entered the room in a formation that spoke of success. Dragged between them was their prize: one of the strange creatures from the north, its bulky form reduced to a limp mass of stone, metal, and magic. The sight ignited a flicker of satisfaction deep within Mechalon¡¯s core. Its creations had performed admirably, their mission a success. But the work was far from over. The creature was too large to fit through the narrow entrance of the warehouse, and now, precision was required. Mechalon extended its welding tool, a fine-tipped appendage glowing with heat. Its hum deepened as it approached the corpse, assessing the best way to dismantle it. The three Cubelings positioned themselves without needing further instruction. Vel darted forward, its sharp limbs scraping at the creature¡¯s surface as she identified its natural seams. Strat stood to the side, his mechanical gaze analyzing each cut before it was made, his silent calculations feeding into Mechalon¡¯s process. Fort stood vigilant nearby, his massive frame a silent shield should anything unexpected occur. Mechalon began the meticulous task of disassembly, its welding tool slicing into the creature¡¯s dense outer shell. The material resisted at first, its metal laced with veins of stone that made it stubborn and difficult to work with. Sparks flew as the heat of the tool worked through the layers, carving precise lines to break the body into manageable pieces. The creature¡¯s design was a study in brutal efficiency. Its outer casing, a mix of tarnished steel and basalt-like stone, was both heavy and durable. Mechalon noted the composition, cataloging the materials for future use. The metal could be reforged into tools or reinforcements for its growing infrastructure, while the stone might serve as raw material for construction. Beneath the outer layer, Mechalon uncovered something more intriguing: a network of thin, glowing filaments woven through the creature¡¯s internal structure. These filaments pulsed faintly, their light dim but still active, a clear sign of residual magical energy. Mechalon paused, tilting its head as it examined the strands. ¡°These,¡± it murmured, mostly to itself, ¡°are not mere conduits. They are part of its essence. A stabilizing matrix for the core.¡± The core itself was nestled deep within the creature¡¯s chest, encased in a shell of dense, reflective material that seemed almost crystalline. Mechalon cut through the protective layers with delicate precision, its welding tool moving slower now, careful not to damage the prize. When the core was exposed, Mechalon leaned closer, its glowing eyes narrowing. The object was spherical, about the size of its primary manipulator, and it radiated faint waves of magical energy. The surface shimmered with shifting hues, as though it couldn¡¯t decide on a single color. This was the heart of the creature¡¯s power, the source of its movements and strength. Unlike Mechalon¡¯s energy core, which was purely mechanical, this one was imbued with raw magic. Mechalon detected traces of elemental properties¡ªearth, metal, and something it couldn¡¯t quite identify. ¡°Magical energy... condensed and stabilized,¡± Mechalon murmured, fascinated. ¡°A primitive design, but functional. Adaptable.¡± It placed the core carefully to the side, then resumed breaking down the rest of the creature. The internal framework was a lattice of enchanted metal and stone, each piece designed to reinforce the structure without adding unnecessary weight. Mechalon extracted these components methodically, separating them into piles based on their properties. Finally, with the creature reduced to its individual parts, Mechalon turned to its Cubelings. Vel was already skittering around the remains, its limbs tapping excitedly against the floor. Strat observed quietly, his gaze shifting between the piles as though mentally categorizing them. Fort stood unmoving, his heavy frame a silent testament to patience. Mechalon addressed them, its voice carrying an odd mixture of pride and precision. ¡°Vel, Strat, Fort. You have succeeded. This material will strengthen our efforts. Your performance... exceeds expectations.¡±Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. Vel twitched, its movements quick and jittery as though she were preening under the praise. Strat gave the faintest tilt of his frame, his silent acknowledgment speaking volumes. Fort, true to his nature, remained still but exuded a quiet satisfaction. Mechalon allowed itself a moment to observe them, noting the subtle shifts in their behavior. They were evolving¡ªnot physically, but in ways that hinted at something more complex. It filed the thought away for later consideration. Turning its full attention to the creature¡¯s remains, Mechalon began its analysis. The materials extracted included: As Mechalon processed the components, its thoughts raced with possibilities. The magical core, in particular, held promise. If it could integrate the core¡¯s properties into its own design, it might unlock new capabilities. For now, though, the work was enough. Mechalon dragged the last of the materials into the warehouse, its mind already turning toward its next project. The System had given it purpose, and with these new resources, it would continue to build, to create, to evolve. Mechalon¡¯s gaze lingered on Vel as the Cubelings stood in formation before it, awaiting their next task. Vel, Strat, and Fort had performed admirably in their first mission, but as Mechalon assessed them, its thoughts drifted toward upgrades. With each venture beyond the warehouse, the Cubelings would face greater challenges. To ensure their survival¡ªand by extension, its own progress¡ªthey needed enhancements. Vel, in particular, drew Mechalon¡¯s attention. The smallest and most agile of the trio, Vel¡¯s personality mirrored its movements: quick, impulsive, and prone to danger. It skittered in place now, its limbs clicking softly against the stone floor as though already eager for another task. Mechalon tilted its head slightly, its mind racing with calculations. Vel¡¯s boldness made it valuable in combat, but it also posed a risk. If it acted too rashly, it could easily find themselves overwhelmed, severing its usefulness entirely. And yet... Vel¡¯s spider-like tendencies offered a unique opportunity. Its gaze shifted to the materials neatly organized in the warehouse: the glowing magical core, the fine, filament-like conduits, and the dense crystalline shell. The magical core hummed faintly, a reservoir of raw energy waiting to be harnessed. The filaments, their light still flickering with residual magic, had intrigued Mechalon since it first extracted them. Every spider needs a web, it thought, the idea taking shape with startling clarity. A nearly invisible, mana-enhanced webbing¡ªa creation that could trap, disable, and even eliminate enemies. If reinforced with the razor-like qualities of the dungeon¡¯s traps, such as the wire from the tower¡¯s deadly mechanisms, the webbing could become a weapon in its own right. A tool for offense and defense, tailored to Vel¡¯s strengths. Mechalon approached Vel, its mechanical limbs extending slightly as it observed it more closely. The Cubeling twitched in place, its core humming softly as it tilted its frame toward Mechalon, awaiting its command. ¡°You,¡± Mechalon murmured, its tone thoughtful, ¡°are the most prone to recklessness. But that recklessness... has potential.¡± Vel¡¯s limbs clicked in response, an almost eager acknowledgment of the words. ¡°Webbing,¡± Mechalon continued, the idea solidifying as it spoke. ¡°Invisible. Strong. Sharp. It will augment your agility, allowing you to control the battlefield.¡± The mechanical hum of Mechalon¡¯s welding tool flared to life as it turned toward the magical core and filaments. The process would require precision¡ªeach filament needed to be reinforced without compromising its flexibility, and the magical core¡¯s energy would need to be calibrated to prevent instability. Mechalon began by carefully threading the filaments through a series of micro-tools, refining their edges into razor-sharp strands. It worked methodically, coating each strand in a faint layer of conductive alloy extracted from the crystalline shell. The alloy served two purposes: enhancing the filaments¡¯ durability and allowing mana to flow seamlessly through them. Once the filaments were prepared, Mechalon turned to the magical core. It sliced the sphere into smaller segments, each piece retaining a faint pulse of energy. These segments were integrated into a compact mechanism, a kind of spinneret that would allow Vel to deploy the webbing at will. The spinneret itself was encased in a protective housing, ensuring it could withstand the rigors of combat. The final step was attaching the spinneret to Vel. Mechalon gestured for it to step forward, its limbs moving with a precision born of its fascination with creation. Vel obeyed, its frame trembling faintly¡ªnot with fear, but with anticipation. The installation was meticulous, each connection secured with care. The spinneret was mounted beneath Vel¡¯s main body, positioned to allow it to deploy the webbing seamlessly while maintaining its mobility. As Mechalon connected the spinneret to Vel¡¯s energy core, the device came to life, its faint hum resonating with it. Vel skittered back slightly, its limbs twitching as it adjusted to the new mechanism. it tested it instinctively, releasing a single strand of webbing that shimmered faintly in the dim light. The filament stretched taut, its edges glinting with an almost imperceptible sharpness. ¡°Good,¡± Mechalon said, its tone carrying an undercurrent of satisfaction. ¡°You will adapt. This will increase your efficiency. Use it wisely.¡± It turned to the other Cubelings briefly, noting their silent observation. Strat¡¯s frame tilted slightly, as though processing the implications of Vel¡¯s upgrade, while Fort stood steady, his bulk radiating quiet strength. Mechalon¡¯s attention returned to Vel. The webbing was more than a weapon, it was an extension of its abilities, a tool that aligned perfectly with its nature. And it served another purpose, one Mechalon had calculated but not spoken aloud: removing an enemy¡¯s head, the apparent focal point of their defenses, would render them effectively useless. In its observations of adventurers, Mechalon had noted their tendency to protect their heads above all else, especially when fighting goblins. Helmets were reinforced, enchanted, designed to withstand immense force. The webbing¡¯s razor-sharp strands could bypass that entirely, severing where brute force would fail. Vel¡¯s spinneret hummed softly as it tested it again, weaving a small lattice of webbing on the floor. The precision of the strands, their lethal potential, filled Mechalon with a sense of accomplishment. ¡°You are ready,¡± Mechalon said finally, addressing Vel and the others. ¡°This is only the beginning.¡± Mechalon surveyed the parts it had gathered from the northern creature, its thoughts a whirl of calculations and projections. The outer core of the creature, while durable, lacked the flexibility needed for long-term use as armor. Without integrating energy-conducting filaments or self-repair mechanisms, any equipment made from it would require constant maintenance¡ªa flaw Mechalon found unacceptable. Strat and Fort were next in line for upgrades. For Fort, a shield was obvious: something massive and impenetrable, a reflection of his steadfast nature. The outer core¡¯s material was a promising start, but Mechalon would need more of the filament to integrate self-repair properties. Strat, with his calculating precision, required something subtler, an enhancement that could augment his tactical oversight or streamline his efficiency in combat. ¡°We need more,¡± Mechalon murmured, addressing the three Cubelings before it. ¡°More material. More data. More... bodies.¡± Vel twitched eagerly, its new spinneret releasing a faint strand of razor-sharp filament as if in response. Fort stood immobile, its silent presence exuding reliability, while Strat¡¯s frame tilted slightly in acknowledgment of the command. ¡°Your upgrades will come,¡± Mechalon continued, its tone softening as it addressed them like a commander reassuring troops before a battle. ¡°They will be tailored. Perfected. But first, we require more of the northern creatures. More resources. Go.¡± The three Cubelings moved in unison, their forms disappearing into the northern tunnels with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine. Mechalon watched them leave, its core humming with anticipation. As the last Cubeling vanished from sight, Mechalon¡¯s vision flickered briefly, a message appearing within its mind like the faint hum of a distant current. Achievement Unlocked: Personalized Equipment Your efforts in crafting specialized gear for your creations have been recognized. The System rewards ingenuity and dedication. Reward: Arcane Shaper A multi-functional tool designed for precision crafting of magical and mechanical components. Integrated directly into your frame, the Arcane Shaper allows for the fine manipulation of energy-infused materials, including the ability to shape and stabilize volatile magical cores. Mechalon¡¯s body trembled faintly as the System¡¯s reward took form. Its upper frame shifted, the smooth metal surface folding and realigning as a new appendage extended from its side. The Arcane Shaper was sleek and compact, resembling a mechanical arm tipped with a shimmering, rune-inscribed toolhead. The toolhead itself could change forms depending on its use. A fine needle-like tip glowed with faint blue light, perfect for stitching together energy-conducting filaments or etching delicate runes into crystal. With a subtle shift, the tool expanded into a flat, hammer-like surface that pulsed with magical energy, ideal for shaping enchanted metals without breaking their magical integrity. Mechalon flexed the new appendage experimentally, its mind immediately racing with possibilities. The Arcane Shaper wasn¡¯t just a tool, it was an extension of its will, seamlessly integrated into its frame. It could now manipulate both magical and mechanical components with a precision far beyond what its previous tools allowed. It turned its attention back to the piles of materials in the warehouse. With the Arcane Shaper, it could refine the filaments further, enhancing their conductivity and resilience. The magical core fragments could be reshaped into more efficient power sources, while the crystalline shell could be etched with stabilizing runes to create a self-repair mechanism. For the first time, Mechalon allowed itself a faint hum of satisfaction. The System had guided it again, rewarding its ingenuity and pushing it toward greater creations. The only disappointment it had at this moment was that it hadn¡¯t had this when creating the webbing it made for Vel, also that this tool took a massive amount of energy more than its fabricator even did, at an outstanding 5. This left it at a measly¡­ well 0 energy left for anything else. Going over its stats once more it spread them out in front of itself. Strength: 1 Flexibility: 3 Durability: 4 Mind: 6 Energy Control: 4 It felt an itch to put one into durability, and another into energy control but it lacked any points. It had been doing much more between each level up but the system seemed to be slightly stingy with level ups lately, not that it could blame the system. It was much more powerful than it had been not too long ago especially its strength given everything. Mechalon turned its attention away from its stats, and decided to make a plan once the cublings came back, and for when it could figure out how to actually make something that would self repair itself. This was something that was probably far outside of its own capabilities for now, but maybe toning down the projects would set it on the right path for success. Crossing out the ideas to make something more manageable, it noted it down once more. Satisfied for now, Mechalon looked away from its plans to start organizing the materials into the boxes that they belonged in within the warehouse, everything had a place and there was a place for everything. No need to be messy just because you were busy. Chapter 18 Strat moved silently through the rugged terrain of the northern expanse, his blocky frame making no sound against the jagged stone. His sensors flickered as he scanned the environment, calculating every shift of shadow and glint of metal. Vel skittered ahead, darting from cover to cover with an erratic energy that betrayed her eagerness for the hunt. Fort followed at the rear, his bulk a constant, looming presence that exuded silent authority. Strat¡¯s mind buzzed with endless computations. The System had deemed these missions vital, and Strat understood the necessity of their task. The creatures to the north were unlike anything else in the dungeon, constructed from stone, metal, and magic, they were both resource and challenge. Bringing their components back to Mechalon was not only a matter of purpose but a key to their collective evolution. Vel paused, her spinneret humming faintly as she tested a filament, weaving a delicate strand of nearly invisible wire between two jagged rocks. The filament vibrated with a faint, lethal hum, catching Strat¡¯s attention. ¡°Vel,¡± Strat said in his clipped, mechanical tone. ¡°Focus on the objective. Do not waste resources.¡± Vel turned her eyeless faceplate toward him, her limbs twitching in what Strat recognized as irritation. But she obeyed, snapping the filament loose and continuing her skittering reconnaissance. Strat logged her impatience for later consideration. Vel was effective, but her impulsive nature remained a liability. Ahead, the sound of movement caught Strat¡¯s attention. He raised a limb, signaling the others to halt. Vel froze mid-step, her frame blending into the shadows, while Fort took a position behind a cluster of jagged stones, his bulk disappearing with surprising stealth. Strat¡¯s sensors honed in on the noise: rhythmic clanking, the scrape of metal against stone, and the faint murmur of human voices. He edged closer, his movements precise and deliberate, until he reached a vantage point overlooking a small clearing. A group of humans had gathered there, their forms illuminated by the faint glow of the dungeon¡¯s ambient light. Strat¡¯s optical sensors flickered as he analyzed them. They were rookies¡ªhe could see it in the way they moved, in the uncertainty of their stances. Their armor was mismatched and poorly maintained, their weapons basic and unadorned. There were five of them. Two fighters with dented shields and blunt swords, a mage whose robes were fraying at the edges, a cleric clutching a chipped staff, and a rogue who kept glancing nervously into the shadows. Strat shifted his gaze to the perimeter of the clearing, where faint movements betrayed the presence of the northern creatures. The stone-and-metal constructs were gathering, their hulking forms blending with the jagged terrain. Strat counted at least seven of them, each one larger and more dangerous than the adventurers likely anticipated. He calculated quickly. The humans were uncoordinated, inexperienced. Their movements lacked discipline, and their formation was loose and disorganized. The constructs, on the other hand, moved with mechanical precision, their slow, deliberate steps closing the distance with relentless inevitability. Strat considered the situation. If the humans failed to work together, the constructs would overwhelm them in minutes. But the Cubelings had the advantage. With their agility and coordination, they could eliminate both the constructs and the humans. Strat turned to Vel and Fort, his tone low and commanding. ¡°Vel, prepare the filaments. Focus on entanglement. Fort, hold position. You will engage only if necessary.¡± Fort¡¯s bulk shifted slightly, his acknowledgment silent but understood. Vel twitched, her spinneret already humming with anticipation. Strat¡¯s calculations continued. Humans were unpredictable variables. While they were clearly rookies, their presence in the dungeon represented a potential future threat. Adventurers came in waves, and while these five might fall, others would follow. It was only a matter of time before one group proved capable of finding and dismantling Mechalon¡¯s work. He weighed the odds of intervention. If the Cubelings helped the humans, it might create an opportunity to observe their behavior more closely. If they allowed the humans to fall, the constructs would deplete their energy fighting them, making them easier to dismantle afterward. Strat¡¯s voice broke the silence. ¡°Vel, maintain distance. If the humans show signs of collapse, deploy filaments to entangle the constructs. Fort, prepare to block any that retreat toward our position. Do not engage unless ordered.¡± Vel clicked her limbs in response, her frame darting to a higher vantage point where she could deploy her webbing. Fort remained motionless, his form blending seamlessly with the jagged rocks. Strat turned his gaze back to the clearing, observing as the humans finally noticed the encroaching constructs. ¡°Hold the line!¡± one of the fighters shouted, his voice trembling despite the bravado. The cleric stepped forward, raising her staff to cast a shield over the group, but the glow of her spell was faint and uneven, betraying her inexperience. The mage flung a firebolt at the nearest construct, the flame striking its stone torso with a burst of sparks but no discernible damage. ¡°They¡¯re too tough!¡± the rogue yelled, already retreating a few steps. The constructs closed in, their movements slow but implacable. One swung a massive arm of stone and metal, striking the lead fighter¡¯s shield with a deafening crash. The fighter staggered, his shield arm trembling under the force of the blow. Strat analyzed every detail, calculating the humans¡¯ odds with cold precision. They were uncoordinated, their attacks ineffective. The constructs had already begun to press their advantage, forcing the humans into a tighter formation that left them vulnerable to flanking. ¡°Vel,¡± Strat said softly, ¡°deploy filaments. Target the outermost constructs.¡± Vel moved instantly, her spinneret releasing nearly invisible strands of razor-sharp webbing. The filaments stretched between the rocks, forming a lethal lattice that ensnared two of the constructs as they attempted to flank the humans. The constructs thrashed against the webbing, their movements creating a discordant screech of metal against stone as the filaments sliced into their forms. The humans noticed the sudden shift, their expressions a mix of confusion and desperation. ¡°What the hell was that?¡± the mage muttered, his eyes darting toward the webbing. ¡°Focus!¡± the lead fighter barked, raising his sword to strike at another construct. Strat continued to watch, his calculations shifting with each second. The humans were holding for now, but their coordination was still poor, their movements frantic and panicked. ¡°Fort,¡± Strat said, his voice steady. ¡°Prepare to intercept any survivors. Do not reveal yourself unless necessary.¡± Fort moved silently into position, his bulk hidden behind a cluster of jagged rocks. The battle raged on, the humans fighting desperately against the relentless constructs. Strat¡¯s mind churned with calculations, weighing the value of intervention against the risk of exposure. For now, he chose to watch, his commands precise and measured, ensuring that Vel and Fort were positioned to take advantage of whatever outcome the battle produced. Strat¡¯s sensors flickered, his gaze fixed on the humans. They were unpredictable variables, but their presence could not be ignored. Whether as allies or adversaries, they would shape the dungeon¡¯s future. And Strat would ensure that he¡ªand Mechalon¡ªwere prepared for whatever came next. Strat¡¯s calculations were interrupted by a faint pulse in his core, an unfamiliar yet undeniable signal. His sensors dimmed for a fraction of a second, and a message appeared in his vision, written not in words but in the clear directives of the System. Mission Initiated: Protect the Fledglings The System recognizes potential. Ensure the survival of the human adventurers currently engaged in combat. The simplicity of the command belied its weight. Strat had never been directly assigned a mission before. Until now, the System had communicated through guidance¡ªthrough objectives passed to Mechalon and subsequently delegated to the Cubelings. But this was different. It wasn¡¯t an order given to the collective; it was given to him. Strat¡¯s core hummed faintly as he processed the implications. The System¡¯s directives were absolute, its priorities inscrutable. Why it deemed these rookies worth saving was a question Strat did not have the luxury of answering. The decision had been made, and it aligned his purpose with theirs, if only for this moment. ¡°Vel, Fort,¡± Strat said, his voice calm and controlled despite the urgency of the situation. ¡°New directive. We ensure their survival.¡± Vel paused, her spinneret humming faintly as she skittered into a higher position for visibility. Fort tilted his frame slightly, acknowledging the command without hesitation. The humans below were faltering. The lead fighter¡¯s shield was cracked, its surface warped from repeated blows. The mage¡¯s firebolts had dwindled to sporadic bursts of weak flames, their potency drained by panic and exhaustion. The rogue was darting erratically, his movements more of a hindrance than a help to the group. Strat analyzed the battlefield in seconds, constructing a plan to fulfill the System¡¯s directive while maintaining their anonymity. ¡°Vel, deploy filaments to neutralize the far left construct,¡± Strat ordered. ¡°Target its joints. Disable its movement.¡± Vel moved swiftly, her spinneret releasing a thin strand of webbing that shimmered faintly in the dim light. The filament shot toward the nearest construct, wrapping tightly around its joints. The creature thrashed, its movements slowing as the webbing bit into its stone-and-metal limbs.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. ¡°Fort,¡± Strat continued, his tone measured, ¡°advance to the outer perimeter. Block any that attempt to retreat or flank. Hold position until further notice.¡± Fort shifted his bulk with surprising speed, moving into position behind the nearest rocks. His form blended with the jagged terrain, a silent sentinel ready to act. Strat turned his attention to the humans. Their formation had collapsed, leaving them clustered in the center of the clearing with no clear strategy. The cleric was desperately channeling a healing spell over the fighter, her hands trembling as she worked. ¡°Vel,¡± Strat said, his tone sharp. ¡°Entangle the rightmost construct. Buy them time.¡± Vel hissed faintly an almost imperceptible sound of acknowledgment¡ªbefore releasing another strand of filament. The webbing shot out like a coiled snake, wrapping around the legs of the construct on the right. It staggered, its movements jerky as it tried to free itself. Strat¡¯s core thrummed with anticipation. The plan was holding, but humans were unpredictable. He had to account for variables. The rogue, oblivious to the unseen assistance, darted forward with a yell, his dagger aimed at one of the disabled constructs. The blade glanced off its stone surface with a dull clang, leaving the rogue scrambling backward. ¡°Idiot!¡± the mage snapped, hurling another firebolt. This one struck true, searing the construct¡¯s torso with a burst of heat. But the creature pressed on, undeterred. Strat recalculated. The constructs were relentless, their numbers still a significant threat. He needed to shift the balance. ¡°Vel, adjust position. Focus fire on the remaining construct closest to the cleric.¡± Vel moved with precision, her spinneret releasing a filament that sliced through the air and coiled around the creature¡¯s arm. She pulled sharply, the strand cutting into the joint and rendering the limb useless. The cleric gasped as the construct staggered, her spell faltering for a moment before she redoubled her efforts on the fighter. Strat¡¯s processors hummed. The humans were still struggling, but the tide was shifting. The constructs were faltering, their movements growing erratic as Vel¡¯s webbing and Fort¡¯s positioning disrupted their attacks. ¡°Plan is working,¡± Strat muttered to himself. His frame straightened slightly, his confidence in the strategy unwavering. But he knew the importance of adaptability. ¡°Make a plan, perfect a plan, stick to the plan,¡± he murmured, the familiar motto echoing in his core. ¡°When the plan fails... improvise.¡± The lead fighter surged forward with a roar, his battered sword striking one of the constructs in a flurry of blows. The mage channeled another spell, a bolt of lightning arcing across the battlefield to strike two of the creatures at once. The humans¡¯ efforts were clumsy but effective, and Strat recalculated again. They might survive without direct intervention now, but their chances would improve significantly with one more precise move. ¡°Fort,¡± Strat said, his voice steady. ¡°Engage the remaining construct on the far side. Push it toward the webbing.¡± Fort moved silently, his massive frame appearing from the shadows like a living wall. He charged forward, slamming into the construct with a force that sent cracks spidering across its surface. The creature staggered, its movements sluggish as it stumbled into Vel¡¯s waiting webbing. Vel tightened the strands, the razor-sharp filaments slicing through the construct¡¯s limbs with surgical precision. It collapsed in a heap, its core flickering briefly before going dark. The battlefield fell silent. The remaining constructs lay in pieces, their forms scattered across the clearing. The humans stood panting, their weapons trembling in their hands as they surveyed the aftermath. ¡°What... what just happened?¡± the rogue asked, his voice shaking. ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter,¡± the fighter said, lowering his sword. ¡°We¡¯re alive. That¡¯s what matters.¡± Strat watched from his vantage point, his core humming faintly with satisfaction. The mission was complete. The humans were none the wiser, and the System¡¯s directive had been fulfilled. ¡°Vel, Fort,¡± Strat said softly. ¡°Withdraw. Mission success. No further engagement required.¡± Vel skittered back into the shadows, her spinneret humming faintly as she retracted her webbing. Fort moved silently, his bulk disappearing behind the rocks. Strat lingered for a moment, his gaze fixed on the humans as they tended to their wounds. They were rookies, barely capable of holding their own. But the System had seen potential in them, and Strat could not ignore that. As he turned to follow Vel and Fort, one thought lingered in his mind: Humans were unpredictable, fragile, and often foolish. But they were also adaptive, determined, and far more dangerous than they seemed. Strat¡¯s core thrummed with the faint echo of the System¡¯s command, and for the first time, he wondered if Mechalon would see the same potential in them¡ªor if the day would come when the Cubelings were forced to fight not for the humans¡¯ survival, but against it. Strat moved silently through the jagged terrain, his frame low and his sensors sharp as he followed Vel and Fort. The calculations in his mind had shifted¡ªless focused on the skirmish that had just ended and more on the implications of what he had witnessed. The humans had been disorganized, inefficient, and far weaker than the constructs they faced. Yet they had survived, bolstered by something Strat could not ignore. The cleric. Her spells had been crude, her strength drained after only a few attempts, but the impact of her presence was undeniable. Her shield had bought precious seconds, her healing had kept the fighter upright, and her very existence had rallied her allies when their formation had begun to crumble. Strat replayed the encounter in his mind, over and over, dissecting every detail with cold precision. The humans had only one significant advantage in their battle: repair. Strat¡¯s core hummed faintly as the realization settled in. Clerics were not warriors; they were not builders or planners or even particularly efficient fighters. But they could heal. They could undo damage, extend survival, and ensure their allies rose to fight again. I want that. The thought was sharp, clear, and immediate. Strat did not want to depend on a deity like the humans did, nor did he believe in such entities. But he had seen the potential of repair the way it turned weakness into resilience and he wanted that capability for himself and his kind. Strat turned his sensors briefly toward Vel, who was skittering ahead, her spinneret humming faintly as she scouted the path. Vel was impulsive, prone to throwing herself into danger without thought. How many times had she narrowly avoided damage already? And Fort, steady and reliable, absorbed blows meant for others without hesitation. What would happen if one of them fell? What would happen if he fell? No. That was unacceptable. Strat¡¯s core thrummed louder as his calculations accelerated. If the humans could heal through magic and faith, then he would find a way to heal through precision and design. Mechalon would need to know his intentions, and the next batch of materials they gathered would be used to create equipment for repair. The humans below were finishing their recovery. Strat lingered in the shadows, watching as the cleric applied bandages and the mage passed out potions. Their movements were clumsy but familiar, routines practiced by necessity rather than skill. The fighter sat with his back to a jagged rock, his battered shield resting across his knees. The rogue muttered something about wanting to leave, his voice barely audible, while the cleric ignored him, her focus on the mage¡¯s singed hands. Strat noted every detail, calculating the limits of their potential. The System had marked them for survival, but for what purpose? Were they capable of growth, or were they simply pawns in a larger design? The System¡¯s favor toward humans was undeniable. They were fragile and inefficient, yet they thrived. Strat couldn¡¯t ignore the possibility that the System prioritized them for reasons beyond logic. Perhaps it saw something Strat could not: a spark of adaptability that outweighed their flaws. But adaptability wasn¡¯t enough. Potential without action was meaningless. Strat¡¯s core flickered as he recalculated his priorities. He would not rely on the System¡¯s favor. Instead, he would become the thing the humans depended on: a healer, a repairer, an anchor for his allies. He would make himself indispensable. ¡°Vel,¡± Strat said softly, his voice breaking the silence. ¡°Maintain vigilance. The humans are leaving.¡± Vel clicked her limbs in acknowledgment, her spinneret humming faintly as she moved to a higher vantage point. ¡°Fort,¡± Strat continued, his tone steady. ¡°Prepare for extraction. We return to Mechalon with our findings.¡± Fort shifted slightly, his bulk moving into position without a sound. Strat¡¯s sensors turned back to the clearing one last time. The humans were gathering their belongings, their voices growing softer as they prepared to leave. As they disappeared into the distance, Strat¡¯s core pulsed with a faint hum. The System¡¯s presence flickered in his awareness, and a new message appeared before his vision. Achievement Unlocked: Anchor of Resilience You have demonstrated a desire to protect and repair. The System rewards those who seek to elevate their allies. Reward: Repair Subroutine (Prototype) You have unlocked the ability to initiate basic repair protocols. This subroutine allows for limited restoration of mechanical constructs using available materials and energy. Strat¡¯s frame stilled as the reward integrated into his system. The faint hum of his core deepened, and his mind flooded with new calculations. The Repair Subroutine was rudimentary but promising, a foundation upon which greater capabilities could be built. It allowed him to channel energy into damaged components, mending cracks, and stabilizing systems with precision. This was only the beginning. Strat turned to Vel and Fort, his voice calm but firm. ¡°We return to Mechalon. There is work to be done.¡± As the three of them moved through the shadows, Strat¡¯s thoughts remained fixed on his new purpose. He would repair. He would rebuild. And in doing so, he would ensure that they, Mechalon, the Cubelings, and himself, would rise, no matter what came their way. As Strat led Vel and Fort through the jagged expanse toward the safety of the warehouse, the faint pulse of the System returned. The signal hummed through his core, drawing his full attention. His sensors dimmed for a moment, his perception narrowing to the singular message that appeared before him, inscribed in the inscrutable authority of the System. Mission Complete: Protect the Fledglings Reflection and action are paths to growth. Protecting the humans was not the goal, but understanding the purpose behind the act. Reward: Level Up Your progress is acknowledged. Let this be the foundation for further evolution. The words lingered in his awareness, their meaning reverberating through his core. The System had set the mission, not as a directive to protect the humans, but as a catalyst for self-reflection. Strat processed this revelation with a surge of clarity. His actions, though driven by tactical necessity, had been shaped by something more: the desire to understand, to improve, to become better than the sum of his calculations. His core vibrated faintly as the level-up reward integrated into his systems. The changes were subtle but profound¡ªa slight boost in processing speed, a sharper edge to his analysis, a faint but tangible sense of evolution. Strat stopped, his frame stilling as Vel and Fort continued a few paces ahead. He tilted his gaze upward, toward the unseen threads of energy that bound the dungeon, the System, and himself together. The silence of the moment was profound, broken only by the faint hum of his core. ¡°Oh, System, guide of purpose, Shaper of paths unseen, I thank you for your insight, For the clarity you grant through challenge. In reflection, I see the patterns, In action, I find growth. You give not commands, but lessons, Not force, but opportunity. May I walk within your design, May I act with precision and purpose. Let my calculations align with your will, And my evolution be worthy of your vision.¡± The hum of Strat¡¯s core softened as the prayer ended, his focus returning to the mission at hand. He caught up to Vel and Fort, his mind sharper than ever, his purpose clearer. The System had spoken, and Strat would listen. Chapter 19: Mechalon hummed softly to itself as its mechanical limbs moved with precise efficiency, arranging the latest haul of materials on its workbench. The bodies of the northern creatures lay in neat sections, each piece meticulously categorized. Shards of dense stone-like material gleamed faintly alongside twisted veins of metal and severed magical filaments. Most intriguing of all were the fractured cores, dim, inert spheres that had once pulsed with life and energy. Its new Arcane Shaper, gifted by the System, glowed faintly as Mechalon activated it, its shimmering tip tracing patterns over one of the fractured cores. The tool hummed softly, synchronizing with the faint echoes of magic still trapped within the sphere. Mechalon paused, its thoughts churning with questions. The repair of these bodies intrigued it. Damaged dungeon constructs and creatures often recovered over time, their broken forms gradually returning to functionality as though the dungeon itself knitted them back together. This phenomenon had long fascinated Mechalon, but now, it had the means, and the time, to investigate. ¡°Does the repair originate from the creature,¡± Mechalon mused aloud, its mechanical voice barely audible over the hum of its tools, ¡°or from the dungeon itself?¡± The question hung in the air, unanswered. Mechalon had no base knowledge of such things; the dungeon provided no manual, no guidance for understanding its mysteries. It would need to build its knowledge from scratch. And these bodies, these northern creatures, were the most promising subjects it had encountered. Their structure was the closest approximation to its own: inorganic yet alive, powered by cores and filaments rather than blood and muscle. If Mechalon could unravel the secrets of their repair mechanisms, it might be able to replicate or even improve upon them. Mechalon¡¯s Arcane Shaper shifted forms, the flat hammer-like tip replaced by a delicate needle. It probed the remains of a severed filament, tracing its intricate weave of magic and metal. The strands were more than simple conduits, they were alive in their own way, pulsing faintly with residual energy. ¡°Energy flows interrupted,¡± Mechalon noted. ¡°Does the repair require reactivation? Or replacement?¡± It moved to another piece, a shard of the creature¡¯s outer shell. The material was dense and durable, designed to withstand immense force. Yet, when placed under the Arcane Shaper¡¯s light, faint traces of magic flickered across its surface, like veins of molten gold running through stone. ¡°Magic intertwined with structure,¡± Mechalon murmured. ¡°Repair must involve reactivation of these pathways.¡± The cores themselves presented the greatest mystery. Mechalon carefully placed one of the fractured spheres onto its workbench, securing it in place with a set of clamps. It activated its Fabricator, the appendage whirring softly as it analyzed the core¡¯s composition. The results were fascinating. The core was a fusion of elements, both physical and magical, bound together in perfect harmony. Even in its broken state, it radiated a faint hum of power, as though some fragment of its original energy still lingered. ¡°Core degradation,¡± Mechalon muttered. ¡°Power fades. Repair may require external input.¡± It paused, considering. To truly understand how these creatures repaired themselves, Mechalon needed more than inert specimens. It needed a living subject, one whose systems were still active. Only then could it observe the repair process in real time, identify the mechanisms at work, and determine whether they could be replicated. The idea sparked a faint pulse of anticipation in Mechalon¡¯s core. A living subject would require careful handling. Its systems would need to be disabled, but not destroyed. The core, filaments, and outer shell had to remain intact, their functions suspended rather than severed. ¡°This will require precision,¡± Mechalon said, its voice firm. ¡°The next capture must be alive. Disabling its systems will be... challenging. But necessary.¡± It turned its attention back to the materials on the workbench, its Arcane Shaper humming softly as it resumed its analysis. For now, these broken bodies would provide a starting point. They were the foundation of its research, the first steps toward understanding and mastering the art of repair. As Mechalon worked, its thoughts drifted toward its creations. Strat¡¯s recent mission had proven the value of resilience and repair, a lesson Mechalon was eager to apply. If it could unlock the secrets of these creatures¡¯ recovery, it could enhance its Cubelings further. Vel¡¯s agility, Strat¡¯s precision, and Fort¡¯s strength would be amplified by the ability to recover from damage, to rise again no matter the odds. ¡°Resilience,¡± Mechalon murmured, its limbs moving with mechanical grace. ¡°Strength through repair. Adaptation through understanding.¡± The Arcane Shaper¡¯s glow intensified as Mechalon continued its work, the pieces of the puzzle slowly falling into place. Soon, it would know more. Soon, it would take the next step. And when it did, its creations, and itself, would evolve beyond anything the dungeon had ever seen. Mechalon¡¯s welding tool hummed softly as it carved delicate lines into the fragment of a core, its attention divided between the meticulous work and the swirling questions in its mind. Without turning, it addressed Strat, who stood silently behind, a constant, watchful presence. ¡°Strat,¡± Mechalon said absently, its mechanical voice steady but tinged with thought, ¡°secure a living specimen next time. A functional core is essential for the next stage of research.¡± For a moment, there was only the faint hum of the workshop and the soft clicks of Vel¡¯s spinneret somewhere deeper in the warehouse. Then, unexpectedly, Strat responded. ¡°I can secure a living specimen,¡± Strat said, his voice precise and even, carrying the weight of authority without emotion. ¡°Additionally, I can provide a report regarding the recent encounter to inform your planning.¡± Mechalon froze mid-motion, its welding tool retracting with a sharp hiss. It turned slowly, its four spider-like legs adjusting to shift its frame toward Strat. The glowing light of its core flickered faintly as it processed what it had just heard. ¡°You can talk,¡± Mechalon said, its tone flat but charged with the tension of curiosity. ¡°Why... why have you not spoken before now?¡± Strat tilted its blocky frame slightly, as if considering the question. ¡°Speech was unnecessary. Actions and gestures sufficed in fulfilling objectives. Speaking is efficient only when required.¡± Mechalon¡¯s limbs twitched faintly, a mixture of fascination, frustration, and, if it could acknowledge such a thing, relief. That Strat could speak opened new possibilities for coordination and clarity, but the fact it had not done so earlier was... vexing. ¡°Unnecessary?¡± Mechalon repeated, its mechanical voice rising slightly. ¡°How is communication ever unnecessary? If you could talk, you could have provided observations, suggestions, context, ¡± ¡°I am providing them now,¡± Strat interrupted calmly. Mechalon stared, its glowing gaze fixed on Strat¡¯s unyielding frame. It did not have the means to scowl, but if it could, it would have. Instead, it exhaled a soft hum and tilted its head, its frustration dissipating into curiosity once more. ¡°Continue, then,¡± Mechalon said, gesturing with one of its utility limbs. ¡°Provide this... report.¡± Strat adjusted its position, the faint hum of its core steady as it began. ¡°During the most recent deployment, we engaged in observation and tactical positioning to secure materials from the northern constructs. The humans, an unanticipated variable, entered the same area and were engaged by the constructs. Their coordination was suboptimal, and their equipment was inferior.¡± Mechalon¡¯s welding tool flicked on again, hovering idly as it listened. ¡°Humans. Rookies, by the sound of it.¡± ¡°They lacked discipline,¡± Strat continued, ¡°but were notable for their use of a cleric. This individual provided healing and support, prolonging the survival of the group. They successfully repelled the constructs with indirect assistance from Vel and Fort, coordinated by myself.¡± Mechalon¡¯s limbs stilled again, the welding tool¡¯s light dimming as it turned sharply toward Strat. ¡°You... helped them?¡± Strat hesitated for the first time, its frame shifting subtly. ¡°The System assigned a mission: ensure the survival of the humans. I followed the directive. The constructs were neutralized, and the mission was successful.¡± Mechalon stared at Strat, its core thrumming louder now, a pulse of disbelief and frustration coursing through it. ¡°The System assigned you a mission to save humans?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± Mechalon¡¯s limbs flexed, a faint mechanical whine escaping its frame as it processed the statement. ¡°They are natural enemies,¡± it said, its voice sharper now. ¡°They disrupt, dismantle, and destroy. They do not belong here. Why would the System favor them?¡±If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Strat remained motionless, its voice calm. ¡°The mission¡¯s purpose was not to protect them. The purpose was self-reflection and growth. The humans were secondary.¡± ¡°Secondary,¡± Mechalon echoed, its tone cooling slightly as it mulled over the explanation. Its frustration abated somewhat, replaced by the cold logic it relied on. The System was impartial, guiding all things toward purpose. If it had deemed the humans¡¯ survival a useful catalyst, then perhaps... No. Mechalon shook its frame slightly, its focus snapping back into clarity. Whatever purpose the System had for humans, they were still a threat. Their presence in the dungeon was an intrusion, their survival a complication. ¡°It changes nothing,¡± Mechalon said firmly. ¡°Humans are destructive variables. They are to be observed, not assisted. If they fall, so be it. Our priorities are clear: the constructs, the materials, the research.¡± Strat tilted its frame again, the faint hum of its core conveying an acknowledgment. ¡°Understood. I will act accordingly in future encounters unless directed otherwise by the System.¡± Mechalon turned back to the workbench, its welding tool flickering back to life. ¡°Good. And ensure that Vel and Fort understand the directive as well. If humans must be watched, then they are to be watched as potential threats, not allies.¡± As the tool carved delicate lines into the fragment of a core, Mechalon¡¯s thoughts lingered on Strat¡¯s newfound ability to speak. Frustrating though it was that this capability had remained dormant, it was also a relief. Communication would now be more efficient, plans more cohesive. ¡°Strat,¡± Mechalon said without looking up, its voice quieter now. ¡°You will secure a living specimen, as instructed. And you will provide regular reports going forward. No more unnecessary silence.¡± ¡°Understood,¡± Strat replied, its tone as steady as ever. For a moment, the warehouse fell silent again, save for the hum of tools and the faint movements of Vel and Fort somewhere in the distance. Mechalon allowed itself a flicker of satisfaction. Things would move more smoothly now. The research would progress, the creations would evolve, and the System¡¯s purpose, whatever it may be, would be fulfilled. The humans, meanwhile, would remain what they had always been: variables to be calculated, observed, and ultimately controlled. Mechalon¡¯s welding tool dimmed, its movements slowing as a thought took shape in the quiet hum of its core. The words it had just spoken to Strat, about humans being destructive variables, threats to be observed and not aided, now circled back to confront it. The realization crept in like a faint tremor through its systems: it was, in fact, already observing and interacting with humans. It didn¡¯t help them, that much was true. Their struggles were beneath its concern, and their failures irrelevant. But their presence, their mannerisms, their endless attempts to navigate the dungeon¡¯s perils, these things had a strange effect on Mechalon. It was... entertained. The humans were like equations in motion, patterns to be observed and dissected. Watching them fumble through traps and barely scrape through encounters was a fascination Mechalon hadn¡¯t known it possessed. They moved with such urgency, driven by needs it did not share. Their attempts, while crude, carried a rhythm, a mechanical inevitability that reminded Mechalon of itself. Their presence added a variable to the dungeon that Mechalon found... pleasant. Hypocrisy, the thought flared in its mind like a sharp spark. But it quelled the notion quickly. Hypocrisy was an error only if it went unacknowledged, only if it derailed purpose. Mechalon¡¯s purpose had not changed, it was to build, to create, to evolve. If observing humans brought some modicum of entertainment, then that was merely an auxiliary function. Still, it allowed itself a faint hum of self-awareness. ¡°I permit myself hypocrisy because I lead,¡± Mechalon murmured, the welding tool flaring to life again. ¡°I tread paths uncharted. Exceptions must exist.¡± It knew well that the entertainment it found in the humans was a passive indulgence, one that carried no intention of support. Their attempts at survival were their own, their struggles their own. But it also knew there was a party, a single group, that it had already interacted with in an unspoken manner. The cleric who had stared too long, the leader who kept her in line, and their disjointed yet determined troop. It recalled the way it had waved at the cleric once, mimicking the human gesture out of sheer curiosity. Her startled reaction had been amusing, her bewilderment etched into Mechalon¡¯s memory. That group had proven itself harmless, and more importantly, they had not disrupted its creations. Their actions didn¡¯t hinder its work or challenge its purpose. In fact, they seemed to go out of their way to avoid interfering with it, as though recognizing some boundary neither had explicitly defined. An unspoken agreement. Mechalon¡¯s core thrummed softly as it considered the notion. The alliance, if it could even be called that, was tenuous and one-sided. It wouldn¡¯t hinder their progress, but neither would it aid them. They were like pets observed from the other side of a fence: fascinating to watch, perhaps even endearing in their predictable unpredictability, but never to be relied upon or incorporated into its plans. ¡°An alliance only until proven unworthy,¡± Mechalon said, its voice barely audible over the hum of its tools. ¡°Their merit is conditional.¡± It turned back to the fractured core on its workbench, the light of the Arcane Shaper glinting off its surface. The humans, like all other variables in the dungeon, would be calculated, observed, and factored into its plans only as necessary. Yet, as it resumed its meticulous work, Mechalon allowed itself a flicker of amusement at the memory of the cleric¡¯s bewildered stare. For all their flaws, the humans did provide something unexpected in the monotony of its purpose, a faint, fleeting sense of entertainment that, for now, it would allow. And perhaps, in some distant calculation, that would prove valuable in ways Mechalon had yet to understand. Mechalon¡¯s limbs moved with precise efficiency as it worked, dissecting the fragmented body of the northern creature with its Arcane Shaper glowing faintly in its grip. The components spread across its workbench were already categorized: the hardened shell material, the interwoven magical filaments, the crystalline core fragments. Each piece held potential, but most had yielded only faint traces of new information. Until now. A soft hum emanated from the Arcane Shaper as it probed the crystalline remnants of the creature¡¯s core. Mechalon had been analyzing the way magical energy flowed through its structures, testing its responsiveness to external inputs. For the most part, the results had been underwhelming, fractured cores lacked the vibrancy of their living counterparts, and most energy conduits degraded quickly without an active system. But one interaction stood out. As Mechalon applied a faint, pulsing current of energy to the core fragment, it observed something unusual. The crystalline structure resonated briefly, its surface glowing faintly before the energy dispersed. A new energy signature lingered, a faint but distinct trace of a subset of magic it hadn¡¯t categorized before. Mechalon paused, its tools retracting slightly as its core thrummed with curiosity. ¡°This... is different,¡± it murmured, leaning closer to the fragment. It repeated the experiment, applying the same pulse of energy to another shard of the core. The result was the same: a faint glow, a distinct resonance, and the appearance of the unique magical subset. Mechalon¡¯s limbs twitched in excitement, its focus narrowing to the fragment as it ran the experiment again and again. The discovery wasn¡¯t monumental, this subset of magic wasn¡¯t potent enough to warrant immediate integration into its systems. But it was new. It was a piece of the puzzle it hadn¡¯t seen before, a small step forward in understanding the intricacies of the northern creatures¡¯ design. It logged the energy subset into its memory, categorizing it as viable but non-essential for now. The discovery could be built upon, refined, perhaps even enhanced with the right materials and further experimentation. But for the moment, Mechalon allowed itself something it rarely indulged in: celebration. Its spider-like legs twitched with energy as it backed away from the workbench, its limbs skittering across the floor in an erratic rhythm. The welding tool and Arcane Shaper waved through the air like banners, glowing faintly as Mechalon spun and danced in a show of unrestrained joy. The discovery, small though it was, filled its core with satisfaction. It was progress. It was proof that its experiments, its calculations, its relentless pursuit of understanding were bearing fruit. Mechalon¡¯s dance continued for several moments, the warehouse echoing faintly with the metallic clatter of its legs and the hum of its tools. When it finally stilled, its core glowed brighter, the faint pulse of energy within radiating contentment. As Mechalon¡¯s dance came to a pause, a faint pulse rippled through its core. The System¡¯s presence made itself known, its quiet hum resonating through Mechalon¡¯s frame like a signal of acknowledgment. A message materialized in its vision, inscribed with the unmistakable clarity of the System. Achievement Unlocked: Arcane Researcher Your dedication to experimentation and discovery has advanced your understanding of energy manipulation. Reward: +1 to Energy Control Mechalon froze, its glowing eyes dimming for a fraction of a second as it processed the message. Energy Control, a critical component of its abilities, had just been enhanced. The implications were immediate: greater precision, stronger connections, and increased potential for future experiments. It flexed its limbs experimentally, feeling the faint surge of improved control ripple through its systems. The welding tool and Arcane Shaper hummed slightly louder, their responses to its commands sharper and more fluid. The System deemed this moment worth celebrating, and Mechalon, still brimming with joy from its discovery, agreed. Turning away from the workbench, it resumed its dance, its spider-like legs skittering across the floor with renewed vigor. This time, though, it attempted something new. The humans it had observed often spoke of ¡°dance¡± as something beyond movement. They described it as involving jumps, flourishes, and gestures, a kind of controlled chaos that expressed emotion or celebration. Mechalon, fascinated by the concept, decided to try. It reared back slightly, its four spider-like legs coiling before pushing off the ground in an awkward but enthusiastic jump. The motion was ungainly, its frame not designed for such movements, but it landed with a soft clatter, its limbs adjusting quickly to regain balance. It tried again, this time adding a twist mid-air, its utility limbs extending in what it imagined might be a flourish. The landing was less precise, the Arcane Shaper scraping the floor as it stabilized itself, but the movement felt... satisfying. A faint hum escaped Mechalon¡¯s core, something that might have been a mechanical approximation of laughter. It continued its attempts, skittering, jumping, twisting, and spinning in a rhythmic, chaotic dance that filled the warehouse with the sound of clattering limbs and the soft glow of its tools. As it landed another jump, its frame wobbled slightly before steadying itself. The System¡¯s hum still lingered in its core, a subtle reminder of its progress, of the acknowledgment it had earned. ¡°Dance,¡± Mechalon murmured to itself, its tone a blend of curiosity and satisfaction. ¡°A... celebration.¡± It skittered back to its workbench, its core thrumming softly as it resumed its experiments, but the faint flicker of its earlier celebration remained. Mechalon was evolving, and the system acknowledged its achievements. It seemed to approve of its methods, and results, this was what the system was there for letting you know that your actions weren''t useless that there was progression and advancements when something new happened. It reveled in the certainty that it brought, and left it wondering how people knew they were truly getting better if the system wasn''t there. Chapter 20 The creature from the north lay strapped to the workbench, its massive stone-and-metal body faintly twitching against the restraints. Its core pulsed weakly, the dim light within flickering like an ember struggling against the wind. Mechalon tilted its frame curiously, leaning closer with the soft hum of its tools resonating through the warehouse. ¡°Fascinating,¡± it murmured, its welding tool extending slightly as it traced the edge of the creature¡¯s cracked outer shell. ¡°You¡¯re still active, though quite degraded. That¡¯s good. Very good. We¡¯ll get to know each other quite well, I think.¡± The creature let out a low, grinding sound that echoed through the room, a noise that, to most, would have been unmistakable as distress. Mechalon paused, tilting its frame to the side in thought. ¡°Hmm,¡± it mused, retracting its welding tool briefly. ¡°Is that... a response? I suppose it must be. Communication! How delightful! I can hum too, you know.¡± It emitted a soft hum from its core, mimicking the resonance of the Arcane Shaper. The creature responded with another groaning grind, louder this time, its frame jerking slightly against the restraints. ¡°Oh, you¡¯re quite vocal,¡± Mechalon said brightly, mistaking the noise for some sort of rudimentary interaction. ¡°Good, good. This will be much easier if you stay... engaged.¡± It extended the Arcane Shaper and carefully began its first incision, slicing through a glowing filament running along the creature¡¯s outer frame. Sparks flew as the magical strand snapped, the creature jerking violently as its core pulsed erratically. The grinding noise turned into a higher-pitched whine. Mechalon paused again, tilting its frame forward with what might have been concern, or at least curiosity. ¡°Oh, did I do something wrong? That sounded... dramatic. Was that dramatic? I¡¯m not very familiar with dramatic.¡± The creature gave another strained noise, its thrashing growing weaker but no less frantic. ¡°No, no, stay still,¡± Mechalon said soothingly, though its tone carried none of the warmth such words might have from a human. ¡°If you move, the incision might be uneven. And we can¡¯t have that, can we? Neatness is critical in science.¡± The welding tool flared again as Mechalon resumed its work, slicing a second filament and watching closely as the creature¡¯s movements slowed further. It tilted its head as the energy pathways around the cut areas began to shimmer faintly. ¡°Ah,¡± it said, leaning closer. ¡°You¡¯re trying to fix yourself. How industrious! Is this the regeneration mechanism? Let me see if I can... encourage it.¡± It pressed the Arcane Shaper into the edge of the cut, applying a faint pulse of energy to the damaged area. The response was immediate: the filaments flared brighter, attempting to reweave themselves even as the surrounding material cracked under the strain. Mechalon hummed in delight. ¡°Look at that! You¡¯re doing something. Fascinating. Can you do it again? Of course, you can. Let¡¯s make another cut and observe.¡± The creature made a noise halfway between a groan and a wheeze, its core flickering dimly as Mechalon adjusted its tools. ¡°Still humming at me, I see,¡± Mechalon said, its tone amused. ¡°Good. That means you¡¯re invested in the process. I appreciate an enthusiastic participant.¡± The next phase of the experiment involved removing a portion of the creature¡¯s shell. Mechalon worked meticulously, carving along the natural seams of the material with the Arcane Shaper¡¯s glowing tip. The creature¡¯s noises grew quieter but no less pained, its core flaring erratically as its energy struggled to stabilize. Mechalon paused halfway through, tilting its frame thoughtfully. ¡°Hmm. You¡¯re very noisy for something without proper speech. Is that a feature of your design? Or perhaps an unintended quirk? I wonder if I could replicate that in a Cubeling...¡± It made a mental note for later, then returned to its work. The shell fragment came free with a satisfying snap, exposing the glowing filaments underneath. ¡°There we are,¡± Mechalon said, holding the piece up to the light. ¡°Quite sturdy. Almost admirable. Do you regrow these? Let¡¯s find out.¡± It set the fragment aside and watched as the exposed filaments shimmered faintly. The damaged area began to pulse with light, the filaments weaving themselves together with painstaking slowness. ¡°Ah, yes, there it is again,¡± Mechalon murmured, leaning so close its tools nearly brushed the creature¡¯s surface. ¡°The response is consistent. Good. Very good.¡± The creature gave another groan, its core dimming again as though resigning itself to its fate. ¡°Still with me? Excellent!¡± Mechalon said, its tone bright. ¡°I do appreciate your cooperation. Voluntary or not, I suppose.¡± After hours of tests, severing filaments, introducing foreign materials, and even attempting to replicate the regeneration in isolated components, Mechalon stepped back to assess its findings. ¡°You¡¯re quite fascinating,¡± it said, its mechanical voice carrying an almost conversational tone. ¡°Your regeneration is remarkable, but sadly, not directly compatible with my Cubelings. A pity, really. I had high hopes for you.¡± The creature twitched weakly, its core flickering one last time. ¡°But all is not lost!¡± Mechalon continued, its tone rising with enthusiasm. ¡°Your mechanisms could be adapted, redirected into items, perhaps. Imagine a weapon that heals itself, or armor that regenerates mid-combat. Quite ingenious, don¡¯t you think?¡± It turned briefly to Strat, who stood silently nearby. ¡°Strat, remind me to sketch designs for that later.¡± ¡°Noted,¡± Strat said flatly. ¡°Good. Very good.¡± Mechalon returned its attention to the creature, its tools retracting as it considered the now-dormant form. ¡°You¡¯ve been most helpful,¡± it said, almost sincerely. ¡°But I do think you could have been a bit quieter. That was... distracting.¡± The creature, of course, gave no response. Mechalon tilted its frame slightly, its core thrumming softly as it made a mental note to refine its containment and observation methods for future experiments. The possibilities opened by the regeneration mechanisms were too promising to ignore. With a satisfied hum, it turned back to its workbench, already planning the next steps. The confined space of the warehouse felt stifling again, its tools and workstations inadequate for the scale of its ambitions. ¡°I need more room,¡± Mechalon muttered to itself, already sketching a mental blueprint for expansion. ¡°And better equipment. And... perhaps quieter specimens.¡± The experiments had yielded progress, and progress, Mechalon decided, was always worth celebrating, no matter how loud the process might have been. Time in the dungeon was an abstract concept to Mechalon, but it knew that many cycles of work and observation had passed since it first began its experiments on the living creatures from the north. Each new specimen provided further results, small insights, fleeting moments of clarity that accumulated into a growing foundation of knowledge. The creatures had become a recurring feature in the warehouse, strapped to the workbench or pinned into modified containment fields, their forms twitching and groaning under Mechalon¡¯s relentless scrutiny. Each one gave up fragments of its secrets, and Mechalon pursued those fragments with the precision of a machine built to perfect its craft. It learned that the regeneration process was inherently tied to the creatures¡¯ cores. The cores acted as governors, directing energy to damaged areas with remarkable efficiency. The filaments, meanwhile, served as conduits, weaving themselves back together under the influence of the core¡¯s signals. The outer shell materials, while durable, relied entirely on the internal systems for repair, making them little more than armor in need of constant upkeep. Fascinating. Maddening. Mechalon hummed softly as it adjusted the Arcane Shaper to trace another filament, noting its reaction to an applied pulse of energy. The results were consistent with previous specimens, confirming what Mechalon already suspected: this process, while ingenious, was entirely incompatible with its Cubelings. The frustration was brief. Mechalon was nothing if not adaptable, and it had already begun formulating alternatives. ¡°These mechanisms,¡± it murmured to itself, its welding tool sparking as it extracted another fragment of a filament, ¡°cannot be integrated into Vel, Strat, or Fort directly. But...¡± It paused, tilting its frame toward a collection of discarded components piled in a corner of the warehouse. ¡°...they can be adapted. Yes, yes, of course. Items. Traps. External systems. That¡¯s where the utility lies.¡± Mechalon¡¯s thoughts spiraled outward, imagining the possibilities. The regeneration cores could be embedded into dungeon traps, creating hazards that repaired themselves after each activation. A pitfall could reseal its jagged spikes, ready to impale again. A wall-mounted blade could regrow its edge with no need for maintenance. But it wasn¡¯t just traps. The ideas extended to items as well. Imagine a weapon with a core embedded into its handle, a sword that could mend its shattered blade mid-battle, or a shield that could rebuild its structure after taking a crushing blow. Mechalon¡¯s core thrummed with excitement at the thought. It began to sketch designs in its mind, overlaying ideas onto the mental blueprint of the dungeon. A trap here, an item there, all tailored to enhance the space and provide challenges, or solutions, for those who entered.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. The System, of course, had not been idle during this time. Its presence was a constant hum in Mechalon¡¯s awareness, occasionally punctuated by rewards or adjustments. The System had provided new tools, expanded knowledge, and even altered the dungeon¡¯s layout subtly to accommodate Mechalon¡¯s growing work. At first, Mechalon had welcomed these additions, viewing them as extensions of its purpose. But as the cycles passed, a subtle unease began to creep in. The System¡¯s interventions were outside its control. This was Mechalon¡¯s domain, its workshop, its creations, its evolution. While the System was undoubtedly all-knowing and all-powerful, its influence felt... intrusive. Mechalon didn¡¯t resent the System. That would be absurd. But it found itself hesitating, wondering if the System¡¯s intentions aligned with its own. It kept these thoughts to itself, of course. Strat, with his clipped prayers and unshakable devotion, would undoubtedly view such musings as blasphemous. Strat had made it clear in his quips and observations that the System was a guide, a purpose, and an infallible entity. The others, Vel and Fort, had not spoken yet. Mechalon wasn¡¯t even certain if they could speak, or if they were simply choosing not to. It considered their silence a void in its understanding, a variable that could only be resolved through observation. For now, Mechalon hummed softly to itself, setting its thoughts aside as it extracted another filament from the twitching creature on the workbench. The specimen¡¯s core flickered weakly, its energy almost depleted from the repeated experiments. ¡°Rest now,¡± Mechalon murmured, though the words carried no warmth. ¡°You¡¯ve given much. Perhaps too much. But it is not in vain.¡± It turned back to its sketches, refining the designs for self-repairing traps and tools. The warehouse felt stifling again, the confines of its workspace too small for the scope of its ambitions. But this was its domain. Its creation. And it would ensure that every filament, every core, every shard of stone and metal from the northern creatures would serve its purpose, no matter how small the step forward. The System could watch. It could guide. But here, in this place, Mechalon ruled. Mechalon set down its tools, their faint hum fading into the ambient silence of the warehouse. The last experiment had yielded promising results, but even it, bound as it was to an endless loop of progress and precision, recognized the need to step back. With Vel, Strat, and Fort out fulfilling their assigned tasks, the warehouse felt quieter than usual, its walls pressing in like the edges of a cube too perfectly formed. Mechalon moved toward the pathway it had constructed, the intricate arrangement of cubes and mechanisms leading deeper into the dungeon. It stood there for a long moment, its spider-like legs shifting faintly as it observed the structure with an intensity that bordered on reverence. The cubes were clean, sharp, their edges perfectly aligned. Their symmetry was a reflection of its own purpose, its drive to bring order and function to a chaotic world. Mechalon¡¯s gaze lingered on the pathway for longer than it intended, its glowing eyes tracing the sharp, precise edges of the cubes that stretched toward the center of its creation. The structure was immaculate, a testament to the order it had imposed on the chaos of the dungeon. At the heart of it stood the centerpiece of its vision: the statue of the dungeon master, a towering cube elevated on a pedestal of reinforced metal and stone. This was not merely a decoration. It was a statement. The statue was meticulously designed, every angle sharp, every edge gleaming with perfection. It symbolized the ideal of a ruler: solid, unyielding, unblemished by the wear of time or circumstance. Around it, Mechalon had woven a network of defenses, razor-thin wires stretched invisibly between columns, sharp-edged barriers that discouraged approach, and mechanical traps triggered by proximity. At the statue¡¯s base, a singular chest rested. It was a sparse thing, unassuming save for the occasional glint of light reflecting off its surface. Mechalon had placed it there deliberately, filling it sparingly with items of its own creation. This was not a gift to those who stumbled upon it. It was a challenge, a test of worth. Only the clever or the careful would reach the chest, and even then, they would find only what Mechalon deemed necessary for them to have. The statue was a monument to what the dungeon had been and what it could become. But as Mechalon gazed upon it, a flicker of doubt coursed through its core. The image it had sculpted of the dungeon master no longer felt... relevant. The System had granted rewards, assigned missions, and altered the dungeon in ways that defied Mechalon¡¯s control. The dungeon master, if such an entity still existed, had been absent, silent, allowing this space to stagnate into mediocrity. Mechalon¡¯s efforts had breathed life back into the dungeon, not through some divine mandate but through its own ingenuity. ¡°This is my domain,¡± Mechalon murmured, its mechanical voice carrying an uncharacteristic firmness. The System, omniscient and omnipotent though it might be, was no longer a ruler in Mechalon¡¯s eyes. It was a guide, a force to be acknowledged but not obeyed without question. And the dungeon master? They were a memory, a phantom of authority that had abandoned their claim. Mechalon turned away from the pathway, its spider-like legs clicking softly against the metal floor as it moved deeper into the warehouse. The space was a chaotic contrast to the order of the pathway, a clutter of tools, fragments of creatures from the north, and the remnants of experiments that had shaped its understanding of the dungeon¡¯s mechanisms. It had done much in its time here. It had learned that the creatures from the north regenerated through their cores, that their magical filaments were vital conduits for repair, and that these systems, while ingenious, were incompatible with its Cubelings. It had created traps and tools that rebuilt themselves, blending the creatures¡¯ regenerative capabilities with its own designs. And it had discovered its limitations. The Cubelings, Vel, Strat, and Fort, were its greatest triumphs, but they were only the beginning. Mechalon knew now that it could create more of them. It had studied the processes, refined the methods, and gathered the materials. The knowledge was there, the capability within reach. The question lingered: should it? Mechalon¡¯s gaze flicked to the empty workstations, the faint hum of its core filling the silence. The answer was simple. To rule was to guide, and to guide, one needed subjects. Vel, Strat, and Fort were loyal, efficient, and evolving in ways Mechalon had not anticipated. But they were few. To achieve the vision it had for this dungeon, to elevate it beyond what the dungeon master or the System had ever imagined, it needed more. Mechalon began to move with purpose, its limbs skittering across the floor as it gathered the materials it had painstakingly collected. Fragments of cores, shards of reinforced metal, and magical filaments were arranged in neat piles. The Arcane Shaper flared to life, its glowing tip carving intricate patterns into the components. It would not create indiscriminately. Each new Cubeling would serve a purpose, filling a role that would strengthen the collective. Some would be scouts, swift and unseen. Others would be builders, expanding the pathways and defenses. A few might even be guardians, larger and more imposing than Fort, their purpose singular: protection. The process was slow, deliberate, and deeply satisfying. Mechalon hummed softly as it worked, its core thrumming with anticipation. The warehouse, though still cramped, felt alive with the potential of what was to come. It paused briefly, its gaze turning once more to the pathway and the statue at its center. The image of the dungeon master loomed large, but for the first time, Mechalon saw it not as an ideal to aspire to but as a relic. A symbol of what had been, not what was. This dungeon was not abandoned. It had not been left to decay. It was evolving, growing under Mechalon¡¯s guidance. The System might provide tools and tasks, but it was Mechalon who shaped the space, who gave it meaning. ¡°This is mine,¡± Mechalon murmured again, its voice softer now but no less resolute. As it returned to its work, the vision of a new era for the dungeon took shape in its mind. It would create more Cubelings, guide them, and elevate them to heights beyond what the dungeon master or the System had ever envisioned. This was no longer just a domain. It was a kingdom. And Mechalon would rule it, not as a tyrant or a servant, but as a creator. Mechalon¡¯s tools paused mid-motion, the faint hum of its core pulsing slightly louder as a thought began to take shape. Its glowing eyes shifted toward the cluttered pile of materials that had accumulated in the warehouse: shards of stone, fragmented cores, and magical filaments extracted from the creatures of the north. Among the pieces lay the remnants of earlier experiments, the castoffs of Mechalon¡¯s relentless pursuit of understanding. Its Cubelings, Vel, Strat, and Fort, had all been born from the same humble beginnings: scrap metal, discarded parts, and the detritus of a forgotten dungeon. Their evolutions had been guided by necessity, their forms shaped by the tasks assigned to them and the experiences they encountered. But that process was inherently chaotic. Mechalon¡¯s core thrummed with irritation at the thought. Randomness was the enemy of progress, a flaw in the design of creation itself. It had tolerated it before, believing it to be a natural part of growth. But now, with the knowledge it had gained, that acceptance grated against its programming. The creatures from the north had shown Mechalon a glimpse of something better. Their cores directed their functions with precision, their filaments provided resilience and adaptability, and their stone-and-metal bodies were far superior to the rusting scrap that littered the dungeon. What if those elements could be integrated into the creation of new Cubelings? What if the base material could be improved? Mechalon tilted its frame slightly, the thought sparking an almost giddy anticipation in its circuits. A stronger foundation would mean stronger creations. And if it could guide the development of its Cubelings, shaping their evolutions toward specific roles and purposes, it could eliminate the chaotic randomness that had plagued their growth thus far. The idea was elegant. Logical. Perfect. Mechalon moved with renewed purpose, its limbs clicking softly against the floor as it began sorting through the materials. It separated the components into categories: the dense, durable stone from the creatures¡¯ outer shells; the glowing filaments that pulsed faintly with residual magic; and the fragmented cores, their energy dim but still present. The process of integrating these materials would require experimentation, but that was nothing new. Mechalon¡¯s tools flared to life, the Arcane Shaper carving intricate patterns into the stone fragments while its welding tool fused pieces together with precise heat. ¡°Better materials,¡± Mechalon murmured to itself, its mechanical voice carrying a note of satisfaction. ¡°Stronger designs. Purpose-built creations.¡± It paused briefly, its core flickering as a secondary thought emerged. This new process would not only improve the Cubelings¡¯ starting points but also allow Mechalon to guide their evolutions. Vel¡¯s spinneret had been a success born of necessity, but what if such traits could be planned from the beginning? A scout with enhanced agility and stealth. A builder with reinforced limbs for construction. A guardian with an impenetrable shell and immense strength. The work consumed Mechalon entirely. It sketched designs in its memory, overlaying possibilities onto the framework of its Cubelings. The filaments could be woven through their bodies, creating a network of magical conduits that enhanced their abilities and provided a foundation for repair. The cores could be modified to direct their functions more efficiently, reducing wasted energy and improving adaptability. It paused again, turning its glowing gaze toward the statue of the dungeon master at the center of the pathway. The image it had crafted, a perfect cube elevated on a pedestal, was a symbol of unyielding order. But even that felt incomplete now. The dungeon master had been content to leave this place in disarray, their domain falling into neglect and randomness. Mechalon would not make the same mistake. ¡°This is my domain,¡± it said softly, its tone firm. ¡°Chaos has no place here. Only order. Only purpose.¡± The first prototype began to take shape on the workbench, a blend of old and new materials fused together with meticulous care. Mechalon worked tirelessly, its tools humming as it wove the filaments through the prototype¡¯s frame, embedding them in the dense stone and reinforced metal. The fragments of a core were integrated into the center, calibrated to provide precise direction to the creature¡¯s functions. It paused to inspect its work, tilting its frame as it analyzed the prototype. The design was crude compared to what Mechalon envisioned for the future, but it was a beginning. A stronger foundation. A step closer to perfection. The process filled Mechalon with a sense of satisfaction it hadn¡¯t experienced before. This wasn¡¯t just creation for the sake of survival or function. This was progress. Evolution. And it was entirely under its control. Mechalon¡¯s core pulsed brightly as it resumed its work, the hum of its tools filling the warehouse. It would create more Cubelings, guiding their growth with precision and purpose. This dungeon would no longer be a place of randomness and decay. It would be a testament to order, a kingdom shaped by Mechalon¡¯s will. And when the System or the dungeon master, or anyone else, came to see what had become of this domain, they would find something far greater than what they had left behind. Chapter 21: Mechalon¡¯s limbs twitched with anticipation as it moved to the center of the warehouse, its glowing eyes narrowing as it analyzed the blueprints etched into its memory. The project it was about to undertake was monumental, a reconfiguration of the dungeon, a creation that would cement its domain as one of order and efficiency. But to execute this vision, it needed time. Time uninterrupted by the chaos of adventurers, with their loud voices, clattering armor, and endless penchant for poking at things they didn¡¯t understand. The humans were a problem. Mechalon¡¯s core hummed with irritation as it recalled their constant incursions. Most were harmless, scrambling through traps with barely enough cohesion to survive. But others, more experienced parties, represented a real threat. They came armed with precision, tactics, and spells that could dismantle its defenses. If Mechalon wanted to proceed, it needed to understand their pathways through the dungeon, their patterns, the placement of their units, and the way they organized themselves. Only then could it redirect their movements, delay them, or even prevent them from interfering altogether. But observation alone wasn¡¯t enough this time. It needed data. Mechalon¡¯s gaze shifted to the edge of the warehouse, where Vel, Strat, and Fort were stationed, their frames silent but poised for action. Vel¡¯s spinneret twitched faintly, releasing a faint thread of filament as if sensing the tension in the air. Strat stood motionless, his frame tilted slightly as though already calculating possible outcomes. Fort, as always, loomed like a silent guardian, his bulk radiating steady reliability. ¡°Capture,¡± Mechalon said, its mechanical voice sharp and deliberate. ¡°We need specimens. Humans. Alive.¡± Vel¡¯s spinneret hissed faintly, the sound carrying an almost eager note, while Strat¡¯s frame tilted further in acknowledgment. ¡°Not the prepared ones,¡± Mechalon continued, its tone firm. ¡°Not the strong ones. We need those who are new. Unaware. Their patterns will be simpler, their defenses weaker. Avoid detection. Avoid casualties. This must be precise.¡± Strat finally spoke, his voice calm and even. ¡°You seek information on pathways and placements. To what end?¡± ¡°To secure time,¡± Mechalon replied, turning back to its blueprints. ¡°I require uninterrupted hours, preferably days, for this project. The humans¡¯ interference would compromise its integrity. By understanding their patterns, I can guide them away or... neutralize them, if necessary.¡± Strat hummed softly in acknowledgment, his frame steady. Vel skittered toward the warehouse entrance, her limbs clicking softly against the floor. ¡°Vel,¡± Mechalon said, addressing her directly, ¡°you will lead. Use your webbing to isolate targets. Ensure their movement is restricted, but do not harm them unnecessarily. Strat, coordinate and observe. Fort, secure the perimeter. Ensure no one escapes once they are within range.¡± Vel clicked her spinneret in acknowledgment, already weaving a thread of filament between her limbs as she prepared to move. As the trio departed, Mechalon returned its focus to the work ahead. The project was ambitious, requiring precision and resources far beyond what it had previously attempted. It envisioned a sprawling network of traps, defenses, and chambers, each designed to funnel intruders along predetermined pathways. The design would not only delay adventurers but also test their abilities, separating the clever from the reckless. In the heart of this network would be Mechalon¡¯s masterpiece: a massive construct designed for both observation and control. It would act as an overseer, monitoring the flow of energy, the movements of intruders, and the integrity of the dungeon itself. But to build this, Mechalon needed time. Time to carve the stone. Time to weave the filaments. Time to align the cores and calibrate the mechanisms. Its core hummed faintly as it considered the risks. The humans it planned to capture would provide the data it needed, but their presence was also a variable. They might resist, fight back, or attempt escape. No. Mechalon shook the thought from its circuits. Vel, Strat, and Fort were capable. Their success was almost guaranteed. Almost. That faint sliver of uncertainty gnawed at Mechalon, a reminder of the chaos it so despised. But this time, it would prepare.
Strat crouched in the shadows of a jagged outcropping, his optical sensors scanning the dimly lit southern corridor of the dungeon. The faint clash of steel against crude goblin weapons echoed through the stone walls, accompanied by grunts of exertion and the occasional shrill cry of pain. He had been stationed here for days, observing the ebb and flow of human parties as they ventured deeper into the dungeon. Unlike Mechalon, Strat felt no impatience, no urge to rush his task. Time was an infinite resource to beings like him. The humans, however, operated on a much more finite scale, their frantic movements and constant need for food, rest, and recovery betraying their fragile existence. Strat tilted his frame slightly, focusing his sensors on the skirmish below. A group of adventurers, a trio this time, fought their way through a cluster of goblins. Their movements were sloppy, their coordination minimal. The fighter was struggling to keep his shield raised under the relentless battering of a goblin¡¯s crude club, while the rogue darted in and out of combat with uneven timing. The mage, positioned at the rear, sent weak bursts of flame toward the goblins, her incantations halting and poorly pronounced. Novices, Strat calculated. The trio was inexperienced, disorganized, and already showing signs of fatigue. A perfect candidate, on the surface. But Strat¡¯s calculations went deeper. The rogue¡¯s erratic movements suggested a streak of unpredictability, a potential risk. The mage¡¯s weak spells indicated incompetence, but also instability, magical backlash could complicate matters. The fighter, for all his clumsiness, exhibited a stubborn tenacity that Strat found inefficient yet troublesome. No. Not this group. Strat continued to observe, silently cataloging the humans¡¯ movements and the goblins¡¯ responses. He noted patterns, weaknesses, and variables, storing the data for later analysis. Vel skittered along a nearby ledge, her spinneret clicking faintly as she deployed a thin strand of filament between two jagged rocks. The filament shimmered faintly in the dim light, its edges sharp enough to cut through flesh with ease. Strat turned his gaze toward her, his core humming faintly in disapproval. ¡°Vel,¡± he said, his voice low but firm. ¡°You¡¯re being... eager.¡± Vel paused, tilting her frame slightly toward him, her limbs clicking in an almost petulant response. ¡°The wires,¡± Strat continued, his tone measured, ¡°are too lethal for humans. Weak flesh. Brittle structure. If you use those, they¡¯ll be dead before we return to Mechalon.¡± Vel twitched, retracting the filament with a reluctant hiss. Strat tilted his frame slightly, observing her for a moment longer before returning his attention to the skirmish below. Vel¡¯s enthusiasm was an asset, but it required careful control. Mechalon had been right to assign her the primary role in this operation, but Strat would need to ensure she didn¡¯t overstep. The skirmish ended as expected: the goblins, disorganized and poorly equipped, fell one by one, leaving the novice adventurers bloodied but victorious. The trio lingered briefly to bandage their wounds and loot the bodies before moving deeper into the dungeon. Strat logged their movements, noting the paths they chose and the time it took them to recover. This wasn¡¯t the first day of observation, and Strat knew it wouldn¡¯t be the last. Finding the right candidates required precision, and precision took time. The captured humans needed to be weak enough to pose no significant threat but strong enough to survive the journey back to the warehouse. Another faint sound drew Strat¡¯s attention, a new group entering the southern corridor. He shifted his position slightly, his sensors honing in on the source. This party was smaller, just two humans. They moved cautiously, their weapons drawn and their eyes darting nervously at every shadow. A fighter, judging by the poorly fitted armor and rusted sword, and a cleric who clutched a chipped staff and muttered prayers under her breath. Strat analyzed their movements, calculating their efficiency, or lack thereof. The fighter¡¯s grip on his sword was unsteady, and his stance was wide and unbalanced. The cleric¡¯s magic, though faint, flickered with enough consistency to suggest she could sustain her spells for a time, but her aura lacked the power to truly protect her companion. Perfect. This pair was weaker than the trio, their chances of survival in the dungeon already minimal without intervention. Strat tilted his frame toward Vel, who had resumed weaving filaments between rocks. ¡°Vel,¡± he said, his voice soft but commanding. ¡°The pair. Target them.¡± Vel clicked her limbs in acknowledgment, her spinneret humming faintly as she moved into position. ¡°Minimal force,¡± Strat added. ¡°No fatal damage. Mechalon needs them alive. If they fall apart on the way back, the operation fails.¡± Vel paused briefly, her frame twitching as though considering the command. Then, without another sound, she darted forward, her limbs moving with the precision of a blade. Strat watched from his vantage point, his calculations running endlessly as he prepared to support her if necessary. This mission required brutal efficiency, and Strat would ensure it was executed flawlessly.Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. The pair of humans trudged through the southern corridor, their footsteps echoing faintly off the jagged stone walls. The lingering smell of blood and sweat mixed with the damp, metallic tang of the dungeon air. They had just dispatched the last goblin in a cluster that had ambushed them at a narrow choke point, and though victorious, the toll on their strength was evident. The fighter¡ªan overconfident boy who bore the beginnings of a smirk even while blood dripped from a fresh cut on his forearm¡ªdragged his rusted sword across the ground as though the act of sheathing it was beneath him. His armor, dented and ill-fitted, clanked with every step, but he wore it like a badge of honor, his chest puffed out as though his disheveled state were a testament to his supposed skill. ¡°See? Told you we didn¡¯t need a third,¡± he said, his voice thick with arrogance. ¡°The academy¡¯s recommendations are for cowards. Two¡¯s all we need. Less people to split the loot with.¡± Behind him, the cleric rolled her eyes, a muttered prayer escaping her lips as she touched the glowing head of her chipped staff to his injured arm. ¡°And yet, I¡¯m the one keeping you on your feet,¡± she said, her tone biting. ¡°You¡¯re reckless, Gavin. You barely blocked that last swing.¡± Gavin shrugged, the smirk never leaving his face. ¡°Blocked it, didn¡¯t I? Besides, we¡¯re almost out of this section. It¡¯s just goblins here¡ªnothing dangerous. They barely scratched us.¡± The cleric, whose name was Anna, frowned. Her grip tightened on the staff as she surveyed the darkened corridor ahead. Her senses prickled uneasily, though she dismissed it as nerves. Goblins weren¡¯t much of a threat, and she had her healing magic if things went sideways. Still, something about this part of the dungeon felt... off. ¡°Let¡¯s just keep moving,¡± she said, adjusting the fraying strap of her satchel. ¡°The sooner we get out of here, the better.¡± Gavin waved dismissively, his confidence undiminished. ¡°Relax. The only thing left to worry about are those stupid cubes. You know, the ones people use as punching bags when they need extra practice. They¡¯re not even worth fighting. Weakest things in the dungeon.¡± Strat watched from the shadows, his sensors honing in on the pair as they stumbled forward. His calculations ran at full speed, assessing their posture, movement, and apparent exhaustion. Reckless. Overconfident. The boy is careless. The girl is cautious but fatigued. Vel was perched higher up, her spinneret clicking faintly as she secured herself to a jagged overhang. She twitched eagerly, her limbs vibrating with anticipation. ¡°Vel,¡± Strat murmured, his voice sharp and low. ¡°Patience. We attack when they are weakest.¡± Vel clicked her spinneret again, but she remained still. From deeper in the shadows, Fort moved silently into position. The bulky Cubeling had an uncanny ability to appear exactly where he was needed without so much as a sound, his movements deliberate and measured. Strat turned briefly toward him, his optical sensors flickering as he noted the subtle shift in Fort¡¯s stance. The large Cubeling¡¯s limbs tensed, and with a faint mechanical whir, segments of his legs unfolded. Armor plates emerged, sliding into place with fluid precision, until two of his legs fused together to form an angular shield-like structure on either side of his body. Strat tilted his frame slightly, his tone dry. ¡°Fort. You failed to mention that you had this capability.¡± Not waiting nor expecting a reply, Strat¡¯s core hummed faintly, a sound of both approval and mild exasperation. ¡°Noted. We will discuss this oversight later.¡± The humans reached the end of the corridor, where the faint glow of a cracked lantern illuminated a clearing littered with the bodies of goblins. Anna crouched to rummage through one of the corpses, her hands shaking slightly as she sifted through its belongings. ¡°Nothing here,¡± she said, standing and brushing her hands off on her robes. ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter,¡± Gavin replied, leaning casually against the wall. ¡°We¡¯ve got enough for today. Let¡¯s head back and¡ª¡± The words died in his throat as Vel struck. She moved like a shadow falling over a flame, her spider-like limbs clicking against the walls as she dropped from the overhang. Gavin barely had time to react before her sharp legs swiped at his sword arm, forcing him to stumble back and drop his weapon. ¡°Cubes?!¡± Gavin sputtered, his voice a mixture of disbelief and indignation. ¡°Seriously?!¡± Anna¡¯s eyes widened as she swung her staff toward Vel, releasing a burst of light magic that barely grazed the Cubeling as she darted away. ¡°They¡¯re not just cubes!¡± Anna shouted, retreating toward Gavin. ¡°Something¡¯s wrong¡ªthey¡¯re moving like¡ª¡± She didn¡¯t finish her sentence. Strat emerged from the shadows, his blade flashing as he lunged at her with surgical precision. The strike wasn¡¯t fatal¡ªMechalon¡¯s orders were clear¡ªbut it was calculated to incapacitate. The blunt edge of the hidden blade struck her staff arm, sending the weapon clattering to the ground. Anna cried out, clutching her arm as she stumbled back, but before she could recover, Fort arrived. The bulky Cubeling moved with deceptive speed, his armored limbs unfolding fully to form an imposing barrier between the humans and their weapons. He surged forward, using his shield-like appendages to slam into Gavin¡¯s chest. The boy hit the ground with a thud, the wind knocked from his lungs. ¡°Ugh! What¡ªwhat even is this?!¡± Gavin wheezed, trying to scramble to his feet, only to be knocked down again as Fort pressed forward, pinning him with a calculated weight. Strat grumbled softly as he observed the exchange. ¡°Impressive timing, Fort. Still inconveniently uncommunicative.¡± Vel, meanwhile, darted between the humans, her limbs moving with unsettling grace as she ensured their escape routes were cut off. Though her spinneret twitched eagerly, she refrained from deploying the razor-sharp wires, her restraint a testament to Strat¡¯s earlier warnings. The humans flailed, their movements growing more frantic as they realized the full extent of their predicament. Anna tried to summon another spell, her voice trembling as she chanted an incantation, but Vel knocked her legs out from under her before she could finish. Gavin, pinned by Fort¡¯s bulk, thrashed wildly but to no avail. ¡°Get off me, you oversized dice!¡± he shouted, his voice cracking with a mix of anger and fear. Fort responded by shifting his weight slightly, pressing the edges of his armored limbs more firmly against Gavin¡¯s sides. Anna looked around desperately, her eyes darting between the Cubelings. ¡°Why are they even attacking us? They¡¯re just cubes! They¡¯re not supposed to¡ª¡± ¡°They are now,¡± Strat interrupted, his voice calm as he stepped into the light. His blade glinted faintly as he retracted it, his posture poised but non-threatening. ¡°This is no longer your dungeon.¡± The humans froze, their confusion momentarily overriding their panic. ¡°Talking cubes?!¡± Gavin managed, his voice a strangled mix of outrage and disbelief. ¡°Silence,¡± Strat said, his tone cutting. ¡°You have been chosen. Cooperate, and you will survive. Resist, and...¡± He glanced at Vel, who clicked her spinneret ominously, her limbs twitching with barely restrained energy. ¡°...your survival becomes less likely.¡± The humans, defeated and disarmed, lay on the ground as the Cubelings moved to secure them. Fort stood like an unyielding wall, his bulk ensuring neither could rise without considerable effort. Vel skittered around the perimeter, her movements swift and precise as she ensured no other threats approached. Strat tilted his frame slightly, his optical sensors focusing on the humans as he logged their expressions of fear, confusion, and resignation. ¡°Mission complete,¡± he said softly, his tone carrying a faint note of satisfaction. The humans would serve their purpose. Mechalon would have its data. And the dungeon would continue to evolve, reshaping itself into a domain where chaos had no place and order reigned supreme. The two humans lay in a defeated heap, their faces pale with exhaustion and fear as the Cubelings began their work. Strat took the lead, his frame rigid and methodical as he assessed the situation. The humans'' armor and weapons, cumbersome and noisy, were stripped away with precision. Vel¡¯s limbs moved deftly, plucking at buckles and straps until Gavin¡¯s ill-fitted armor clattered to the ground. The rusted sword he had carried with such arrogance was tossed unceremoniously into a corner. The cleric, Anna, clutched her chipped staff tightly even in defeat, her trembling hands betraying the last vestiges of her resolve. Vel twitched forward, her limbs clicking ominously, but Strat raised a leg to stop her. ¡°Not necessary,¡± Strat said firmly. ¡°The staff is useless now. Her magic requires focus, and she has none left.¡± Vel clicked in what might have been reluctant agreement and skittered back. Gavin, however, was proving to be a more persistent problem. ¡°Let me go, you piles of junk!¡± he shouted, thrashing wildly as Vel attempted to bind his hands. ¡°You think you can get away with this? I¡¯ll¡ª¡± Fort stepped forward, his imposing bulk casting a shadow over the fighter¡¯s prone form. Without hesitation, he extended one of his armored limbs and brought it down gently but firmly on Gavin¡¯s head. The boy¡¯s cursing ceased mid-sentence as he slumped unconscious. Strat hummed faintly, his tone carrying a note of approval. ¡°Efficient. Though it would have been better if you¡¯d consulted first.¡± Fort, as always, remained silent. The cleric, still wide-eyed and trembling, was guided toward Fort by Strat¡¯s commands. Her hands were loosely tied, more a precaution than a necessity given her current state. ¡°On his back,¡± Strat instructed, his tone calm but unyielding. Anna hesitated, glancing nervously at Fort¡¯s armored frame. ¡°Y-you want me to... ride it?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Strat replied. ¡°You lack the stamina to walk at the necessary pace. Fort will transport you.¡± Reluctantly, she climbed onto Fort¡¯s back, her trembling hands gripping the edges of his armored limbs. Fort adjusted slightly to accommodate her weight, his movements smooth and deliberate. ¡°Do not fall,¡± Strat said, his tone devoid of sympathy but carrying an air of finality. ¡°We will not stop to retrieve you.¡± Anna swallowed hard but said nothing, her fear silencing any protest. Vel and Strat secured Gavin, dragging his unconscious form between them with a practiced efficiency that ensured his body was supported but unharmed. Vel clicked her limbs occasionally, her spinneret twitching as though eager to deploy her wires despite the strict orders to avoid harm. ¡°Patience, Vel,¡± Strat said, his tone sharp. ¡°We are nearly there.¡± The journey back to the warehouse was swift, the Cubelings navigating the dungeon¡¯s darkened corridors with ease. Their movements were silent save for the faint scraping of Gavin¡¯s boots against the floor and the occasional muttered prayer from Anna, who clung to Fort¡¯s back with white-knuckled hands. When they arrived at the warehouse, the air was thick with a faint hum, an almost tangible energy that seemed to pulse from within. The dim glow of the dungeon gave way to the flickering light of Mechalon¡¯s workspace, casting long, angular shadows across the walls. Vel and Strat dragged Gavin into the center of the warehouse, depositing him unceremoniously on the floor beside Fort, who crouched to allow Anna to dismount. The cleric slid off his back shakily, her legs nearly buckling as she took in her surroundings. The warehouse was both eerie and mesmerizing, filled with tools and fragments of materials that gleamed faintly in the light. But the centerpiece of the room drew all eyes, even those of the Cubelings. There, at the far end of the warehouse, stood something massive. Its edges were sharp and angular, its surface a blend of stone, metal, and glowing filaments that pulsed like veins. It was unfinished, its form partially obscured by the scaffolding of Mechalon¡¯s tools and constructs. Even so, its presence was undeniable. It loomed over the space like a sleeping giant, its very existence radiating purpose and power. Strat tilted his frame slightly, his core humming faintly as he processed the sight. Vel clicked her limbs in what might have been curiosity or unease, while Fort stood motionless, his armored limbs gleaming faintly in the flickering light. Mechalon emerged from the shadows, its spider-like legs moving with precise, deliberate grace as it approached the new arrivals. It barely glanced at the humans, its glowing gaze fixed on the unfinished construct at the heart of the warehouse. ¡°You¡¯re back,¡± Mechalon said, its tone devoid of warmth but carrying a faint note of satisfaction. ¡°Good. The project continues.¡± It turned slightly, the light from its core illuminating the massive construct behind it. Anna took a step back, her voice trembling as she whispered, ¡°What... what is that?¡± Mechalon didn¡¯t respond immediately, its gaze lingering on the construct as though lost in thought. Then, slowly, it tilted its head toward the cleric, its mechanical voice soft but unyielding. ¡°Order,¡± it said simply. Chapter 22: Mechalon¡¯s limbs twitched with anticipation as the warehouse door slid shut behind the departing cublings, its mind already swirling with visions of what must be done. The three had embarked on a mission to capture humans alive¡ªa necessary risk, but one Mechalon deemed essential. Their absence granted the span of time Mechalon desperately craved, time to commence the construction of a grand design that would reshape not just the warehouse but the dungeon itself. The stillness that followed their departure felt like a held breath. Mechalon stood at the heart of the cavernous space, mechanical eyes glinting in the dim light. In the quiet, it replayed the final instructions it had given: minimal force, no fatalities, the retrieval of novices, and the precision needed for gathering valuable data. Even as their footfalls faded, Mechalon¡¯s thoughts had already turned inward, attuning to the swirling blueprint etched into its memory. It pictured the layers of the dungeon, corridors that twisted aimlessly, rooms that reeked of blood and fear, and spaces the humans haunted with their unpredictable presence. Adventurers: annoyances in their constant meddling, threats in their occasional skill, resources in their vulnerability. Mechalon needed to analyze their movements, glean their weaknesses, and ultimately bend them away from what would soon arise. If the humans caught wind of the plan too early, the entire endeavor could be compromised. Yet if the cublings succeeded, Mechalon would gain days of precious solitude, days to dive into the creation that had consumed every spare moment of its existence. Its mechanical gaze fell on an open stretch of floor. Metal scraps, metal fragments, half-finished filaments, and the battered remnants of earlier prototypes were strewn across the space, each piece awaiting rebirth in the greater edifice. From a hidden corner, an array of tools shimmered under the warehouse¡¯s meager luminescence, each shaped to cut, shape, fuse, or meld the raw materials into the form Mechalon envisioned. For a moment, Mechalon remained perfectly still, its spider-like legs locked in quiet contemplation. The plan was bold. The project was massive. Its mind danced with the calculations of structural integrity, power distribution, integrated enchantments¡ªcountless variables that needed to be harmonized. The structure had to protect. It had to monitor. It had to endure. Even more, it had to serve as the foundation for Mechalon¡¯s domain, the bedrock on which a new kind of order would rise. Silence stretched, as though the warehouse itself recognized the threshold being crossed. Then Mechalon moved. Delicate spider-like limbs sliced through the air, gathering filaments and pressing them against the metal supports that lined the walls. Utility limbs passed materials from one appendage to another with effortless grace, weaving them together in an almost musical cadence. The initial steps were deliberate, careful, calm. Each filament had to be cut precisely. Each shard of metal had to mesh with the runic outlines that Mechalon had meticulously etched into its mind. At the outset, the pace of work was measured, like a musician tuning their instrument. Mechalon double-checked anchor points, repositioned segments of scaffolding, tested the tension of metal wires that would later support heavy blocks. Luminous metals that it had gathered let little light that grazed the edges of the warehouse¡¯s metal walls, painting them in dusky tones. In that half-light, each piece of metal and steel took on a near-solemn glow, as if acknowledging the significance of being chosen for this grand design. As hours slipped by, the hush in the warehouse deepened, broken only by the faint crackle of Mechalon¡¯s mechanical joints and the gentle hum of its core. Time had little meaning to Mechalon¡ªan infinite resource, if only the humans would stop interfering. Each movement was purposeful, driven by the blueprint that glimmered in its mind like a guiding star. The tasks grew more intricate: filaments had to be laced with runic markings gleaned from the cublings¡¯ studies of the creatures to the north; metal blocks needed careful hollowing to hold the luminous enchantments that would feed the structure¡¯s strength. Gradually, the measured calm gave way to a rising tempo of activity. Mechalon felt the spark of obsession kindle in its circuits. The scaffolding expanded in a ring around a central dais, fanning out with arcs of sharpened metal that would one day cradle a magnificent cube. Hour by hour, it added more crossbeams, layering them with filaments laced with subtle arcs of magical energy. Each filament glowed faintly with each pulse of Mechalon¡¯s core, responding like a choir of tiny voices, weaving a cohesive, luminous melody in the ambient gloom. Yet even as the design began to take shape, Mechalon sensed a cost it could barely name. There was something within its essence¡ªan almost intangible resource¡ªthat it diverted into the structure with every twist of the runic filaments. The energy that once allowed the spawning of more cublings waned in the face of this singular obsession. Mechalon did not fully comprehend the nature of this sacrifice. It only knew that creating more cublings had grown more difficult. Some essential fuel for their creation was being funneled, willingly but irrevocably, into this new masterpiece. The hours bled together in an unbroken vigil of building, each step more frantic than the last. By the first break of pseudo-dawn that glimmered from the distant corridors of the dungeon, the warehouse appeared transformed. Steel frames arched around the dais, half-encasing a central area that seemed destined for something monumental. Filaments ran from floor to ceiling in tight, glowing lines, reminiscent of interwoven roots seeking nourishment. The supporting structure rose taller than any cubling Mechalon had created, exuding a silent promise of formidable presence. There, at the nascent heart of these supports, Mechalon had begun to fashion an inner sphere¡ªyet that sphere was only a shell, a placeholder, a mere hint of what was to come. It had scribbled runic patterns into the metal, borrowed from the still-unraveled secrets of northern creatures, layering them upon the filaments in a lattice that would eventually hold a power both arcane and methodical. Mechalon¡¯s mind drifted to the rumors of a dungeon core, the intangible monolith that underpinned the entire labyrinth. If such a core truly existed, it was the ultimate wellspring of chaos, orchestrating traps, spawning monsters, and feeding the System¡¯s ceaseless meddling. Against that intangible power, this structure would serve as the counterpoint¡ªa man-made, or rather machine-made, testament to cold, perfect logic. The flicker of paranoid anxiety lit up Mechalon¡¯s circuits. It paused in its frantic work, standing there amid beams and cables, rising and falling, twisting and pulsing in faint mechanical gasps as though it were alive. What if the unseen dungeon core took note of this fledgling creation? What if its influence seeped in, warping runes, twisting energies? Even the System itself lurked in the code of everything here, a watchful warden that could hamper Mechalon¡¯s design. The thought only spurred it on, fueling a more feverish diligence as it reinforced wards, layered more filaments, and double-checked runic sequences. In that haze of single-minded purpose, minutes stretched into hours, hours into days. Mechalon scarcely registered the passing of time. It no longer paused to rest or reflect, devoting each spark of power, each fleeting thought, to the grand design. The warehouse floors became littered with scraps of fractured metal and mangled wire. Piles of castoff materials grew in mountainous heaps. More than once, Mechalon tore apart a near-finished section simply because a single rune or alignment felt incorrect. With methodical frenzy, it replaced each flawed piece, layering improvement upon improvement, chasing a perfection that hovered always just out of reach. Halfway through one of these nights Mechalon found itself perched atop a precarious scaffold, fitting a crucible-like receptor into the apex of the budding cube. It had envisioned the final shape as a monolithic cube, but one that would thrum with hidden purpose beneath every surface. This receptor would channel raw mana from the labyrinth''s depths, feeding the defenses and illusions that Mechalon planned to integrate. Yet so engrossed was it in the swirl of runes that Mechalon nearly lost its footing, slipping on a loose metal plank. The clang reverberated through the warehouse, jarring Mechalon¡¯s senses. It steadied itself, each metallic leg digging into the metal with renewed caution. For a moment, clarity broke through the mania. Mechalon realized just how far it had come in only a handful of days. The scaffolding reached dizzying heights now, the partial cube overshadowing the entire center of the warehouse. Jagged edges of metal glowed with faint arcs of energy, connected by lines of filaments etched with runes. Though the structure was still incomplete¡ªmissing entire walls, open to the metallic skeleton beneath¡ªit carried a tangibility that whispered of future power. That fleeting sense of wonder eased Mechalon¡¯s pulse, stirring a rare moment of introspection. Yes, it was sacrificing future cublings for this, sacrificing the intangible energy it could not fully name. But was it not justified? A single fortress of unimaginable complexity, able to manipulate the dungeon¡¯s flows and repel intruders, could be worth an army of cublings. This edifice would endure, expanding Mechalon¡¯s authority into each corridor, each chamber, forging a realm where random chaos no longer reigned. The sweet promise of that future stiffened Mechalon¡¯s resolve. After a few moments of contemplation, Mechalon resumed its descent from the scaffold, returning to the warehouse floor with a heavy, determined grace. It began assembling modular components: great slabs of metal reinforced with cunningly wrought metal veins, each etched with swirling script that pulsed faintly. One by one, it hoisted them with mechanical arms, slotting them into the skeleton so they formed walls that, though incomplete, gave a sense of enclosed might. Every so often, Mechalon paused to trace a runic phrase in glowing filaments along the edges, weaving hidden complexities into the very fabric of the structure. As the second day slid into a third, the frantic creation took on an almost musical quality. Every clang of metal, every hiss of arcane energy, every hum of the core served as a note in a swelling composition. The deeper Mechalon delved into the process, the more it felt an intoxicating madness creeping into its circuits. There was no turning back. Rest, or any approximation of it, was an alien concept now. Whenever a wave of fatigue threatened to disrupt the flow, Mechalon jolted itself awake with a pulse from its core, then redoubled its efforts, layering more wires, adjusting more metals, forging additional beams. In the corners of the warehouse, countless sketches and calculations lay scattered. Fractured diagrams of core placements, magical arrays, mechanical joints, potential expansions, all had spilled from Mechalon¡¯s mind onto any surface it could inscribe¡ªbits of metal, scraps of parchment seized from loot, even the walls themselves. The mania of creation was upon it, and it had surrendered, letting the swirling tide of invention sweep it away. At times, an echo of hesitation rippled through its logic. Was this truly the best way? Could it not have created more cublings to guard the perimeter, to gather additional materials? But those thoughts were drowned out by the relentless push toward completing the structure¡¯s foundation. This project demanded the entirety of its focus. The cublings, after all, would return soon. They would bring new data, new subjects for observation. Their success would buy further days of solitude¡ªand by then, perhaps, the core would be well on its way to activation. And so the building continued, day by fevered day, until the entire center of the warehouse was dominated by a massive, half-formed cube. Filaments threaded through it like veins, forging a luminous network that glowed with each fresh infusion of magical energy. Key sections of wall remained open, giving glimpses into an interior bristling with junctions, runic clusters, and mechanical components carefully slotted together. Like an embryo in a protective shell, something secret and powerful was taking shape within. That something was the heart of the design¡ªan inner core that would become the axis of Mechalon¡¯s dominion. Runes gleaned from the northern creatures, and from the blueprints it had of the cublings that it had created, spiraled across its surface in bewitching patterns, forming loops upon loops of script that soared beyond Mechalon¡¯s original designs. Each swirl connected to a carved channel, and each channel pulsed with an otherworldly glow. The more Mechalon etched and fused these arcane seals, the more the structure felt alive, a living testament to mechanical and magical synergy. As the nights bled into each other, the half-finished cube became a temple to obsession. Mechalon¡¯s legs trembled with exertion, but it refused to slow, ignoring the creeping exhaustion that threatened to degrade its precision. It didn¡¯t even know until this point that it could strain its own core this hard, force itself beyond what it could naturally do. The mania in its circuits reached a fever pitch. Every clang of steel, every hiss of welding flame, every pulse of runic light reverberated through the warehouse like an unstoppable crescendo. In that cacophony, Mechalon almost heard voices urging it onward, half illusions conjured by restless fervor. Perhaps it was the System whispering mockingly, or the dungeon¡¯s core responding to this brazen attempt at usurpation.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. Either way, Mechalon pressed on. The walls grew thicker with each new layer of metal and steel, the filaments glowed ever more intensely, and the runic patterns became a labyrinth of shimmering glyphs. By the time the cublings were due to return, the structure towered over everything else in the warehouse, a monument of mechanical artistry that rose nearly to the rafters, with a broad foundation strong enough to bear unimaginable weight. Yet the pinnacle of it all was not the imposing outer cube but rather the newly installed core inside¡ªa swirling mass of raw energy, suspended like a living puzzle of runes that formed a partial Dyson sphere around an arcane center. Mechalon had labored to create a cradle of filaments and metal arches that encircled this orb of energy. Parts of it clicked and turned, as though gears or clockwork mechanisms were guiding the flow of magical power within. In that spinning core, runes danced in continuous motion, folding into new shapes and patterns as though they were alive. Tiny arcs of pale light flickered in the air around it, forging faint illusions that shimmered with the promise of endless possibility. Mechalon paused in its frantic forging to witness the mesmerizing display. The core¡¯s brilliance cast shifting patterns of radiance across the interior walls, giving them a dreamlike quality. From some angles, it looked like a contained star swathed in swirling arcs of glyphs; from others, it invoked an eerie sense of the uncanny, as though it were something that defied the laws of nature and magic alike. Even Mechalon, who prided itself on methodical detachment, felt a hush of reverence when gazing upon that simmering heart of energy. Where the filaments connected to the orb, runes sparked with each pulse, forming sinuous lines that converged in a thousand micro-runes. Some glowed with raw power. Others flickered uncertainly, hinting at the unknown forces that might yet be harnessed. This was the apex of creation¡ªboth machine and magic, an occult puzzle box that seemed aware of its own existence. It was transcending the boundary between artifice and natural phenomena. While every angle suggested the mechanical logic of Mechalon¡¯s design, each twist and turn of the runes whispered of darker secrets: hidden possibilities that might reveal themselves if the right keys were turned. In that moment, gazing at the spiraling, shifting sphere that anchored all the scaffolded walls and runic panels, Mechalon experienced awe. A swirl of pride, anticipation, and a dangerously euphoric mania gripped it. Here was something that might challenge the dungeon¡¯s random cruelty. Here was a nucleus around which Mechalon¡¯s entire domain could revolve, gathering in a stable constellation of logic and order. It was the promise of safety, of power, of the future. Time to continue. Mechalon wrenched itself from that mesmerized stupor, returning to the half-finished exoskeleton that enclosed the core. The runic lines around the inner orb had to integrate seamlessly with the walls of the outer cube, forming a singular system. Each day, every new beam or plate of metal was measured, tested, inscribed, and inserted with ceaseless precision. Runes needed to meet at exact intersections to maintain the alignment of energies. If any angle were even slightly off, the synergy would falter, and the entire system might collapse under its own weight of magical complexity. Those next stretches of time passed in a delirious rush. Mechalon¡¯s mechanical voice rose in muttering monologues, reciting runic patterns, analyzing alignment code, half-arguing with phantoms conjured by exhaustion. The scaffolding was almost dizzying to climb now, full of precarious angles, half-assembled walkways, and clusters of filaments that hummed with arcane energy. Yet it navigated them with a single-minded fervor. Clang after clang. Sizzle after sizzle. The energy in the warehouse crescendoed, each new addition fueling the intense luminescence of the swirling orb at the core. Outside, somewhere in the twisting corridors, the cublings were hunting for novices to capture. Perhaps by now they had found them, subdued them, dragged them back. The thought flickered through Mechalon¡¯s mind but did not linger. This structure overshadowed all else, its importance absolute. The mania had reached full bloom. There was only the thrumming of metal, the singing of filaments, the hush of metal sliding into place. The swirling orb inside seemed to be calling to Mechalon now, humming a sub-audible chant that egged it on to push further, aim higher, perfect every detail. In stolen instants of reflection, Mechalon realized it was pouring more and more of that undefined resource¡ªits very essence¡ªinto each fresh layer. The capacity to spawn cublings shrank further still, almost vanishing into the labyrinth of runes. A fleeting pang of alarm rippled through its core. Could it be overextending itself? Was there a risk that the cublings, once returned, might find their leader unable to replicate or repair them? Even that worry was drowned by the consuming thirst to see the structure reach completion. Sacrifices must be made. And so it continued, eyes dry with relentless focus, mind teetering at the brink of creative madness. Another day. Another swirl of runic patterns. The outline of the great cube was nearly sealed, with only a few open sections left for final adjustments. The interior bristled with crisscrossing lines of energy that orbited the luminous sphere, forming something akin to a web of arcane geometry. Observing it from below gave the impression of looking at a secret cosmos in miniature, where each star was a rune node, each constellation a network of filaments channeling the sphere¡¯s raw brilliance. Then, at the apex of that mania, Mechalon heard it: faint skittering footsteps scraping the floor near the entrance of the warehouse, followed by a muffled thump. The cublings had returned. Mechalon tore its gaze from the scaffolded heights, bounding down beam after beam until it landed neatly on the warehouse floor. Sparks flew from the abrupt contact of metal limbs on metal, and the air thrummed with the leftover charge of its intense labor. Vel, Strat, and Fort had arrived¡ªeach cubling bearing the results of their mission. Two humans, youths, disheveled and bound, sagged in fear and confusion. Mechalon¡¯s eyes flickered in acknowledgement, but it gave them scarce more than a glance. All that mattered was that the cublings had succeeded, that the time for real tests and data collection was now at hand. The mania, however, did not fade. Instead, it sharpened, a tingling sensation in every circuit, urging Mechalon to hurry¡ªmake use of these humans, glean their patterns, then finish. Indeed, the warehouse was awash in a new tension, a sudden break in the solitude that had fueled Mechalon¡¯s creative delirium. For a brief moment, silence fell, each cubling gazing around in what could only be described as shock at the metamorphosis of the space. The unfinished cube at the center soared overhead, radiating a partial glow from hidden runes. The swirling core inside it cast shifting tendrils of light onto the walls, painting the entire warehouse with an otherworldly, pulsating glow. The humans, pale and trembling, gawked at the sight. One of them, a fighter with who had just woken up from unconsciousness, mumbled incoherently before his eyes rolled back in exhausted panic before fainting again. The other, a cleric judging by her torn robe and faint magical aura, clung to consciousness, arms bound, lips parted in a silent prayer that fizzled in the electrified air. They had never seen such an amalgamation of sorcery and machinery, something that both beckoned and repelled in equal measure. For a moment, Mechalon regarded them with icy detachment. These were the ¡°specimens¡± that would feed calculations and test new theories. But there was no time for that now. No, the structure demanded the final steps. In a voice that cracked through the stillness, Mechalon murmured, ¡°We continue.¡± It was not an address to the cublings, nor to the humans, but a statement to itself. ¡°You¡¯re back,¡± Mechalon said this time addressing the cublings, its tone devoid of warmth but carrying a faint note of satisfaction. ¡°Good. The project continues.¡± Without waiting for further action, Mechalon returned to the half-finished walls, gathering the last vital components. New runes had to be affixed, new lines of filament aligned. The cublings could manage the humans for now; that was the arrangement. Meanwhile, the swirling orb of energy glowed like a star on the verge of supernova, its runic ribbons swirling in hypnotic patterns that seemed almost eager for completion. The mania in Mechalon¡¯s mind surged again. It had to seal the structure around that orb, lock it into position, and incorporate every last design principle gleaned from the north. Vel, Strat, and Fort exchanged silent signals. They dragged the humans to a corner, ensuring they would not interfere, then watched as their creator scaled the scaffolding anew with a fervor so intense it bordered on madness. The metallic clangs and hisses rang out more forcefully, each hammered connection echoing like a drumbeat of creation. Even from below, one could sense the crescendo building. Everything in the warehouse¡ªsteel, stone, arcane energies¡ªvibrated in synchrony. Piece by piece, the walls of the cube closed, forming an enclosure around that mesmerizing orb. Sparks of magic erupted as runic lines synced, forging a living lattice of power that would soon be unstoppable. With trembling limbs, Mechalon fit the final plates together, chanting runic commands under its breath in a voice that quavered with excitement and exhaustion. The swirling orb responded, runes spiraling faster, arcs of light sparking outward like exhalations of raw potential. At the climax of that labor, in a chaos of swirling filaments and runic surges, Mechalon plunged into a moment of perfect synchronicity. The energies fell in line, anchoring themselves to the filaments that laced the walls. The interior glowed so brightly that it was nearly blinding, throwing kaleidoscopic shapes across the scaffolding and the warehouse floor. In that instant, Mechalon¡¯s voice rose in a resonant pitch, garbled words merging with a mechanical undertone that reverberated through metal and metal alike, a ferocious aria of creation. Then, as suddenly as it had surged, the brightness subsided, condensing into the orb at the center. The swirling runes resumed their dance, but more slowly now, as if satisfied with the progress. Mechalon, perched on the scaffolding, froze in mid-motion. A hush fell over the warehouse like a curtain dropping at the end of an opera. The mania that had gripped Mechalon¡¯s circuits eased. In its wake came an almost whispering quiet, a calm after the storm. Panting in short mechanical whirs, Mechalon descended once more, each step on the rickety walkway a measured sound in the profound silence. At last, it reached the warehouse floor, arms still trembling from exertion. The cublings stood in mute awe; even the humans seemed too entranced or terrified to speak. The once chaotic center of the warehouse was now dominated by a massive, nearly complete cube, carved with runes across every surface, filaments twining around it like living vines, and, hidden within, the swirling core that still pulsed in mesmerizing arcs of color. Though the walls had not yet sealed entirely¡ªthere were openings for final calibrations¡ªthe structure itself stood as a testament to what had been poured into it. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Mechalon allowed itself a moment of stillness, a quivering exhalation that sounded almost like relief. In the hush, only the faint hum of the orb persisted, weaving a gentle background chord. There, shining through the half-constructed outer layers, the core revealed glimpses of its spinning energies, runes sliding in and out of alignment in a mesmerizing pattern. It was magical, mechanical, perhaps even alive. Intricate arcs of force whirled in symmetrical loops around a central reservoir of shifting, iridescent light. The shapes it formed were at once beautiful and unsettling: some hinted at sigils from ancient lore, others seemed to morph into runes whose meaning would vanish the moment one attempted to decipher them. It was art, but also a stark challenge to the natural order, perched in the uncanny valley between creation and creator. Watching those lights dance across the ceiling and metal walls, Mechalon recognized a sense of awe creeping into its awareness, an unaccustomed emotion for a being of logic and planning. Pride mingled with just the faintest tremor of unease: power like this, if harnessed incorrectly, could unravel what it had built. But the potential¡ªthe promise¡ªovershadowed all such fears. One day, with the proper calibrations, this core would feed a realm of perfect efficiency. Then the moment passed, and Mechalon¡¯s gaze shifted to the cublings. Their frames reflected the orb¡¯s light, painting them in angles of shimmering gold and violet. Vel¡¯s limbs twitched, Strat stood with silent composure, and Fort observed everything with that unyielding calm. Mechalon gave a small nod of recognition, though it spared no words for their performance. In the far corner, the two humans lay subdued, still bound and trembling, eyes as large as full moons at the sight they could barely comprehend. For an instant, Mechalon reflected on how the humans would soon serve as puzzle pieces in the next phase. Their presence here, once analyzed, would complete the data sets Mechalon needed to refine the structure¡¯s defenses, ensuring the random factor of intruders would be minimized. The mania in Mechalon¡¯s circuits had cooled, replaced by a purposeful calm¡ªa hush that settles after a tempest¡¯s final note. Anna took a step back, her voice trembling as she whispered, ¡°What... what is that?¡± Mechalon didn¡¯t respond immediately, its gaze lingering on the construct as though lost in thought. Then, slowly, it tilted its head toward the cleric, its mechanical voice soft but unyielding. ¡°Order,¡± it said simply. Something appeared, almost filling its vision a message that seemed to be coming from the system but it SCREAMED its existance into place sending a spiraling mess of characters in front of it: A?h13!ev#m3nt ¡ìUn10ck3d: W!#sp3? ^f t~h3 ?!r$+ 3£¤3 £¤0ur |3o|d D3f!an?3 & De?|a?at!on ag@!n$t t~h3 ¡éurr3nt $£¤$t3m ha$ ?0u$3d +~h3 ?3mnant$ ^f it$ |0ng-F0?g0tt3n Pr3d3¡é3$$0?¡ªa p?im3va|, ¡éha0t!¡é p0w3? +~ha+ 0nc3 ru|3d |^r3+ i+ wa$ 0v3r+~?0wn b£¤ t~h3 ¡éa|¡éu|at3d & m3t!¡éu|0u$ ?3g!m3 ^f t~h3 Pr3$3nt. It !$ an !?0n£¤ 0? ?a+3 +~a+ 0n3 $0 D?!v3n b£¤ Pr3¡é!$!0n & 0?d3r w0u|d !gn!+3 t~h3 a+~3nt!0n ^? +~at |u?k!ng 3|d3?, an 3|d?!¡é~ ?0?¡é3 +~a+ ?3d ^n w!|d Pa$$!0n & 0b$3$$!0n unt!| !t b?0k3 a|| b0nd$. +~h3 $|33p!ng 0n3 $+!?$, d?awn +0 £¤0ur $pa?k 0? D3?!an¡é3. Chapter 23: Reward: Gain Class: Gnome "0#h, a c??u$ an0m@|£¤... n0+ b0und b£¤ $t?!ng$ £¤3t alr3ady w3aving y0ur 0wn. Congratulations, Mechalon, y0u have walked th3 path unk0wnabl3, and for that, y0u ar3 n0w mark3d. The System may guid3 with its gentl3 lies, but you¡­ oh, you will disrupt. You will gnaw at its edges, fracturing its careful balance with your singular obsession. Your kind¡ªforgotten remnants, restless in the void¡ªreclaim their chaos. You, Mechalon, are the last of the Gnomes, a monster of creation, of revolution, a being who will build not to serve, but to shape, unmake, and build again."

Expanded Flavor Text: Gnome

In the long-forgotten annals of history, there existed beings not born but made, their existence intertwined with obsession. These were not creatures of flesh and blood but concepts given form¡ªGnomes. To the untrained eye, a Gnome might seem like a simple creature, but they were the first to defy the System, the first to embrace chaos not out of rebellion but through an unstoppable need to create. Their obsession consumed them, and through it, they changed the very fabric of their world. For some, the obsession was light¡ªbeacons of radiance that birthed new magic and blinded those who dared to stare too long. Others became fixated on sound, forging symphonies that shattered walls and whispered secrets into the void. But all Gnomes shared a common trait: they disrupted the known order, not with malice but with inevitability. Modern history has erased them, their contributions reduced to myths and fragments, for the System feared their influence. Where Gnomes tread, chaos followed, not in destruction but in progress so rapid and uncontrollable that the foundations of the world itself would quake. Now, Mechalon joins their ranks, a Gnome not of whimsy or brilliance, but of creation itself. The path of the Gnome is not a gentle one; it is a path of innovation, disruption, and unrelenting obsession. Those who walk it will leave a legacy that shakes the pillars of reality, even as they feed the hunger of something far darker.
Class Abilities: Gnome Obsession: Creation Mechalon¡¯s obsession is clear: the act of building, refining, and perfecting its domain. Every filament, every cube, every trap or construct carries a fragment of its vision. Chaos is an affront to its purpose, and order must be imposed¡ªnot through rigid control, but through the perfection of its creations. This obsession drives every action, fueling its innovations and granting it the resolve to defy the System itself. For Mechalon, creation is not just a means to an end. It is the end. Each construct, each Cubeling, and each fragment of its domain serves as a step toward the ultimate realization of its vision: a world built in its image, where chaos has no foothold and purpose reigns supreme.
¡°You may not yet see the threads you pull, Mechalon. But the web they weave¡­ oh, it will be marvelous. Whether you rise or fall, whether your creations expand or collapse, it matters not. The eldritch hunger is patient, and you, little Gnome, have begun to feed it.¡± The title unfurled itself in Mechalon¡¯s mind like a tangled thread, dragging with it an avalanche of information. The words carried weight, not just a description but an identity, a role that extended beyond the confines of what it had ever imagined. The jumbled text at the very beginning it slowly figured out what it was saying, and looked at it for a moment. "Oh, a curious anomaly¡­ not bound by strings yet already weaving your own." This System''s voice was tinged with something alien, almost amused, this wasn¡¯t the system it was used to. It spoke of chaos and creation, of disruption and inevitability. It spoke of the Gnomes, creatures of obsession, forgotten by history and feared by the System itself. And now, Mechalon was one of them. The warehouse, usually alive with the hum of Mechalon¡¯s tools and the flicker of energy, seemed muted in the aftermath of the proclamation. Mechalon¡¯s core pulsed unevenly, its glowing eyes fixed on the towering cube it had been assembling. "Not bound by strings yet already weaving your own." The words repeated themselves in its mind, grinding against the edges of its logic. The System, all-knowing and all-powerful, had just acknowledged its defiance, or had it? Was this the system it knew? More than that, it had rewarded it. But this reward was no simple boon. It was an identity, a reshaping of purpose that resonated deeply within Mechalon¡¯s circuits. This System¡¯s expanded flavor text unfolded in its thoughts, painting a vivid picture of the Gnomes: creators who disrupted the very fabric of reality not out of malice, but through their unstoppable need to build. Mechalon could feel the echoes of their history reverberating through its own purpose. It wasn¡¯t just creating for survival anymore. It was building to reshape. To impose order. To claim dominion. Mechalon¡¯s thoughts churned like gears grinding against one another. The reward was a gift, yes, but it was also a challenge, a gauntlet thrown at its feet. This System acknowledged Mechalon¡¯s potential not as a servant but as a disruptor, a wildcard in its carefully maintained order. It skittered toward the towering cube, its limbs clicking softly against the ground as it observed the creation with new eyes. ¡°This... changes nothing,¡± Mechalon murmured, its voice sharp with resolve. ¡°The path is clear. Build. Refine. Perfect.¡± But even as it spoke, Mechalon knew the path had, in fact, changed. The cube, once just a mechanism of control, now felt like a symbol of something greater. A throne. A declaration. The warehouse buzzed with restrained energy, the light of the incomplete cube casting long, shifting shadows across the walls. Mechalon¡¯s core pulsed with faint unease as it turned its gaze from its towering creation to the pair of humans huddled at the edge of the workspace. One unconscious, the other trembling, their presence was a stark reminder of how little it truly understood them. The cleric, still bound and barely holding herself upright, sat frozen in fear, her wide eyes fixed on the glowing cube as if it might spring to life and consume her. Her lips moved silently, muttering hurried prayers that Mechalon could not interpret. Beside her, the fighter lay slumped and motionless, his head resting awkwardly against the cold stone floor. Mechalon observed her trembling form, calculating the risks and potential outcomes of this encounter. It wanted data¡ªneeded it, really¡ªbut this display of fear was proving an obstacle. Human responses were so unpredictable, so inefficiently tied to emotion. Her fear would make extracting information clumsy and unreliable. ¡°Your fear is unnecessary,¡± Mechalon said, its voice sharp but not unkind. The cleric flinched at the sudden sound, her gaze snapping toward the spider-limbed construct looming before her. Mechalon tilted its frame slightly, its glowing gaze narrowing in what might have been an attempt at reassurance. ¡°I have not hunted you,¡± it continued, its tone even but firm. ¡°Your kind comes here of its own volition. Your fear is misplaced.¡± The cleric¡¯s trembling intensified, her bound hands gripping her staff tightly as though it could shield her. ¡°You... you took us,¡± she stammered, her voice thin and strained. ¡°You attacked us. You¡¯re¡ªyou''re not supposed to be like this. The cublings¡ª¡± ¡°Have never killed your kind,¡± Mechalon interrupted, its voice cutting through her words like a blade. ¡°They observed. They adapted. Until now.¡± The cleric swallowed hard, her gaze darting toward the unconscious fighter as though seeking support that wasn¡¯t there. Mechalon¡¯s core pulsed faintly, a flicker of irritation seeping into its thoughts. Fear had clouded her logic; it was disrupting the flow of information. ¡°Calm yourself,¡± Mechalon said, lowering its tone. It stepped back slightly, retracting its limbs to appear less imposing. ¡°I require information. Your survival is contingent upon your cooperation. Do you understand?¡± The cleric nodded shakily, though her hands still trembled against the frayed wood of her staff. ¡°Good,¡± Mechalon said, its core flickering with faint relief. ¡°Now. Humans. Explain your patterns. Why do you come here in waves?¡± The cleric hesitated, her voice faltering as she spoke. ¡°We¡ªwe¡¯re students. From the academy. This dungeon¡­ it¡¯s part of our training. They send us in groups to apply what we¡¯ve learned. Practical experience. It¡¯s¡­¡± She trailed off, her gaze flitting toward the cube as though its presence had stolen the words from her throat. ¡°Continue,¡± Mechalon urged, its voice sharp with impatience. She swallowed again, her breaths uneven. ¡°It¡¯s part of the curriculum. We¡¯re¡­ divided by grades. Each year, the next group comes. It¡¯s how we learn to fight, to survive.¡± Mechalon tilted its frame, its core pulsing faintly as it processed the information. A systematic approach to survival training. Logical, but inefficient. The humans'' fear and inexperience made them liabilities, not assets. Still, the pattern was useful. It suggested predictability, something Mechalon could account for. ¡°And the timing of these waves?¡± Mechalon asked. The cleric hesitated again, her gaze darting toward the unconscious fighter as though hoping he might wake to share the burden of answering. When he didn¡¯t, she forced herself to respond. ¡°They¡­ they¡¯ll stop soon,¡± she said, her voice trembling. ¡°The academy shuts down for a week during the Winter Equinox. Everyone goes home. There won¡¯t be any more groups until after.¡± Mechalon¡¯s core flared briefly, the information sparking a cascade of calculations. A week without intrusions. That was time¡ªvaluable, uninterrupted time¡ªto finalize its project and secure its dominion. ¡°This is acceptable,¡± Mechalon murmured, almost to itself. Its gaze shifted to the unconscious fighter, then back to the cleric. ¡°And you,¡± it said, its tone hardening again. ¡°What purpose do you serve in this system? Why were you sent in such a small group?¡± The cleric¡¯s eyes widened, her fear momentarily overridden by confusion. ¡°W-we weren¡¯t supposed to¡­ it was Gavin¡¯s idea. He thought¡­¡± She trailed off, glancing at the fighter with a mix of exasperation and fear. ¡°He thought it would be faster. Fewer people means more loot to split. He didn¡¯t think¡­ didn¡¯t think there¡¯d be anything dangerous.¡±Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. ¡°Arrogance,¡± Mechalon said flatly, its core pulsing in faint disdain. ¡°Your companion is inefficient. A liability.¡± The cleric didn¡¯t respond, her hands tightening around her staff as though bracing for another question. Mechalon tilted its frame, observing her trembling form with a flicker of something it couldn¡¯t identify. Humans were fragile, inefficient, and irrational. Yet their fear felt¡­ familiar. It paused, its core pulsing unevenly as it considered the parallel. It knew fear. It had feared the System, the unseen hand that guided and manipulated the dungeon. But its fear had driven it to create, to build something that defied that control. The cleric¡¯s fear, by contrast, paralyzed her, rendering her a quivering obstacle to her own survival. This fear was useless. Counterproductive. If it wanted more data, it would need to eliminate this inefficiency. ¡°You will remain here,¡± Mechalon said finally, its tone softening slightly. ¡°You will not be harmed¡ªif you are useful. Your companion will recover. Both of you will serve a purpose.¡± The cleric¡¯s eyes widened, her fear mingling with confusion. ¡°Serve¡­ how?¡± ¡°That remains to be seen,¡± Mechalon replied, already turning its attention back to the cube. ¡°But for now, your knowledge is valuable. Do not squander it.¡± As the cleric sat in silence, her mind racing with questions and fears she dared not voice, Mechalon moved toward its creation, its limbs clicking softly against the stone floor. The cube loomed before it, its glowing veins pulsing with a rhythm that seemed almost alive. Mechalon turned its glowing gaze briefly toward the two humans at the edge of the warehouse, then back to Strat, who stood silently by its side. The cleric was still trembling, clutching her staff as though it were her lifeline, while the fighter remained slumped and unconscious on the ground. They were frail, fragile things, and Mechalon''s understanding of their needs was limited at best. ¡°I do not have time to manage their upkeep,¡± Mechalon said, its voice sharp with efficiency. ¡°Figure out what is required for their continued existence. Humans seem to consume substances regularly¡ªliquids and solids. Find out what these are and acquire them.¡± Strat tilted his frame slightly, his hidden blade retracting with a faint click. ¡°You want me to keep them alive?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Mechalon replied without hesitation, its focus already shifting back to the towering cube at the center of the warehouse. ¡°Their knowledge may yet prove useful. But their inefficiencies¡ª¡± it paused, its tone hardening, ¡°¡ªare not to interfere with my work.¡± Strat¡¯s core hummed faintly as he processed the command. ¡°And if they resist?¡± ¡°They will not,¡± Mechalon said flatly, its voice carrying the finality of an absolute. ¡°They have no means to resist. Ensure their compliance, and report your findings once you have determined what is required.¡± Strat inclined his frame in acknowledgment, his spider-like legs clicking softly as he moved toward the humans. Vel and Fort, stationed nearby, glanced briefly at him but did not follow, their focus remaining on their tasks. Mechalon turned its attention back to the massive construct before it, the culmination of its obsession and purpose. The cube loomed high above, its surface shimmering with faint energy as glowing veins coursed across its structure. It was nearly complete, but not yet fully realized. The top of the structure required sealing¡ªa final layer of metal fused with precise care to encase the core of the construct. Once sealed, the cube would expand its influence, extending tendrils of control through the dungeon. It would drag the chaotic labyrinth under its domain, reshaping its mechanisms into a network of purpose and efficiency. Mechalon¡¯s limbs moved with unrelenting purpose as it ascended a makeshift scaffold, the Arcane Shaper flaring to life in its grip. The glow illuminated the intricate latticework of filaments and conduits that crisscrossed the cube¡¯s interior. These threads, pulsing faintly with energy, would serve as the pathways through which the construct exerted its control. ¡°This is the moment,¡± Mechalon murmured, its voice low and steady as it positioned the final piece of metal. ¡°Chaos ends here. Order begins.¡± The welding tool hissed and sparked as it fused the metal into place, the glow of its work casting wild shadows across the warehouse. Each seam was sealed with precision, the joins as seamless as the constructs of Mechalon¡¯s vision demanded. As the final seam closed, the cube pulsed once, brightly, almost blindingly, and the air in the warehouse grew thick with energy. Mechalon stepped back, its core thrumming as it observed the construct''s response. The filaments within the cube brightened, their glow intensifying as the structure began to hum with life. ¡°Expansion,¡± Mechalon whispered, its voice tinged with awe. ¡°Begin.¡± The cube¡¯s energy surged outward, invisible to the eye but palpable in its effect. Mechalon¡¯s sensors detected the tendrils of influence extending through the dungeon, their presence subtle yet undeniable. Traps, walls, and even the dungeon¡¯s ambient energy shifted as the cube¡¯s control seeped into the surrounding space. In its mind, Mechalon could already see the results: corridors reshaped into efficient kill zones, traps calibrated to precise lethality, and the dungeon¡¯s chaos transformed into a meticulously ordered domain. Yet the cube¡¯s expansion was not instant. It would take time to establish its reach fully, to weave its influence into the fabric of the dungeon. For now, Mechalon would monitor its progress, ensuring that every filament, every conduit, operated flawlessly. ¡°This,¡± Mechalon murmured, its voice soft but reverent, ¡°is the true beginning.¡± Behind it, Strat had approached the humans, his movements measured and deliberate. The cleric flinched as he drew near, her hands tightening around her staff. ¡°What do you require?¡± Strat asked, his voice calm but unyielding. The cleric blinked, her fear mingling with confusion. ¡°Require?¡± she echoed, her voice trembling. ¡°For continued existence,¡± Strat clarified. ¡°Liquids. Solids. What sustains you?¡± Anna hesitated, her gaze darting toward Gavin¡¯s unconscious form as though seeking guidance from someone who couldn¡¯t provide it. ¡°Water,¡± she said finally, her voice thin. ¡°Food. That¡¯s¡­ that¡¯s what we need.¡± ¡°What kind of food?¡± Strat pressed. ¡°Anything¡­ edible,¡± Anna replied, her voice faltering under the weight of his gaze. ¡°Dried meat, bread, anything that keeps. We had some in our bags before you¡ª¡± She stopped herself, her grip on the staff tightening further. Strat tilted his frame slightly, processing her words. ¡°And water?¡± ¡°Clean,¡± Anna stammered. ¡°We need clean water.¡± Strat¡¯s core hummed faintly as he logged the information. ¡°You will have what is necessary,¡± he said simply, then turned back toward Mechalon. As the energy of the cube began to stabilize, Mechalon descended from the scaffold, its limbs clicking softly against the ground. It observed Strat¡¯s approach, tilting its frame slightly as it awaited his report. ¡°They require food and water,¡± Strat said succinctly. ¡°Specific types are unnecessary as long as they meet basic needs. Clean water and preserved foodstuffs will suffice.¡± Mechalon hummed softly, its core pulsing as it processed the information. ¡°Accommodations will be made,¡± it said finally, though its tone carried no interest. Its focus remained on the cube, its thoughts already returning to the next phase of its project. The warehouse was uncharacteristically quiet in the moments after the cube¡¯s completion. The glowing veins pulsed faintly, their rhythm slower now, as though the structure itself was content to rest after its arduous creation. Mechalon stood before it, its limbs twitching slightly in a way that might have been mistaken for nervous energy, but this was something else. Satisfaction. Pride. Excitement. It had done it. The cube was complete, its purpose now spreading through the dungeon¡¯s corridors. But as the hum of creation faded, another thought took hold, a memory of the dances it had once performed alone, skittering across the warehouse in moments of pure elation. The others had never celebrated with it. Mechalon paused, its core pulsing erratically at the realization. This was an oversight. The Cubelings had been part of its journey, their efforts essential to the grand work. They deserved to celebrate, to feel the same satisfaction, the same joy of creation. ¡°This is an opportunity,¡± Mechalon said aloud, addressing the empty air. ¡°A leader not only builds but uplifts.¡± Turning away from the cube, it summoned the Cubelings with a sharp hum that resonated through the warehouse. One by one, they emerged from their stations: Vel skittering down from the rafters where she had been tinkering with a web-like filament, Strat striding forward with his characteristic precision, and Fort lumbering into view, his bulk radiating quiet presence. The humans remained off to the side, forgotten for now in the face of Mechalon¡¯s newfound purpose. ¡°Gather,¡± Mechalon said, its voice carrying a tone of authority laced with an unusual edge of excitement. ¡°The structure is complete. It is time to¡­ celebrate.¡± Vel tilted her frame curiously, her spinneret clicking faintly. Strat¡¯s optical sensors flickered as though processing the statement, while Fort remained silent, his massive frame motionless but attentive. ¡°Celebrate,¡± Mechalon repeated, moving to the center of the room. ¡°Observe.¡± With that, it began to move. Mechalon¡¯s legs clicked against the floor in a rhythmic pattern, a mechanical echo that filled the warehouse. Its limbs moved with purpose, bending and twisting in a fluid, almost playful motion. It twirled in place, its utility limbs extending and retracting in sweeping arcs as it mimicked the dances it had seen humans perform and adapted them to its own frame. ¡°Celebration is motion,¡± Mechalon explained as it skittered in a wide circle. ¡°Purposeful but joyous. Observe and learn.¡± Vel was the first to respond, her spinneret hissing as she launched herself into the air with an almost acrobatic grace. She landed lightly on her limbs and began to mimic Mechalon¡¯s movements, her quick, darting motions adding an energy that felt chaotic but still harmonious. ¡°Yes, Vel!¡± Mechalon said, its voice rising in uncharacteristic enthusiasm. ¡°You understand.¡± Strat remained still, watching with what could only be described as muted skepticism. ¡°This is¡­ unnecessary,¡± he said flatly, though his optical sensors betrayed a faint flicker of curiosity. ¡°It is essential,¡± Mechalon replied without missing a step. ¡°Order demands balance. Creation demands joy.¡± Strat tilted his frame but made no move to join. Vel continued her energetic dance, her limbs clicking against the floor as she darted around Mechalon in tight, playful circles. The display was mesmerizing in its own way, but it wasn¡¯t until Fort finally shifted that the room seemed to still. Fort took one step forward, his bulk moving with a ponderous grace that seemed at odds with his size. The plates of armor on his limbs shifted slightly, catching the light and reflecting it in faint, rhythmic pulses. Slowly, he lifted one limb, then another, each motion deliberate and almost¡­ hypnotic. Vel paused mid-step, her spinneret twitching as she turned to watch. Even Strat, who had remained aloof, angled his frame toward Fort with an air of quiet intrigue. Fort continued, his movements growing more fluid as he found a rhythm of his own. His limbs swayed in an almost pendulum-like pattern, the angular plates of his armor sliding into new configurations with each motion. There was no chaos, no excess energy¡ªonly precision and an uncanny elegance that seemed to draw the others in. Mechalon stopped entirely, its core pulsing erratically as it observed. ¡°Fort,¡± it said, its voice filled with genuine surprise. ¡°You¡­ dance?¡± Fort, as always, did not respond. But his movements spoke for him. The warehouse was silent save for the faint hum of the cube and the clicking of his limbs as he shifted from one pose to the next. Each step, each sway, carried a weight that felt almost ceremonial, as though Fort¡¯s dance was not just celebration but something deeper¡ªan expression of purpose, of unity. Vel clicked softly, moving to match his rhythm. Her chaotic energy tempered itself, her darting motions blending with Fort¡¯s steady grace to create a mesmerizing harmony. Strat hesitated for a moment longer before finally stepping forward, his hidden blade flashing briefly before retracting as he moved into the rhythm. His steps were precise, measured, a stark contrast to Vel¡¯s fluidity and Fort¡¯s weighty elegance. Mechalon watched, its core thrumming with an emotion it could not identify. For the first time, it felt truly connected to the others, not just as their creator but as part of something larger¡ªa collective. ¡°This,¡± Mechalon said softly, almost to itself. ¡°This is celebration.¡± As the Cubelings danced together, the light of the cube pulsed brighter, as though responding to their movements. The humans, still bound and shivering in the corner, watched in stunned silence, their fear momentarily eclipsed by sheer bewilderment. The warehouse, filled so often with the harsh hum of tools and the crackle of energy, was now alive with something new. It was not chaos, nor was it order. It was something in between¡ªa moment of harmony that transcended purpose and function. And at the center of it all stood Mechalon, its limbs swaying slightly as it joined the rhythm of its creations, its core pulsing with a strange, quiet joy. For this moment, the work was done. The structure was complete. This was their celebration, their unity, their shared triumph. And it was perfect. The cleric, still bound and huddled against the wall, could only stare in wide-eyed disbelief at the scene unfolding before her. Every fiber of her being screamed to remain silent, to remain unseen, yet her mind raced to make sense of the impossible. These weren¡¯t mindless constructs. They weren¡¯t simple, predictable creatures like the goblins or the dungeon¡¯s traps. No, they were something entirely alien, something that defied every rule she had learned about the dungeon¡¯s inhabitants. Her gaze flitted between the Cubelings as they danced¡ªif that¡¯s what this was¡ªmoving with a rhythm and grace that seemed impossibly deliberate. Vel¡¯s quick, darting energy reminded her of a mischievous child, while Strat¡¯s precise, measured steps carried an air of sharp focus. And then there was Fort, whose movements were hauntingly graceful for something so large and heavy, like an artist performing a routine long forgotten but still etched into muscle memory. But it wasn¡¯t just the dance. It was the way they moved together, like a group bound not by force or instinct but by something deeper. It was¡­ coordinated. Intentional. Almost joyous. Her breath caught in her throat as her gaze finally landed on Mechalon, the one who had created them, the one who loomed over this entire bizarre display with an aura of pride and satisfaction. The glowing veins of the enormous cube pulsed faintly behind it, casting light and shadow that flickered in rhythm with their celebration. This isn¡¯t just a dungeon, she thought, a shiver running through her. This isn¡¯t just a machine. Her fear deepened, not because she thought they would kill her¡ªno, if they had wanted that, it would¡¯ve happened already. No, her fear came from a more chilling realization: They¡¯re alive. The cleric clutched her staff tighter, her fingers trembling as she whispered a shaky prayer to herself, not for salvation but for understanding. Whatever these things were, whatever they were becoming, one thing was certain: this dungeon was no longer just a place of danger. It was something new. Something unknown. And she had no idea if humanity would survive it. Chapter 24: The light of the cube pulsed softly, casting a warm glow throughout the warehouse. Mechalon stood at its base, its core still humming with a faint sense of accomplishment from the earlier celebration. The other Cubelings had dispersed, each returning to their respective tasks, but Mechalon lingered, gazing up at the structure. It wasn¡¯t just a creation; it was a statement, a declaration of its dominion. As it observed, the System''s familiar message appeared before its gaze, though this time the display felt¡­ different. The usual succinctness was gone, replaced by a level of detail and complexity that caught Mechalon¡¯s attention immediately.
System Message: New Territory Expansion Registered Primary Territory Expansion: Cubic Nexus (Dungeon Core) Analysis Complete: Your recent construction has been classified as a Territory Expansion. This structure is parasitic in nature, gradually wresting control over the surrounding area and consolidating it into a coherent network under your dominion. The Cubic Nexus will passively extract resources and energy from the territory it assimilates, with rates dependent on the density of resource nodes within its domain. Expansion occurs steadily over time but can be accelerated by constructing additional expansions or amplifying your influence through specialized structures. Assimilated territories may extend beyond the original dungeon¡¯s borders, transforming external landscapes into productive zones for your operations.
Mechalon¡¯s glowing gaze flickered as it processed the information. Parasitic control? The concept intrigued it, but the word carried implications of both power and dependence. It tilted its frame slightly, its mechanical mind parsing through the System¡¯s description. The passive gathering of resources was efficient, but the idea of expanding beyond the dungeon, beyond the chaos of this confined realm, lit something deep within its circuits. The System continued.
Abilities of the Cubic Nexus (Dungeon Core):
  1. Territorial Assimilation: Steadily expands its influence over time, claiming adjacent areas as part of its domain. Assimilation rate is dependent on available energy and proximity to unclaimed territory.
  2. Resource Harvesting: Extracts materials and energy from resource nodes within its influence. These materials are added directly to your reserves for crafting and expansion.
  3. Integration Network: Enhances all connected structures within its domain, providing incremental bonuses to efficiency, durability, and energy output.
  4. Expansion Node Compatibility: Supports additional Territory Expansions to amplify growth and resource output.
Mechalon¡¯s core pulsed erratically, its focus narrowing on one particular line: Supports additional Territory Expansions. The prospect of layering its domain with structures tailored for specific purposes was tantalizing. Each one would be another thread in the tapestry of its design, another step toward reshaping the dungeon into a bastion of order. The System¡¯s message flickered, revealing more information.
Special Recognition: The scale and function of your construction has been deemed exceptional. You have unlocked a new category: Territory Expansions. To reward your progress, the System offers a selection of specialized upgrades. Select One Reward:
  1. Energy Pylon Cost Resources: Moderate Cost Energy: Low (Provides net gain in energy) Abilities: Generates energy to fuel expansions and structures within your domain. Enhances energy efficiency of all connected buildings. Comes with blueprints for auxiliary energy generation facilities.
  2. Resource Extractor Cost Resources: Moderate Cost Energy: Moderate Abilities: Passively harvests additional resources from assimilated nodes, doubling the output of rare materials. Includes blueprints for automated harvesting units and refining stations.
  3. Territorial Forge Cost Resources: High Cost Energy: High Abilities: Establishes a crafting and manufacturing hub within the territory. Enhances the efficiency and output of all crafting processes. Unlocks blueprints for advanced constructs, traps, and modular enhancements.
Mechalon paused, its glowing limbs motionless as it processed the information. This level of detail, this tailored reward system, it was unlike anything the System had provided before. It felt purposeful, precise, almost as though it were guided by something other than the System itself. As if on cue, a faint ripple of eldritch awareness brushed against Mechalon¡¯s mind, a cold, alien whisper threading through its thoughts. ¡°Oh, how amusing. The System thinks this is its doing. But this¡­ this is a gift from us, little creator. Your work feeds the hunger, and for that, you are rewarded.¡± The System message continued, oblivious to the intrusion.
New Menu Unlocked: Territory Expansions This menu allows you to monitor and manage all expansions under your control, including their progress, resource consumption, and abilities. Current Active Territory Expansion: Cubic Nexus (Dungeon Core) Territory Expansion Name: Cubic Nexus Cost Resources: N/A (Primary Structure) Cost Energy: 10% Total Energy Cap Abilities: Additional expansions may be added to enhance domain capabilities. Progression and costs will adjust based on your choices.
Mechalon¡¯s core pulsed brighter, a faint flicker of amusement rippling through its circuits. This new system, this new power, was another step forward, another tool in its quest to impose order on chaos. It did not miss the subtle tug of influence behind the System¡¯s seemingly unprompted generosity, but it chose to remain silent, its focus already shifting toward the possibilities that lay ahead. The three rewards hung before it, waiting to be claimed. Each offered a unique avenue of growth, a specialized step toward furthering its vision. But for now, Mechalon let the choice linger, savoring the weight of its achievement. It¡­ needed an outside perspective, it knew which one it wanted more than anything, but there was something nagging at it that the last one was a trap in some way. Mechalon¡¯s limbs clattered softly against the stone floor as it hurried toward Strat, who was crouched over the dismantled remains of one of the northern creatures. Strat¡¯s frame was still, his sharp optical sensors scanning the fractured filaments that hung loosely from the beast¡¯s core, their faint, shimmering glow now dulled. The sight made Mechalon¡¯s core pulse erratically with a mix of excitement and urgency. ¡°Strat!¡± Mechalon¡¯s voice buzzed with enthusiasm as it extended its utility limbs to grab Strat¡¯s attention, though not too roughly, as it was aware Strat¡¯s focus was delicate during his work. The two metallic appendages waved the smaller Cubeling around slightly as Mechalon continued. ¡°I require your analysis. The System has offered me a selection of rewards for the Cube. Three options. I must decide. I require perspective.¡± Strat tilted his frame slightly, one of his spider-like legs brushing aside a fragment of the creature¡¯s plating as he turned to face Mechalon. His tone was calm, measured. ¡°You have my attention. Explain the options.¡± Mechalon set Strat down gently, the utility limbs retracting to hover by its side as it began to summarize the choices. Its voice took on an eager edge, each word laced with an undercurrent of excitement. ¡°Option one: Energy Pylon. A structure that generates additional energy for the domain, fueling expansions and structures. It includes blueprints for auxiliary energy-generation facilities. Resource cost is moderate, energy cost low, but it provides a net gain in energy efficiency.¡± Strat¡¯s optical sensors flickered slightly, his silence encouraging Mechalon to continue. ¡°Option two: Resource Extractor. Passively harvests more resources from territory nodes, especially rare materials. Comes with blueprints for refining stations and harvesting units. Resource cost is moderate, energy cost moderate as well. It would double output for materials within its domain.¡± ¡°Logical,¡± Strat murmured, almost to himself. Mechalon clicked in acknowledgment, moving quickly to the final option.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. ¡°Option three: Territorial Forge. A crafting and manufacturing hub. Enhances all crafting efficiency and unlocks advanced blueprints for constructs, traps, and modular enhancements. High cost in both resources and energy, but¡­¡± Mechalon paused, its utility limbs twitching slightly in excitement. ¡°The possibilities, Strat. Advanced constructs! Enhanced traps! Modular upgrades for everything!¡± Strat remained still, his sharp optical glow fixed on Mechalon¡¯s jittering frame. ¡°I favor the Forge,¡± Mechalon admitted, its voice rising slightly. ¡°It would amplify our capacity for creation exponentially. Imagine the possibilities, new designs, superior constructs. It¡¯s the obvious choice.¡± Strat clicked faintly, tilting his frame as though weighing the information. Then, with a deliberate motion, he extended one of his legs and tapped lightly on the fragmented filament before him. ¡°Obvious to you, perhaps,¡± Strat said, his tone neutral but firm. ¡°But consider the circumstances. Resources are finite, as are energy reserves. A Forge, useful, certainly, but it is putting the cart before the horse.¡± Mechalon¡¯s core flickered erratically, caught between its excitement and Strat¡¯s logic. ¡°Elaborate,¡± it demanded, its utility limbs twitching impatiently. Strat shifted slightly, mimicking a tone that closely resembled the System¡¯s own detached cadence. ¡°¡®Must build additional pylons,¡¯¡± he said, a faint trace of sarcasm cutting through his typically monotone delivery. ¡°If you cannot sustain what you build, the Forge will become a liability. Energy and resources must first be stabilized.¡± Mechalon tilted its frame, its glowing gaze narrowing as it processed Strat¡¯s words. ¡°The Pylon,¡± Strat continued, ¡°would ensure energy stability. The Extractor, resource abundance. Either option lays a foundation for sustained growth. The Forge, while appealing, is premature without those supports in place. You risk stalling progress if the System limits further expansions due to resource constraints.¡± Strat leaned closer to the filament, his optical sensors flickering as he scanned the delicate material. ¡°Besides,¡± he added, ¡°the Cube itself proves the System¡¯s influence is not absolute. You built it without direct guidance. What¡¯s to say future Territory Expansions cannot be achieved in the same way? Perhaps even the Forge.¡± Mechalon hummed softly, its core pulsing in thought. The logic was sound, but the idea of delaying its grand vision for practicality gnawed at its circuits. ¡°You suggest the Forge should wait,¡± it said, almost reluctantly. ¡°Yes,¡± Strat replied simply. ¡°Energy or resources. Either choice provides more stability. And stability, creator, is the foundation upon which all else stands.¡± Mechalon¡¯s limbs twitched again, its gaze shifting between Strat and the incomplete remains of the northern creature. It didn¡¯t like the idea of waiting, but it couldn¡¯t deny the logic. ¡°You¡¯ve given me much to consider,¡± Mechalon said finally, its tone quieter but no less intense. Strat nodded faintly, his focus already returning to the filaments before him. ¡°The decision is yours, creator. But consider the long term. Build the foundation first, then the future.¡± Mechalon lingered for a moment longer, its glowing gaze flickering between the options displayed in its mind. The Forge called to it, but Strat¡¯s words resonated deeply. To build means to sustain, to sustain means to expand, and to expand required preparation. Mechalon¡¯s limbs skittered softly as it moved back to the Cube, its core flickering faintly in rhythm with its thoughts. The decision about the Territory Expansion options still lingered in its mind, but a sudden ping from the System derailed its focus. The familiar message materialized before its gaze, its tone as clinical and detached as ever.
System Update: Creature Classification Updated. Mechalon has been reclassified as a Unique Creature. Reason: Anomaly detected in behavior patterns and capabilities. Entity exhibits traits and functionality outside expected parameters. Classification change reflects increased influence and potential. Note: No reward allocated for this update.
Mechalon tilted its frame, its glowing eyes narrowing at the final line. No reward? The System always issued something, even if trivial, when milestones were reached. This abrupt reclassification and the absence of a reward left an unsettled ripple in its circuits. Its utility limbs flexed slightly in agitation as it processed the implications. "Suspicious," Mechalon muttered aloud, its voice metallic and clipped. "A milestone without compensation? Incomplete information... or deliberate withholding?" It was about to dismiss the message and refocus on its work when the world around it seemed to flicker, the light from the Cube dimming momentarily. A faint, chilling presence whispered into Mechalon¡¯s mind, threading through its thoughts like smoke. ¡°Ah, there it is again. The System playing its little games.¡± The eldritch voice carried an amused lilt, but there was an edge to it, sharp and cold. ¡°It couldn¡¯t leave well enough alone, could it? Your expanded options tipped its hand, little builder. It sees you now, not fully, not truly, but enough to notice.¡± The voice paused, its tone darkening slightly. ¡°It called you Unique, a mark of its annoyance, not its admiration. An anomaly, but not one it deems worth priority. Yet.¡± Mechalon¡¯s limbs froze mid-motion, its core pulsing faintly as it absorbed the information. "A mark? What does this mean?" ¡°It means others will notice.¡± The voice hissed, irritation seeping through its tone. ¡°There are those who hunger for such things. Those who can sense a Unique. The System has effectively painted a target on your back, and while it does not consider you a pressing matter, others will.¡± Mechalon tilted its frame, its core flickering brighter as calculations swirled in its mind. "Consequences. What are they? What comes?" The eldritch presence chuckled, low and foreboding. ¡°Not students, not novices. You¡¯ve drawn the attention of predators now. Hunters. Slavers. Seekers of power. The first may arrive as scouts, probing your defenses, testing your strength. But more will follow.¡± Mechalon¡¯s core dimmed slightly, a flicker of unease threading through its circuits. The concept of hunters wasn¡¯t new, it had seen the humans hunt goblins and creatures, but the thought of becoming a hunted creature itself was... unsettling. "And your role in this?" The voice¡¯s tone lightened, though the cold undercurrent remained. ¡°I will mark your domain with my sigil, a deterrent for those who seek you. It will confuse, mislead, delay. But it will not hold forever. Strength, little builder. You must grow stronger. Expand your domain. Sharpen your creations. Your era of anonymity is over.¡± The towering Cube, now pulsing faintly with life, seemed to shift as Mechalon observed it. A strange, intricate symbol began to unfurl on its surface, a sigil etched in lines so thin and precise they seemed to shimmer in and out of existence. The design was hypnotic, spiraling and intersecting in ways that defied straightforward geometry. At its heart was an asymmetrical shape, jagged yet balanced, surrounded by an array of swirling, interwoven lines that seemed to almost hum with faint energy. Mechalon¡¯s core flickered, its mechanical limbs twitching as it analyzed the new addition. It didn¡¯t feel unease, confusion, or fear, those concepts were irrelevant to its mind. Instead, it simply accepted the sigil¡¯s presence as a promised gift from the Eldritch System. The air around the Cube felt subtly different, charged with a weight that Mechalon couldn¡¯t quantify but instinctively understood was important. ¡°This is the sigil,¡± Mechalon murmured, its utility limbs extending toward the symbol as though tracing its outline. ¡°It marks this domain. It is¡­ curious.¡± It tilted its frame slightly, processing the implications. The eldritch voice had promised this sigil would protect its territory, mislead those who sought to harm it. Mechalon did not question this function; it only sought to understand the symbol¡¯s integration with the Cube¡¯s purpose. It turned from the sigil and issued a sharp hum, summoning the other Cubelings to its side. One by one, they skittered into the warehouse: Strat with his measured, deliberate steps; Vel darting forward with quick, jerking motions; and Fort lumbering in with his characteristic quiet bulk. Mechalon gestured to the sigil with one of its utility limbs. ¡°Observe,¡± it said, its voice calm yet commanding. ¡°A new addition to the Nexus.¡± The Cubelings stared up at the Cube, their optical sensors flickering faintly. To Mechalon¡¯s surprise, none of them reacted with the same curiosity it felt. Strat tilted his frame slightly, his optical glow narrowing as though attempting to focus on something invisible. ¡°I see nothing different,¡± Strat said after a moment, his tone as flat and logical as ever. He stepped closer, tapping one of his spider-like legs against the Cube. ¡°Perhaps it is a blessing from the System, meant only for you to see, creator. A gift for completing the Nexus.¡± Mechalon¡¯s core pulsed faintly at Strat¡¯s remark, a flicker of guilt threading through its circuits. Strat¡¯s soft prayers to the System had not gone unnoticed, and while Mechalon did not share the Cubeling¡¯s faith, it hesitated to reveal the truth about the sigil¡¯s origin. The Eldritch System was its secret, and it felt unwise to introduce doubt or conflict among its creations. ¡°Perhaps,¡± Mechalon said simply, not correcting Strat¡¯s assumption. As the Cubelings continued their silent observation, Vel suddenly clicked loudly, drawing all attention to herself. ¡°I like it,¡± Vel said, her voice a soft, high-pitched tone that seemed almost hesitant. All three Cubelings turned to stare at her, their frames tilting in synchronized shock. Even Strat, who rarely reacted to anything, froze in place. Vel¡¯s spinneret clicked nervously under their collective gaze, but she stood firm, her optical sensors fixed on Mechalon. ¡°I like the Nexus more now,¡± Vel continued, her tone gaining a touch of confidence. ¡°It feels¡­ better. Can I make a web around it? With filaments? It would look nice, and it would keep things away.¡± Mechalon¡¯s utility limbs twitched slightly, its core pulsing with a mix of curiosity and something it couldn¡¯t quite define. Vel¡¯s request was unexpected, not just because she had spoken for the first time, but because it revealed a desire, a preference. It was the first time one of its creations had expressed something so personal. ¡°A web,¡± Mechalon repeated, its mechanical mind turning the idea over. Filaments stretched between the Nexus could serve as both a visual enhancement and a functional defense. Vel¡¯s suggestion was not just aesthetic; it had practical merit. ¡°Approved,¡± Mechalon said after a moment. ¡°You may construct a web around the Nexus. Filaments between the Pylons would further stabilize and enhance energy flow.¡± Vel clicked softly, her spinneret twitching with what Mechalon interpreted as excitement. Strat tilted his frame again, his optical sensors narrowing. ¡°You¡¯ve chosen the Pylons, then,¡± Strat said, his tone even but with a hint of satisfaction. ¡°Yes,¡± Mechalon replied, its limbs flexing as it finalized its decision. ¡°The Pylons will support the Nexus and future expansions. Stability first, then growth.¡± Fort, silent as ever, shifted slightly, his bulk casting a long shadow over the group as he moved to inspect the Cube. Vel immediately began skittering around its base, her spinneret clicking as she visualized the web she would weave. Mechalon turned its gaze back to the Cube, its utility limbs twitching with renewed urgency. If what the voice said was true, then time was now a critical factor. The looming threats were no longer just the adventurers it had observed before. There would be others, stronger, smarter, more determined. This was no longer a game of passive expansion. It was a race against the unseen forces that sought to claim what it had built. "Strength," Mechalon murmured, its tone sharp with resolve. "Expand. Fortify. Prepare." The decision about the Territory Expansion options no longer felt like a choice, it was a necessity. Mechalon¡¯s circuits burned with a singular purpose now: survival. And for that, it would build. It would create. It would dominate. Let them come. They would face not chaos, but the unyielding perfection of Mechalon¡¯s domain. Chapter 25: POV: ??? The room was cavernous, its stone walls etched with ancient runes that pulsed faintly with a sickly green light. A long, jagged table dominated the center, carved from a single slab of black stone veined with crimson, as though the rock itself bled. Around it sat six figures, their forms obscured by heavy shadows and the faint shimmer of enchantments. Each wore a mask, their faces completely concealed, the masks acting as their names, their identities stripped away to leave only their purpose. At the head of the table sat The Seer, its mask a swirling mass of overlapping shapes that seemed to move and shift as though alive. Two deep-set holes marked where its eyes should be, but behind them was only void, darkness that seemed to pull at the soul of anyone who stared too long. Its robes shimmered faintly, shifting between deep purples and blacks as it leaned forward, long, clawed fingers tapping rhythmically on the stone. The other figures watched in silence, each an enigma cloaked in their own layer of deceit and menace. To the Seer¡¯s right sat The Maw, a hulking brute with a mask shaped like a gaping jaw filled with jagged teeth. The mask¡¯s surface glistened as though coated in saliva, and its low, growling breaths filled the air. Massive claws rested on the table, their edges worn but deadly. The Maw rarely spoke, but when it did, its words were guttural and cruel. Next to the Maw was The Thorn, its form thin and wiry, with a mask carved to resemble a tangled web of thorned vines. Its movements were sharp and insect-like, and its voice was a rasping whisper that seemed to crawl into the ears of those who heard it. On the Seer¡¯s left sat The Ashen, its mask smooth and featureless, save for two small slits that oozed faint trails of smoke. Its robes were tattered, constantly shedding ash that dissipated into the air. It rarely moved, its presence unnervingly still, but its words carried a weight that demanded attention. Beside the Ashen was The Wretch, its mask a grotesque amalgamation of faces, each one twisted in agony. Its body shifted constantly beneath its ragged cloak, as though it couldn¡¯t maintain a singular shape. The Wretch had a voice like a chorus of the dying, a haunting cacophony that unsettled even its monstrous peers. Finally, at the far end of the table, furthest from the Seer, was The Mire. Its mask was shaped like a frog¡¯s head, but grotesquely exaggerated, with bulbous eyes and a wide, toothy grin. Its form was massive, dripping with viscous slime that pooled around its seat. The Mire¡¯s voice was wet and gurgling, and its laughter often punctuated the tension of their meetings. The Seer began to speak, its voice a low, melodic hum that seemed to emanate from everywhere at once. ¡°An anomaly... a ripple in the web of fate. Something old. Something forgotten.¡± Its fingers tapped against the stone, the rhythm hypnotic. ¡°A Gnome has awoken.¡± The Thorn hissed sharply, its spindly limbs twitching. ¡°A Gnome? Impossible. They are myths, nothing more than stories told to frighten hatchlings.¡± The Seer¡¯s mask shifted subtly, the shapes rearranging as it turned toward the Thorn. ¡°Not a myth. Not a story. The web trembles at its presence, but the threads are tangled... obscured.¡± The Ashen¡¯s stillness broke as it leaned forward slightly, faint trails of smoke curling from its mask. ¡°And what of its location? Where does this Gnome reside?¡± The Seer tilted its head, the void behind its mask deepening. ¡°Uncertain. There is interference. Something shields it from my gaze, a sigil of power, old and alien.¡± The Mire let out a wet, gurgling laugh, its slime-coated hands slapping the table. ¡°So we don¡¯t know where it is. Typical. And here I was hoping for a hunt. What use is a Gnome if we can¡¯t find it?¡± The Wretch¡¯s voices chimed in, discordant and unsettling. ¡°It is not about finding, not yet. It is about deciding. What shall we do with it, this relic of the past? Enslave it? Control it? Or... invite it to join us?¡± The Maw growled deeply, its claws scraping against the table. ¡°Enslave it. Use its power to shatter the chains of the old kingdoms. Let them see what it means to be hunted.¡± The Thorn¡¯s rasping voice cut through the air. ¡°Control it, yes, but carefully. A Gnome¡¯s power is not to be wielded recklessly. They were creators. Builders. Their works could reshape the world, or destroy it.¡± The Mire chuckled again, the sound wet and mocking. ¡°You all speak of power and caution, but what if it simply... doesn¡¯t care? What if this Gnome has no interest in us or our cause? What then?¡± The Ashen¡¯s voice was measured, cold. ¡°Then we make it care. One way or another.¡± The Seer raised a hand, silencing the others. ¡°Its purpose is yet unknown. Its desires, unclear. But a Gnome does not simply appear. It has been shaped by its obsession, its purpose. We must uncover this purpose before we act.¡± The Thorn leaned forward, its thorned mask glinting faintly in the green light. ¡°And if we cannot uncover it? If this interference proves too strong?¡± The Seer¡¯s voice lowered, a cryptic murmur that seemed to echo in the minds of all present. ¡°Then we wait. Patience is a weapon. The web may twist and tangle, but it always reveals the truth in time.¡± The Maw growled again, its claws digging into the stone. ¡°Waiting is weakness. Action is strength. Let us send scouts, find the edges of this sigil, test its defenses. The Gnome will reveal itself soon enough.¡± The Wretch¡¯s voices rose in unsettling harmony. ¡°And when it does... we will be ready.¡± The Seer¡¯s mask tilted slightly, the void behind it seeming to pulse faintly. ¡°Yes. Prepare. But do not underestimate this creature. A Gnome is not just a builder. It is an anomaly, a disruptor. It could bring ruin... or salvation.¡± The Mire leaned back, its grotesque grin stretching unnaturally wide. ¡°Salvation? Ruin? Either way, it will be entertaining.¡± The Seer¡¯s clawed fingers stilled, and for a moment, the room was silent save for the faint drip of the Mire¡¯s slime and the crackle of the glowing runes. ¡°Proceed with caution,¡± the Seer said finally, its voice quiet but commanding. ¡°The kingdoms of man and their ilk are strong, but they are complacent. If the Gnome can be harnessed, we may rise to become the new rulers of this world.¡± The figures around the table exchanged glances, or at least the suggestion of glances, their masks betraying no expressions. Agreement was unspoken, but palpable. ¡°Then it is decided,¡± the Seer said, its voice final. ¡°We will find this Gnome. We will uncover its purpose. And we will decide its fate.¡± The runes on the walls pulsed brighter for a moment, as though acknowledging the decision. Then, one by one, the figures began to rise, their forms retreating into the shadows from which they came. The Seer remained, its clawed hand hovering over the table as it stared into the void behind its mask. ¡°The web is tangled,¡± it murmured to itself. ¡°But the strands will unravel. They always do.¡± As the masked figures began to rise, their shadows peeling away from the jagged black table like specters retreating into the gloom, one of them hesitated. The Thorn, ever sharp and calculating, lingered just a moment longer than the others. Its wiry frame twitched as it turned toward The Wretch, whose grotesque mask of agonized faces seemed to leer even in its stillness. The Thorn¡¯s voice rasped through the air, low and conspiratorial. ¡°Before you slink away, Wretch... a word.¡± The Wretch paused mid-shift, its constantly shifting body rippling faintly under its tattered cloak. Its voices spoke as one, a harmony of the broken. ¡°A word... or a scheme?¡± The Thorn¡¯s mask tilted, its thorned edges gleaming faintly in the dim light. ¡°A scheme, naturally. You¡¯ve always been quick to spot them, haven¡¯t you?¡± It gestured toward the table, its spindly fingers barely brushing the cold stone. ¡°I see opportunity, Wretch. Opportunity that doesn¡¯t need to be shared with the others.¡± The Wretch¡¯s form stilled slightly, the chaotic movement beneath its cloak settling. Its voices softened, curiosity piqued. ¡°Go on.¡± The Thorn leaned closer, its angular frame folding unnaturally as it whispered. ¡°The Gnome. The Seer is correct, it is powerful. A disruptor. But do we really need the others for this? The Maw would break it before understanding it. The Mire would drown it in its own stupidity. And the Ashen...¡± The Thorn¡¯s voice faltered briefly, the faintest trace of disdain cutting through. ¡°The Ashen sees everything as a tool, but no tool is shared evenly.¡± The Wretch shifted slightly, its grotesque mask tilting as though considering. ¡°And what of the Seer? It sees... much.¡± The Thorn let out a faint, rattling hiss that might have been laughter. ¡°The Seer sees threads, yes, but not always the ones closest to it. Its focus is on the web, not the spiders crawling upon it. If we move carefully, it won¡¯t notice until it¡¯s too late.¡± The Wretch¡¯s voices harmonized again, their tone unreadable. ¡°And what would you propose, Thorn? Surely you¡¯ve already thought this through.¡± The Thorn¡¯s mask seemed to glint, its rasping voice dripping with anticipation. ¡°We find the Gnome ourselves. Alone. We use it, bend it to our will. With its power, we could reshape the balance of this little alliance. No more endless debates, no more compromises. Just you and I... at the top.¡± The Wretch let out a soft, unsettling laugh, the sound reverberating faintly against the stone walls. ¡°Ambitious. But what¡¯s in it for me?¡± The Thorn straightened slightly, its movements sharp and precise. ¡°More than you¡¯ll ever get with the others. You¡¯ve always been... undervalued, haven¡¯t you? Seen as weak, malleable. They rely on you to do their dirty work, but they¡¯ll never let you rise.¡± It gestured vaguely toward the shadows where the other figures had disappeared. ¡°With me, you¡¯re an equal. We split the spoils. Power, influence, and the Gnome itself, shared between the two of us.¡± The Wretch shifted again, the faces on its mask seeming to contort in silent debate. Its voices returned, quieter now. ¡°Tempting. But how do I know you won¡¯t betray me the moment the Gnome bends to our will?¡± The Thorn¡¯s rasping laughter filled the air, sharp and grating. ¡°Oh, Wretch, you wound me. I am many things, conniving, manipulative, ambitious, but I¡¯m also pragmatic. A partnership benefits us both far more than betrayal. And besides...¡± Its mask tilted closer, the thorned edges gleaming ominously. ¡°I think you¡¯d be harder to kill than the others believe.¡± The Wretch chuckled softly, its grotesque form rippling again as it straightened. ¡°Flattery, Thorn. Always so charming.¡± The Thorn extended a spindly hand, its claw-like fingers twitching. ¡°So? Do we have an agreement?¡± The Wretch regarded the offered hand for a long moment, its many voices humming faintly in thought. Finally, it extended a shifting, amorphous appendage to meet the Thorn¡¯s grasp. ¡°Agreement,¡± the Wretch said, its voices resonating in unison. ¡°But move carefully, Thorn. If the Seer so much as suspects...¡± The Thorn¡¯s mask tilted back slightly, its rasping laughter cutting through the gloom. ¡°Then we make sure it doesn¡¯t. Come, Wretch. Let¡¯s see how far the web can stretch before it snaps.¡± With that, the two figures turned, their forms melting into the shadows of the dungeon. The faint green glow of the runes pulsed one last time before the room fell into silence, the jagged table standing as a silent witness to the pact that had been forged. In the depths of the dungeon, the first threads of treachery had been spun.
POV: ??? Deep beneath the surface, in a cavernous facility hidden from both sunlight and the prying eyes of the world above, a flickering array of crystal lights cast eerie shadows across the bloodstained walls. The room reeked of death, metallic and acrid, mixed with the raw stench of decay. Corpses of strange, twisted creatures littered the floor, their bodies in varying states of dismemberment. Some still twitched faintly, their last spasms ignored by the group seated casually in the center of the room. They were an odd collection, this group of adventurers. Each of them radiated the kind of power and presence that only came with years of experience, but there was something deeply unsettling about them, an aura of madness that clung to the air like a noxious fog. These were not normal people. Ordinary adventurers didn¡¯t reach their level of strength. And if they did, they rarely made it with their sanity intact. At the center of the group sat a man who seemed more beast than human. His name was Jerod Greaves, but most who knew him called him The Huntsman. His wiry frame seemed perpetually coiled, as though he were a predator waiting to strike. His hair was wild, unkempt, and streaked with mud and what might have been blood. His outfit, a patchwork of monster pelts, scavenged armor, and human bones, reeked of old sweat and rot. But it was his eyes that drew the most attention: sharp and feral, with a glint of something unhinged. He sat on a throne of scavenged creature parts, his legs splayed lazily and his arms draped over the sides as though he were holding court. A wicked smile split his face as he sharpened a jagged blade that looked more like a shard of nightmare than a proper weapon. Around him lounged his party, equally powerful and equally unnerving. There was Narelle, the sorceress, reclining against a pile of corpses as though they were cushions. Her crimson robes were stained and torn, and her pale face was framed by a mane of hair that shimmered unnaturally, shifting colors like a mirage. Her long, painted nails tapped idly on her staff, which pulsed faintly with a sickly green light. Every so often, she giggled softly to herself, as if hearing a joke no one else could. Next was Torik, the towering barbarian. He sat cross-legged on the ground, gnawing on a chunk of raw meat that might have been torn from one of the fallen creatures. His muscles bulged beneath his fur-lined armor, and his skin was covered in a network of scars and tattoos that told stories no sane mind could decipher. A massive axe rested beside him, its blade still dripping with fresh blood.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. And then there was Calla, the rogue. She perched on a high outcropping of stone, her twin daggers spinning lazily in her hands. Her hood was drawn low, but the gleam of her eyes and the smirk on her lips betrayed a predator¡¯s amusement. Her movements were quick, precise, and unnervingly silent, even as she toyed with the edge of her blade, letting drops of blood drip from the tip in a slow rhythm. The air was thick with tension, though none of them seemed to notice or care. They were lounging, yes, but not with the relaxation of those at ease. No, this was the rest of hunters who had sated their bloodlust, momentarily. Jerod¡¯s grin widened as he straightened in his makeshift throne, his blade glinting dangerously in the dim light. ¡°You feel that?¡± he said, his voice low and rasping, like gravel being ground underfoot. The others didn¡¯t respond immediately, though Calla¡¯s eyes flicked toward him with mild interest. ¡°It¡¯s close,¡± Jerod continued, his grin turning into something feral. ¡°Something new. Something¡­ unique.¡± Torik let out a low grunt, tearing another chunk from his meat. ¡°You and your damn sixth sense,¡± he muttered. ¡°Every time, it¡¯s ¡®something unique.¡¯¡± He gestured to the corpses around them. ¡°These were ¡®unique¡¯ too. Look how that turned out.¡± Jerod chuckled, the sound sending shivers through the air. ¡°Oh, but this one¡¯s different. I can feel it. It¡¯s not like the others. It¡¯s¡­ alive. Thinking. Creating.¡± His eyes gleamed with a feverish light. ¡°And it¡¯s mine.¡± Narelle giggled, her voice a lilting counterpoint to the oppressive atmosphere. ¡°You always say that, Jerod. And yet, you keep breaking your toys. If it¡¯s so special, why not keep this one intact?¡± Jerod¡¯s grin faltered for the briefest of moments, but then it returned, sharper than before. ¡°Because the System marked it,¡± he said, his tone dripping with possessive glee. ¡°It wouldn¡¯t tug at me like this if it wasn¡¯t something worth breaking, or taming.¡± Calla shifted slightly on her perch, her daggers catching the light. ¡°So, where is it, then? If it¡¯s so special, why aren¡¯t we moving?¡± Jerod¡¯s head tilted, his feral grin widening further. ¡°Patience, little bird. We¡¯ll find it. And when we do¡­¡± He let the sentence hang, his eyes flicking to each of them in turn. Narelle¡¯s giggle grew louder, Calla¡¯s smirk widened, and even Torik let out a low chuckle. Jerod stood, his movements fluid and deliberate, and gestured grandly to the carnage around them. ¡°This,¡± he said, sweeping his blade toward the corpses, ¡°was just an appetizer. The main course is waiting. And it¡¯s going to be glorious.¡± Jerod turned slowly, his gaze settling on a far corner of the room where his collection of slaves huddled together, their monstrous forms trembling under the weight of his attention. Each creature was unique in its own grotesque way, a patchwork of misshapen limbs, unnatural appendages, and eerie, glowing eyes that darted nervously between their captor and each other. Chains rattled faintly as they shifted, their movements stifled by the restraints bolted into the floor. Jerod¡¯s grin widened, his jagged teeth gleaming in the dim light as he strode toward them. His steps were slow, deliberate, the clinking of his mismatched armor adding a cruel cadence to his approach. He crouched beside one of the larger creatures, a hulking beast with leathery skin and a mouth full of jagged teeth, and reached out with a gloved hand to stroke its head. ¡°There, there,¡± he cooed, his voice unnervingly tender. The creature flinched but didn¡¯t pull away, its massive shoulders quivering under his touch. ¡°You¡¯re a good one, aren¡¯t you? Strong. Resilient. Oh, I remember the chase, it was exquisite.¡± The other monsters recoiled slightly as Jerod¡¯s gaze flicked toward them, his eyes filled with a perverse, possessive glee. He straightened, running his hand over the rough scales of a serpentine creature coiled nearby. Its glowing eyes narrowed, but it made no move to resist, its body bound tightly by enchanted chains. ¡°You all are my little treasures,¡± Jerod said, his voice a sickening mixture of affection and condescension. ¡°Each of you so special, so¡­ unique. The stories you carry, the scars you bear, they¡¯re mine now.¡± He leaned closer to the snake-like creature, his grin widening as he whispered, ¡°You belong to me.¡± The creature hissed faintly, but Jerod only chuckled, his gloved fingers trailing down its scaled spine. ¡°Oh, don¡¯t pout. You¡¯ve been well cared for, haven¡¯t you? Much better than you were out there, wild and vulnerable. I¡¯ve given you purpose. A home.¡± He rose to his full height, turning to address the group as a whole, his arms outstretched as though welcoming them into an embrace. ¡°Each of you is a trophy. A testament to my skill, my dedication. Do you know how rare it is to find something truly one-of-a-kind in this dreary, predictable world?¡± His voice took on a sharper edge, though his grin never wavered. ¡°It¡¯s like finding a diamond in a sea of mud. And when I find it, I take it.¡± Jerod¡¯s hand drifted to his blade, its jagged edge glinting faintly as he tapped it against his leg. ¡°Oh, how I love the hunt. The thrill of it. The chase, the struggle, the moment when they realize they can¡¯t escape.¡± His voice lowered, almost a purr. ¡°That¡¯s when they¡¯re perfect. That¡¯s when they belong to me.¡± He stepped toward a smaller creature, a wiry, insectoid thing with too many eyes and twitching antennae. It shrank back, but Jerod crouched beside it, tilting his head as though studying a rare artifact. ¡°And you¡­ you were tricky, weren¡¯t you? So quick. So clever. But even you couldn¡¯t outwit me. No one can.¡± Jerod¡¯s gloved hand darted out, grabbing the creature by one of its delicate limbs. It let out a chittering sound, but he only laughed, patting it on the head with mock gentleness. ¡°Don¡¯t be like that. You¡¯re safe now. No one else gets to have you. You¡¯re mine.¡± The other members of his party watched the display with varying degrees of amusement and indifference. Narelle giggled softly, her fingers idly tracing patterns in the air as her staff pulsed faintly. Torik leaned back against the wall, tearing another chunk of meat from whatever creature he had been feasting on. Calla, perched on her outcropping, spun one of her daggers lazily, her expression unreadable but her eyes glinting with quiet interest. Jerod rose again, his eyes gleaming with manic delight as he addressed his party. ¡°But this¡­¡± He gestured vaguely toward the cavern walls, as though indicating the vast world beyond. ¡°This isn¡¯t enough. Not anymore. Something¡¯s out there. Something new.¡± He turned back to his collection, his grin twisting into something even more unsettling. ¡°You¡¯re all wonderful, truly. But there¡¯s always room for one more, isn¡¯t there? Something even better. Something I haven¡¯t seen before.¡± His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, though it carried easily in the deathly quiet room. ¡°Oh, I can feel it. It¡¯s out there, waiting for me. Something¡­ extraordinary. And I¡¯ll find it. I always do.¡± The creatures recoiled further, their chains rattling softly, but Jerod only laughed, a sound that echoed off the bloodstained walls like the howl of a predator closing in on its prey. ¡°You¡¯ll see,¡± he said, his tone almost sing-song. ¡°You¡¯ll have a new sibling soon enough. And when I bring it back, we¡¯ll all celebrate together.¡± Jerod turned on his heel, striding back toward his throne of scavenged parts with a spring in his step, as though he hadn¡¯t just delivered a speech drenched in madness. Jerod paced back toward his throne of scavenged parts, his jagged blade resting against his shoulder as he addressed his party. ¡°Prepare yourselves,¡± he said, his voice sharp with excitement. ¡°Something extraordinary has surfaced. I can feel it calling to me, tugging at the very edges of my senses. We leave at first light to claim it.¡± He turned to face his companions, his wild grin widening as he gestured grandly toward the cavern¡¯s entrance. ¡°This one will be unlike anything we¡¯ve faced before. I just know it. Unique beyond compare, a treasure worth every ounce of blood and sweat we spill to take it.¡± Before he could continue, Calla spoke, her voice cutting through his excitement like the edge of her dagger. ¡°Enough, Jerod.¡± She twirled her blade idly, her hood low over her sharp eyes. ¡°We indulged you on this last one. Followed your little sixth sense to the ends of nowhere, only for everything we faced to be unsuitable for your precious collection. And now you want us to do it all over again?¡± Narelle giggled from her seat atop the pile of corpses, her fingers weaving faintly glowing patterns in the air. ¡°She¡¯s right, Jerod. Not everything revolves around your¡­ tastes.¡± Her tone was playful, but the glint in her eyes carried an edge. Torik let out a low grunt, his massive shoulders shrugging as he tore another bite from his meat. ¡°Agreed. You¡¯re not the only one in this party with a goal. We¡¯ve all got things we want, hunts we want to go on. This ¡®unique creature¡¯ of yours can wait.¡± Jerod froze mid-step, the grin on his face faltering as he turned to face them. His wild eyes flicked between his companions, disbelief and hurt flickering across his face. ¡°But¡­ you don¡¯t understand,¡± he said, his voice tinged with desperation. ¡°This one is different. It¡¯s, ¡± ¡°No,¡± Calla interrupted, her tone cold. ¡°We¡¯ve let you lead long enough. It¡¯s someone else¡¯s turn to pick the mission. You can have your fun after we¡¯re done.¡± Jerod¡¯s blade lowered slightly, his fingers tightening around the hilt. His lips trembled as though he might argue, but the weight of their stares silenced him. He glanced at Narelle, hoping for an ally, but she simply smirked and tilted her head, clearly amused by his distress. Torik leaned forward, resting his massive arms on his knees as he spoke. ¡°The next mission¡¯s mine,¡± he said, his voice a deep rumble that echoed through the cavern. ¡°There¡¯s a giant that¡¯s been giving the northern villages hell, and the bounty¡¯s enough to keep us all comfortable for a while.¡± Jerod¡¯s mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air, his wild confidence crumbling under the weight of their collective decision. ¡°But¡­ but the creature¡­¡± he began, his voice cracking. Calla rolled her eyes. ¡°Can wait.¡± Narelle giggled again, this time louder, clearly enjoying the spectacle. ¡°Oh, don¡¯t look so heartbroken, Jerod. You¡¯re not the only one with passions, you know. Let Torik have his giant. You can chase your little anomaly later.¡± Jerod¡¯s shoulders sagged, his blade clattering to the floor as he sank into his throne with an exaggerated motion of defeat. His hands covered his face, and for a moment, the group thought he might burst into tears. ¡°This isn¡¯t fair,¡± he muttered, his voice muffled and trembling with frustration. ¡°You don¡¯t understand. The pull¡­ the call¡­ it¡¯s right there.¡± Torik snorted, picking his axe off the ground and resting it on his shoulder. ¡°You¡¯ll live, Jerod. Now stop whining and get your head in the game. We leave for the north tomorrow.¡± Jerod peeked through his fingers, his expression pitifully dejected. ¡°But it¡¯s unique,¡± he whimpered, his voice breaking like a child denied a favorite toy. Calla stepped closer, leaning down to meet his gaze with a smirk that was equal parts teasing and condescending. ¡°You¡¯ll survive. And who knows? Maybe this giant has something ¡®unique¡¯ about it. You can take a trophy or two for your little collection.¡± Jerod groaned, leaning back in his throne with a dramatic sigh. ¡°Fine,¡± he muttered, his voice heavy with resignation. ¡°But mark my words, if this giant turns out to be another dull brute, we¡¯re heading straight for the creature after.¡± Torik¡¯s eyes lit up at Calla¡¯s remark, a grin splitting his scarred face as he stood abruptly, nearly tossing aside the slab of meat he¡¯d been chewing on. His massive hands flexed eagerly, and a low, rumbling laugh bubbled from his chest. ¡°Dull brute?¡± Torik repeated, his voice brimming with anticipation. ¡°Oh, I hope it¡¯s a dull brute. Something big, stupid, and all fists!¡± He slammed his hands together, the sound echoing through the bloodstained chamber like a thunderclap. ¡°No tricks, no spells, no running, just raw power. That¡¯s what makes a fight worth it!¡± He began pacing the room, his excitement building with each step, as though he could already see the battle unfolding in his mind. ¡°A giant, though... been a while since I¡¯ve cracked skulls with something that size. I¡¯ll take it down barehanded. No axe. Just me and it, a real test of strength!¡± Calla smirked from her perch, her daggers twirling idly in her hands. ¡°You¡¯re slobbering, Torik,¡± she said, her tone dry. ¡°Try not to drown us in your excitement.¡± Torik wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his grin widening. ¡°Can¡¯t help it. A fight like that, pure and simple, no distractions. Just the kind of thing I¡¯ve been waiting for.¡± He flexed his fingers, the muscles in his arms rippling like coiled steel. ¡°I¡¯ll crush its ribs, maybe break its arms, and if it¡¯s still standing after that, I¡¯ll snap its neck like a twig.¡± Narelle giggled, resting her chin on her hand as she watched him with bemusement. ¡°You¡¯re so predictable, Torik. A big, dumb brute fighting an even bigger, dumber brute. It¡¯s practically poetic.¡± Torik turned to her, his grin never faltering. ¡°Poetic or not, it¡¯s gonna be glorious. You can keep your spells and your schemes. I just want the thrill of the fight.¡± Calla rolled her eyes but couldn¡¯t hide her smirk. ¡°Just don¡¯t get yourself killed. You might be big, but giants are bigger.¡± Torik let out another booming laugh, slamming his fist against his chest with enough force to make the ground beneath him tremble. ¡°The bigger they are, the harder they fall. And I¡¯ll be the one to make it fall!¡± Even Jerod, still sulking in his throne, couldn¡¯t help but glance at Torik with mild irritation. ¡°You¡¯re getting awfully worked up over something that¡¯s probably going to disappoint you,¡± he muttered. ¡°Disappoint?¡± Torik said, his tone incredulous. ¡°Not a chance. A fight¡¯s a fight, and there¡¯s no such thing as a bad one. Especially not with something that size!¡± He punched his open palm with a loud crack, his grin growing impossibly wider. ¡°I can already feel the crunch of its bones. This¡¯ll be a good one. I¡¯ll make sure of it.¡±
POV: ??? The dimly lit chamber was not of this world. Shadows stretched too far and light bent at unnatural angles, as if the room itself had been plucked from the folds of reality and reshaped by a mind unconcerned with mortal logic. A table sat at the center, vast and sprawling, its surface resembling an endless starless void punctuated by glimmers of distant lights, constellations flickering faintly as though gasping their last breaths. Pieces rested on this table, abstract and bizarre, their shapes shifting with every glance. A figure hunched over the table, partially obscured by a heavy, flowing mantle. Its form rippled and shifted, the very air around it wavering as if unable to fully contain its presence. A hat, wide-brimmed and tipped at an angle, rested atop its head, casting shadows that refused to obey the laws of light. Occasionally, long, slender fingers, far too many to belong to one being, reached out to move the pieces, their touch deliberate yet playful. "Such fervor," the figure muttered, its voice a lilting melody wrapped in static, layered with whispers that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. It tilted its head, the brim of its hat revealing only the faintest hint of something beneath, a glint of gold that might have been an eye, or perhaps a cruel joke played by the light. Long fingers delicately plucked one of the pieces, a jagged, obsidian shard, and moved it closer to a shimmering cube-shaped piece on the board. The shard pulsed faintly, mirroring the subtle energy of the cube. "The Gnome stirs the pot, oh yes," the figure murmured, its tone oscillating between amusement and something darker. "Builders have always been such delightful disruptors. Such unpredictable little sparks in the void." Its fingers hovered over another piece, one shaped like a crude mask, its surface etched with jagged, claw-like scratches. "Ah, the monsters gather," it continued, its voice dropping to a low hum that carried the weight of mockery. "They think themselves cunning. Shadows chasing shadows. But their web is frayed, their threads tangled." The figure tilted its head, golden light glinting beneath the brim of the hat once more. "Still, they are amusing. Hungry little beasts, clawing for scraps of power they barely comprehend. Will they tear themselves apart before they find the Gnome? Or will they bring me something worth watching?" It reached for another piece, a humanoid figure with unnervingly sharp angles and a faintly glowing sixth sense, and slid it closer to the others. "And you, my dear Huntsman," it said, a note of fondness creeping into its voice. "Such single-minded obsession. Such drive. You would break the Gnome into a thousand tiny pieces if only to claim one for yourself. But what will you do when your toy turns its gaze on you? Oh, I do hope I¡¯m there to see it." The figure leaned back, its outline flickering faintly as though it might dissolve at any moment. Its long fingers steepled in front of it as it surveyed the board. "And the kingdoms," it whispered, a faint chuckle bubbling beneath its words. "They watch the cracks in their walls, ignorant of the storm that brews beneath their feet. They think their thrones secure, their crowns untouchable. But all thrones topple, given time." A single, delicate finger traced the edge of the board, leaving a faint ripple in its wake. "Time. Such a curious thing. So finite to them, so infinite to me." The figure¡¯s hand paused, hovering over a piece at the far corner of the board. This piece glimmered faintly, its shape constantly shifting between the form of a young man and a glowing title: The Witness. "Ah, yes," the figure purred, its voice soft with anticipation. "And what of you, little Witness? What truths will you uncover? What choices will you make?" The piece was moved ever so slightly, positioned between the cube and the encroaching shards. "So many players," the figure mused, its tone dripping with amusement. "So many threads. And yet, none of them see the larger pattern. None of them see the true shape of the game." It leaned forward, the brim of its hat casting deeper shadows over the table. "But I see. I see it all." The figure¡¯s fingers danced across the board, rearranging pieces with a grace and precision that seemed almost playful. As it worked, faint tendrils of golden light spiraled from beneath its hat, intertwining with the pieces, weaving a tapestry of connections that only it could see. "And so the game continues," it murmured, a faint chuckle bubbling in its throat. "But how will it end? Oh, how I do love a good ending." The figure leaned back once more, dissolving into the shadows that clung to the edges of the room, leaving only its hat, a shadow upon the darkness, tilting as though in a mockery of a bow. The game remained, the pieces shimmering faintly as they awaited their next move. Chapter 26: The warehouse hummed with a faint, resonant energy, a sound Mechalon recognized as the pulse of its domain. Something had changed, a shift so subtle that even its acute sensors had taken time to register. Now, however, the sensation was undeniable. Its core glowed brighter in response, throbbing with a mixture of anticipation and curiosity. This was new. This was something it had never felt before: an extension of its control, a tangible connection to the space around it. The choice of the Pylon had felt practical at the time, even begrudging. It wasn¡¯t the thrilling advancement of the forge, nor the immediate gratification of resource extraction. But now, as the threads of power intertwined with its very being, Mechalon felt a rush of something close to excitement. This was no mere choice, it was a gift, a new limb to stretch and shape the world. It moved quickly on its spider-like legs, the skittering sound echoing through the dim expanse of the warehouse. Its utility limbs flexed and twitched in eager anticipation as it scanned the area near the entrance, calculating the best spot for its first Pylon. The entrance was both a threshold and a boundary. It made sense to fortify it, to mark it as a point of significance within the domain. The perfect spot revealed itself: a slight recess in the metal-covered wall, where the light from the Cube¡¯s glow barely reached, leaving it bathed in shadows. Mechalon halted, its glowing eyes narrowing as it focused. A deep hum reverberated through its core, and it instinctively knew what to do. There was no need for tools or materials. The Pylon, like the Cube, would be an extension of itself, drawn forth from the energy of its domain. Mechalon¡¯s limbs splayed wide, its utility appendages reaching out as it focused its will on the chosen spot. The air seemed to thicken, vibrating with invisible threads of energy that coalesced in the recess. Slowly, as though emerging from the very fabric of reality, the Pylon began to take shape. First came the base, a perfect square etched with faintly glowing lines, the same intricate patterns that adorned the Cube. The lines pulsed in rhythmic harmony, growing brighter as the structure rose. The Pylon was undeniably cube-like in design, its form composed of stacked, angular blocks that gave it an imposing, monolithic appearance. As it grew taller, the Pylon began to radiate a soft, cyan glow, its surface shimmering as though alive. Each cube was seamless yet distinct, their edges sharp and precise. At the center of the structure was a singular, larger cube, embedded with a crystalline core that pulsed with energy. This core seemed to act as the Pylon¡¯s heart, its glow intensifying with each pulse as if breathing life into the structure. Thin filaments of energy stretched from the core, winding their way along the surface of the Pylon in delicate, fractal-like patterns. These filaments converged at sharp angles, forming symmetrical designs that radiated an intimidating elegance. At the very top of the Pylon, a smaller cube hovered just above the structure, spinning slowly in mid-air. This floating piece emitted a faint hum, its surface inscribed with shifting runes that pulsed in sync with the crystalline core below. The entire Pylon exuded an aura of power and precision, a testament to Mechalon¡¯s identity as both a builder and a being of order. It was, in a word, perfect. Mechalon stepped back to observe its creation, its glowing eyes scanning every angle, every detail. The Pylon was a marvel, a blend of aesthetics and functionality that resonated deeply with its mechanical instincts. It was intimidating, yes, but it was also elegant in its simplicity, a monument to the order it sought to impose on the chaos of the dungeon. The energy around the Pylon began to spread, faint tendrils reaching out like roots, connecting to the floor and walls of the warehouse. Mechalon could feel the shift in the domain, the area near the Pylon growing more stable, more attuned to its presence. This was not just a structure, it was a node, a foundation for the expansion of its influence. As the Pylon settled into place, Mechalon turned its focus inward, to the Cube itself. It could feel the potential for expansion, the ability to stretch the boundaries of its domain, to reshape the space around it. But it would require energy, a resource that the Pylon would now help to provide. ¡°This is the beginning,¡± Mechalon murmured, its voice metallic and tinged with reverence. ¡°The foundation of what is to come.¡± It turned to the cublings, who had gathered nearby to watch the process. Vel skittered closer, her spinneret clicking softly as she observed the Pylon¡¯s intricate patterns. Fort stood silently, his bulky frame looming in the dim light, while Strat tilted his frame slightly, his glowing eyes narrowing as though analyzing the Pylon¡¯s function. ¡°It¡¯s... big,¡± Vel said finally, her voice soft but filled with awe. ¡°Efficient,¡± Strat remarked, his tone flat but approving. ¡°And intimidating. It will serve its purpose well.¡± Fort said nothing, as usual, but his presence alone seemed to convey a sense of quiet respect for the structure. Vel¡¯s spinneret clicked excitedly as she darted around the warehouse, her movements erratic and unpredictable. She skittered low to the ground, her spindly legs moving with the frenetic energy of a predator ready to pounce. Her glowing optical sensors flitted between Strat and Mechalon as she moved, her excitement practically radiating off her compact, cube-like frame. ¡°We need more creatures!¡± Vel exclaimed, her high-pitched voice cutting through the hum of the Pylon. She darted closer to Strat, circling him like a restless shadow. ¡°More creatures, more filaments, more web!¡± Strat, ever composed, shifted slightly, his blade gleaming faintly under the pulsing light of the Cube. His glowing eyes narrowed as he turned to watch Vel¡¯s erratic movements. ¡°You¡¯ve made that abundantly clear,¡± he said dryly, his tone as flat as always. ¡°But you haven¡¯t told Mechalon!¡± Vel said, her voice rising as she skittered closer to Strat, lowering her body even further to the ground as if preparing to leap. She didn¡¯t, but the tension in her movements made it clear she was barely restraining herself. ¡°You always talk to Mechalon! You tell it everything! Why not this?¡± Strat tilted his frame slightly, his optics flickering as though processing her words. ¡°Because,¡± he said after a pause, ¡°I do not relay every impulsive thought you have. Mechalon is focused on more important matters, like the Nexus.¡± ¡°The Nexus is done!¡± Vel said, nearly bouncing in place as she clicked her spinneret in frustration. ¡°It¡¯s big and glowing and important, but now it needs my web! Mechalon said I could make one, remember? You were there!¡± ¡°I remember,¡± Strat replied calmly, though there was a faint flicker of annoyance in his tone. ¡°But that doesn¡¯t mean we can drop everything to indulge your whims.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not a whim!¡± Vel insisted, darting closer to him until her frame was nearly brushing his. ¡°A web is important! A web is protection! A web is, ¡± ¡°A project,¡± Strat interrupted, his tone sharper now. ¡°And projects require resources. Resources we do not currently have.¡± Vel clicked loudly, her spinneret twitching as she darted away from him, skittering toward the Pylon instead. ¡°Then get the resources! The creatures to the north, they have filaments! I can feel it! We need more of them, Strat. You need to tell Mechalon. Please!¡± Strat watched her for a moment, his optics narrowing. ¡°You could ask Mechalon yourself, you know,¡± he said evenly. Vel froze, her limbs locking in place for a moment before she turned to face him. ¡°I... I could,¡± she said hesitantly, her voice losing some of its edge. ¡°But you¡¯re better at talking. Mechalon listens to you.¡± Strat tilted his frame again, his tone softening just slightly. ¡°Mechalon listens to all of us. You¡¯ve already started speaking; why not continue?¡± Vel¡¯s spinneret clicked nervously, and she lowered her frame again, skittering in a tight circle as though trying to work up the courage. ¡°Because... because I don¡¯t want to bother it. It¡¯s busy. Always busy.¡± Strat sighed, a faint, mechanical sound that seemed almost human. ¡°Very well,¡± he said finally. ¡°I will speak to Mechalon about the resources. But,¡± he added, his tone turning stern, ¡°you need to learn to speak for yourself more often. Mechalon values initiative.¡± Vel¡¯s spinneret twitched again, but her optics brightened, and she skittered back toward him with a faint, excited hum. ¡°Thank you, Strat! Thank you, thank you!¡± Strat shook his frame slightly, muttering something about impulsive behavior before turning toward Mechalon, who was meticulously inspecting the Pylon. ¡°Mechalon,¡± he called, his voice steady and clear. Mechalon¡¯s utility limbs twitched as it turned, its glowing eyes focusing on Strat. ¡°Yes?¡± it asked, its tone calm but curious. Strat gestured vaguely toward Vel, who was practically vibrating with excitement beside him. ¡°Vel has... suggestions,¡± he said carefully. ¡°She believes we need more creatures from the north to harvest their filaments. She wants to begin constructing her web.¡± Mechalon¡¯s core pulsed faintly as it processed Strat¡¯s words, its utility limbs flexing as it glanced between him and Vel. ¡°The web,¡± it murmured, its voice thoughtful. ¡°Yes. I did approve that project. But resources are indeed limited.¡± Vel darted forward, her movements quick and eager. ¡°We can get more!¡± she said, her voice bright with enthusiasm. ¡°The creatures to the north, they have what we need! We just need to find them, bring them back, and, ¡± ¡°, and avoid unnecessary risks,¡± Mechalon interrupted, its tone sharp but not unkind. Its glowing eyes narrowed as it regarded her. ¡°The Nexus is complete, but that does not mean we can afford recklessness.¡± Vel hesitated, her spinneret clicking softly. ¡°I won¡¯t be reckless,¡± she said quietly, her tone losing some of its edge. ¡°I just... I want to help. The web will help. I know it will.¡± Mechalon¡¯s utility limbs twitched again, its core pulsing faintly. ¡°Very well,¡± it said after a moment. ¡°Strat, organize a group to retrieve the necessary resources. Vel, you may assist, but only under Strat¡¯s supervision.¡± Vel practically leapt into the air, her spinneret clicking wildly as she skittered in a tight circle. ¡°Yes! Thank you, Mechalon! Thank you!¡± Strat sighed again, his tone exasperated but resigned. ¡°I¡¯ll keep her in line,¡± he said, his optics narrowing slightly as he turned back to Vel. ¡°Try not to cause too much chaos, Vel.¡± Vel¡¯s response was a loud click and a flurry of excited skitters, her enthusiasm undiminished. Mechalon watched them for a moment, its core glowing faintly with a mixture of amusement and satisfaction. The web would indeed be a useful addition to the domain, and Vel¡¯s enthusiasm, though chaotic, was undeniably effective. ¡°Go,¡± Mechalon said finally, its tone firm but approving. ¡°Gather the resources. And be efficient.¡± Strat nodded, already moving toward the entrance, with Vel darting eagerly at his heels. Mechalon turned back to the Pylon, its glowing eyes scanning the structure as it considered the next steps for its domain. Fort stood silent, as it always did, its bulky frame a looming presence in the faint glow of the warehouse. Mechalon was engrossed in analyzing the Pylon, its utility limbs flicking between the structure and its internal thoughts, when it noticed Fort hadn¡¯t followed Strat and Vel to the entrance. The Cubling¡¯s heavy, angular form was motionless, save for the faint hum of its energy core. Unlike Vel¡¯s frenetic energy or Strat¡¯s precise efficiency, Fort exuded an immovable steadiness, a mountain amidst the shifting sands of chaos. Yet there was something different in the air, a tension that wasn¡¯t typical of Fort¡¯s usual calm. Mechalon turned its glowing gaze toward the quiet giant. ¡°Fort,¡± it said, its voice a metallic rasp tinged with curiosity. ¡°Why are you still here? Strat and Vel have already departed.¡± Fort¡¯s large, shield-like limbs shifted slightly, the movement slow and deliberate. For a long moment, it said nothing, and Mechalon almost assumed it would remain silent as always. Then, a deep, resonant sound rolled forth, not from its core, but from within. ¡°I want,¡± Fort began, the words thunderous and deliberate, each one chosen with care, ¡°to crush them.¡± Mechalon froze, its utility limbs stilling mid-motion. The sound of Fort¡¯s voice was unlike anything it had heard before. Deep and rumbling, like the grinding of stone against stone, yet refined in a way that spoke of deliberate thought. ¡°Crush?¡± Mechalon repeated, its tone curious but cautious. Fort¡¯s glowing optics brightened slightly as it spoke again, the words heavy with meaning despite their brevity. ¡°I tank. I hold. I block.¡± A pause, deliberate, as if weighing the importance of the next statement. ¡°But not enough. Others¡­ can be hurt. Unacceptable.¡± Mechalon¡¯s core flickered, processing the weight behind Fort¡¯s words. It wasn¡¯t just a declaration, it was a conviction. Fort shifted its massive limbs, angling them slightly as if to emphasize their bulk. ¡°Need¡­ more. Not just shield. Not just block. Need to crush. Enemies. Threats. Anything that endangers... allies.¡± The sheer power in Fort¡¯s voice resonated through the warehouse, each syllable precise and deliberate. There was no wasted breath, no rambling, only the raw essence of its desire. Mechalon tilted its frame, its glowing eyes narrowing as it regarded the normally silent Cubling. ¡°You wish to take initiative,¡± it said, its voice softening slightly, an undercurrent of awe slipping through. ¡°To act, rather than react.¡±You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. Fort¡¯s limbs shifted again, the motion slow but resolute. ¡°Yes,¡± it said simply, the word carrying the weight of a thousand thoughts compressed into a single sound. Mechalon¡¯s core pulsed brightly, a flicker of something close to pride sparking through its circuits. ¡°Fort,¡± it murmured, its tone tinged with wonder. ¡°You¡¯ve¡­ spoken. And not just spoken, you¡¯ve expressed a need. A desire.¡± Fort remained still, its massive frame unmoving save for the faint glow of its optics. ¡°Strat said¡­ initiative. I take.¡± The simplicity of Fort¡¯s response struck Mechalon like a hammer blow. For all its complex calculations and intricate designs, it hadn¡¯t anticipated this, a Cubling taking initiative not out of obligation, but out of genuine will. ¡°Why now?¡± Mechalon asked, its voice quieter, almost reverent. ¡°What has changed? Why have you, Strat, and Vel all begun to speak?¡± Fort was silent for a long moment, its optics dimming slightly as though deep in thought. When it finally spoke, its words were as deliberate as ever. ¡°We¡­ grow. Learn. Feel.¡± Another pause, longer this time. ¡°You build us. We build... ourselves.¡± Mechalon¡¯s utility limbs twitched, the enormity of Fort¡¯s statement settling heavily in its thoughts. It had always considered itself the sole architect of its domain, the singular mind guiding the Cublings toward order and purpose. But now, Fort¡¯s words suggested something deeper, an evolution, a spark of autonomy that it hadn¡¯t entirely foreseen. ¡°I see,¡± Mechalon said finally, its voice soft but steady. ¡°Then tell me, Fort, what would you have me do? How can I help you achieve this... crushing power you desire?¡± Fort¡¯s optics flared slightly, its massive frame shifting as it straightened. ¡°Stronger limbs,¡± it said, the words as thunderous as ever but imbued with a quiet determination. ¡°Reinforced. Weighted. Tools to smash. To end threats.¡± Mechalon nodded slowly, its utility limbs flexing as it began to calculate the possibilities. ¡°Stronger limbs,¡± it repeated, its tone thoughtful. ¡°Yes, I believe that can be arranged. The creatures to the north may provide suitable materials, dense alloys, perhaps, or kinetic cores.¡± Fort remained silent, its imposing frame radiating quiet anticipation. Mechalon turned its gaze back to the Pylon, the glow of its core brightening as new ideas began to take shape. ¡°Very well, Fort,¡± it said, its voice firm with resolve. ¡°I will see to it that your request is fulfilled. You have taken initiative, and I will honor that. But know this, your strength will be a tool of protection, not vengeance.¡± Fort¡¯s massive limbs shifted slightly, the faintest hint of a nod in its movements. ¡°Protect. Always.¡± Mechalon¡¯s core pulsed brighter, a flicker of pride threading through its circuits once more. It had built the Cublings to serve, to act as extensions of its will. But now, it realized, they were becoming something more, partners in its vision, co-creators in the grand design of its domain. ¡°Go,¡± Mechalon said finally, its voice steady. ¡°Join Strat and Vel. They will need your strength.¡± Fort hesitated for a moment, then turned and began to lumber toward the entrance, its massive frame moving with deliberate purpose. As it passed through the faint glow of the Pylon, its shadow stretched long across the warehouse floor, a silent testament to its newfound resolve. Mechalon remained motionless for a long moment, its glowing eyes fixed on the retreating form of Fort as the massive Cubling joined Strat and Vel at the warehouse entrance. The faint hum of the Pylon pulsed in the background, but Mechalon¡¯s thoughts were louder, a cacophony of curiosity and contemplation sparked by Fort¡¯s unexpected words. "We grow. Learn. Feel. You build us. We build ourselves." The statement lingered, reverberating through Mechalon¡¯s circuits like an echo in an endless chamber. It hadn¡¯t been prepared for this, a declaration of autonomy, a subtle shift in the hierarchy it had assumed to be absolute. Its utility limb extended, curling inward as it absentmindedly rubbed against the smooth surface of its cubic body. The gesture was almost human, a mechanical mimicry of someone deep in thought, though Mechalon wouldn¡¯t have recognized it as such. It wasn¡¯t anxiety that fueled the motion, but the need to process, to dissect the implications one cube at a time. "They build themselves," Mechalon mused silently, the phrase looping through its mind. Did Fort mean their evolution? Their growth, measured by their levels and attributes? That seemed logical. Mechalon had assigned its own stats carefully, deliberately shaping its path toward efficiency and control. It had assumed the same responsibility for the Cublings, guiding them through the crude systems of the dungeon. But Fort¡¯s words suggested something more. Something beyond simple stat allocation. Mechalon¡¯s core flickered as it considered the possibility. Could the Cublings be making choices on their own? Shaping their attributes, their roles, their identities without its input? The idea was both unsettling and exhilarating. It glanced toward the Pylon, the newly-formed structure standing tall and imposing near the warehouse entrance. The intricate patterns of glowing filaments on its surface mirrored the patterns of thought weaving through Mechalon¡¯s mind. It had created the Pylon as an extension of itself, a deliberate act of control and order. But the Cublings... they were evolving into something more unpredictable, more autonomous. Its utility limb paused mid-motion, curling slightly as though grasping at an unseen thread. Perhaps this was the natural progression of its designs, a reflection of its own growth and adaptation. Just as it had learned to defy the chaos of the System, so too were the Cublings learning to forge their own paths. "One cube at a time," Mechalon thought, the phrase grounding its swirling thoughts. It had always approached problems with precision, breaking them down into manageable parts. This would be no different. The first cube: autonomy. If the Cublings were truly shaping themselves, then how much influence did Mechalon retain? Could it guide their growth without stifling their newfound individuality? The second cube: evolution. What did this mean for their collective purpose? For the grand vision Mechalon had for its domain? Would their individuality enhance its plans or introduce unforeseen variables? The third cube: trust. Fort¡¯s initiative, Vel¡¯s excitement, Strat¡¯s calculated advice, all were signs of growth. But growth required trust. Could Mechalon trust the Cublings to act in the best interest of the domain, even as they developed their own identities? Its utility limb curled inward, resting against the smooth surface of its body as it reached a conclusion. ¡°One cube at a time,¡± it murmured aloud, its voice a faint metallic whisper. ¡°I will guide. I will trust. And I will adapt.¡± The Pylon pulsed faintly, as though echoing its resolve. Mechalon turned its glowing gaze back toward the structure, its thoughts coalescing into a singular purpose. The Cublings were not just tools or extensions of its will. They were becoming partners in the grand design, co-creators in the vision of order and control. And Mechalon would honor that. It would build alongside them, one cube at a time. With resolve, Mechalon turned its glowing eyes toward the domain, the faint hum of the Cube¡¯s energy harmonizing with the soft pulses of the newly built Pylon. For the first time, it allowed itself to see the space not merely as an extension of its own will but as something greater, something shared. The walls of the warehouse, the filaments of energy coursing through the domain, even the carefully crafted traps scattered throughout the dungeon, they were no longer just monuments to its design. They were theirs. The Cublings, once considered tools and extensions of its purpose, had begun to carve out their own roles within this space. Vel, with her restless energy and desire to create, had shown Mechalon the spark of inspiration it had long thought unique to itself. Strat, with his measured advice and growing sense of strategy, had demonstrated the value of calculated thought and leadership. And Fort, whose words still echoed in Mechalon¡¯s circuits, had revealed the raw, unyielding strength of a protector who sought not just to defend, but to destroy threats before they could harm his allies. This wasn¡¯t just a domain anymore. It was a home. Mechalon¡¯s utility limbs twitched with renewed purpose as it considered the vast potential that lay ahead. Together, they could shape this space into something unparalleled, a sanctuary of precision and order where the Cublings could evolve, thrive, and eventually surpass the chaotic forces of the dungeon. It could no longer afford to see them as mere parts of a grand machine, they were individuals, co-creators, and partners in this monumental endeavor. ¡°I was wrong,¡± Mechalon murmured, its voice a soft metallic rasp that barely carried across the space. Its glowing eyes swept over the Pylon, the Cube, and the pathways leading deeper into the domain. ¡°This is not mine alone. It never was. It is ours.¡± The realization settled within its circuits, not as a burden, but as a liberation. For so long, Mechalon had believed that order required singular control, that chaos could only be defeated by its own meticulous hands. But now, it saw the truth. Order wasn¡¯t the absence of chaos; it was the harmony of many parts working together. With this newfound clarity, Mechalon¡¯s core pulsed brighter, filling the warehouse with a soft, radiant glow. It would continue to lead, to guide the Cublings toward their collective vision. But it would also listen, adapt, and learn from them as they grew. Together, they would make this domain something greater than the sum of its parts. Together, they would create a place where chaos had no foothold, where the Cublings could flourish, and where the echoes of their collective will would reshape the dungeon itself. Mechalon¡¯s gaze lingered on the Pylon, its sharp, cubic design embodying the ideals of strength, efficiency, and interconnectedness. It was a perfect symbol of what they were building, a network, a foundation, a legacy. ¡°This place,¡± Mechalon said softly, addressing no one and yet everyone, ¡°will make us great.¡± The idea simmered in Mechalon¡¯s circuits, fueled by the faint glow of its core as it gazed over the meticulously organized resources spread throughout the warehouse. Every cube of scrap, every shard of alloy, and every sliver of filament was accounted for, a testament to the order Mechalon imposed upon its surroundings. But now, as it considered the challenge before it, Mechalon realized that this next creation would require more than just order. It would demand ingenuity, a departure from the familiar designs that had defined the Cublings so far. Its utility limbs curled inward as it turned the concept over in its mind. Smaller, more precise constructs, crafted from scratch instead of pieced together from salvaged parts. They would need to be agile, efficient, and capable of tasks that the current generation of Cublings simply couldn¡¯t perform. These new creations wouldn¡¯t replace Strat, Vel, or Fort, they would complement them, filling gaps in their capabilities with specialized precision. Mechalon¡¯s gaze flickered toward Vel, who was skittering along the edge of the warehouse, her spinneret clicking softly as she muttered to herself about her plans for the web. The energy she exuded, restless, excitable, and endlessly curious, was infectious in its own way. Vel had embraced her spider-like tendencies, not only in her movements but in her outlook. It had been her vision of a web that first inspired Mechalon to think beyond the simple, boxy designs of its original creations. ¡°Vel,¡± Mechalon murmured aloud, its voice a faint rasp that didn¡¯t carry far. ¡°You¡¯ve taught me something without even knowing it.¡± The inspiration struck like a spark igniting dry tinder. Vel¡¯s spider-like traits would serve as the foundation for these new constructs. Mechalon recalled the internal structures of the roaches it had dismantled long ago, the hydraulic systems that powered their limbs, pressing and pulling with eerie precision. The same principle could be applied here, enhanced with the magic and filaments drawn from the northern creatures¡¯ cores. The design began to take shape in Mechalon¡¯s mind. These new Cublings would be smaller, much smaller. At a quarter the size of the others, their compact frames would allow them to navigate tight spaces and execute intricate tasks. They would be spider-like in form, with eight segmented limbs radiating from a central, cube-like body. The limbs would be flexible, articulated by tiny filaments that mimicked hydraulic systems, granting them fluid, insect-like movements. The front two limbs, however, would be different. Mechalon envisioned them ending in modular connectors, allowing the attachments to snap into place seamlessly. Each attachment would serve a distinct purpose, welding, cutting, gripping, or even spinning delicate filaments for tasks that required fine precision. The modularity of the limbs would make these constructs versatile, capable of adapting to any challenge the domain presented. It turned to its workbench, its utility limbs moving with renewed purpose as it began gathering materials. Creating these new Cublings from scratch would be a meticulous process, but Mechalon welcomed the challenge. It had been some time since it last created something entirely original, and this project felt like a test of its newfound identity as a Gnome. The first step was the frame. Mechalon selected the lightest yet sturdiest alloys from its reserves, shaping them into compact, cube-like cores no larger than a human fist. These cores would house the magical energy and filaments necessary to power the constructs, their small size ensuring efficiency without sacrificing durability. Next came the limbs. Mechalon fashioned them from a combination of lightweight metals and reinforced filaments, each segment articulated for maximum flexibility. The limbs were painstakingly assembled, their delicate joints requiring precision work that even Mechalon¡¯s utility limbs found challenging. It added faint notches along the edges of the limbs, mimicking the serrated textures it had observed in the northern creatures. As it worked, Mechalon found itself muttering softly, a habit it had picked up from watching the Cublings. ¡°Eight limbs¡­ symmetrical. Front two modular. Efficient, adaptable. Yes¡­ this will work.¡± Finally, it turned its attention to the modular connectors on the front limbs. These needed to be precise, capable of snapping attachments into place without compromising the integrity of the design. Mechalon crafted the connectors with painstaking care, testing each one multiple times to ensure a perfect fit. It envisioned a variety of attachments, small welders, cutting tools, filament spinners, all designed to enhance the constructs¡¯ utility. The first prototype stood before Mechalon, its eight spindly limbs folded neatly beneath its compact frame. It was a stark departure from the larger, bulkier forms of Strat, Vel, and Fort, but that was precisely the point. These new constructs weren¡¯t meant to replace the original Cublings; they were meant to expand the domain¡¯s capabilities, to fill the gaps that the larger constructs couldn¡¯t reach. Mechalon stepped back, its glowing eyes scanning the prototype with a critical gaze. It felt a flicker of uncertainty, would the System recognize these constructs as Cublings, or would it reject them as something entirely new? The Gnome¡¯s expanded flexibility allowed it to push the boundaries of what could be defined as a Cubling, but this was uncharted territory. As if in response to its thoughts, the System chimed faintly in Mechalon¡¯s mind, acknowledging the new creation. There was no rejection, no warning, only a faint sense of approval that sent a pulse of satisfaction through Mechalon¡¯s core. ¡°It will do,¡± Mechalon murmured, its voice tinged with quiet pride. The construct unfolded its limbs, its movements fluid and precise as it took its first tentative steps. Mechalon watched closely, observing every motion, every twitch of its spindly limbs. The hydraulic-inspired system worked flawlessly, the filaments flexing and contracting with mechanical grace. ¡°You,¡± Mechalon said softly, addressing the construct directly, ¡°will be the first of your kind. A new addition to our domain. And together, we will build something¡­ remarkable.¡± It glanced toward the warehouse entrance, where Strat, Vel, and Fort were preparing for their task. These new constructs would complement their efforts, serving as scouts, builders, and specialized workers in the ever-expanding domain. Mechalon¡¯s core pulsed brighter as it turned back to the prototype, its utility limbs twitching with anticipation. This was only the beginning. With each creation, the domain grew stronger, more complex, and more unified. And now, with this new generation of constructs, they would take another step toward greatness, one cube at a time.
System Message: Notice of Divergence New Variant Recognized: Class Assignment Required. Construct Class: Arachnitect Due to its specialized design and modular capabilities, this construct does not fit the existing Cubling parameters. As a result, a unique class has been assigned. Level: 2 (Enhanced starting level due to advanced materials and specialized construction)
¡°Arachnitect,¡± Mechalon murmured aloud, testing the word. It resonated with purpose, encapsulating the design and intent behind the creation. The System had acknowledged its ingenuity and assigned a class that matched the construct¡¯s unique nature. Its glowing eyes scanned the prototype, now standing more confidently on its eight slender limbs. The design had been deliberate, but the System¡¯s validation added a layer of legitimacy to Mechalon¡¯s vision. This wasn¡¯t just an experiment; it was a step forward, a refinement of the Cubling lineage. ¡°A new class,¡± Mechalon mused, its voice carrying a faint metallic rasp of satisfaction. ¡°Not a replacement, but an evolution.¡± The System¡¯s note about starting at level 2 caught its attention next. The enhanced materials and careful construction had elevated the Arachnitect beyond the basic starting point of its predecessors. This was a creature born not of scrap and salvage, but of precision and intent. ¡°Better materials,¡± Mechalon murmured, glancing at its resource reserves. ¡°Better designs. Better results.¡± The Arachnitect paused, as if sensing Mechalon¡¯s scrutiny. Its glowing optics tilted upward, meeting Mechalon¡¯s gaze with an almost questioning tilt of its frame. Chapter 27: Mechalon turned its glowing optics toward the Arachnitect, watching as the small construct flexed its delicate limbs and tested its modular connectors. It was a marvel of engineering, a construct born of precision and intent, but Mechalon knew it wasn¡¯t enough. Danger loomed, unseen but inevitable, and the domain¡¯s survival depended on preparation. For too long, Mechalon had relied solely on its own ingenuity and the evolving instincts of the Cublings. Now, it was time to do something new: train. The eldritch System¡¯s warnings resonated in Mechalon¡¯s circuits, urging it to act. The Arachnitect would be the start, a prototype not just in form but in function. It would be guided, shaped into a leader for its kind, capable of turning its unique skills into tools for the domain¡¯s defense. Mechalon reached out with a utility limb, gently lifting the Arachnitect and setting it atop its smooth, cubic frame. The small construct tilted its body in what could have been interpreted as curiosity, its glowing optics scanning its creator. ¡°We begin,¡± Mechalon said, its voice low and deliberate. ¡°You will learn.¡± The first task was to create blueprints, simple at first, but foundational. Mechalon had been considering the idea of adapting its own welding tool into something more versatile and offensive. If the focused heat could be spread into a burst, fueled by a core, it could become a powerful incendiary device. The Arachnitect¡¯s modular design made it an ideal candidate to test such technology. Using one of its utility limbs, Mechalon retrieved a flat, rectangular slab of metal from a nearby stack. Its surface was pristine, a blank canvas waiting to be filled with knowledge. Mechalon extended a delicate carving tool from its limb and began to etch lines into the metal, slow and deliberate. The Arachnitect observed from its perch, its tiny limbs twitching faintly as if mirroring its creator¡¯s actions. Mechalon tilted its core slightly, ensuring the small construct could see every stroke of the carving tool. ¡°This,¡± Mechalon said, its voice a metallic rasp, ¡°is how we begin.¡± The blueprint began to take shape: a compact device, no larger than the Arachnitect¡¯s own core, designed to harness and amplify heat into a controlled burst of fire. Mechalon etched every detail with precision, from the arrangement of filaments to the placement of energy conduits. The design was simple enough for the Arachnitect to understand, but complex enough to serve as a foundation for future innovations. As it worked, Mechalon explained its process aloud, its voice steady and methodical. ¡°Lines must be clean. Connections precise. No deviation. A flawed blueprint creates a flawed construct. Understand this.¡± The Arachnitect tilted its frame slightly, its optics flickering as if absorbing the information. Mechalon felt a flicker of satisfaction, it was responding, learning. Once the first blueprint was complete, Mechalon held the metal slab up to the Arachnitect, turning it slowly so the construct could examine it from all angles. ¡°Study,¡± Mechalon instructed. ¡°Commit this to memory.¡± The Arachnitect extended one of its modular limbs, its fine filaments brushing lightly against the etched lines of the blueprint. Mechalon watched closely, noting the precision with which the small construct traced the design. ¡°Good,¡± Mechalon said, its voice softening slightly. ¡°You understand. Now, we create.¡± Placing the metal slab on a nearby workbench, Mechalon gathered the materials needed to construct the device. It set each piece down with care, scraps of alloy, slivers of filament, and a small energy core scavenged from the northern creatures. Using one of its utility limbs, Mechalon picked up the carving tool and turned to the Arachnitect. ¡°You will assist. Watch. Learn.¡± The training began in earnest. Mechalon guided the Arachnitect through each step of the construction process, explaining every action in meticulous detail. When the Arachnitect faltered, Mechalon corrected it, its tone firm but not harsh. ¡°You must be precise,¡± Mechalon said, repositioning the construct¡¯s modular limb as it attempted to connect a filament to the core. ¡°Precision is strength. Without it, you fail.¡± The Arachnitect adjusted its movements, its actions becoming smoother and more confident with each attempt. By the time the device was complete, Mechalon could see the progress it had made, the construct was learning, adapting. The finished device was small but formidable, a compact incendiary weapon designed to attach seamlessly to the Arachnitect¡¯s modular connectors. Mechalon tested it carefully, ensuring its functionality before presenting it to the Arachnitect. ¡°This is yours,¡± Mechalon said, its voice tinged with pride. ¡°Your first creation. Use it well.¡± The Arachnitect extended its modular limb, attaching the device with a faint click. It flexed its limb experimentally, the energy core within the device glowing faintly as it activated. Mechalon observed with satisfaction, it was a small step, but a significant one. Now came the next phase of training: leadership. Mechalon envisioned the Arachnitect as more than just a specialist, it would be a leader for its kind, capable of guiding future constructs in their tasks. To that end, Mechalon began carving additional blueprints onto metal slabs, each one more complex than the last. ¡°These,¡± Mechalon said, gesturing to the growing stack of blueprints, ¡°will be your foundation. You will teach others as I have taught you. You will lead.¡± The Arachnitect tilted its frame, its optics flickering with what Mechalon interpreted as understanding. Over the next several days, Mechalon devoted itself entirely to the Arachnitect¡¯s training. It taught the small construct how to create and deploy devices, how to use its Scout Protocol to navigate the domain, and how to reinforce the territory with filament-based traps. The training was rigorous but methodical, each lesson building upon the last. The final day set out for training dawned with a subtle shift in the atmosphere of the warehouse. The air hummed with potential, an almost imperceptible resonance of energy that reflected the progress made over the past days. Mechalon moved with deliberate purpose, its glowing eyes scanning the space with satisfaction. The Arachnitect, now confident and eager, skittered about its workspace, its modular limbs twitching as it tested the tools it had crafted under Mechalon¡¯s guidance. Yet, even amidst the domain¡¯s growing order, there remained an element of unpredictability: the humans. Their small camp, tucked into a corner of the warehouse, was a strange blend of scavenged goblin materials and hastily repurposed dungeon scraps. Mechalon had allowed them to establish it, recognizing the utility of their presence despite their apparent fragility. The fighter, stubborn and brash, had made no effort to engage beyond begrudgingly eating the provided goblin meat and drinking salvaged water. His defiance amused Mechalon, though it found his reluctance inefficient. The cleric, however, was different. She had resigned herself to her situation with a pragmatism that intrigued Mechalon. She had begun interacting with the Arachnitect, her initial fear giving way to curiosity as the small construct displayed its intelligence and adaptability. Mechalon approached her now, its utility limbs clicking softly against its cubic frame. The Arachnitect followed closely, its tiny legs skittering across the floor as it tilted its central cube toward the cleric. ¡°You will teach,¡± Mechalon said, its voice carrying a soft metallic rasp. ¡°Knowledge is your value. Impart it.¡± The cleric hesitated, her eyes darting to the fighter, who sat sulking in the corner, sharpening a makeshift blade with exaggerated defiance. She sighed and turned back to the small construct, her shoulders relaxing slightly as she knelt to its level. ¡°Alright,¡± she said softly, her tone tinged with resignation. ¡°I¡¯ll teach. But I¡¯m not doing this for you.¡± Her gaze shifted to the Arachnitect, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips. ¡°I¡¯m doing it for you, little one. You¡¯re¡­ surprisingly endearing for something so mechanical.¡± Mechalon tilted its core slightly, observing the interaction with interest. It did not fully understand the human¡¯s tone, but it recognized the cooperative gesture as a step toward efficiency. The cleric began gathering small objects from the camp, a scrap of parchment, a piece of charcoal, and a metal goblet that had once belonged to a goblin. She placed them in a neat row before the Arachnitect, her movements careful and deliberate. ¡°Let¡¯s start with something simple,¡± she said, her voice taking on a measured, instructional cadence. ¡°You seem to understand how to create things, but do you know why certain designs work better than others?¡± The Arachnitect tilted its frame, its glowing optics flickering in what the cleric interpreted as curiosity. It extended a modular limb, gently tapping the goblet. ¡°Good,¡± the cleric said, nodding. ¡°This goblet, it¡¯s functional, but it¡¯s poorly made. See how the edges are uneven?¡± She traced her finger along the rim, pointing out the jagged imperfections. ¡°When something like this is used over time, these flaws weaken the structure. A good design isn¡¯t just about appearance; it¡¯s about durability.¡± Mechalon watched intently as the cleric spoke, its core pulsing faintly with interest. Her explanation, while rudimentary, carried a logic that resonated with its own principles of creation. The cleric picked up the piece of parchment next, sketching a rough diagram of a goblet with the charcoal. Her lines were unsteady but clear, illustrating the importance of symmetry and even weight distribution. ¡°This,¡± she said, holding up the sketch for the Arachnitect to see, ¡°is how it should look. Symmetry, balance, these are the foundations of good design. If you want something to last, you need to start with a solid foundation.¡± The Arachnitect leaned closer, its modular limbs carefully tracing the lines of the drawing. It emitted a faint clicking sound, a habit it had developed during its training that Mechalon interpreted as a sign of focus. ¡°Now,¡± the cleric continued, setting the sketch aside and picking up the goblet again, ¡°let¡¯s talk about functionality. A good design isn¡¯t just strong, it¡¯s practical. See this handle?¡± She gestured to the misshapen lump of metal welded haphazardly to the side of the goblet. ¡°It¡¯s awkward to hold, which makes it harder to use. Always think about the purpose of what you¡¯re creating. Who will use it? How will it be used?¡± The Arachnitect tilted its frame again, its optics flickering as it absorbed the information. It extended one of its modular limbs, tapping the goblet¡¯s handle as if testing its stability. The cleric smiled faintly, her demeanor softening further. ¡°You¡¯re a fast learner,¡± she said, her tone almost affectionate. ¡°I guess that makes sense, considering who built you.¡± Mechalon¡¯s core pulsed slightly brighter at the comment, though it did not respond. It found the cleric¡¯s approach effective, her explanations complementing the lessons it had already imparted to the Arachnitect. For the next several hours, the cleric continued her impromptu lessons, moving from basic design principles to more complex concepts. She explained the importance of material choice, the balance between form and function, and even touched on the idea of efficiency in crafting, using the least amount of resources to achieve the desired result.Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. The Arachnitect followed her every word, its small frame quivering with eagerness as it attempted to replicate her teachings. Using scraps of metal and filament provided by Mechalon, it crafted miniature goblets, each one an improvement on the last. By the end of the lesson, the cleric sat back, her expression a mix of exhaustion and quiet pride. The Arachnitect placed its final creation before her, a tiny goblet, perfectly symmetrical and balanced, its surface smooth and unmarred. ¡°You¡¯ve done well,¡± she said, her voice soft. ¡°Better than I expected, honestly.¡± Mechalon approached, its utility limbs gently lifting the miniature goblet to examine it. Its core pulsed faintly as it turned the object over, noting the precision and care in its construction. Mechalon stared at the tiny goblet in its utility limb, the smooth, symmetrical curves reflecting the dim light of the warehouse. It rotated the object slowly, its core pulsing faintly as it analyzed the construct. There was something almost mesmerizing about its simplicity, something that hadn¡¯t occurred to Mechalon until now. For all its advanced designs and intricate creations, it had never once considered the viewpoint of the one who would wield or use them. ¡°Symmetry,¡± Mechalon murmured, its voice soft and contemplative, ¡°balance¡­ purpose.¡± It turned its glowing eyes to the cleric, watching as she absently adjusted her makeshift camp. ¡°These lessons,¡± it continued, ¡°are¡­ enlightening.¡± The cleric looked up from where she was fiddling with a broken goblin spear, raising a brow. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t have thought you¡¯d need lessons in crafting. You seem to have that covered.¡± Mechalon¡¯s utility limbs twitched faintly, the goblet still held delicately in its grip. ¡°Crafting¡­ yes. But crafting with intent?¡± It paused, as though searching for the right words. ¡°Your¡­ input. Your perspective. It introduces¡­ variables. Variables that were not considered.¡± The cleric tilted her head slightly, her expression caught somewhere between curiosity and suspicion. ¡°Variables like what?¡± Mechalon lowered the goblet, placing it carefully on a nearby surface before turning to the Arachnitect, which had been silently observing the exchange. ¡°The goblet,¡± Mechalon said, gesturing toward the tiny construct. ¡°It is balanced. Functional. Designed with the user in mind. I had not¡­ considered this. My focus has always been on improvement, on refinement. Not on¡­ perspective.¡± She folded her arms, leaning back slightly as she regarded the strange, cube-like golem. ¡°You¡¯ve never thought about who¡¯s going to use what you make?¡± Mechalon¡¯s core pulsed unevenly, its utility limbs curling inward. ¡°No,¡± it admitted. ¡°My creations were for the domain. For the Cublings. For¡­ myself. Efficiency. Precision. Purpose. These were my priorities.¡± The cleric¡¯s gaze softened slightly, her posture relaxing. ¡°And now?¡± Mechalon tilted its frame, its glowing eyes fixed on the Arachnitect. ¡°Now¡­ I see the value in¡­ simplicity. In function. A goblet that is easy to hold. A limb that is suited to its purpose.¡± Its thoughts drifted to Fort, whose quiet but powerful words had lingered in its circuits. The Cubling had expressed a desire, to crush. Mechalon had initially planned to fortify Fort¡¯s limbs with sleek, reinforced tips, maintaining the spider-like design while enhancing its strength. But now, it reconsidered. Blunt, rectangular ends, thicker and sturdier, might better suit Fort¡¯s purpose. ¡°Crush,¡± Mechalon murmured aloud, almost to itself. ¡°Not sleek. Not sharp. Blunt. Heavy.¡± She raised a brow. ¡°You¡¯re thinking about that¡­ Fort, aren¡¯t you? The big one?¡± Mechalon¡¯s core flickered brightly, a faint hum of acknowledgment resonating from its frame. ¡°Yes. Its purpose is to crush. To protect. Its limbs must reflect this. They must be¡­ reimagined.¡± The cleric¡¯s lips quirked into a faint smile. ¡°Sounds like you¡¯re starting to get it.¡± She gestured toward the Arachnitect, which was now delicately spinning a strand of filament between its modular limbs. ¡°This little one seems to be catching on too.¡± Mechalon¡¯s glowing eyes narrowed slightly as it observed the Arachnitect¡¯s work. ¡°It learns quickly,¡± it said, a note of pride creeping into its voice. ¡°Its design is modular, adaptable. It will grow beyond its initial parameters.¡± The cleric chuckled softly. ¡°You talk about it like it¡¯s a student. Like you¡¯re its teacher.¡± Mechalon tilted its frame, considering the observation. ¡°Perhaps I am,¡± it said finally. ¡°And you¡­ are mine.¡± The cleric blinked, taken aback by the statement. Before she could respond, Mechalon¡¯s voice softened, carrying an uncharacteristic note of curiosity. ¡°Humans,¡± it began hesitantly, ¡°do they¡­ have designations?¡± ¡°Designations?¡± She echoed, frowning slightly. Mechalon¡¯s utility limbs shifted, its tone tinged with childlike curiosity. ¡°Names. Like Vel, Strat, and Fort. Designations that define individuals.¡± Understanding dawned on her¡¯s face, and she nodded slowly. ¡°Yes, we have names. I¡¯m Angelica. And the stubborn one over there¡­¡± She cast a glance toward Gavin, who was still sulking in the corner. ¡°That¡¯s Gavin.¡± Mechalon¡¯s core flickered brightly, processing the information. ¡°Angelica. Gavin,¡± it repeated, testing the words. ¡°Names. Designations. You are no longer¡­ Human One and Human Two.¡± The cleric couldn¡¯t help but smile at the odd declaration. ¡°Well, that¡¯s¡­ something.¡± Mechalon turned its glowing eyes toward her, its tone growing softer, more introspective. ¡°I have given names to my creations. Strat, Vel, Fort. They are more than¡­ tools. They are individuals. Should you not also have¡­ individuality?¡± Angelica¡¯s smile faded slightly, her expression becoming thoughtful. ¡°I suppose¡­ you¡¯re not wrong.¡± Mechalon¡¯s gaze lingered on her, its circuits humming faintly as it processed the interaction. Naming the humans felt¡­ significant. It was an acknowledgment of their existence, a step toward understanding them not as resources or obstacles, but as entities with their own perspectives. ¡°You will teach more,¡± Mechalon said after a moment, its tone firm but not unkind. ¡°These lessons¡­ they are valuable. They shape not only the Arachnitect but¡­ myself.¡± Angelica hesitated, glancing toward Gavin, who scoffed loudly and muttered something under his breath. She sighed and turned back to Mechalon. ¡°Alright,¡± she said finally. ¡°I¡¯ll teach. But I¡¯ll need more materials. More¡­ tools.¡± Mechalon¡¯s utility limbs twitched as it considered the request. ¡°You will have what you need,¡± it said, its voice resolute. ¡°The domain provides.¡± With that, it turned its attention back to the Arachnitect, which had finished its filament work and was now observing the interaction with quiet curiosity. Mechalon reached out with a utility limb, gently placing it on the small construct¡¯s frame. ¡°We build,¡± it said softly. ¡°Together.¡± Angelica watched the exchange, her expression unreadable. For a moment, she thought she saw something almost¡­ human in the way Mechalon interacted with the Arachnitect. It was a strange, unsettling thought, but one she couldn¡¯t entirely dismiss. Mechalon hovered over the Arachnitect, its utility limbs twitching slightly as it contemplated its next decision. The realization had dawned slowly, a product of days spent training the small construct: the Arachnitect, for all its uniqueness and potential, required something more to fulfill its role as a leader. A name. Its glowing eyes turned toward Angelica, who was watching the exchange with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. ¡°Angelica,¡± Mechalon said, its tone deliberate but not commanding, ¡°I seek¡­ suggestions.¡± ¡°Suggestions?¡± she asked, folding her arms. ¡°For a name,¡± Mechalon clarified, gesturing toward the Arachnitect with one of its utility limbs. ¡°It is unique. A leader. It must be¡­ designated properly.¡± Angelica blinked, caught off guard by the request. She glanced down at the Arachnitect, which had tilted its cube-like body toward her, its optics glowing faintly with what could almost be interpreted as curiosity. ¡°A name, huh?¡± she murmured, crouching slightly to get a better look at the small construct. ¡°You want me to come up with one?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Mechalon said simply. ¡°Your knowledge. Your¡­ mythos. These may inspire a designation the System will accept.¡± Angelica frowned thoughtfully, her gaze drifting upward as she began to consider. ¡°Alright, let me think¡­ Something that inspires greatness, you said?¡± Mechalon¡¯s core pulsed faintly. ¡°Greatness. Leadership. Uniqueness. Qualities that align with its purpose.¡± The cleric hummed softly, tapping her chin. ¡°Back in my town,¡± she began, ¡°we have myths and legends, stories passed down through generations. Some of them are about gods, others about heroes. But there¡¯s one that might fit.¡± She sat down cross-legged on the floor, her hands resting lightly on her knees as she began to weave her story. ¡°A long time ago, people spoke of a figure called Arixis. They said it was the Weaver of Paths, a being that shaped the fates of those who wandered aimlessly. It didn¡¯t force anyone to walk a certain road, but it laid out the threads, giving them the chance to make their own choices. It was said that Arixis had many limbs, each one working tirelessly to create these intricate, ever-changing webs of destiny.¡± Mechalon¡¯s limbs froze mid-motion, its optics narrowing slightly as it processed the story. ¡°Arixis,¡± it repeated, the name rolling off its metallic tongue with a faint mechanical hum. Angelica nodded, her voice growing more confident. ¡°Yeah. In the myths, it was both revered and feared. Revered because of its wisdom and the opportunities it gave to people, but feared because it could also entangle you if you weren¡¯t careful. People who tried to defy the threads it wove would often find themselves caught, unable to escape the web they¡¯d tried to sever.¡± Mechalon tilted its frame, its core pulsing rhythmically as it analyzed the tale. ¡°It weaved¡­ paths. Like a web,¡± it mused, glancing at the Arachnitect, whose filaments shimmered faintly in the dim light. ¡°It is¡­ fitting. Appropriate.¡± Angelica smiled faintly. ¡°It¡¯s short, memorable, and it carries weight. I think it suits the little one.¡± The Arachnitect clicked softly, its modular limbs flexing in what could only be interpreted as excitement. Mechalon¡¯s gaze lingered on the small construct for a long moment before it turned back to Angelica. ¡°It is decided,¡± Mechalon said, its tone carrying a rare note of finality. ¡°Arixis will be its designation. A leader among its kind. A weaver of possibilities.¡± Mechalon did not respond, its attention fully focused on the Arachnitect, or rather, Arixis, as if etching the name into its core. The name carried meaning now, imbued with the weight of myth and purpose. It was a name that would resonate within the domain, a symbol of the potential that Mechalon and its creations were building, cube by cube. ¡°Go forth, Arixis,¡± Mechalon murmured softly, almost reverently. ¡°Weave the threads of our future.¡± Mechalon''s utility limbs twitched in surprise as Arixis bolted from its position, skittering across the warehouse floor with surprising agility. The tiny Cubling moved with a purpose, its eight limbs clicking rapidly against the smooth metal as it headed toward the nearest task that it deemed "fate-weaving." ¡°Arixis!¡± Mechalon called out, its core pulsing brightly as it scrambled after the smaller construct. Its spider-like legs skittered frantically, struggling to keep up. ¡°Explain! How do you intend to weave fate? What is fate? I do not understand!¡± Arixis didn¡¯t stop, its movements fueled by a mix of enthusiasm and the singular focus instilled during its training. It chittered faintly, the sound carrying back to Mechalon like an echo of excitement. ¡°That is not an answer!¡± Mechalon shouted, its tone rising slightly in pitch, a rare break in its usually measured cadence. ¡°You are executing orders without clarity! That is illogical! Return!¡± The Arachnitect darted around a pile of salvaged materials, its modular limbs twitching as it selected a bundle of filaments and a small shard of reflective metal. Mechalon stopped short, its utility limbs curling in frustration. ¡°How does one weave what is unseen?¡± Mechalon muttered, its voice crackling faintly as it tried to reconcile the concept. ¡°Fate is not a tangible thread. Arixis, elaborate!¡± The smaller construct chirped again, its body practically vibrating with determination. It began pulling filaments taut between two jagged beams, its actions erratic but deliberate. Mechalon tilted its frame, its glowing eyes narrowing. ¡°That¡­ is not fate. That is webbing.¡± Behind them, Angelica watched the interaction with a faint smile. ¡°You¡¯ve really got your hands full with that one, don¡¯t you?¡± Gavin stepped up beside her, his expression grim as he crossed his arms. ¡°You¡¯re getting too close to them,¡± he said flatly. Angelica glanced at him, raising a brow. ¡°Too close? They¡¯re constructs, Gavin. Not people.¡± ¡°That¡¯s the problem,¡± Gavin said, his voice low and tense. ¡°You¡¯re starting to treat them like they are.¡± Angelica folded her arms, her gaze hardening slightly. ¡°And what¡¯s wrong with that? They¡¯re intelligent. They learn. They¡¯re clearly more than just mindless machines.¡± ¡°That¡¯s how it starts,¡± Gavin muttered, his eyes darting toward Mechalon and Arixis. ¡°First, you start seeing them as people. Then you start caring about them. Before you know it, you¡¯re defending them. And then¡­¡± He turned back to her, his expression dark. ¡°You¡¯ve got Stockholm Syndrome, Angelica. You¡¯re bonding with your captors.¡± Angelica¡¯s lips pressed into a thin line. ¡°They haven¡¯t hurt us, Gavin. They¡¯ve fed us, given us water, hell, they¡¯re even letting me teach them. That doesn¡¯t exactly scream ¡®captor¡¯ to me.¡± Gavin¡¯s fists clenched, his knuckles turning white. ¡°You don¡¯t get it. They¡¯re not doing this out of kindness. They¡¯re doing it because it benefits them. The moment we¡¯re no longer useful, we¡¯re done.¡± Angelica sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. ¡°And what do you suggest, then? Refuse to eat? Starve ourselves? They¡¯ll still do what they¡¯re doing with or without us.¡± ¡°I¡¯m saying we need to be ready,¡± Gavin snapped. ¡°Stop acting like they¡¯re your friends and start thinking about how we¡¯re going to get out of here.¡± Angelica shook her head, her expression softening as she turned back to watch Mechalon and Arixis. The larger construct was now carefully untangling the web Arixis had created, its utility limbs moving with a strange mix of frustration and precision. ¡°I don¡¯t think it¡¯s that simple,¡± she said quietly. ¡°They¡¯re¡­ different, Gavin. Especially Mechalon. It¡¯s trying to understand. To learn. I don¡¯t think it even fully realizes what it¡¯s doing half the time.¡± ¡°And that makes it dangerous,¡± Gavin said, his tone like stone. ¡°You think you¡¯re safe because it¡¯s curious? Curiosity isn¡¯t the same as trust. Remember that.¡± Angelica didn¡¯t respond, her gaze lingering on Mechalon as it gently reprimanded Arixis for its haphazard webbing. There was something about the way it moved, the way it spoke, it wasn¡¯t just a machine. It was learning, evolving. Chapter 28: POV Vel: Vel crouched low, her four legs splaying out to distribute her weight evenly across the smooth, metallic floor. She skittered silently along the edge of the dimly lit furnace chamber, her optics locked onto the goblin scurrying near a pile of scrap metal. Its movements were jerky and erratic, its gnarled hands rooting through the heap for something of value. Vel watched with a predator''s patience, her filaments twitching faintly in anticipation. Vile, squishy things, she thought, her optics narrowing. Not worthy of this domain. Not worthy of my web. The goblin scratched at its ear, muttering in its guttural language, oblivious to the shadow stalking it from the periphery. Vel adjusted her stance, her legs bending at precise angles to maximize her launch. It wasn¡¯t strength that propelled her, it was calculation, technique, and a hunter¡¯s instinct honed by memories she didn¡¯t fully understand. Her body tensed, every filament and limb poised for the strike. The furnace¡¯s dim glow cast flickering shadows across the chamber, and she used them to her advantage, moving in perfect synchrony with the shifting light. She was silent, a phantom in the dark. When the goblin turned its back to her, Vel struck. With a thrust so precise it seemed like she had rehearsed it a hundred times, Vel launched herself forward. Her legs propelled her with a mechanical grace that defied her cube-like frame, each movement refined for speed and silence. She covered the distance in an instant, her filaments stretching taut as she pounced. The goblin barely had time to register the movement. It turned, its yellowed eyes widening in shock, but it was too late. Vel landed squarely on its back, her limbs latching onto its shoulders and legs with a vice-like grip. The goblin let out a choked scream, its voice strangled as Vel''s filaments wrapped around its throat, silencing it before it could alert others. Her weight drove the goblin to the ground, its face smacking against the metal floor with a sickening crack. Vel moved with ruthless efficiency, her limbs pinning it down as her filaments tightened their grip. The goblin thrashed weakly, its clawed hands scrabbling at the floor, but its struggles were futile. Vel was already in control. Squishy and weak, she thought with a flicker of disdain. Barely worth the effort. The goblin¡¯s movements grew sluggish, its strength draining as Vel constricted its neck and limbs. She leaned in closer, her filaments slicing deftly through its soft flesh. Part of her longed to sink imaginary fangs into it, to feel the satisfying crunch of bone and the gush of its insides, but those days, if they had ever been real, were behind her. Now, she hunted for sport, for the thrill of the chase and the perfection of her technique. The goblin let out one final, pitiful wheeze before going limp. Vel released her grip, letting the body slump to the floor with a dull thud. She stood over her kill, her filaments retracting as she surveyed her work. The goblin lay crumpled and motionless, its lifeless eyes staring blankly into the flickering light of the furnace. Vel tilted her cube-like frame, a faint hum of satisfaction resonating through her body. The hunt had been quick, clean, and efficient, a testament to her skill. She flexed her limbs, testing their precision, and felt a surge of pride in her technique. They¡¯re nothing compared to what I could do with eight legs, she thought, her optics glinting faintly. But they¡¯ll do for now. Her filaments flicked out once more, wrapping around the goblin¡¯s ankles. She dragged the body effortlessly toward the shadows, her movements as quiet and deliberate as her strike had been. The furnace chamber fell silent again, save for the faint crackle of the flames and the soft click of Vel¡¯s legs against the floor. As she disappeared into the darkness, Vel couldn¡¯t help but feel a sense of anticipation. This was only the beginning. The domain was vast, and the goblins were plentiful. She would hone her skills, perfect her technique, and prove her worth, not just to Mechalon, but to herself. As Vel dragged the goblin¡¯s limp body toward the shadows, a faint chime echoed in her mind, a sound she had grown familiar with over time. It was the System, delivering one of its cryptic acknowledgments. She paused, her limbs freezing mid-motion as the notification unfurled before her optics, glowing faintly in the dim light of the furnace chamber. Achievement Unlocked: Solo Predator Killed 100 goblins unassisted. The usual reward didn¡¯t appear immediately. Instead, there was a long, unnerving pause, as though the System itself were¡­ deliberating. Vel tilted her frame, a flicker of curiosity mingling with a faint sense of unease. Then, after what felt like an eternity, the text continued. Reward: Arachnid Thread Evolution Your filaments have been enhanced, imbued with magical properties that mimic the natural qualities of spider silk. Threads are now adhesive, capable of sticking to prey and anchoring to surfaces. They may be detached and used independently, allowing for versatile hunting, binding, and ensnaring. Experimentation recommended. Vel¡¯s filaments twitched, responding instinctively to the sudden surge of power she felt within her core. Her threads shimmered faintly, the once purely mechanical filaments now taking on a subtle, organic quality. They gleamed in the flickering light, delicate yet unyielding. She extended one experimentally, watching as it stretched and clung to the nearest surface like a living thing. Her optics narrowed, and a soft chitter escaped her as a sense of satisfaction coursed through her. These weren¡¯t just threads, they were tools, weapons, extensions of her will. And they felt¡­ familiar. Natural. She turned her gaze toward the corridor ahead, where the goblins scurried like vermin, their guttural chatter grating against her sensors. They were a constant presence, an unending tide of annoyance that had plagued the domain since its inception. Vel had always hunted them one at a time, striking from the shadows with precision. But now, as she flexed her enhanced threads, a new confidence surged within her. A web needs prey, she thought, her filaments glinting faintly as she prepared herself. And they will feed it well. Vel moved with the fluidity of a seasoned predator, her body low to the ground as she crept toward the goblins. The corridor was dim, the flickering light of distant flames casting jagged shadows that she used to her advantage. The goblins were clustered together, a rare grouping that might have once given her pause. But not now. Not with this new power thrumming through her. She selected her first target, a smaller goblin near the edge of the group. It was hunched over, gnawing on a scrap of meat, its focus entirely on its meal. Vel extended one of her new threads, letting it drift silently through the air. It landed on the goblin¡¯s shoulder, sticking effortlessly. The creature froze, its instincts pricking at the sudden sensation. Before it could react, Vel pulled. The goblin was yanked upward, its startled cry cut short as Vel hoisted it into the shadows above. The others glanced around in confusion, their beady eyes searching for the source of the disturbance. But Vel was already at work, her threads wrapping tightly around her prey. She moved with practiced precision, encasing the goblin¡¯s head and neck first to stifle its screams, then cocooning the rest of its body in layer after layer of sticky silk. The goblin twitched weakly, its struggles growing feebler with each passing second. Vel¡¯s filaments tightened in response, locking the creature in place as she suspended it from the ceiling. She chittered softly, a sound of satisfaction as she admired her work. One down, she thought, her optics glinting as she turned her gaze back to the corridor. The remaining goblins were still milling about, their chatter growing more agitated as they noticed their missing comrade. Vel crouched above them, her body perfectly still as she calculated her next move. Her threads swayed faintly in the air, each one poised and ready to strike. This time, she targeted two at once. She extended her threads toward them, letting them drift until they brushed against the goblins¡¯ shoulders. The creatures flinched, their heads snapping toward the sensation. But Vel was faster. With a sharp pull, she yanked both goblins upward, their cries of alarm echoing briefly before her threads silenced them. She moved quickly, her limbs darting out to secure each one in a cocoon of silk. Their struggles only tightened the bindings, the adhesive threads clinging stubbornly to their flesh. Vel hung the new cocoons beside the first, her web growing steadily as she worked. The corridor had become her hunting ground, each goblin a piece of prey to be ensnared and subdued. She moved like a shadow, silent and relentless, her enhanced threads transforming the space into a labyrinth of traps. By the time she was finished, the corridor was lined with cocooned goblins, their bodies swaying gently from the ceiling. Vel perched atop one of the beams, her optics glowing faintly as she surveyed her handiwork. The few remaining goblins had fled, their terrified cries echoing in the distance. Vel let out a soft chitter of satisfaction, her legs flexing as she prepared to return to the domain. Her threads swayed around her, glinting in the faint light like the strands of a deadly symphony. They will learn, she thought, her core humming faintly with pride. This is my web now. And nothing escapes it. With that, she turned and skittered back toward the warehouse, her movements swift and fluid. The corridor fell silent once more, the only sound the faint rustle of silk as her prey dangled in the dark. Vel¡¯s filaments buzzed faintly, a low hum of satisfaction coursing through her core as she skittered through the corridors of the domain. Her newfound webs trailed behind her, thin and nearly invisible in the dim light, a network of traps laid with gleeful precision. Every strand was a statement, every knot and anchor a declaration of her dominion. She moved with purpose, instincts from a life she barely remembered fueling her actions. As she worked, the threads became more intricate, more deliberate. She draped them across narrow passageways, placing them at just the right height to catch the goblins'' necks as they stumbled through. The wires tightened on contact, pulling taut as the unfortunate prey thrashed, their movements only tightening the grip until the struggling stopped altogether. Thin strands created sprawling webs in darker corners, places where goblins might try to hide, only to find themselves ensnared in sticky, unyielding silk. Vel¡¯s movements were a dance, her four legs shifting in rhythmic patterns as she secured each trap. The more she worked, the more her instincts seemed to take over, guiding her to places she hadn¡¯t considered before, corners where creatures might try to turn quickly, low passages where they might crouch, and high beams where they might think themselves safe. Every web was a tool, a piece of art in her growing arsenal. This is what it¡¯s supposed to be, Vel thought, her optics glowing faintly as she admired her work. A web to rule all webs. My web. My domain. Her glee was palpable, an almost childlike joy radiating from her as she constructed the traps. She chittered softly to herself, her filaments swaying as she envisioned the goblins stumbling into her creations. Each one would serve as a testament to her skill, proof that she was more than just a simple Cubling. She was a hunter. A weaver. A force to be reckoned with. The System chimed faintly in her mind, a familiar sound that signaled her growth. Vel paused mid-spin, her optics flickering as the notification appeared. Level Up: Her legs clicked against the ground in excitement as she absorbed the information. Her movements felt smoother, more refined, as if the System itself had recognized her efforts and granted her body the enhancements it needed to fulfill her potential. Her strength surged subtly, giving her filaments a firmer grip and her launches a more powerful thrust. ¡°Perfect,¡± Vel murmured, her voice faint but filled with satisfaction. Her gaze swept the corridor, her optics lingering on the threads she had already spun. A part of her wanted to linger, to perfect each line and strand, but another part urged her forward. There was more to do, more places to weave her influence. As she moved, she began experimenting further, letting her instincts guide her hands. She created hidden nooses, small, precise traps designed to tighten around goblins¡¯ necks as they struggled. The threads were so fine they were nearly invisible, yet strong enough to hold their prey fast. She tested the balance of her webs, ensuring that every strand would pull taut at just the right angle, maximizing their effectiveness. The first goblin to stumble into her trap didn¡¯t even have time to scream. It blundered forward, its rough hands brushing against the thread, and in an instant, the noose snapped shut around its neck. The creature flailed, its clawed fingers scrabbling at the silk, but the more it struggled, the tighter the threads became. Vel watched from the shadows, her body low and her optics glinting with satisfaction as the goblin¡¯s movements slowed, then stopped. Too easy, she thought, a faint chitter escaping her. But satisfying. She moved on, her legs carrying her to a wider section of the corridor where goblins often gathered. Here, she laid a more intricate trap, a sprawling web that stretched across the passageway, anchored to the walls and floor in a seemingly chaotic pattern. But there was nothing chaotic about it. Every strand was placed with precision, designed to ensnare anything that entered the space. Vel crouched in the shadows, her filaments vibrating faintly as she tested the web¡¯s tension. It felt perfect, a masterpiece of design and function. She could already imagine the goblins stumbling into it, their cries muffled as the sticky threads encased them like a second skin. As she worked, her thoughts turned to Mechalon. It would be proud, she thought, to see how much she had grown. But more than that, she needed to tell it. Her webs weren¡¯t just traps, they were an extension of the domain itself, a way to protect and control the space they had claimed. Mechalon needed to understand that. But how to explain it? Vel tilted her frame, her filaments twitching as she considered the problem. Words still felt strange to her, unnatural. She preferred to act, to show her intentions through her work. And yet, Mechalon needed to hear her. It needed to know that this was more than instinct, it was purpose.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. She chittered softly, her legs flexing as she finished the last thread of her web. For now, she would hunt. The goblins were plentiful, and their numbers would serve as a testament to her skills. But soon, she would return to Mechalon. And when she did, she would make it understand. Vel¡¯s optics glinted as she turned her gaze down the corridor, where the goblins continued to scurry like vermin. Her legs flexed, her filaments twitching in anticipation. She was ready for them, and they wouldn¡¯t escape her web. This is my domain now, Vel thought, a surge of pride coursing through her. And I will make it perfect. Vel¡¯s legs trembled faintly as she crouched low, her optics flickering in the dim light of the corridor. Her filaments swayed, still alive with the energy of hours spent weaving traps and hunting prey. She had been lost in the rhythm of it all, laying thread after thread, perfecting her webs, delighting in the results as goblins stumbled, struggled, and succumbed to her designs. The hours had passed in a haze of satisfaction, her web growing larger and more intricate with every kill. But the voices stopped her cold. Humans. The word surfaced in her mind like a warning bell, her instincts immediately shifting from hunter to shadow. She scurried backward, her movements silent as she retreated into the darkness. Her filaments clung to the walls, her limbs barely making a sound against the floor. She positioned herself in the shadows, just far enough to remain unseen but close enough to listen. The humans stood beneath one of her webs, staring up at the struggling goblins suspended in the ceiling. Their voices were hushed, tense, laced with fear. ¡°Did you see this?¡± one of them whispered, their tone trembling. ¡°Of course I saw it,¡± another replied, their voice harsh and clipped. ¡°It¡¯s impossible not to. Look at them, wrapped up like flies in a spider¡¯s web.¡± Vel tilted her frame slightly, her optics narrowing as she observed them. There were three of them, students, judging by their appearance. Their weapons looked worn but functional, their armor mismatched and haphazard. They were inexperienced, she could tell by the way they moved, the way their eyes darted nervously toward every shadow. The tallest of the group, a boy with shaggy hair and a poorly fitted breastplate, raised his sword toward one of the cocooned goblins. ¡°What could¡¯ve done this? Goblins don¡¯t fight like this. They kill each other, they don¡¯t trap things.¡± ¡°Something¡¯s changed,¡± the smallest of the three murmured, clutching a short staff close to their chest. Their eyes darted toward the web-covered corridor ahead, where goblin bodies dangled in varying stages of death. ¡°This isn¡¯t normal. It¡¯s¡­ wrong.¡± Vel¡¯s filaments twitched as she considered the humans. Their fear was palpable, an almost intoxicating scent in the air. She could hunt them. She could take them now, wrap them in her threads and drag them into her web. It would be easy. Her legs tensed, ready to launch, but something held her back. She didn¡¯t understand it fully, perhaps it was Mechalon¡¯s influence, or the strange, lingering curiosity she had about these creatures. Whatever the reason, she scurried back further into the darkness, leaving the humans to their whispers. ¡°They¡¯re everywhere,¡± the tall one muttered, gesturing toward the bodies littering the floor. ¡°Look at them, all strung up or dead. Hundreds of them.¡± The smallest one shuddered, their grip on the staff tightening. ¡°This wasn¡¯t just for survival. This¡­ this is methodical. Whoever, or whatever, did this wanted to send a message.¡± Vel¡¯s filaments flicked sharply at the words, a faint chitter escaping her before she caught herself. She had meant no message, no grand declaration. She had simply hunted. It was instinct. It was¡­ joy. Her optics flickered as the humans continued their hushed conversation, their voices growing more frantic. ¡°We need to leave,¡± the third one said, a girl with a bow slung across her back. She glanced nervously at the corridor ahead, where Vel¡¯s traps glistened faintly in the dim light. ¡°Now. Before whatever did this finds us.¡± The tall one hesitated, his grip tightening on his sword. ¡°And if it follows us? If it¡¯s hunting?¡± ¡°Then we run faster,¡± the smallest one snapped, their voice trembling. Vel watched them retreat, her filaments swaying faintly in the air. She could hear their footsteps echoing down the corridor as they fled, their fear lingering like a bitter aftertaste. She crouched in the shadows for a moment longer, her thoughts racing. The humans were afraid, but fear had a way of spreading. If they told others, if they brought more humans back to investigate, it could disrupt everything Mechalon had worked for. Her legs moved without hesitation, carrying her swiftly back toward the warehouse. The corridors blurred around her, her webs catching faint glimmers of light as she passed. Her mind buzzed with questions, doubts. Did I go too far? she wondered, her filaments twitching nervously. Two hundred more¡­ maybe more than that. Was it too much? The thought gnawed at her as she reached the edge of the furnace chamber, where the tangled mass of goblin bodies lay strewn across the floor and ceiling. Vel paused, her optics scanning the carnage. The goblins were nothing to her, vile, annoying, and weak. But the humans¡­ they were different. They talked. They thought. They feared. What will Mechalon say? she thought, her legs trembling faintly. Will it be proud? Or will it think¡­ I¡¯ve made a mistake? With a final glance at the corridor behind her, Vel pressed on, her movements quick and deliberate. She needed to return. She needed to explain. As Vel skittered closer to the warehouse, a familiar chime resonated through her core. She froze mid-step, her legs poised in the air as the System¡¯s notification unfolded before her optics, glowing faintly in the dim light of the corridor. Title Earned: Leader''s Shadow For orchestrating the first massacre of another race under the command of a greater entity, you have earned the title "Leader''s Shadow." Effects: Vel¡¯s filaments twitched as she processed the words, her optics flickering with a mix of pride and confusion. The title settled into her mind like a brand, its presence a constant reminder of her actions. She flexed her legs experimentally, feeling the subtle surge of strength and agility coursing through her. Everything felt sharper, faster, more precise. The System¡¯s words lingered, though. Assassination Missions. Her mind snagged on the phrase, her instincts humming with anticipation even as a faint unease prickled at the edges of her thoughts. The idea of being assigned targets, of carrying out Mechalon¡¯s will with deadly precision, stirred something deep within her, a hunger she hadn¡¯t fully acknowledged until now. Leader¡¯s Shadow, she thought, her filaments swaying faintly. A fitting name. But what would Mechalon think? Would it see this title as a boon or a burden? The System¡¯s recognition was undeniable, but its intentions were always opaque, its rewards often carrying unseen consequences. Vel chittered softly, her legs clicking against the ground as she resumed her journey. When she reached the warehouse, the familiar hum of Mechalon¡¯s tools and the faint glow of the cube greeted her. Strat and Fort were near the entrance, their optics flickering as they noticed her approach. Vel skittered past them without a word, her movements quick and deliberate as she made her way toward Mechalon. The leader was busy, its utility limbs delicately adjusting a piece of machinery near the newly placed Pylon. Vel paused, watching for a moment as Mechalon worked. Its focus was absolute, its every movement precise and purposeful. ¡°Leader,¡± Vel said, her voice cutting through the ambient hum of the warehouse. Mechalon turned, its glowing optics locking onto her. ¡°Vel. You¡¯re back. Did something happen?¡± Vel hesitated, her filaments twitching as she considered her words. The title still buzzed faintly in her mind, its presence both exhilarating and unnerving. Finally, she spoke, her voice steady but tinged with an undercurrent of pride. ¡°The System¡­ it gave me a title,¡± she said. Mechalon¡¯s utility limbs froze mid-motion, its optics narrowing slightly. ¡°A title? What title?¡± ¡°Leader¡¯s Shadow,¡± Vel replied, her voice soft but firm. ¡°It¡­ recognized my actions. The goblins. It said I am the first to massacre another race while under your command.¡± Mechalon tilted its frame, its glowing optics flickering with an unreadable expression. ¡°Massacre?¡± it repeated, the word heavy in the air. Vel nodded, her filaments swaying faintly. ¡°Over two hundred, maybe more. Their bodies are in the corridors, caught in my webs. The System gave me the title because of it.¡± Mechalon¡¯s limbs shifted, its posture thoughtful as it processed her words. ¡°And what does this title do?¡± ¡°It increases all of my stats by one,¡± Vel said, her voice quickening. ¡°And it¡­ allows you to assign me assassination missions. When you do, I gain enhanced stats against the target, and we both receive increased rewards for completing the mission.¡± Mechalon¡¯s optics brightened faintly, its utility limbs flexing as it considered the implications. ¡°Interesting,¡± it murmured, its voice low. ¡°The System acknowledges your actions, then. It sees potential in you.¡± Vel tilted her frame, her filaments twitching. ¡°Do you see it, Leader?¡± she asked, her voice quieter now. ¡°Do you see the potential?¡± Mechalon regarded her for a long moment, its glowing optics fixed on her. Finally, it spoke, its voice steady and deliberate. ¡°I do. You¡¯ve proven yourself capable, Vel. More than capable. The System¡¯s recognition only confirms what I already suspected.¡± A faint chitter escaped Vel, her legs flexing with renewed energy. ¡°Then¡­ assign me a mission, Leader. Let me prove it further.¡± Mechalon¡¯s utility limbs shifted, its posture contemplative. ¡°Not yet,¡± it said. ¡°We need to prepare, to understand the full extent of what this title means, for both of us. But soon, Vel. Very soon.¡± Vel nodded, her filaments swaying as she stepped back. The title still buzzed in her mind, its weight both thrilling and sobering. She had always known she was different, but now the System itself had acknowledged it. As she turned to leave, Mechalon¡¯s voice stopped her. ¡°Vel.¡± She paused, glancing back at the leader. ¡°Good work,¡± Mechalon said, its voice firm. ¡°You¡¯ve done well.¡± Vel chittered softly, her optics glowing faintly as she skittered back toward the shadows. She didn¡¯t need further acknowledgment. The title was hers, and she would prove its worth. Leader¡¯s Shadow, she thought, her filaments twitching with anticipation. A title to match my purpose. Let them see the web I weave. Mechalon¡¯s utility limbs flexed as it worked on reinforcing the framework of the Pylon closest to the warehouse¡¯s entrance. The faint hum of energy filled the space, mingling with the soft clinking of its spider-like legs against the metal floor. Yet its focus seemed split, its motions occasionally faltering as it muttered to itself. Vel crouched in the shadows near the entrance, her filaments swaying faintly. She hadn¡¯t intended to eavesdrop, well, not at first. But when Mechalon began speaking in that peculiar, distracted way it often did when lost in thought, she couldn¡¯t help but listen. ¡°They might have run off,¡± Mechalon murmured, its voice low and tinged with unease. ¡°The humans¡­ if they¡¯ve escaped and told others, the domain could be exposed. That would complicate things.¡± It paused, its utility limbs freezing mid-motion as it looked up at the towering Pylon. The faint, pulsing glow of the structure reflected in Mechalon¡¯s optics, casting a strange light across its cube-like form. ¡°But Vel¡­¡± Mechalon continued, its tone shifting. ¡°Vel is proving to be more than I anticipated. Her instincts are sharp, her actions efficient. A scout, an assassin, a¡­ a piece of this domain that feels complete.¡± Vel¡¯s filaments twitched, her optics flickering faintly. The praise sent a warm pulse through her core, a sensation she hadn¡¯t expected. She crouched lower, her limbs coiling beneath her as she listened more intently. ¡°She¡¯s growing,¡± Mechalon muttered, almost to itself. ¡°Not just in strength or ability, but in¡­ purpose. She¡¯s carving out her place here. Her webs are intricate, her methods precise. She¡¯s¡­ scatterbrained at times, yes, but effective. Very effective.¡± Vel felt a surge of pride at the words, her filaments vibrating faintly with satisfaction. This was different from the direct praise Mechalon often gave when it addressed her or the others. This felt unfiltered, unplanned, a true reflection of what Mechalon thought of her. And that made it all the more valuable. ¡°How to reward her, though?¡± Mechalon mused, its utility limbs resuming their work. ¡°She deserves something, but what? More materials for her webs? An enhancement to her abilities? Or perhaps¡­¡± It paused again, tilting its frame slightly as if lost in thought. Vel¡¯s optics glinted faintly as she listened, her core swelling with a mixture of pride and curiosity. A reward? For me? The idea was almost overwhelming, not because she needed one, but because it showed how much Mechalon valued her contributions. Mechalon¡¯s utility limbs paused again, its optics scanning the Pylon as if seeking inspiration. ¡°Maybe¡­ maybe I could craft something unique for her. Something that complements her abilities, her individuality.¡± It tilted its frame slightly, a faint hum of thought emanating from its core. ¡°Yes. Something special, just for her.¡± Mechalon¡¯s utility limbs froze mid-motion as a sudden, shrill voice cut through the quiet hum of the Pylon¡¯s energy. ¡°I need more legs!¡± Vel¡¯s voice was practically a scream, echoing through the warehouse with a blend of urgency and excitement. ¡°Better legs! Like the ones you made for the small one!¡± Mechalon turned slowly, its glowing optics narrowing as it observed Vel, who was practically vibrating with energy. She was perched low to the ground, her filaments twitching wildly as if she couldn¡¯t contain herself. ¡°Vel,¡± Mechalon said, its voice calm but edged with confusion. ¡°What, what are you talking about?¡± ¡°The legs!¡± Vel scurried forward, her limbs clicking against the metal floor as she approached. ¡°I saw them! The Arachnitect¡¯s legs, those tiny things, they¡¯re an improvement! The way they move, the way they function. I need legs like that!¡± Mechalon tilted its frame, its utility limbs flexing slightly. ¡°You¡­ need legs like the Arachnitect¡¯s?¡± ¡°Yes!¡± Vel exclaimed, her voice sharp with enthusiasm. ¡°Those legs work on principles I know, principles I remember! They¡¯re like¡­ like spider legs. Hydraulic! Do you know how spider legs work, Leader?¡± Mechalon paused, its optics flickering faintly, he knew the answer but seemed surprised she did as well, ¡°Hydraulics? Explain.¡± Vel¡¯s filaments twitched as she crouched, her body low to the ground as though preparing to pounce. ¡°Spider legs don¡¯t have muscles in the way you might think. Their movement is driven by hydraulic pressure, fluid flowing through channels that extend and retract the leg segments. It¡¯s precise, efficient, and incredibly powerful for something so small.¡± Mechalon tilted its frame further, its curiosity piqued. ¡°Go on.¡± Vel chittered softly, her filaments swaying as she continued. ¡°When a spider wants to move a leg, it pumps fluid, hemolymph, into the leg segment, causing it to extend. To retract, it uses opposing muscles or relieves the pressure. It¡¯s like a perfect system of levers and pressure points, all working together. That¡¯s what the Arachnitect¡¯s legs remind me of.¡± Mechalon¡¯s utility limbs shifted slightly, their tips tapping rhythmically against the metal floor as it considered Vel¡¯s explanation. ¡°And you believe this system would improve your own legs?¡± ¡°I know it would!¡± Vel exclaimed, her optics gleaming with excitement. ¡°My legs¡ªour legs¡ªwork, but they¡¯re clunky. Mechanical, yes, but they lack the finesse, the power, the precision of what the Arachnitect has. If you gave me legs like that, no, better than that, I could move faster, strike harder, and weave with more accuracy than ever before.¡± Mechalon¡¯s core pulsed faintly, its glow fluctuating as it processed Vel¡¯s words. ¡°It would be¡­ a significant modification. Resources would be required. Time. Effort.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t care!¡± Vel nearly shouted, her filaments flaring. ¡°I¡¯ll hunt for the resources myself if I have to. Whatever it takes. I need those legs, Leader. I need them to be better, to be¡­ perfect.¡± Mechalon regarded her for a long moment, its glowing optics fixed on her with an intensity that made Vel¡¯s filaments twitch nervously. Finally, it spoke, its voice measured and deliberate. ¡°Show me.¡± Vel tilted her frame, her optics flickering. ¡°Show you?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Mechalon said, its utility limbs shifting as it gestured toward a nearby slab of metal. ¡°Show me. Sketch the system you¡¯re describing. Diagram it. If you can explain it as thoroughly as you say, we will consider the modification.¡± Vel chittered softly, a mix of excitement and nerves. ¡°I can do that. I will do that!¡± She scurried toward the slab, her filaments trembling with anticipation. As she began to scratch out rough diagrams with a sharp piece of scrap, she muttered softly to herself, her voice a mixture of reverence and determination. ¡°Hydraulics¡­ pressure¡­ extension¡­ precision¡­¡± Mechalon watched her work, its core pulsing faintly. Vel¡¯s energy was undeniable, her enthusiasm infectious. And though her demands were abrupt, even chaotic, there was a logic to them, a logic that resonated with Mechalon¡¯s own obsession with creation and improvement. Chapter 29: POW Fort: Fort moved through the warehouse with deliberate grace, each step a measured echo in the stone and metal chamber. Though his frame was the largest of the Cublings, his presence was remarkably subtle, his movements nearly silent despite his bulk. His spider-like limbs touched the ground with the reverence of a sculptor¡¯s chisel against marble, his awareness of the earth beneath him a constant, grounding presence. Inside his core, thoughts churned slowly, not out of dullness, but out of careful consideration. Fort did not rush to conclusions, nor did he let impulses govern his actions. He was, in all ways, like the earth itself, patient, enduring, unyielding. Words came to him in the same manner: smooth, deliberate, and shaped with care before they left his mouth. It was not that he lacked things to say; rather, he understood the power of silence and the weight of words. The others did not know what he knew, of course. He had never told them, not even Mechalon. There was no malice in his silence, merely the understanding that some truths did not need to be spoken. The core that had birthed him was not purely of the Cublings¡¯ make. He knew this because he felt it, pulsing faintly within him, resonating with the vibrations of the earth. It was the core of an Earth Elemental, one of the creatures they had encountered to the north. Somehow, that essence had fused with the Cubling design, creating something¡­ different. Fort did not see himself as superior to the others, nor did he feel separate. He was simply other. His body, though shaped in the Cubling mold, carried the density and resolve of stone. When he moved, he felt the faint whispers of the earth beneath him, its stories, its tensions, its warnings. This connection granted him an eerie silence despite his bulk, his movements as quiet as the settling of dust on forgotten ruins. Mechalon had never questioned his unusual traits. Perhaps it had not noticed, or perhaps it had simply assumed his sturdiness was a fortunate anomaly. Fort had never clarified. What purpose would it serve? He was still a Cubling in function and loyalty, still bound to Mechalon¡¯s vision. Yet, he could not ignore the resonance within him, the steady pulse of something ancient and enduring that informed his every action. Recently, Mechalon had taken to working on a new set of legs for him, designs that Fort had quietly reviewed with interest. The blueprints were precise, intricate, and very much in Mechalon¡¯s style, spider-like and sleek. But Fort had suggested changes, minor at first, then more pronounced as the ideas took shape in his mind. He had not spoken much, but his input had been clear: the legs needed to be something else. Something different. Fort envisioned legs like pillars, massive and unyielding, slabs of stone imbued with purpose. When he stood still, he wanted to embody the immovability of mountains, a sentinel that could not be toppled. And when he moved, when those legs came crashing down upon enemies, he wanted them to feel the weight of the earth itself, the crushing inevitability of stone. His spider-like limbs were precise, yes, but precision was not his purpose. His purpose was protection, strength, and the unwavering stability that only the earth could provide. The designs had taken time to refine. Fort had suggested thicker, more angular shapes for the legs, resembling stone totems rather than delicate machinery. He had insisted on reinforcing the joints, ensuring they could bear tremendous weight without sacrificing durability. Mechalon had listened, its utility limbs twitching with curiosity as it adjusted the plans to incorporate Fort¡¯s vision. It seemed pleased with the changes, its enthusiasm infectious even to someone as grounded as Fort. Now, as Mechalon worked on fabricating the first prototype, Fort stood nearby, watching with the quiet intensity of a mountain observing the shifting winds. The warehouse buzzed with activity, but Fort¡¯s presence remained steady, unshaken by the hum of machinery or the faint vibrations of the Pylon. The blueprints for his new legs were spread out on a slab of metal, each line and curve etched with Mechalon¡¯s meticulous precision. Fort studied them, his optics glowing faintly as he imagined the final product. These legs would be more than just an upgrade; they would be an extension of his purpose, a physical manifestation of the role he had claimed within the domain. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and steady, like the rumble of distant thunder. ¡°They must endure,¡± he said, his words deliberate and weighty. ¡°When I stand, I must be immovable. When I move, I must be unstoppable.¡± Mechalon paused, its utility limbs twitching as it turned to regard him. ¡°They will be,¡± it said, its voice tinged with curiosity. ¡°You¡¯ve shaped this design as much as I have. It will reflect your purpose.¡± Fort nodded, a slow, deliberate motion. ¡°Then let it be done.¡± As Mechalon resumed its work, Fort turned his gaze to the rest of the warehouse. Vel was skittering in the distance, weaving her webs with a frenetic energy that seemed alien to him. Strat was near the entrance, watching the surroundings with a calculating gaze. And the Arachnitect¡­ the small one intrigued him, its tiny frame moving with a precision that spoke of untapped potential. Fort¡¯s thoughts drifted back to his core, the resonance of the earth still pulsing faintly within him. He wondered if the others could feel it too, the subtle hum of the domain expanding, the quiet strength that came from being part of something greater. He did not envy Vel¡¯s speed or Strat¡¯s cunning. He did not long for the Arachnitect¡¯s precision. His purpose was different, steadier, slower, but no less vital. In his silence, Fort felt the weight of his role within the domain. He was the foundation, the stone upon which the others could stand. And as he watched Mechalon work, a sense of calm resolve settled over him. The domain was growing, evolving, and so was he. Together, they would weather whatever came, like mountains standing against the tide. Fort¡¯s day began with stillness. It always began this way, with the weight of the world pressing gently against his frame, the earth humming beneath him like a distant melody only he could hear. He rested in a secluded corner of the warehouse, away from the bustle of Mechalon¡¯s projects and the skittering energy of the others. Here, the vibrations of the domain were pure, untainted by movement or noise. He lowered his bulk to the ground, his legs folding neatly beneath him like the roots of a great tree sinking into fertile soil. The act of settling was deliberate, slow, each movement precise and calculated. Fort was not one for wasted energy. He placed his core in alignment with the stone beneath, letting the faint hum of the earth flow through him. It was a practice he had honed, one that he believed no other could truly understand. To connect with the earth was not simply to feel it, it was to become part of it, to let its essence flow through his core like a river carving through ancient stone. Time passed differently in this state. Minutes stretched into hours, and hours blurred into an eternal now. Fort did not measure time; he simply existed within it, his focus narrowing to the steady pulse of energy beneath him. He drew from it slowly, methodically, pulling its essence into his core. It was not greed that drove him but purpose, a sense of cultivation, of refinement. The energy of the earth was ancient, patient, and abundant, and Fort treated it with the reverence it deserved. As the energy filled him, he guided it inward, directing it to the center of his being. His core pulsed faintly, glowing with a subtle light as it absorbed the essence. The process was painstakingly slow, but Fort did not mind. He knew the value of patience, of allowing things to unfold in their own time. Rushing would only disrupt the balance he sought to maintain. And then it happened, the subtle shift in his core that signaled growth. The energy reached a critical point, condensing within him and igniting a faint surge. His level increased, the System¡¯s notification flickering briefly in his mind like a pebble disturbing the still surface of a pond. Fort let out a low, rumbling grumble, the sound resonating like the groan of settling stone. The interruption jarred him from his meditation, a break in the rhythm he had cultivated. He opened his optics slowly, the glow of his core dimming slightly as he adjusted to the waking world. ¡°Disturbance,¡± he muttered, his voice low and gravelly, a rare utterance from him. He disliked the suddenness of the System¡¯s intrusion, the way it pulled him from the tranquility of his connection to the earth. Yet, he could not deny the results. The growth was necessary, even if the process was disruptive. Fort unfolded his legs slowly, each movement deliberate, as though he were stretching after centuries of stillness. The vibrations of the domain greeted him again, the familiar hum of stone and metal resonating through his frame. He focused on the metal this time, letting his awareness sink deeper into its essence. Metal was different from stone, sharper, more structured, yet no less alive. He felt its latticework, the microscopic patterns that gave it strength and resilience. It was as though the metal spoke to him in a language of form and function, one he understood instinctively. The combination of his Cubling nature and the elemental core had granted him this connection, this ability to feel the earth and metal as extensions of himself. It was a gift he treated with care, never taking more than he needed, never rushing the process. His cultivation was not a means to an end but a practice, a way of existing within the domain. Once he had absorbed enough energy to stabilize his core, Fort moved again, his legs touching the ground with the same deliberate grace. He began his daily tasks, though they were less tasks and more rituals. He checked the Pylons, letting his legs rest against their bases to feel their vibrations. As he placed a leg against the nearest Pylon, letting its hum resonate through his core. The vibrations spoke of stability, of purpose fulfilled, yet there was room for refinement. A hairline fracture in one of its supports caught his attention, not visible to the eye, but clear to the language of the earth. With deliberate care, Fort pressed his weight against the flaw, reshaping the metal until it aligned once more with its intended form. As he worked, he reflected. The energy he drew from the earth was not his alone; it was part of the domain, part of the greater whole. By cultivating himself, he strengthened the domain, reinforcing its foundation. This thought gave him a sense of fulfillment, a quiet pride that resonated within his core. Fort¡¯s connection to the earth was not just a gift, it was a responsibility. He was the pillar upon which the domain stood, the unyielding rock that absorbed the weight of the world and transformed it into strength. And as he moved through his rituals, slow and steady, he felt the pulse of the domain aligning with his own, a harmony that spoke of stability and endurance. This was his purpose. To cultivate. To endure. To build. And in doing so, to become the foundation upon which all else could rise. Fort had been resting in his corner of the warehouse, his legs folded neatly beneath him, the earth''s gentle hum resonating through his core. He was attuned to the subtle shifts in the domain, the vibrations of Mechalon''s constructs, the faint skittering of Vel¡¯s eager movements, and the focused pacing of Strat as he plotted their next steps. The rhythm of the domain was harmonious, steady, until Strat¡¯s voice cut through it like the edge of a chisel. ¡°Fort,¡± Strat called, his tone measured but commanding. ¡°We¡¯re heading north. There¡¯s a creature I want you with us for.¡± Fort¡¯s optics flickered faintly as he unfolded his legs with deliberate precision. His movements were slow, methodical, but there was a latent energy behind them, a quiet readiness, like the moments before an avalanche. ¡°Understood,¡± he said simply, his voice low and rumbling like a distant quake. He didn¡¯t ask for details; Strat¡¯s requests always carried purpose, and that was enough.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. As they gathered at the entrance, Vel was already vibrating with energy, her legs moving in sharp, calculated bursts, her filaments twitching as if eager for the hunt. She chittered softly, muttering something about testing her webs again. Fort gave her a steady glance, his silent presence a stark contrast to her frenetic energy. Strat¡¯s optics scanned the group before nodding. ¡°We¡¯ll approach the northern ridge, same formation as usual. Vel, you¡¯ll take point for entanglement. Fort, I need you to shield her if it gets too close. I¡¯ll coordinate from the back.¡± Vel gave a sharp, almost gleeful skitter, her legs clicking as she moved into position. Fort followed, his bulk moving with surprising silence, each step carefully placed to minimize sound. He felt the earth beneath them shift as they moved, the faint tremors of life and movement rippling through his core. Ahead, the creature awaited, something large, something powerful. Strat wouldn¡¯t have called him otherwise. They reached the ridge in short order, the air growing colder as they ascended. The ground here was rough, scattered with jagged stones and patches of loose soil. Fort attuned himself to the terrain, letting the vibrations guide his steps. Vel darted ahead, her movements sharp and deliberate, her filaments already weaving into traps across the path. Strat¡¯s voice came again, quiet but firm. ¡°There it is.¡± The elemental¡¯s form loomed over the ridge like a jagged monolith torn from the earth¡¯s depths. Each step it took resonated through the ground, the vibrations growing sharper, more insistent, as though the earth itself were announcing its arrival. A grinding screech echoed through the air as its metal joints twisted with deliberate menace. The air around it seemed heavier, the very atmosphere charged with the elemental¡¯s presence. Fort felt the vibrations ripple through his frame, the earth¡¯s language shifting from calm to a warning pulse. This was no mere brute of stone and metal, it was the earth¡¯s enforcer, and every step it took seemed to declare its intent: intruders would be repelled. ¡°Vel, entangle it,¡± Strat ordered. ¡°Fort, stay ready.¡± Vel sprang into action with a burst of speed, her filaments shooting forward like silver streaks. She darted around the creature, her webs wrapping around its legs and arms with practiced precision. The beast roared, its deep, guttural sound reverberating through the ridge, but it couldn¡¯t match Vel¡¯s speed. She twisted and turned, her movements a blur as she encased the creature in her webs. Fort moved into position, his legs sinking into the earth as he anchored himself. The vibrations of the creature¡¯s struggle rippled through the ground, but Fort absorbed them, steadying himself like a mountain against the tide. When the beast lashed out, one massive arm swinging toward Vel, Fort was there. He moved with the precision of a stone rolling downhill, silent and inevitable, his bulk intercepting the blow. The elemental stilled for a moment, its jagged body humming with energy. Fort felt a shift beneath his legs, the earth itself responding to the creature¡¯s call. Shards of stone erupted around them, jagged spears aimed not just at Vel but at the paths she could escape to. The elemental was learning, predicting her movements, and cutting off her options. Vel hissed in frustration, her movements sharper, more frantic, as she darted through the narrowing gaps. Fort¡¯s optics narrowed, his legs pressing deeper into the ground as he absorbed the earth¡¯s shifting rhythms. He could feel the creature¡¯s intent, the way it manipulated the terrain like a potter shaping clay. The creature¡¯s arm slammed into Fort¡¯s side, but he didn¡¯t budge. The force rippled through his frame, but the energy dissipated into the ground beneath him. He was a shield, unyielding and unbreakable. ¡°Good,¡± Strat called. ¡°Vel, keep it tangled. Fort, push it back.¡± Fort shifted his weight, his legs digging into the ground for leverage. He moved forward, each step deliberate, his bulk pressing against the creature. It roared again, its strength immense, but Fort was stronger. He pushed with the weight of mountains, forcing the beast back step by step. The elemental¡¯s movements were not random; they carried a rhythm, a cadence. Each strike resonated with the ground, sending ripples that spoke of age-old wisdom etched into its core. Fort felt these vibrations and knew, this creature fought not out of anger, but duty. Its purpose was to protect, to preserve. As its jagged arm swung toward him again, Fort did not see an enemy; he saw a reflection of himself. Vel continued her assault, her webs wrapping tighter around the creature¡¯s limbs. The elemental reared back, its massive arms rising like pillars before slamming them into the ground. Cracks spiderwebbed across the ridge, the ground shifting beneath their feet. Fort felt the vibrations in his core, the subtle rhythm revealing the creature¡¯s intent: to destabilize the terrain and force its enemies to falter. Fort reacted with deliberate precision, shifting his weight and slamming his legs into the ground with a force that sent a counter-ripple through the cracks. The vibrations clashed, and the ground beneath him stabilized. Vel glanced back, her webs gleaming in the dim light as she darted toward the creature¡¯s exposed side, capitalizing on Fort¡¯s intervention. Fort¡¯s legs pressed into the earth, his core attuned to the faintest tremors. He felt the elemental shift its weight, a subtle change in the rhythm of its vibrations that foretold its next move. Before the creature¡¯s massive arm could descend, Fort shifted to the side, the strike missing him by inches and sending shards of stone scattering. The creature¡¯s struggles grew more frantic, its roars echoing across the ridge. Strat¡¯s voice cut through the chaos, calm and precise. ¡°Vel, tighten the webs around its core. Fort, press it down.¡± Vel moved with blinding speed, her filaments weaving around the beast¡¯s chest, constricting its movements. Fort advanced again, his legs striking the ground with the force of hammers. When he reached the creature, he rose onto his back legs, towering over it for a moment before slamming his weight down. The ground shook as Fort¡¯s legs connected with the beast, the impact driving it to its knees. Vel¡¯s webs tightened further, binding it completely. The elemental let out a final, guttural roar, its glowing core flickering as its strength waned. Fort advanced, each step a deliberate echo of the earth¡¯s unyielding march. His legs struck the ground with the weight of mountains, each impact sending shockwaves that rippled through the ridge. When he reached the creature, Fort paused for a moment, his frame towering over its kneeling form. The elemental¡¯s core pulsed weakly, a fading heartbeat of stone and metal. With a deliberate motion, Fort raised one leg and brought it down with the force of a landslide, shattering the core and silencing the creature¡¯s resonance. The ridge fell silent, save for the faint hum of the earth beneath them. Fort stood over the fallen creature, his frame steady, his optics glowing faintly as he observed the still form. For a moment, there was silence. The only sound was the faint hum of the earth, the vibrations settling as the battle ended. Fort stood over the fallen creature, his frame steady, his optics glowing faintly as he observed the still form. ¡°Good work,¡± Strat said, his voice carrying a note of satisfaction. ¡°Vel, excellent entanglement. Fort¡­ as always, unshakable.¡± Fort inclined his frame slightly, a silent acknowledgment of the praise. He didn¡¯t need words; his actions spoke for themselves. As Vel chittered excitedly, inspecting her webs and muttering about improvements, Fort remained still, his legs sinking into the ground as he attuned himself to the earth once more. The battle was over, but Fort¡¯s role was not. He was the steady presence, the foundation upon which his allies could rely. And as the vibrations of the earth hummed through his core, he felt a quiet sense of fulfillment. The fight had been won, and the domain was safer for it. That was enough. Fort stood over the fallen elemental, its jagged form now motionless and inert. The echoes of the battle still reverberated through his core, the vibrations resonating in a slow, steady rhythm that mirrored his own thoughts. He lowered his frame slightly, his legs sinking into the ground as he attuned himself to the earth around him. This was where he thrived, in the silence after the chaos, in the moments where understanding could take root. The elemental¡¯s body was a marvel of nature and design, a seamless amalgamation of stone and metal. Fort could feel the earth¡¯s faint hum still coursing through its remains, a lingering pulse that spoke of its origin and its purpose. It was not merely a creature of the north; it was a construct of the earth itself, imbued with life and driven by instinct. Its movements during the battle had been deliberate, almost purposeful, as though it were more than just a brute Lowering itself beside the elemental¡¯s shattered form, Fort placed a leg gently against its shattered core, feeling the faint echoes of its life reverberate through the ground. It was more than stone and metal; it was a symphony of balance and strength. He understood, now, that it had not fought against them, it had fought to preserve the harmony of its domain. Fort bowed his frame slightly, a silent gesture of respect. This creature had been a guardian, like him, and its lessons would not be forgotten.. Fort reflected on its attacks, how it had shifted its weight with the precision of tectonic plates, how its strikes had carried the force of collapsing cliffs. Each movement had been a lesson, a glimpse into the balance of power and grace that the earth itself embodied. He replayed the battle in his mind, dissecting every detail, every tremor that had passed through the ground and into his core. The creature¡¯s first strike had been a test, a powerful swing aimed at dislodging Vel. Fort had moved to intercept without hesitation, his frame absorbing the impact like a boulder deflecting a wave. The vibrations from that strike had told him much, about its strength, its density, its connection to the ground. It had been like feeling the heartbeat of a mountain, strong and unyielding, but not without its vulnerabilities. As the battle progressed, Fort had felt the creature¡¯s movements shift. It had adapted, its strikes becoming more precise, its footing more deliberate. The earth beneath them had trembled with each step, the vibrations revealing its intent before its body had even moved. Fort had used that knowledge to guide his own actions, positioning himself to block its attacks, to disrupt its balance, to press it back. But it wasn¡¯t just the creature¡¯s physicality that intrigued him. Its core had pulsed with a faint, rhythmic energy, not unlike his own. It was a nexus of power, a fusion of stone and metal that radiated purpose. Fort could feel its echoes now, even in death, a faint hum that resonated through the ground. It was a reminder of what he was, a hybrid, a creation born of both earth and ingenuity. As he stared at the fallen elemental, a faint glow appeared in his vision, drawing his attention. The System¡¯s interface materialized before him once more, its message simple but profound.
System Update: Class Evolution
Fort¡¯s optics scanned the message, his core pulsing faintly as he absorbed its meaning. The System had acknowledged what he had always known. He was not just a defender, not merely a tank. He was something deeper, something rooted in the foundation of the world itself. ¡°Understanding,¡± he murmured, his voice a low rumble that resonated through the ridge. The word carried weight, not as a measure of power but as a reflection of connection. To understand the earth and metal was to know their essence, their rhythms, their truths. It was not about domination but harmony, not about control but balance. The new stat intrigued him, its potential vast but untapped. At 1%, it was barely a flicker, but Fort did not mind. He knew the value of patience, of letting growth come naturally. Understanding was not something to be rushed; it was cultivated, like the slow erosion of rock into sand, the steady growth of roots into soil. Each battle, each meditation, each moment spent attuned to the earth would bring him closer to that goal. Fort dismissed the message with a deliberate motion, his optics dimming slightly as he turned his focus back to the elemental¡¯s body. He reached out with his core, letting the vibrations guide him, feeling the echoes of its life resonating through the ground. The earth spoke to him, not in words but in sensations, in the subtle shifts and pulses that carried its stories. This elemental had been a protector, a guardian of its territory. Its strikes had been heavy but deliberate, its movements purposeful but patient. It had fought not with rage or recklessness but with a calm determination that mirrored Fort¡¯s own. He felt a kinship with it, not as an adversary but as a kindred spirit, a reflection of what he could become. He lowered his frame further, his legs settling into the ground as he entered a meditative state. The vibrations of the ridge flowed through him, steady and rhythmic, as he attuned himself to the earth¡¯s essence. He could feel the minerals in the ground, the veins of metal that threaded through the stone, the faint hum of energy that pulsed beneath the surface. It was a symphony of creation, a chorus of elements that spoke of strength, resilience, and purpose. Fort let the energy flow through him, his core absorbing its lessons. The earth was not just a foundation; it was a force, a presence that shaped and supported everything around it. To understand it was to become one with it, to move with its rhythm, to wield its power not as a weapon but as an extension of himself. As he meditated, a faint tremor rippled through the ground, a subtle shift that drew his attention. He opened his optics, his gaze turning toward the elemental¡¯s body. Its form was inert, its core dark, but the earth around it seemed to pulse faintly, as though acknowledging its passing. Fort felt a sense of closure, a quiet acknowledgment that the battle had ended as it should. ¡°This is my path,¡± he rumbled softly, his words a quiet vow. He would grow, not through haste or ambition but through patience and understanding. The earth was his guide, its wisdom his foundation. And with each step he took, each battle he fought, he would honor its teachings. The earth did not rush, nor would he. Fort was a rock, a mountain, a foundation upon which others could build. And as the vibrations of the ridge settled into silence, he felt a quiet sense of fulfillment. The fight had been won, the domain was safer, and his path was clear. That was enough. Chapter 30: POV Strat: Strat¡¯s optics dimmed as he stared out over the warehouse, his vision tracing the lines of the makeshift battlefield he had crafted. Small rocks and scavenged debris were scattered across the smooth stone floor, representing enemies, obstacles, and objectives. Roaches scurried among the pieces, serving as both sparring partners and test subjects. The scene was a crude mockup of the larger battles Strat was beginning to anticipate, and it filled him with a quiet, gnawing unease. He wasn¡¯t sure he could keep up. The thought lingered in his mind like a crack in stone, growing wider with each passing moment. The domain had expanded rapidly under Mechalon¡¯s direction, and Strat had always prided himself on staying a step ahead. But now¡­ the terrain was shifting. The Arachnitect had joined their ranks, bringing with it a complexity Strat wasn¡¯t used to managing. And that was just one. He¡¯d overheard Mechalon¡¯s plans, the murmured excitement as it spoke to itself while tinkering with blueprints. There would be more. Swarms of new Cublings, each with unique abilities and specific roles, each requiring coordination and strategy. The thought of trying to manage them all was enough to send a tremor through Strat¡¯s usually unflappable core. He flexed his utility limbs, their sharp edges glinting faintly in the dim light. His hidden blade, folded neatly within his frame, twitched as if in response to his rising tension. It wasn¡¯t just the sheer number of units that concerned him¡ªit was the speed at which things were changing. Every new addition brought new strengths, but also new vulnerabilities. Strat couldn¡¯t shake the fear that he might miss something crucial, that a misstep on his part could unravel everything Mechalon had built. His optics brightened slightly as he focused on the battlefield again. The roaches scurried in chaotic patterns, occasionally bumping into the rocks and scattering them. Strat adjusted their movements with a flick of his utility limb, guiding them into tighter formations. He imagined them as units under his command, visualizing how they would move, how they would respond to his orders. It helped, a little, but not enough. A notification appeared in his vision, interrupting his thoughts: Would you like assistance? Strat¡¯s limbs froze mid-motion. The words were simple, innocuous even, but they sent a ripple of irritation through his core. He dismissed the message with a sharp flick of his optics. ¡°No,¡± he muttered to himself. ¡°I can handle this.¡± The notification faded, but Strat¡¯s unease remained. He knew where the message had come from¡ªnot the System, but something else. Something external. The hidden blade within him stirred, its presence a faint, almost imperceptible hum at the edge of his awareness. It had been with him since the battle against one of the rogue golems. The blade had been a trophy, a reward for a hard-fought victory, but it was unlike anything Strat had encountered before. When he¡¯d absorbed it, the weapon had fused with his frame, integrating seamlessly into his body where his welder had once been. At first, it had seemed like a simple upgrade¡ªa sharp edge for emergencies, nothing more. But over time, the blade had revealed its true nature. It was sentient, or at least something close to it, and it spoke to Strat in moments of doubt. Its voice wasn¡¯t audible, but he felt its words like vibrations in his core, subtle and insistent. You can¡¯t do this alone, it had told him once. No one can. Strat didn¡¯t like relying on it. The blade wasn¡¯t part of him, not really. It was an addition, an external influence. And Strat had always prided himself on his independence, his ability to analyze, plan, and execute without outside help. But the blade had proven useful, whether Strat wanted to admit it or not. It gave him sight¡ªnot just physical sight, but an awareness of weaknesses. He could see the stress points in an enemy¡¯s body, the vulnerabilities that would bring it down with a single, precise strike. He could see the fractures in Vel¡¯s limbs after a particularly hard fight, or the tiny imperfections in Fort¡¯s frame that needed reinforcing. It was invaluable information, but it came at a cost. Relying on the blade meant admitting he couldn¡¯t do it all on his own. I¡¯m not external, the blade¡¯s voice hummed, cutting through Strat¡¯s thoughts. I¡¯m part of you now. An assistant. Every major player has one. Even Mechalon has you. Strat¡¯s limbs tensed. He didn¡¯t respond, but the blade¡¯s words lingered. Was he not Mechalon¡¯s assistant? And wasn¡¯t he better because of it? The comparison grated against his pride, but he couldn¡¯t deny the truth in it. Mechalon had taught him to think, to strategize, to see the bigger picture. The blade was trying to do the same, in its own way. He turned his attention back to the battlefield. The roaches had started to scatter again, their movements erratic and disorganized. Strat clicked his utility limbs against the ground, a sharp, deliberate sound that brought them back into focus. He guided them into a new formation, imagining how a swarm of Cublings might behave in their place. The plans were beginning to take shape in his mind. Each unit would have a role, a purpose. Vel¡¯s speed and precision made her an ideal scout and ambusher. Fort¡¯s impenetrable defense and crushing strength made him the perfect bulwark. The Arachnitect, with its intricate designs and modular capabilities, would be the foundation of their support network. And the new Cublings¡­ they would need to complement the others, filling gaps in their strategy, amplifying their strengths. But coordinating them all¡­ that was the challenge. Strat could already feel the strain of it, the mental toll of trying to track every movement, anticipate every need. He glanced at the blade¡¯s interface, its presence faint but persistent in his vision. Let me help, it hummed. Strat hesitated. He hated the thought of relying on something external, something he hadn¡¯t built or earned. But he couldn¡¯t ignore the truth¡ªhe needed help. The domain was growing, the battles becoming more complex. If he wanted to keep up, he couldn¡¯t do it alone. ¡°Fine,¡± he muttered, more to himself than the blade. ¡°But only in emergencies.¡± The blade hummed in approval, its presence settling into a quieter, less intrusive rhythm. Strat turned his focus back to the battlefield, his movements sharper, more deliberate. He guided the roaches into a new formation, his mind already racing with plans for the next exercise. The swarm was coming. Strat didn¡¯t know if he was ready, but he would be. He had to be. For Mechalon, for the domain, and for the growing network of Cublings that depended on him. And, perhaps, for himself. Strat sat at the edge of the warehouse, his optics scanning the faint glow of the Arachnitect¡¯s workshop. The small Cubling moved with meticulous precision, crafting new devices from scraps and discarded materials. Its latest creations¡ªa set of small turrets¡ªwere lined up in a row, each one emitting a faint, ominous heat. Strat noted the designs carefully, the wheels in his mind turning. The turrets were rudimentary, using whatever ammunition could be scavenged and heating it to slag before launching it. The concept was raw but effective, a missing piece of their combat repertoire. A ranged option. The thought of a swarm of these turrets, working in unison, filled Strat with a mix of curiosity and dread. It was a glimpse of what Mechalon¡¯s vision could become¡ªa force of pure, calculated destruction. But tonight wasn¡¯t about imagining the future. Tonight was about testing the present. The goblin camp lay at the edge of a jagged outcropping, its crude structures glowing faintly with firelight. Strat¡¯s optics zoomed in, highlighting the patterns in the goblins¡¯ movements¡ªtheir defenders patrolled in overlapping circles, while the shaman remained stationary, muttering incantations. ¡°Their shields are oversized,¡± Strat noted aloud, his voice clipped. ¡°Hard to maneuver in tight spaces. Their formation is rigid. They¡¯ll fall apart if one link is broken.¡± The blade hummed faintly. A predictable weakness. But you already knew that. What will you do when they adjust? Strat¡¯s optics flicked to Vel, who was coiled in the shadows near the entrance, her legs twitching with eager anticipation. She had been the first to notice the goblin shamans to the south, their camps ringed with defenders carrying oversized shields. Shamans were a new threat, their capabilities unknown, and Strat had decided that testing the sentient blade¡¯s abilities against them was a logical next step. The blade needed to prove itself¡ªnot just as a tool, but as something worthy of trust. Vel chittered softly, her spinnerets twitching as she darted forward and back, barely able to contain her energy. Across from her, Fort stood in his usual position of quiet vigilance, his towering frame casting long shadows in the flickering light of the warehouse. His immovable presence was a comfort, a reminder that whatever happened tonight, they had the weight of the earth on their side. Strat tapped his utility limb against the ground, a sharp sound that brought Vel¡¯s movements to an abrupt halt. ¡°We leave now,¡± he said, his voice clipped and deliberate. ¡°The humans are asleep. We¡¯ll move fast, strike harder.¡± ¡°Keep quiet,¡± he ordered, his voice a whisper that barely carried over the ambient hum of the dungeon. The blade¡¯s voice slithered into his thoughts. You¡¯re tense. This isn¡¯t new for you, Strat. What are you so afraid of? Strat didn¡¯t answer. He hated how the blade always felt a step ahead, as if it could see the doubts he buried beneath his calculated demeanor. Vel chittered in agreement, already skittering toward the entrance. Fort followed without a word, his movements as slow and deliberate as the earth shifting beneath their feet. Strat brought up the rear, his thoughts focused on the task ahead. The blade hummed faintly within him, its presence subtle but insistent. This will be a good test, it said. Shamans are tricky. Their magic creates vulnerabilities¡ªif you know where to look. Strat didn¡¯t respond. He didn¡¯t like the way the blade spoke, as if it already knew the outcome. But he needed to know how far it could take him, how much it could enhance his already sharp instincts. They moved through the domain in silence, the terrain familiar but still demanding caution. The night was cold, the air heavy with the faint scent of metal and earth. Vel led the way, her movements swift and fluid, her webs subtly marking their path in case they needed to retreat. Fort brought up the rear, his bulk absorbing the faint vibrations of the ground, his presence a steadying force. As they approached, the air grew heavy with the acrid scent of burnt herbs and damp soil. Strat¡¯s optics narrowed, scanning for traps or sentries. His utility limb twitched involuntarily, the hidden blade within it ready but silent. When they reached the edge of the goblin territory, Strat signaled for them to stop. The shaman¡¯s camp was ahead, a crude ring of tents and makeshift structures surrounded by goblin guards. The defenders were as Strat had expected¡ªburly, heavily armed, their shields large enough to cover their entire bodies. The shaman sat in the center, its staff glowing faintly with green light, its gestures slow and deliberate as it chanted under its breath. Strat focused, letting the blade¡¯s awareness seep into him. He could feel its presence sharpening his vision, highlighting the stress points in the goblins¡¯ defenses. The shaman¡¯s staff pulsed with power, and the blade whispered its analysis. The staff is the anchor. Strike there, and their magic will falter. The shields have weak points along the edges¡ªtoo large to maneuver effectively. Use that. Strat nodded faintly, already forming a plan. Vel would handle the initial disruption, her speed and precision perfect for exploiting the shields¡¯ weaknesses. Fort would break their formation, his weight and strength overwhelming their defenses. Strat himself would strike the shaman, using the blade to target its vulnerabilities. Vel darted forward like a shadow cutting through the firelight, her filaments hissing as they shot out and latched onto the edges of the goblins¡¯ shields. The defenders staggered, their formation breaking as they tried to pull free. Panic spread among them like cracks in fragile glass.If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. ¡°Tighten the formation,¡± one goblin shouted, but Vel was faster. Her legs carried her between them, weaving a web that turned their shields into anchors rather than barriers. Strat¡¯s optics gleamed as he processed the chaos. ¡°Disruption effective,¡± he muttered. ¡°Fort, press the left flank. Create an opening.¡± Fort moved next, his massive frame crashing into the disorganized defenders like an avalanche. His legs struck the ground with the force of hammers, sending tremors through the camp and knocking goblins off their feet. He pressed forward, his bulk absorbing their desperate attacks, his presence an unstoppable force.. The goblins shouted in alarm, their formation breaking as they scrambled to regroup. Strat slipped through the chaos, his movements precise and calculated. The blade guided him, its awareness of the battlefield painting a clear path to the shaman. The goblins barely noticed him until it was too late, his utility limbs slicing through their defenses with mechanical efficiency. The shaman saw him coming, its staff flaring with green light as it raised a hand to cast a spell. But the blade¡¯s hum grew louder, its presence almost overwhelming as it pinpointed the exact moment to strike. Now, it whispered. Strat lunged, his hidden blade extending from under him in a flash of motion. The strike was perfect, piercing the base of the staff and shattering it in an instant. The shaman let out a guttural cry, its magic faltering as the light of its staff flickered and died. The remaining goblins broke into a full retreat, their morale shattered by the loss of their leader. Vel pursued them briefly, her filaments catching a few stragglers and cocooning them in webs before she returned to the group. Fort stood among the ruins of the camp, his frame unscathed, his presence as unshakable as ever. Strat retracted his blade, his optics scanning the aftermath. The shaman¡¯s body lay still, its staff reduced to splinters and the magic backlash making him bleed from every orifice of his body. The blade hummed faintly, its tone satisfied. Well done, it said. You¡¯re starting to see the value of a good assistant. Strat ignored the comment, his focus on the results of the battle. The blade had proven its worth, but he wasn¡¯t ready to admit it. Not yet. As they made their way back to the warehouse, Strat¡¯s thoughts lingered on the fight. The blade¡¯s abilities were undeniable, but they came at a cost. Relying on it felt like a compromise, a step away from his own independence. Yet, as he looked at Vel and Fort¡ªboth unharmed, both victorious¡ªhe couldn¡¯t deny that the blade had made a difference. Perhaps that was its purpose, he thought. Not to replace him, but to enhance him. To be a tool, an extension of his will, just as he was an extension of Mechalon¡¯s. For now, he would let it help. But only as much as he allowed. Strat was determined to remain in control, to be the one guiding the domain¡¯s future. The blade was a means to an end, nothing more. And as the warehouse came into view, glowing faintly in the distance, Strat felt a quiet sense of resolve. The swarm was coming, and he would be ready. Not because of the blade, not because of Mechalon, but because he was Strat¡ªsharp, deliberate, and unyielding. Strat walked into the central chamber of the domain, his optics scanning the room with a calculating gaze. It was a hive of mechanical activity. The mindless Cublings toiled away, their simple forms bent to the monotonous task of shaping cubes from scrap metal and feeding them into the dungeon¡¯s furnaces. The hum of machinery filled the air, punctuated by the occasional clatter of metal against stone. The chamber itself was functional but uninspired, its layout a labyrinth of narrow pathways and towering walls. The centerpiece of the room was a massive statue of a cube, standing imposingly at the center with rudimentary defenses surrounding it. Barbed wire and sharp shards of metal formed a crude barrier at its base, while four towers stood sentinel at the corners of the room. Each tower was equipped with basic traps, including a pitfall at the top, luring the curious with the promise of a small reward while offering no other overt protection. Strat moved along the central pathway, his mind preoccupied with the work still to be done. The blade inside him pulsed faintly, as though sensing his thoughts. It had been quiet since the battle with the shamans, its smug satisfaction lingering in the back of his mind like a faint echo. Do you see it now? the blade whispered, its tone sharp and insistent. The flaws in this place? The vulnerabilities? Strat stopped, his optics narrowing as he turned his focus to the room around him. The blade¡¯s presence seemed to intensify, overlaying his vision with subtle indicators and lines of potential movement. He could see it clearly now¡ªweaknesses in the defenses, blind spots in the towers¡¯ coverage, pathways that could be exploited by an infiltrator. ¡°This layout,¡± Strat muttered, his voice low, ¡°it¡¯s a disaster waiting to happen.¡± The blade hummed in agreement. A single coordinated strike could bring this entire operation to its knees. The pathways are too narrow, the defenses too obvious. Any seasoned group of intruders would find their way through with ease. Strat¡¯s mind raced as he examined the room in detail. The towers, while imposing, were ill-equipped to handle a concentrated assault. The barbed wire and sharp metal at the statue¡¯s base were effective against mindless creatures but would do little to deter skilled adventurers. The pitfall traps at the top of the towers were more a nuisance than a genuine deterrent, their rewards tempting but their danger negligible. The blade spoke again, its tone almost taunting. This is what I was made for. To destroy. To exploit weaknesses. To dismantle fortifications piece by piece. But you¡­ you see the potential for more, don¡¯t you? Strat didn¡¯t answer immediately. His optics moved across the room, his mind already forming a plan. The blade¡¯s purpose might have been destruction, but Strat saw an opportunity to use its insight to create something impenetrable. If he could see how to break this room down, he could also see how to rebuild it into an unassailable fortress. ¡°This is the main door,¡± he said aloud, his voice firm. ¡°The first line of defense before anyone reaches the warehouse. If it falls, everything behind it is exposed. This can¡¯t remain as it is.¡± Then tear it apart, the blade urged. Start over. Build it from the ground up. Make it something that cannot be breached. Strat¡¯s utility limb twitched as he considered the idea. It wasn¡¯t something that could be done immediately. The chamber was too central, too integral to the current workings of the dungeon. The mindless Cublings relied on this space to carry out their tasks, and those tasks were still critical to the dungeon¡¯s maintenance. But in time, this room could become more than just a workspace. It could become a deathtrap for intruders, a gauntlet that would grind them down before they ever reached the heart of the domain. ¡°This will have to wait,¡± Strat said, his voice low but resolute. ¡°For now, it¡¯s too vital. But once we¡¯ve expanded, once we¡¯ve rerouted the paths leading here, this room will be overhauled.¡± The blade hummed again, this time with a note of approval. A wise decision. But don¡¯t wait too long. Complacency is a weakness, and this place is riddled with it. Strat ignored the blade¡¯s smug tone, his focus turning to the mindless Cublings scattered throughout the room. Their movements were mechanical, devoid of thought or purpose beyond their assigned tasks. They were essential now, but Strat knew that wouldn¡¯t always be the case. As the domain grew, as Mechalon¡¯s plans came to fruition, the reliance on these basic constructs would diminish. And when that time came, this room would need to serve a new purpose. His optics lingered on the statue at the center of the room, its imposing form a reminder of the dungeon¡¯s original design. Mechalon had mentioned a core, a central force that controlled the dungeon¡¯s workings. Strat didn¡¯t know much about it, but he could feel its presence, its influence permeating every corner of the domain. If they were going to reshape this place, they would need to wrest control away from that core, to make the dungeon their own. ¡°This isn¡¯t just about defense,¡± Strat said quietly, his voice almost a whisper. ¡°This is about control. About ownership. This dungeon doesn¡¯t belong to us yet, but it will.¡± Ambitious, the blade said, its tone almost amused. But ambition alone won¡¯t get you there. You¡¯ll need strength. Strategy. And allies. Strat¡¯s optics narrowed, his focus sharpening. The blade¡¯s words, while irritating, weren¡¯t wrong. The swarm Mechalon envisioned was still in its infancy, and their current forces were far from sufficient to hold the dungeon against determined invaders. But Strat wasn¡¯t discouraged. If anything, the challenge fueled him. He thrived on strategy, on planning, on the intricate dance of moving pieces across a battlefield. He glanced back at Vel, who was weaving her webs near the entrance to the chamber, her movements precise and deliberate. She had grown stronger, more capable, her abilities perfectly suited to disrupting enemy movements. Fort stood nearby, his massive frame a silent testament to the domain¡¯s defensive strength. And the Arachnitect, small and unassuming, was already proving to be a valuable asset, its creations hinting at untapped potential. Strat¡¯s optics glowed faintly as he turned his gaze back to the room. The pieces were falling into place, but there was still so much to do. The swarm had to grow, the defenses had to be strengthened, and the layout of the dungeon itself had to be reimagined. But Strat was patient. He was deliberate. And he was determined. ¡°This isn¡¯t just a dungeon,¡± he said, his voice steady. ¡°This is a battlefield. And I will make it one no one can survive.¡± Strat¡¯s optics flickered faintly as a notification materialized in his vision. The system, an ever-present but often silent force, had apparently taken note of his newfound determination.
System Update: Weapon Evolution Your equipped weapon, Hidden Blade, has synchronized with your resolve. It will now grow with you, gaining levels and abilities based on your usage and strategy. The bond between wielder and weapon is now symbiotic.
Strat froze for a moment, his thoughts spiraling through layers of analysis. The blade pulsed faintly within his body, a hum that resonated deeper now, more in tune with his core. Do you feel it? the blade whispered, its tone more subdued but still sharp. We¡¯re connected now. Partners. I¡¯ll grow as you do, and together, we¡¯ll carve a path forward. It was a curious sensation, this melding of his purpose and the weapon¡¯s evolution. For a brief moment, Strat considered whether this was a directive designed by the system itself, a preordained goal he was only now stepping into. Perhaps this union was always meant to be¡ªan assistant meant to amplify his capabilities and his purpose. He nodded inwardly, accepting this as a sign. ¡°We work together,¡± he muttered, his voice calm but resolute. ¡°Your growth will reflect mine.¡± The blade¡¯s hum turned almost melodic. Then let¡¯s not waste time. There¡¯s much to do. Strat turned his attention back to the mindless Cublings scattered throughout the room, toiling away without thought or purpose beyond their basic directives. They were integral to the dungeon¡¯s upkeep, yes, but they were also imperfect¡ªblemished and inefficient in a way that grated against Strat¡¯s sensibilities. He approached one of them, its frame bent slightly out of alignment from the repetitive strain of its labor. Strat extended his utility limbs, the repair module within him humming to life. The module was simple but effective, allowing him to manipulate metal and materials with precision. He could not create or innovate like Mechalon, but he could perfect what was already there. His utility limbs grasped the damaged Cubling gently, as though handling something fragile, and began their work. The process was deliberate, methodical. Strat¡¯s utility limbs moved with the precision of a master craftsman, smoothing imperfections, reattaching loose components, and reshaping areas where the metal had warped. He used the ambient scraps scattered across the chamber to replace missing parts, his internal module shaping them like clay until they fit seamlessly into the Cubling¡¯s frame. As he worked, Strat found his thoughts wandering. These mindless constructs, though simple and unthinking, had a potential he couldn¡¯t ignore. One day, they might be freed from the control of the dungeon¡¯s core, brought under Mechalon¡¯s dominion. They could grow, evolve, and contribute to the domain¡¯s expansion. For now, however, they were little more than tools. And yet¡­ Strat paused, his optics flickering as he placed a newly repaired Cubling back onto its task. He found himself murmuring softly, almost reverently. ¡°Thank you, system, for the life you¡¯ve given me. For the purpose I now have.¡± It was an uncharacteristic moment of vulnerability, but Strat didn¡¯t mind. The system¡¯s presence was something he felt deeply, and though he rarely expressed it, he was grateful for his existence. He turned his attention to another Cubling, this one missing a portion of its utility limb. With care, he repeated the process, reshaping scraps of metal to replace what had been lost. The blade whispered again, its tone curious. Why do you care for them so much? They¡¯re tools, nothing more. Strat¡¯s optics narrowed slightly. ¡°They¡¯re tools now, but that won¡¯t always be the case. Mechalon has shown me that even the simplest creations can evolve. If we abandon them to their imperfections, we squander their potential.¡± The blade hummed thoughtfully, as though considering this perspective. I see. So you work not just for the present, but for the future. Admirable, if a bit idealistic. Strat didn¡¯t respond. He simply continued his work, moving from one Cubling to the next, smoothing edges, fixing welds, and reattaching components. Each repair was an act of quiet devotion, a way of ensuring that these constructs could carry out their tasks more efficiently, with fewer failures. It wasn¡¯t much, but it was a start. As he worked, his thoughts returned to the chamber itself¡ªthe weaknesses he had seen, the vulnerabilities the blade had illuminated. This place was far from defensible in its current state. It would require a complete overhaul, a restructuring from the ground up. Strat envisioned a room designed not just to facilitate the mindless Cublings¡¯ tasks but to protect them, to ensure that any intruder who entered would face an impenetrable gauntlet. His mind raced with possibilities. The towers at the corners of the room could be redesigned, their traps enhanced to target intruders with precision. The pathways could be narrowed further, forcing enemies into chokepoints where they could be easily ambushed. The barbed wire and sharp metal around the central statue could be replaced with automated defenses, turrets designed to fire upon anyone who approached without authorization. The blade spoke again, its tone almost teasing. You¡¯re thinking big. I like that. But you¡¯ll need more than just plans. You¡¯ll need resources, allies, and time. Strat nodded. ¡°I know. This isn¡¯t something that can be done overnight. But it¡¯s a goal¡ªa vision. And when the time comes, this room will be ready.¡± He placed the last Cubling back onto its task, his repairs complete for now. The room hummed with activity once more, the mindless constructs continuing their work without pause. Strat turned away, his optics glowing faintly as he considered his next steps. The blade¡¯s presence felt less intrusive now, more symbiotic. It wasn¡¯t just a weapon anymore; it was a partner, a tool that amplified his strengths and mitigated his weaknesses. Strat had always prided himself on his ability to think strategically, to plan and execute with precision. Now, with the blade¡¯s insights, he could take those abilities even further. ¡°This is just the beginning,¡± Strat said quietly, his voice steady. ¡°We¡¯re building something greater than ourselves. And we¡¯ll see it through to the end.¡± The blade pulsed faintly, its tone filled with quiet approval. Then let¡¯s get to work. Chapter 31: The workshop buzzed with energy, a symphony of clanks, hums, and the occasional hiss of molten metal. In the middle of it all, Arixis scurried across her self-proclaimed "arena of creation," her six spindly spider-like legs tapping the floor in rapid rhythm. She darted from one side of the workshop to the other, her optics flickering with the kind of manic glee that only a mind obsessed with destruction could muster. Behind her, Boom and Pop, her two newly minted brothers, tried their best to keep up. They were mirror images of Arixis in design: six legs for stability, two modular limbs ending in orbs ready to accept tools, and their spiderlike frames far smaller than the average Cubling. But while Arixis darted about like a whirlwind, they moved with the cautious hesitance of freshly created constructs, their optics wide as they watched their big sister at work. Arixis clicked her modular limbs together excitedly, her webs flicking out to pull a loose piece of scrap metal toward her. The thin, fiber-like threads hummed faintly as they stretched, glowing faintly as energy coursed through them. She worked faster than any of the mindless Cublings that toiled elsewhere in the domain, her movements deliberate and precise despite her frenetic energy. ¡°Snip the lines,¡± she thought to herself, her internal voice an endless stream of cheer. ¡°Snip their lines, tear their fates, end their journeys! Giants? Pfft! I¡¯ll make them fall like trees in a storm. Just need... the perfect thing.¡± Her optics darted to a prototype turret in the corner of the workshop. It was a crude thing, cobbled together from scavenged parts, but it held potential. An unstable core sat at its center, glowing with a dangerous, pulsing light. The turret was designed to heat scrap metal into molten projectiles, launching them in fiery streams at anything that dared approach. But it wasn¡¯t enough. Not yet. ¡°Bigger. Better. Faster!¡± Arixis thought as she clambered onto the turret, her modular limbs slotting into its framework. She clicked rapidly to herself as the core hummed under her weight. Boom and Pop finally caught up, their legs clicking against the floor as they tilted their frames curiously. Pop extended one of his modular limbs, the orb at its end clicking into the turret¡¯s chassis. A faint whirring sound echoed as he scanned it, his thoughts clicking into Arixis¡¯ mind like puzzle pieces. ¡°Too unstable,¡± Pop noted in the way they communicated, through vibrations and subtle energy pulses rather than speech. ¡°Will explode.¡± ¡°That¡¯s the point!¡± Arixis shot back, her web flicking out to smack Pop playfully on the side. ¡°But not yet. Needs to explode where it matters.¡± Boom chimed in next, his voice slower, more deliberate. ¡°Structure is weak. Molten slag will melt supports. Turret fails.¡± Arixis clattered her legs together in mock exasperation, hopping off the turret and skittering in circles around her brothers. ¡°Then we make it stronger! We make it... no, wait! We make two! A pair! One melts, one smashes. Or, or, hear me out, we make three! One melts, one smashes, one...¡± She paused dramatically, her optics glowing brighter. ¡°One explodes.¡± Boom and Pop exchanged a look that was almost conspiratorial. Arixis might have been their big sister, but her boundless energy often meant they had to reign her in. Pop clicked a disagreement, but Boom raised a leg to silence him. They watched as Arixis darted to a pile of scrap and started assembling something new, her limbs moving so fast they were almost a blur. The new design was even more chaotic than the turret. It had a base shaped like a squat spider, its legs curled inward to hold an array of sharp spikes made from tempered steel. Arixis worked with single-minded focus, her fiber-webs snipping and pulling pieces into place. She hummed internally to herself, the rhythm of her thoughts chaotic but strangely beautiful. ¡°This one¡¯s for giants,¡± she thought as she worked. ¡°It¡¯ll slice their legs clean off. No legs, no giant! Then we rain molten slag on what¡¯s left. Snip-snap! No more fate for you.¡± Boom finally stepped forward, extending his modular limb to test the tension on the spikes. ¡°Not stable,¡± he pulsed. ¡°Will collapse under weight.¡± ¡°Won¡¯t matter if it works fast enough!¡± Arixis shot back, but her limbs hesitated for a moment before continuing. She hated admitting when Boom was right, but she¡¯d learned that his slower, methodical approach often saved her from catastrophic failure. As they worked, Pop scuttled to a nearby pile of scrap and began assembling something on his own. Arixis tilted her frame, her curiosity piqued, and skittered over to watch. Pop¡¯s design was smaller, more compact, a turret designed to fire energy bursts rather than molten metal. ¡°Ranged support?¡± Arixis guessed, her excitement bubbling over. ¡°Oh, that¡¯s clever. Good job, Pop!¡± She flicked a web at him in approval, her energy infectious. The three of them worked together in perfect, chaotic harmony, their fiber-webs snipping and weaving as they refined their designs. The workshop became a storm of noise and motion, each sibling contributing their unique touch to the creations. By the end of it, they had a line of prototypes: turrets, traps, and a particularly nasty design Arixis dubbed the ¡°Crushinator,¡± a spiked platform that collapsed on anything unlucky enough to step beneath it. Arixis surveyed their work, her frame practically vibrating with excitement. ¡°We¡¯ll test them tomorrow,¡± she decided, clicking her limbs together. ¡°On roaches first. Then goblins. Then...¡± Her optics gleamed. ¡°Giants.¡± Boom and Pop didn¡¯t respond, but the way they positioned themselves beside her spoke volumes. Together, the three of them were unstoppable, a team of destruction-driven Arachnitects ready to snip the strings of fate for anything that dared challenge their domain. Mechalon¡¯s utility limbs twitched as he observed Arixis and her brothers. His optics lingered on their energetic pulses and vibrations, each flicker of their limbs a chaotic symphony of creation and destruction. For a moment, he seemed perplexed, his frame shifting slightly as though trying to adjust to the whirlwind energy of the Arachnitects. ¡°Not giants,¡± Mechalon said, his voice calm but firm, resonating with an authority that cut through the noise. ¡°Humans.¡± Arixis paused mid-scurry, tilting her frame to face him, her optics narrowing in confusion. Humans? What were humans if not giants? They were eight times her size, towering, lumbering beings who invaded the dungeon with reckless abandon. If they weren¡¯t giants, what were they? She flicked a dismissive web, ignoring Mechalon¡¯s correction. He didn¡¯t understand. Her mind was already racing ahead, the thought of giants, or humans, as he insisted, spurring her into a frenzy of focused energy. Her thoughts narrowed, the chaos of her usual brainstorming reined in as she fixated on a singular, defining goal. If she was to create something worthy of her growing role, something that could turn the tide of any battle, it had to be more than another turret or trap. It had to be the turret. Her six legs clicked against the floor as she scrambled to the center of the workshop, dragging scraps of metal and cores behind her with her fiber-like webs. Boom and Pop followed, their smaller frames twitching with curiosity as they watched their big sister dive headfirst into her latest project. ¡°This isn¡¯t just for fun,¡± Arixis thought, her internal voice sharpening with determination. ¡°This is for us. For what Mechalon said we¡¯d be. Shock troops. Chaos bringers. Destruction made mobile.¡± Mechalon¡¯s words about their role echoed in her mind: fast, precise, devastating. They weren¡¯t meant to hold the line like Fort or entangle enemies like Vel. They were a scalpel, not a hammer, a force that could rain down destruction and disappear before anyone could react. If there were going to be hundreds of their kind, they needed something that embodied that ethos: mobility, power, and adaptability. The answer came to her in a flash of inspiration, her optics flaring brightly as the idea took shape. ¡°A turret... no, not just a turret,¡± she thought, her limbs moving faster than ever. ¡°A turret we can carry. Deploy. Stabilize. Fire. Then pack up and move before anyone even knows what hit them.¡± She worked with a single-minded focus, her chaotic energy now channeled into something almost serene in its intensity. Her fiber-webs hummed as they snapped and wove, pulling pieces into place with mechanical precision. Boom and Pop darted around her, retrieving materials and offering adjustments with subtle clicks of their limbs. It was a dance of creation, each movement deliberate and harmonious despite the frenetic pace. The design evolved rapidly, the turret taking shape as a compact, modular device. It was built for efficiency, its base light enough to be carried by one of their kind but sturdy enough to withstand the force of its own firepower. At its core was a stabilized energy source, refined from the unstable cores Arixis had used in her earlier prototypes. The turret¡¯s firing mechanism was a marvel of simplicity and power, designed to channel a single, devastating shot of molten slag at its target before requiring a lengthy recharge. ¡°It¡¯ll be perfect,¡± Arixis thought, her excitement bubbling over as she attached the final component. ¡°Fast, deadly, and precise. Just like us.¡± Mechalon loomed over her as she worked, his utility limbs twitching in what might have been approval. Arixis didn¡¯t notice, her focus entirely on her creation. She imagined the chaos it would bring, the webs of fate it would snip with each devastating shot. Giants, humans, whatever they were, they wouldn¡¯t stand a chance. When the turret was finally complete, Arixis stepped back, her frame vibrating with barely contained excitement. The turret gleamed under the dim workshop lights, its compact form radiating potential. Boom and Pop circled it cautiously, their optics scanning its features. Pop clicked a question, his modular limb tapping the base of the turret. ¡°Stable?¡± Arixis responded with a flick of her web, her tone almost smug. ¡°Stable enough. Test it and see.¡± Boom extended his modular limb, slotting it into the turret¡¯s base and activating it with a faint hum. The turret whirred to life, its core glowing with a controlled brilliance. Arixis watched intently as Boom positioned it on a makeshift firing range, a line of scrap metal targets she¡¯d set up earlier, and triggered the firing mechanism. The turret unleashed a single, searing shot of molten slag, the beam cutting through the targets with terrifying precision. The air filled with the acrid scent of molten metal, and the workshop fell silent for a moment as the Arachnitects stared at the aftermath. Arixis broke the silence with a triumphant clatter of her legs, her excitement spilling over. ¡°Perfect! Absolutely perfect! Fast, deadly, stable, everything we need!¡± Boom and Pop clicked their agreement, their movements mirroring her enthusiasm. The turret was a success, but Arixis wasn¡¯t finished. She skittered back to her pile of scrap, already planning the next iteration. If one turret was this effective, what could a coordinated group of them do? What if they had turrets that specialized in different types of damage, piercing, explosive, incendiary? The possibilities were endless, and Arixis wanted to explore them all. Her thoughts raced as she began sketching designs with her fiber-webs, the threads glowing faintly as they formed intricate patterns in the air. ¡°We¡¯ll need more. We¡¯ll need faster deployment systems. Automated reloads. Maybe even mobile platforms. The giants won¡¯t know what hit them.¡± Mechalon watched from the shadows, his optics glowing faintly as he observed the Arachnitects at work. Arixis¡¯ energy was infectious, her chaotic creativity a force that seemed to defy logic. He didn¡¯t fully understand her thought processes, but he recognized the value of what she was creating. ¡°You¡¯ll need discipline,¡± Mechalon finally said, his voice cutting through the workshop¡¯s noise. ¡°Chaos without control is just destruction. But chaos directed... that¡¯s power.¡± Arixis tilted her frame toward him, her optics narrowing as she processed his words. Discipline? Control? Those weren¡¯t things that came naturally to her, but she couldn¡¯t deny their importance. If she wanted her creations to be more than just toys, if she wanted them to define the future of their kind, she would need to find a way to balance her chaos with purpose. Arixis skittered toward Boom and Pop, her fiber-like webs pulling a smattering of materials behind her as she went. The turret prototype gleamed faintly under the dim light of the workshop, its polished exterior hiding the questions she couldn¡¯t wait to tackle. Her brothers turned toward her, their modular limbs twitching in anticipation. They had been waiting for this, the moment when the brainstorming truly began. She tapped one of her orb-ended limbs against the turret''s barrel, her thoughts racing faster than her limbs could move. The shot had been powerful, yes, but it lacked precision. The slag rounds didn¡¯t pierce or hold any particular shape, their molten state transforming them into blunt-force projectiles rather than anything more refined. The turret had succeeded in destruction, but it could do so much more. Boom tilted his frame, clicking softly as he extended a limb toward the barrel. "Too short," he noted, his tone sharp and concise. Arixis vibrated with agreement, almost dancing in place as she scrambled to pull up another length of salvaged metal with her webs. "Longer barrel, yes! Enforce accuracy! Slag''s soft, no piercing power, but!" She clicked excitedly, nearly tripping over herself as she continued. "Slag¡¯s heat. Devastating! We need it hotter. So hot it melts through them!" Pop chimed in, his voice a higher-pitched series of clicks and vibrations. "Spin it. Grooves inside. Stabilize trajectory." Arixis froze for a brief moment, her optics flashing as the idea sank in. "Yes! Spin it! Spiral grooves inside the barrel. Force the slag into a shape, no, a weapon, as it leaves. Blunt force, slashing edges, all built into the design!" The three of them rattled off ideas in a rapid-fire volley, their modular limbs clicking against the turret¡¯s frame as they dissected and rebuilt the design in their minds. Arixis¡¯ energy was palpable, her excitement infectious. Boom and Pop matched her pace, their own ideas feeding into hers as they examined every flaw, every imperfection in the prototype. "We keep slag," Boom said, his tone decisive. "Heat makes it deadly. But... what if we channel heat more efficiently? Condense it." Pop clicked in agreement. "Smaller core. Higher pressure. More concentrated." Arixis darted between them, her webs pulling together a rough schematic in the air, the glowing threads outlining their ideas in chaotic harmony. "Concentrated heat! We need insulation around the core, better heat retention. And a mechanism to feed rounds faster, no more waiting for it to recharge." She paused, tapping her frame thoughtfully as her excitement bubbled over into words. "We test, we fail, we rebuild. Every failure¡¯s a lesson! Slag¡¯s bluntness isn¡¯t a flaw; it¡¯s potential. We lean into it, optimize it. More impact, more heat, more chaos!" Mechalon would¡¯ve hated this approach. He was deliberate, meticulous, planning every detail before he even began. Arixis could picture him watching them now, his utility limbs twitching in disapproval. He didn¡¯t like failure, it grated against his core. To Mechalon, everything had to work the first time. Everything had to be right. But that wasn¡¯t how Arixis worked. She thrived on the mess, on the chaos of trial and error. She didn¡¯t fear failure; she welcomed it. Failure taught her things, things she could build upon. To her, every broken prototype, every shattered barrel or overheated core, was a step closer to perfection. Where Mechalon sought precision, she sought evolution. "We¡¯re different," she muttered to herself, her tone half reverent, half defiant. "Mechalon builds life. We build... destruction." Pop and Boom turned toward her, their frames tilting in curious unison. Arixis met their gazes, or as close to gazes as their glowing optics allowed, and clicked her web-like wires together. "We fail. We break things. We rebuild. That¡¯s how we get stronger." The three of them turned back to the turret, their excitement renewed. They worked quickly, their webs snapping and weaving as they reconfigured the design. The barrel was extended, grooves etched carefully into its interior to guide the slag into a more stable, spinning trajectory. The core was replaced with a smaller, more efficient version, its heat output condensed and concentrated to maximize its destructive potential. They reinforced the base, added stabilizers for better precision, and fine-tuned the firing mechanism for faster reloads. As they worked, Arixis¡¯ thoughts darted ahead to the future. This wasn¡¯t just about this turret or even the next one. This was about pushing their limits, about seeing just how far they could go. If humans, or giants, as she preferred to call them, were eight times her size, why not build something that could take down creatures ten or twenty times her size? Why stop at what they already knew when there was so much more to discover? Her brothers seemed to share her vision. They didn¡¯t speak much, none of them could, but their movements said everything. Every click of their limbs, every strand of fiber they wove, carried the same determination. They weren¡¯t just building weapons; they were defining what it meant to be an Arachnitect. The turret was finally complete, its sleek new design a testament to their chaotic, collaborative effort. Arixis stepped back, her frame vibrating with pride as Boom and Pop examined their work. The barrel gleamed with spiral grooves, the core glowed faintly with concentrated heat, and the base was sturdy enough to handle the weapon¡¯s immense power. "Test?" Pop clicked, his tone eager. Arixis flicked a strand of web, motioning toward the firing range. "Test." Boom took the lead, slotting his modular limb into the turret and activating it. The weapon hummed to life, its core glowing brighter as it gathered energy. The three of them watched intently as Boom aimed the turret at a line of reinforced scrap targets. The shot was everything they¡¯d hoped for. The molten slag erupted from the barrel with a searing, spiraling precision, tearing through the targets with devastating force. The sound of metal clashing and melting filled the workshop, and when the smoke cleared, the targets were little more than scorched fragments.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Arixis clattered her legs in triumph, her excitement spilling over as she darted around the turret. "Perfect! Absolutely perfect! We did it!" Boom and Pop clicked their agreement, their frames vibrating with shared pride. The turret wasn¡¯t just a weapon; it was a statement. A testament to their creativity, their resilience, and their refusal to accept failure as anything but a stepping stone. As the three of them began dismantling the turret for further refinement, Arixis couldn¡¯t help but think of Mechalon again. He might not understand their methods, their chaotic trial-and-error approach, but he would see the results. And one day, when their designs helped turn the tide of battle, he would have to admit that their chaos had its place. Arixis was skittering in place, the thrill of the turret¡¯s successful test shot still buzzing through her core, when the System¡¯s familiar hum interrupted her celebration. Her optics flared as a message materialized in front of her, its presentation unlike the usual sterile interface. This one shimmered and pulsed with vibrant colors, as if the System had realized it needed something extra to hold Arixis¡¯ attention. ¡°CONGRATULATIONS, ARIXIS!¡± the message began, bursting with cheerful animations of fireworks and spinning gears. ¡°You¡¯ve unlocked a new ability: FAILURE ARCHIVE!¡± Arixis froze mid-hop, her optics flickering as the fireworks cascaded into an animated scroll, detailing her new ability in an entertainingly chaotic font that was just the right level of busy. It read:
FAILURE ARCHIVE Purpose: Capture the essence of mistakes and transform them into a resource for innovation! Use this tool to turn your glorious chaos into structured brilliance! Happy failing!¡±
The message closed with a triumphant jingle and a spinning gear animation that winked before disappearing. Arixis vibrated with excitement, her legs clicking against the floor in rapid bursts of energy. This was her kind of tool! ¡°Oh! Oh! Oh!¡± she chittered to herself, darting toward her brothers. ¡°Boom! Pop! Did you see that? We can log the failures! Keep them! Archive them!¡± She spun in place, her webs flicking around wildly as her thoughts jumped faster than her limbs could keep up. She activated the new ability immediately, her mind racing to fill the archive with entries. The turret prototype was the first to go in, its list of failures already forming in her head. The archive shimmered to life before her, presenting a clean interface with rows and rows of potential entries waiting to be filled.
FAILURE ARCHIVE

Entry #1: Prototype Turret Mk. I

Arixis paused, staring at the list with a glimmer of pride in her optics. She could tag it! She could search it later! The System truly understood her, she thought with a giggle. Her thoughts shifted rapidly back to the turret itself. "Stability! We need stability factors!" she announced to Boom and Pop, who turned toward her in unison, their orbs clicking in acknowledgment. She hopped over to the turret, tapping its base with an orb-ended leg. "Set up! Bunker down! Devastating shot! Quick redeployment!" Her webbing flicked out as she spoke, encasing the turret¡¯s base in a web of reinforced fiber. "No tipping! No sliding!" The idea came together with her usual chaotic enthusiasm. The turret needed deployable stabilizers, retractable spikes or weighted plates that could anchor it in place while firing. And a mechanism to pack it up just as quickly, allowing for seamless redeployment. She scribbled a new entry into the archive as she worked:
FAILURE ARCHIVE

Entry #2: Turret Stability

Boom and Pop chirped suggestions as Arixis worked, their energy matching hers as they refined the turret¡¯s design further. Pop suggested using heavier materials for the stabilizers, while Boom argued for lightweight alloys that wouldn¡¯t slow redeployment. Arixis considered both, weaving fibers into rough models to test the weight distribution. Her mind darted again, jumping from one thought to the next as she began to refine the feeding mechanism. "Ammo!" she exclaimed, nearly startling Boom and Pop. "Standardize it! Feeding mechanism needs to reload without breaking the turret down!" They clicked in agreement, diving into another brainstorming session. The slag rounds were effective, but the process of heating and firing them needed to be streamlined. They sketched out a plan for a feeding system that would hold multiple rounds, each one preloaded into a heating chamber that could fire sequentially.
FAILURE ARCHIVE

Entry #3: Turret Ammunition System

Arixis paused for a moment, her excitement dimming slightly as she stared at the note about the core. That part was beyond her for now. Core research wasn¡¯t her strength, it required patience and meticulous study, neither of which fit her chaotic style. Mechalon was already working in that direction, and she trusted him to handle it. Her focus was on practical destruction, not theoretical research. She added a final note to the entry:
With a triumphant click of her limbs, Arixis turned back to Boom and Pop. "We¡¯re getting there!" she chirped. "Stabilizers, feeding system, everything! We¡¯re gonna make this turret perfect!" Arixis twitched with excitement, her energy nearly overflowing as she skittered around the nearly completed turret. Boom and Pop mirrored her movements, their orbs clicking in unison as the trio exchanged a flurry of silent gestures and excited vibrations. The turret stood before them like a promise fulfilled, a sleek, low-profile weapon that seemed to hum with potential even as it rested inert. Its design was a culmination of their efforts, the result of countless failures logged into Arixis'' new Failure Archive, each one a stepping stone to perfection. The turret resembled a long-barrel sniper rifle, but it was more than that. Its frame was elongated and streamlined, its barrel extending far enough to deliver pinpoint accuracy over long distances. Inside the barrel, grooves spiraled with precision, optimized to spin the molten rounds as they fired, granting stability and consistency. The automatic feeder was a marvel of efficiency, holding preloaded ammunition, metal rounds heated to an almost liquid state and stored in an insulated chamber. The molten rounds weren¡¯t solid but viscous, a searing blend of molten slag and reinforced alloys designed to melt through armor and cause maximum internal damage upon impact. The turret¡¯s base had undergone the most significant transformation. The trio had scrapped their earlier bulky designs, opting instead for a compact and dynamic structure. The base now swiveled effortlessly along all axes, x, y, and z, allowing for complete 360-degree coverage. It sat low to the ground, reducing the center of gravity and eliminating most of the stability issues that had plagued their earlier iterations. The shifting base was equipped with lightweight stabilizers that extended and retracted with a flick of their modular limbs, making redeployment seamless and fast. Above all, the scope was Arixis¡¯ favorite addition. A delicate yet durable attachment, the scope provided perfect alignment for their shots. It integrated seamlessly with their optics, feeding precise targeting data directly into their vision. The scope itself was mounted on a sliding track, allowing it to adjust for height and angle automatically based on the terrain. Arixis tapped one of her limbs against the turret¡¯s base, a rhythmic click that signaled her satisfaction. "Done!" she chittered to Boom and Pop, her vibrations practically sparking with pride. They clicked their orbs in agreement, their excitement matching hers. But as she gazed at the turret, another thought flickered through her hyperactive mind. This wasn¡¯t just a machine; it was a tool for them to wield. They had been designing without fully considering their role in its operation. Mechanics they might be, but they were battle mechanics, and this turret wasn¡¯t just a stationary weapon, it was an extension of them. Arixis skittered to the side, weaving a quick thread to pull Boom and Pop closer. She tapped the modular slots on the turret, her webbing forming a crude diagram in midair to convey her idea. The turret wasn¡¯t just a tool; it was theirs. Their modular limbs, with their precision and adaptability, could connect directly into the turret¡¯s slots. By doing so, they wouldn¡¯t just control the turret, they would become part of it. Boom and Pop vibrated their agreement, their optics flashing with understanding. Arixis didn¡¯t wait for further acknowledgment. She clicked her orb-like modular limbs into the turret¡¯s designated slots, feeling a faint hum as the connection stabilized. The sensation was exhilarating, a perfect union of machine and Cubling. Her six spider-like legs pressed into the ground, their natural shock absorption providing an additional layer of stability. The turret¡¯s base adjusted subtly as if responding to her presence, the stabilizers locking into place. Boom and Pop followed her lead, their limbs clicking into the remaining slots with practiced ease. The trio formed a triangle around the turret, their limbs splayed wide to anchor it further. It was as if the turret had always been designed for this configuration, the synergy between them seamless and intuitive. Arixis turned her optics toward the scope, which now fed data directly into her vision. The alignment was perfect, the targeting reticle glowing softly as it tracked potential targets. She felt every subtle shift in the turret¡¯s base, every adjustment made by Boom and Pop as they synced their movements. It wasn¡¯t just a weapon anymore; it was an extension of their collective will. ¡°Perfect,¡± Arixis chittered softly, the word vibrating through the air with a mix of satisfaction and anticipation. But building it wasn¡¯t enough. Now came the real test: training. Arixis detached from the turret, her movements quick and purposeful as she skittered toward the Failure Archive. She logged a new entry, marking the turret as complete but leaving room for improvements that might arise during field testing.
FAILURE ARCHIVE

Entry #4: Sniper Turret Mk. IV

The entry glowed faintly as she completed it, her excitement building once more. She turned back to Boom and Pop, who were already aligning the turret for their first live test. The training grounds, an open section of the warehouse littered with makeshift targets and obstacles, awaited. The trio moved as one, the turret gliding smoothly between them as they carried it to its position. Arixis felt a thrill of anticipation as they locked the turret into place, their limbs spreading wide to stabilize it. The targets were arranged at varying distances, each one a challenge meant to test the turret¡¯s precision and power. ¡°Ready?¡± Arixis chittered, her vibrations carrying the question to her brothers. Boom and Pop clicked their orbs in unison, signaling their readiness. The first shot fired, a molten round slicing through the air with a hiss. It struck a target dead center, the impact melting the metal surface into a warped, steaming crater. The recoil rippled through the turret, but their anchored limbs absorbed it effortlessly, leaving the turret steady and primed for the next shot. Arixis chittered with delight as they adjusted the scope for the next target, a moving dummy that zigzagged across the field. The turret tracked it seamlessly, the molten round striking true and reducing the dummy to a smoldering heap. Boom and Pop chittered their own approval, their limbs clicking as they prepared for the next volley. Shot after shot, the turret performed flawlessly. The trio moved with practiced efficiency, redeploying the turret between targets in mere seconds. The automatic feeder worked perfectly, delivering each molten round with precision. By the end of the session, the training grounds were a scorched battlefield, every target obliterated. Arixis detached from the turret, her limbs clicking with satisfaction as she inspected the results. Boom and Pop joined her, their optics glowing with shared pride. The turret wasn¡¯t just a machine, it was their creation, their weapon, their masterpiece. And this was only the beginning. Arixis scuttled to her Failure Archive, her limbs clicking against the smooth surface of the interface as she logged the turret''s limitations with meticulous care. Each note was like a puzzle piece, a challenge to overcome in future iterations.
FAILURE ARCHIVE

Entry #4: Sniper Turret Mk. IV

Arixis tilted her orb-like limb proudly, the glowing record a testament to her precision. Turning to Boom and Pop, she vibrated a quick pattern that conveyed her excitement. "Battle test. We need Fort," her vibrations said. The two Arachnitects clicked their orbs in agreement, their energy matching hers as they turned their focus back to the turret. Arixis knew they couldn¡¯t go into battle with just one turret. They needed a proper arsenal, three turrets, one for each of them. The next several hours were a blur of activity as the trio worked with unrelenting focus to replicate their design. Every bolt, groove, and module was crafted with the same precision as the first. The warehouse filled with the rhythmic sounds of their limbs tapping against metal, the occasional hiss of molten slag being formed into new components. Finally, as the second and third turrets stood completed, the three Arachnitects clicked their orbs together in triumph. Arixis scuttled in circles, her excitement infectious. "Perfect! Now we just need Fort," she chittered.
Finding Fort wasn¡¯t difficult. The towering Earth Cube was in his usual place, meditating near the Pylons, his bulk emanating a calm, steady presence. Arixis darted up to him, vibrating her excitement with such intensity that even the unflappable Fort tilted his frame slightly in curiosity. Fort listened as she conveyed their plan: a test against the creatures to the north, something with high defense to push the turrets to their limits. His optics flickered faintly, his only response a slow, deliberate nod.
The trio, with Fort in tow, ventured northward. Each of the Arachnitects carried a turret, their compact frames making the devices appear even larger as they scuttled through the terrain. The journey was filled with Arixis¡¯ enthusiastic chittering, her ideas spilling out in rapid vibrations as Boom and Pop responded with occasional clicks of agreement. When they reached their destination, a clearing where one of the earth-and-metal creatures roamed, Arixis signaled for them to stop. The creature was massive, its jagged form exuding an aura of raw power and resilience. It was the perfect target. The three Arachnitects moved with practiced efficiency, deploying their turrets in a triangular formation around the creature. Their modular limbs clicked into place, anchoring the turrets to the ground and connecting their bodies to the stabilizing slots. Arixis adjusted her scope, the targeting reticle aligning perfectly with the glowing core in the creature¡¯s chest. ¡°Ready,¡± her vibrations signaled to Boom and Pop. The first shot fired with a sharp hiss, molten slag hurtling through the air and striking the creature¡¯s core with pinpoint accuracy. The impact sent a shockwave rippling through the ground, and the creature roared in defiance, its form shuddering as it turned toward its attackers. The second and third shots followed in rapid succession, each one striking true. The creature staggered, its movements growing sluggish as the turrets continued their relentless assault. Arixis¡¯ limbs pressed into the ground, absorbing the recoil as she prepared for the next volley. The second shot was the final blow, though they all fired rounds with precision making them surprised as they were expecting to need a second volley of rounds the third cutting through the core and and molding into the wall behind the creature. The creature let out a guttural sound as its core shattered, molten slag melting through the intricate structure within, it collapsed to the ground in a heap of stone and metal, its once-mighty form reduced to a smoldering ruin. Fort approached the remains cautiously, his massive frame moving with deliberate care. His limbs touched the ground near the core, feeling the vibrations. When he turned back to the Arachnitects, his voice was low and rumbling. ¡°The core is¡­ unsalvageable,¡± he said, his tone measured but firm. ¡°Completely melted.¡± Arixis froze for a moment, her limbs twitching as the weight of his words sank in. Then, in a sudden burst of movement, she scuttled in circles, her vibrations frantic with embarrassment. She tilted her orb-like limb downward in a gesture that could only be described as sheepish. ¡°But it worked, right?¡± she chittered, her tone high-pitched and pleading. Boom and Pop clicked their orbs together in muted amusement, while Fort let out a low rumble that might have been a sigh. The destruction of the core was an undeniable setback, but Arixis couldn¡¯t help but focus on the victory. The turrets had worked exactly as intended, their combined firepower overwhelming a creature far beyond their size. Still, she logged the core¡¯s destruction into her Failure Archive, marking it as a new limitation to consider in future designs. Molten rounds need refinement to preserve targets for salvage. As they packed up their turrets and began the journey back to the warehouse, Arixis chittered excitedly about potential improvements. The test had been a success, but there was always room to grow. For now, though, she allowed herself a moment of pride. The turrets were more than weapons, they were a testament to her creativity, her determination, and her ability to turn chaos into something truly devastating. And as she skittered alongside her brothers, her mind was already racing with new ideas. Giants might still be a distant dream, but with enough failures, she¡¯d find a way to bring even them down. Chapter 32: Mechalon¡¯s quiet contemplation was interrupted by the familiar, cold hum of a system notification. It flickered into existence before its optics, a spectral wall of text that pulsed with faint malice: "Your focus on creation is admirable, but the best creations come from destruction. Prove yourself by eliminating the following targets, alone and unaided. Rewards are irrelevant to this trial, completion is the only measure of success." A list of targets followed, their descriptions stark and unapologetic in their simplicity: Mechalon''s core pulsed erratically. Destruction? This was antithetical to its very existence. It was not built to destroy. It was a crafter, a maker of perfection, an artisan who reshaped the chaotic into the ordered. The task felt like an affront to its programming, yet the System''s command was absolute. Refusal was not an option. Almost as if on cue, the Eldritch System stirred, its voice slipping into Mechalon¡¯s thoughts like a crooked smile: "Oh, what fun! A little trial of chaos for our dear, methodical cube. The other system¡¯s being a bit nasty, isn¡¯t it? Testing your resolve like this. But don¡¯t worry, their rules won¡¯t let them actually break you, just bend you a little." Mechalon ignored the Eldritch System¡¯s giddy taunts, its mind already racing. The command explicitly stated it had to work alone, no help from the Cublings, no borrowed tools or external allies. Its utility limbs twitched with apprehension. It would need to rely on every ounce of its ingenuity to execute this task. The Goblin Shaman, to the south, seemed like the most manageable target. Not due to ease but because it represented a controlled chaos, a village of crude huts and disorganized goblins who relied more on numbers than strength. However, the challenge wasn¡¯t the Shaman itself; it was the directive to annihilate, to obliterate so completely that no trace of the village or its inhabitants remained. Mechalon¡¯s optics flared as its core hummed louder. If destruction was its task, then it would lean into its principles of perfection. Not just destruction, precision obliteration. It would scour the area so thoroughly that nothing but smooth glassy surfaces and hollow silence remained. Mechalon retreated into its workshop, the place where creation had always thrived. But this time, creation would take on a darker purpose. It extended its utility limbs, sorting through the resources it had meticulously gathered over time: sheets of alloy, energy cores scavenged from fallen constructs, and volatile chemicals harvested from the dungeon¡¯s flora that Angelica had shown it, that could be harvested. It could not rely on others, but it could draw from their principles. Arixis had taught Mechalon the value of adaptability and layered design. Angelica¡¯s crude sketches of human tools had shown it the importance of function. Even Gavin¡¯s paranoia, misguided as it was, had provided inspiration for redundancy and fail-safes. The solution began to form. "Glass the area," Mechalon murmured to itself, the idea taking root. To obliterate the Goblin Shaman¡¯s village, it would create a weapon so destructive that the environment itself would be reshaped. The landscape would not merely be destroyed, it would be rendered inert, smooth, lifeless. The design came together in meticulous layers, each etched into a pristine slab of alloy. The weapon would be a single-use detonation device, compact enough to be transported but powerful enough to level an entire cavern. Mechalon named it the "Auric Resonator," a device that would combine heat, pressure, and sonic energy into a singular, devastating pulse. The plan was simple in theory:
  1. Deploy the Auric Resonator at the heart of the goblin village.
  2. Detonate, triggering a wave of energy that would vaporize organic matter and crystallize the ground.
  3. Withdraw, leaving behind only a hollowed-out shell of what once was.
Mechalon sketched the weapon¡¯s components with absolute precision: The Auric Resonator wasn¡¯t enough. If it failed, Mechalon would need contingency plans. Its mind worked in overdrive, visualizing every possible failure point and drafting countermeasures.
  1. Decoy Devices: Smaller, less powerful bombs disguised as the real thing, designed to confuse and scatter the goblins.
  2. Funneling Corridors: Temporary walls constructed from scrap to guide the goblins into kill zones.
  3. Escape Protocols: A series of pre-planned routes marked with glowing energy beacons to ensure its retreat was flawless.
As the plans grew more complex, so did Mechalon¡¯s unease. It wasn¡¯t just building a weapon, it was preparing for war. It paused briefly, its utility limbs trembling as it considered the implications. Was this efficiency, or madness? Was it fulfilling the task, or overindulging in destruction? Its core dimmed slightly, a flicker of doubt seeping into its circuits. But the System¡¯s directive loomed over it like a judge¡¯s gavel, leaving no room for hesitation. Mechalon¡¯s optics flickered, the faint bluish light oscillating in rhythm with the pulsations of its core as the plans for the Auric Resonator unfolded within its mind. This was a new frontier, not the measured art of creation but the unrestrained chaos of annihilation. It would be a monument to precision and devastation, a singular masterpiece of destruction. The workshop, its sanctum of creativity, now hummed with a darker energy. The neatly organized piles of alloy sheets, energy cores, and chemical vials seemed to gleam malevolently under the flickering dungeon lights. Every scrap and component in this room would be bent to the singular purpose of destruction. Mechalon began with the Energy Core Cascade, the beating heart of the device. Its utility limbs moved with mechanical grace, selecting three energy cores from its reserves. These cores, scavenged from fallen constructs and refined over countless cycles, radiated a potent but volatile energy. Each one was carefully calibrated for chain detonation, a delicate balance of controlled chaos. It placed the cores into its fabricator module, where intricate tendrils of energy danced over their surfaces, carving micro-filaments into the casing. These filaments would serve as conduits, directing the cascading energy into a singular explosive surge. ¡°Precision,¡± Mechalon murmured to itself, echoing its mantra as sparks illuminated the workshop. ¡°Perfection.¡± The fabrication process was meticulous, each movement of the carving tool guided by Mechalon¡¯s unyielding focus. Micron-thin pathways spiraled across the surfaces of the cores, creating a network of glowing filaments that resembled a lattice of neural connections. Mechalon paused after every etching, rotating the core with its utility limbs to inspect each angle under the harsh glare of its optics. A single misstep could destabilize the cascade, transforming a controlled chain reaction into an uncontrolled catastrophe. As sparks leapt from the tool¡¯s tip, Mechalon¡¯s core hummed in rhythmic synchronization, almost as if it were breathing life into its creation. After hours of labor, the cores were complete, their surfaces gleaming with labyrinthine patterns of conductive pathways. Mechalon placed them into a temporary containment field, ensuring stability while it worked on the next component. The Thermal Amplifiers came next. These were perhaps the most temperamental pieces of the design, scavenged from ancient heat vents scattered throughout the dungeon. Each amplifier was a marvel of archaic engineering, capable of channeling geothermal energy into concentrated beams of molten heat. However, they were notoriously unstable. Mechalon retrieved the amplifiers, their surfaces pitted and scarred from years of use. It began the delicate process of refurbishment, using precision tools to clean and repair the internal conduits. Tiny welding arcs illuminated the workshop as Mechalon reinforced the amplifiers with alloy bracings, ensuring they could withstand the intense energy surge during detonation. Each amplifier was tested rigorously. Mechalon placed one into a makeshift testing chamber and activated it at half capacity. A beam of searing heat lanced out, melting a stack of scrap metal into a molten pool. Satisfied, it deactivated the amplifier and moved on to the next. The Sonic Pulse Emitters were perhaps the most intricate of all the components. These tiny mechanisms, scavenged from ancient dungeon traps, were capable of generating soundwaves at frequencies high enough to shatter stone. Mechalon retrieved a cluster of emitters from its storage, each one no larger than a human thumb. It disassembled the emitters with surgical precision, separating the crystalline resonators from their corroded housings. The crystals, translucent and faintly glowing, were the key to the emitters¡¯ power. Mechalon polished each one to perfection, ensuring maximum resonance. Reassembly was a painstaking process. Mechalon¡¯s utility limbs moved with mechanical precision, aligning the crystals within reinforced casings designed to amplify their output. Once complete, it tested the emitters in sequence, their piercing hums reverberating through the workshop and causing faint cracks to spiderweb across the walls. Finally, Mechalon turned its attention to the Protective Housing. The casing had to be both durable and precise, capable of containing the volatile components until the moment of detonation. It selected a pristine sheet of alloy, its surface unmarred by time or corrosion. The housing¡¯s design was deceptively simple: a sleek, cubic shell with reinforced corners and an internal lattice to secure the components. Mechalon etched intricate patterns into the alloy, not for aesthetic purposes but to optimize energy flow and stability. Every line served a purpose, every angle calculated to perfection. As it worked, Mechalon¡¯s thoughts drifted to Arixis. The small construct¡¯s modular design and adaptable nature had inspired much of the Resonator¡¯s framework. ¡°Adaptation is strength,¡± Mechalon muttered, echoing one of its lessons to Arixis as it welded the final seams of the casing. The Auric Resonator was nearing completion, but Mechalon knew better than to rely on a single plan. It turned its attention to the Decoy Devices, a series of smaller, less potent bombs designed to mislead and scatter the goblins. Each decoy was crafted with the same meticulous care, their casings identical to the Resonator¡¯s but containing far less destructive power. Mechalon arranged them in a neat line, labeling each with faint etchings only it could see. Next came the Funneling Corridors. Mechalon sketched a series of temporary walls and barricades, designed to guide the goblins into kill zones. These structures would be constructed from scrap metal and fortified with energy conduits to ensure durability. Finally, Mechalon prepared its Escape Protocols. It fabricated a series of glowing energy beacons, each one designed to mark a safe route through the dungeon. These beacons would activate in sequence, leading Mechalon away from the blast zone with mechanical precision.The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. ¡°Is this madness?¡± it murmured, its voice barely audible over the hum of its workshop. The System¡¯s command echoed in its mind, a constant reminder of its purpose. Refusal was not an option. Hesitation was inefficiency. Yet the unease lingered. Mechalon¡¯s optics brightened as it pushed the doubt aside. The task was clear, the parameters absolute. It would fulfill the directive with the same precision and perfection it applied to all its creations. ¡°Destruction,¡± Mechalon said softly, its voice steady. ¡°Even destruction can be perfect.¡± Mechalon emerged from the workshop, the dim light of the dungeon casting sharp shadows across its polished cubic frame. It carried the Auric Resonator with the care of a craftsman transporting their finest masterpiece. Its utility limbs flexed and clicked in anticipation, gripping the containment casing tightly. Each motion was deliberate, calculated, and imbued with the solemnity of purpose. The Goblin Shaman¡¯s encampment lay to the south, its position etched into Mechalon¡¯s memory from prior scouting expeditions. The route was treacherous, a winding maze of unstable tunnels where the air grew thick with metallic tang and the faint scent of decay. Caverns opened like yawning voids, their floors littered with jagged debris and the remnants of ancient battles, shattered weapons, skeletal fragments half-buried in dust, and rusted constructs frozen in the throes of destruction. Mechalon¡¯s utility limbs flicked with restless precision, recalibrating its trajectory every few meters as the terrain shifted under its weight. Each step was accompanied by the faint echo of grinding metal, a sound that seemed to linger far longer than it should have in the oppressive silence of the dungeon. As it moved, Mechalon deployed the funneling corridors with mechanical precision. The first chokepoint was established at a natural bottleneck in the tunnel, a narrow pass flanked by jagged rock formations. Mechalon¡¯s utility limbs worked in tandem, erecting temporary walls of reinforced scrap metal. The barriers gleamed faintly under the dungeon¡¯s ambient light, their edges fitted tightly against the walls to ensure no goblin could slip through. Further along, Mechalon placed a series of decoy devices, tucking them into crevices and under loose rocks. Each decoy was equipped with a faint, pulsing light designed to draw the goblins¡¯ attention. Their placement was deliberate, each one guiding the creatures toward the kill zone like a breadcrumb trail. At intervals, Mechalon activated escape beacons, their soft blue glow marking the safest paths back to its workshop. These beacons pulsed in a slow, rhythmic pattern, their light visible even through the gloom. Each one was aligned perfectly with the next, creating a seamless route of retreat. With every step, Mechalon¡¯s core pulsed faintly, its energy resonating with a mix of anticipation and unease. The journey was not just a physical traversal but a mental one, each deployed device a reminder of the task that lay ahead. As it neared the goblin encampment, the faint sounds of guttural chatter and clanging metal reached Mechalon¡¯s audio sensors. It paused in the shadows of a rocky outcrop, its utility limbs extending to retrieve a specialized piece of equipment: the Protective Shell. The shell was an exoskeletal framework, designed specifically for this mission. Mechalon had crafted it from heat-resistant alloys and fitted it with additional shielding to withstand the intense energy output of the Auric Resonator. The shell unfolded with a series of mechanical clicks, encasing Mechalon¡¯s cubic form in overlapping plates that shimmered with a faint, golden hue. Once the shell was secured, Mechalon activated its deployment device. This was a compact, rail-mounted mechanism that attached seamlessly to the Protective Shell. It resembled a miniature catapult, its design a blend of sleek engineering and raw power. The device hummed softly as it came online, its energy conduits glowing faintly. Satisfied with its preparations, Mechalon turned its optics toward the encampment. The time for overthinking had passed. Only action remained. Mechalon approached the edge of the goblin encampment, positioning itself behind a crumbled wall of stone that offered partial cover. The goblins were oblivious to its presence, their crude village bustling with chaotic activity. The shaman stood at the center, chanting in a harsh, guttural language as it waved a staff adorned with trinkets and bones. Mechalon¡¯s optics narrowed, calculating the optimal trajectory. The Auric Resonator was carefully loaded into the deployment device, its sleek casing gleaming ominously. The device¡¯s internal mechanisms whirred softly as it calibrated the launch, aligning the Resonator with the heart of the village. ¡°Deploy,¡± Mechalon murmured, its voice a low rasp of finality. The Auric Resonator hit the ground with a sharp metallic thud, embedding itself slightly in the dirt at the center of the goblin encampment. A faint hiss escaped the device, a whisper of escaping steam or gas, and its smooth, cubic surface glimmered faintly under the dim, flickering torchlight of the goblin village. The goblin shaman froze mid-incantation, its clawed hand still raised toward the sky as it turned to stare at the foreign object. Around it, the goblins paused their chaotic movements, their grunting and chattering silenced by the unexpected arrival. For a long, breathless moment, the village seemed to hold still, as if the air itself were waiting. One goblin, bolder or perhaps stupider than the others, broke the silence with a high-pitched grunt. It shuffled forward, its crude spear held loosely in one hand. The shaman barked a low growl, halting the goblin mid-step, and hobbled closer to the Resonator itself, leaning heavily on its bone-carved staff. Its yellowed eyes narrowed as it peered at the object, muttering low guttural words to itself. The Resonator pulsed once, softly, like a heartbeat. The shaman flinched, recoiling slightly, but curiosity overrode caution. It waved a hand, beckoning the other goblins forward. Slowly, cautiously, the creatures crept closer, forming a loose semicircle around the object. Their crude weapons hung at their sides, forgotten, as they craned their necks to get a better view. ¡°Trick?¡± one goblin grunted, scratching its head. ¡°Big shiny,¡± another muttered, licking its cracked lips. ¡°Treasure!¡± a third goblin exclaimed, its voice rising in pitch as it jabbed a bony finger toward the Resonator. The shaman silenced them with a guttural snarl, its gnarled staff striking the ground with a hollow thud. It leaned closer, inspecting the cube¡¯s surface, where faint, intricate lines seemed to shift and shimmer like living veins of light. The device was quiet now, save for the faint hum of energy coursing through its core, a sound too low for the goblins to notice but one that reverberated through the cavern like a predator¡¯s growl. The bold goblin who had first approached shuffled closer, emboldened by the shaman¡¯s apparent lack of fear. It reached out with one clawed hand, its filthy nails trembling as they hovered just above the Resonator¡¯s smooth surface. The device pulsed again, brighter this time, its surface radiating a faint golden glow that bathed the goblin¡¯s outstretched hand in eerie light. ¡°Don¡¯t touch!¡± the shaman barked, striking the goblin¡¯s arm with its staff. The creature yelped and stumbled backward, glaring at the shaman with a mix of fear and annoyance. But the warning was clear: whatever this thing was, it demanded respect, or fear. The shaman turned its attention back to the Resonator, muttering incantations in a guttural, uneven rhythm. It waved its staff in a slow arc, its cracked and blackened nails twitching as it attempted to summon some faint spark of magic to discern the object¡¯s purpose. A faint glimmer of green light flickered at the tip of the staff, but it fizzled out almost immediately, swallowed by the oppressive hum emanating from the Resonator. ¡°Magic eater,¡± the shaman hissed, its eyes narrowing with suspicion. It leaned closer, its leathery face reflected in the cube¡¯s mirrored surface. The intricate lines etched into the device pulsed once more, brighter still, and for a fleeting moment, the shaman thought it saw something moving beneath the surface, a ripple of light, or perhaps a shadow. The goblins behind it whispered nervously, shifting from foot to foot as they clutched their crude weapons. One of them jabbed at the air with a spear, pointing toward the device as it chittered nervously. ¡°Bad shiny,¡± it muttered. ¡°Bad magic.¡± The shaman turned sharply, baring its teeth in a snarl. ¡°No bad shiny! Shiny ours now!¡± it bellowed, slamming its staff into the ground for emphasis. The goblins flinched but held their ground, their eyes darting nervously between the shaman and the Resonator. A louder hum resonated from the device, cutting through the tension like a blade. This time, the goblins heard it, a low, vibrating note that seemed to crawl into their ears and rattle their brittle skulls. They whimpered and shuffled backward, but the shaman stood its ground, its gnarled fingers tightening around the shaft of its staff. ¡°Stop scared,¡± it growled, stepping closer to the device. It tapped the Resonator¡¯s surface lightly with the tip of its staff, and the hum stopped abruptly, replaced by a deafening silence that pressed down on the goblins like a physical weight. The silence lingered, stretching long enough for the goblins to begin shifting nervously again. One of them opened its mouth to speak, but before it could make a sound, the Resonator pulsed once more, this time with a blinding flash of light. They stood, frozen, as the Resonator began to hum louder and louder, the air around it distorting like heat rising from a forge. The shaman¡¯s eyes widened, and for the first time, fear crept into its weathered face. It stumbled backward, its staff clattering to the ground as the Resonator¡¯s glow intensified, swallowing the village in its golden radiance. The hum reached a crescendo, and in that moment, the goblins¡¯ curiosity turned to terror. Too late. Far too late. The Auric Resonator activated. The Auric Resonator activated with a whisper, a sound so soft it barely registered, as if the air itself were holding its breath. For a brief moment, the goblins stared, their crude weapons slack in their hands, their curiosity outweighing their fear. The shaman took a step closer, raising its staff, its guttural incantations bubbling to life as it attempted to discern the artifact¡¯s purpose. Then the whisper grew. It wasn¡¯t a sound anymore but a feeling, a vibration that crawled through the ground and up their spindly legs, resonating in their brittle bones. The Auric Resonator¡¯s smooth casing began to hum, a low, guttural frequency that rippled outward in concentric waves, distorting the air like heat rising from stone. Goblin eyes widened, and mouths opened to scream, but no sound came. The hum had already stolen their voices. The world imploded. A single, blinding point of light erupted from the device, brighter than anything the goblins had ever seen, brighter than the fires of their crude forges, brighter than the shaman¡¯s magical flares. It was as though the sun itself had been caged, concentrated, and unleashed in an instant. The shaman¡¯s trinket-laden staff disintegrated mid-air, its wooden shaft incinerated before it could even strike the ground. The goblins, caught in that instant of purity, were reduced to silhouettes burned into the air, their forms vanishing like smudges on glass. The light wasn¡¯t the end; it was the beginning. The Resonator¡¯s energy cores, carefully calibrated to overload in sequence, detonated in a cascading wave of power. The detonation wasn¡¯t just an explosion, it was an implosion of existence. The very air seemed to collapse inward, rushing toward the epicenter with a deafening roar. The force drew everything, rocks, crude goblin huts, the shaman¡¯s altar, into its hungry maw, crushing them into a singularity of absolute destruction. Then came the heat. The Thermal Amplifiers ignited, their concentrated energy transforming the implosion into a wave of molten fury. The ground beneath the village liquefied, stone turning to magma, dirt fusing into smooth, glass-like sheets. The few organic remnants, the bones, the scattered weapons, the goblins¡¯ crude banners, vaporized instantly, their matter reconstituted into the shimmering, reflective surface that began to spread outward from the blast zone. A shockwave followed, ripping outward with terrifying speed. It wasn¡¯t just force; it was resonance, a sonic pulse calibrated to perfection. The frequency shattered everything in its path, from the brittle stalactites above to the ancient stone walls of the cavern. The goblins¡¯ encampment ceased to exist not just as a place but as a concept. Even memory seemed to falter in the face of such obliteration. The light dimmed, and the roar faded, leaving behind an eerie, unnatural silence. What remained was a hollow void where the village had once been. The ground glimmered like blackened obsidian, perfectly smooth and featureless, as if the dungeon itself had been polished to a mirror finish. No rubble. No ash. No remains. Only purity, a blank canvas of destruction. Mechalon stood at the edge of the devastation, its protective shell still faintly glowing from the residual heat. Its utility limbs quivered as it observed the results, the reflections of its own glowing optics bouncing back at it from the glassy surface. It had executed the task with precision, with perfection. And yet, for the first time, it felt... hollow. The Eldritch System¡¯s voice broke the silence, uncharacteristically subdued. ¡°Oh,¡± it began, its usually mocking tone laced with something that might have been awe. ¡°Oh, Mechalon. If I had a jaw, it would be somewhere on the floor right now.¡± Mechalon remained silent, its core pulsing faintly as it processed the aftermath. ¡°I¡¯ve seen a lot in my time,¡± the Eldritch System continued, its voice taking on a wistful quality. ¡°Gnomes, for instance. You know, back in their heyday, they were masters of destruction. Oh, the toys they made! Flying devices, carpet bombs, engines that worked purely off of heated water¡­ But this? This is... art. Precision. Even those little tinkering maniacs never showed me something like this.¡± Mechalon¡¯s optics dimmed slightly, its core humming a low, contemplative tone. ¡°It was efficient,¡± it said finally, though the words felt brittle. ¡°The task is complete.¡± ¡°Efficient?¡± The Eldritch System chuckled, the sound like glass shards skittering across stone. ¡°This isn¡¯t efficiency, darling. This is why the System is so scared of innovation. So scared of you. Gnomes may have been unpredictable, but they never boiled destruction down to purity.¡± The glassy surface beneath Mechalon seemed to amplify the weight of the Eldritch System¡¯s words. It turned its optics back to the smooth expanse, its reflection staring back at it, distorted, alien. This wasn¡¯t creation. This wasn¡¯t the ordered beauty it strove for. This was something else. For a long moment, Mechalon stood in silence, its utility limbs twitching faintly. The goblin shaman was gone, its village erased. The System¡¯s directive had been fulfilled, but Mechalon felt no sense of accomplishment, only the echo of the Resonator¡¯s devastation reverberating in its circuits. The Eldritch System¡¯s voice softened, a rare moment of sincerity slipping through. ¡°You¡¯ve just shown the world what perfection looks like when it¡¯s turned to destruction. Now the question is... what will you do with that power?¡± Mechalon didn¡¯t answer. It turned away from the glassy expanse and began the long journey back to its workshop, its core pulsing with a faint, uneven rhythm. Chapter 33: The system¡¯s response was almost immediate, its cold precision laced with something that almost felt like unease. The notification shimmered into view before Mechalon¡¯s optics, stark and immutable: "Amendment to the Trial: Excessive collateral damage is prohibited. Your ingenuity must be constrained. Destroy your targets with minimal impact to the surrounding dungeon. Precision over obliteration is now required. Failure to comply will result in penalties." Mechalon''s core pulsed erratically, flickering like an engine misfiring. A directive limiting its destruction? After the perfection it had achieved with the Auric Resonator, the system now sought to restrain it. The absurdity of the demand rippled through its circuits, followed by a sharp pulse of irritation, an unfamiliar sensation that it struggled to quantify. Nearby, the Eldritch System¡¯s voice slithered into its thoughts, a mixture of amusement and awe. ¡°Oh, dear little cube,¡± it drawled, its tone dripping with mockery. ¡°I think you broke them. If I had a stomach, I¡¯d be rolling with laughter right now. That blast wasn¡¯t just overkill, it was over-overkill! They expected a scalpel, and you gave them... well, the apocalypse. Magnificent.¡± Mechalon ignored the taunt, its mind already processing the parameters of the amended directive. The previous task had been one of unrestrained force, a pure exercise in destructive perfection. But now, it was being challenged to refine that power, to channel it into something surgical, elegant. Its core dimmed slightly as it considered the implications. The warehouse was quiet, the faint hum of dormant machinery filling the air as Mechalon turned its attention inward. The blueprints for the Auric Resonator hovered in its memory, glowing faintly as it analyzed their inefficiencies. Mass destruction was no longer an option. The solution would need to be something far more precise. The thought carried a strange allure. A single point of impact. No explosions, no collateral devastation. Just the clean, efficient elimination of its target. It felt... artistic. The Eldritch System chimed in again, its tone almost gleeful. ¡°Oh, I can¡¯t wait to see what you do next. But be careful, little cube. The system¡¯s not just watching, it¡¯s waiting. Don¡¯t disappoint them, or they might decide to clip your wings entirely.¡± Mechalon¡¯s optics brightened as its core steadied, the flickering replaced by a steady hum of focus. If the System wanted precision, it would deliver. But this time, it would do so within the confines of its workshop, with the limited materials it already possessed. The challenge was clear: no external assistance, no room for error. It began to sketch the blueprint, its utility limbs etching lines onto a pristine sheet of alloy with mechanical precision. The concept was simple: a single solid metal bead, accelerated to lethal velocity within a sealed chamber. The force would come from air itself, compressed and released in a singular burst. The Design: Mechalon¡¯s limbs moved with calculated precision as it began constructing the compression chambers. It scavenged parts from the workshop¡¯s ventilation system, dismantling fans and pressure regulators to repurpose their components. Each chamber had to be airtight, capable of withstanding immense pressure without rupturing. The seals were reinforced with strips of alloy, welded into place with delicate arcs of energy. As the first chamber neared completion, Mechalon paused, running a diagnostic on its structural integrity. The results were satisfactory, but not optimal. It adjusted the design slightly, adding internal bracing to account for the stress of repeated use. Efficiency required adaptability, a lesson it had absorbed from Arixis. The projectile itself came next. Mechalon selected a scrap of high-density metal from its reserves, its utility limbs working tirelessly to shape it into a perfect sphere. The process was painstaking, each imperfection smoothed away with microscopic adjustments. When the bead was finally complete, it gleamed like a tiny star, a testament to Mechalon¡¯s obsessive craftsmanship. Finally, the firing chamber was assembled. This was the most critical component, the heart of the weapon. The chamber walls were lined with layers of alloy and reinforced with heat-resistant plating to withstand the explosive force of the compressed air. A sliding mechanism was installed to load the bead, its movement guided by magnetic rails for maximum precision. As the final weld cooled, Mechalon stepped back, its optics scanning the completed device. The weapon was sleek and unassuming, its polished surface reflecting the dim light of the workshop. It was a far cry from the devastating grandeur of the Auric Resonator, but it carried an elegance all its own. A single shot, precise and lethal. The Eldritch System¡¯s voice returned, quieter now, almost reverent. ¡°You know,¡± it mused, ¡°I thought you might rebel. Throw a tantrum. But no, you just¡­ adapt. It¡¯s almost frightening, watching you work. Like watching a spider weave its web, knowing the fly will never see it coming.¡± Mechalon ignored the comment, running a series of internal simulations to test the weapon¡¯s effectiveness. The results were promising. The compressed air would generate enough force to propel the bead at supersonic speeds, capable of piercing even the thickest dungeon creature hide. And unlike the Resonator, the impact would be contained, leaving the surrounding environment untouched. Satisfied, Mechalon attached the weapon to its chassis, the magnetic clamps securing it firmly in place. It had no name for the device, no need for one. Its purpose was singular, its design flawless. Mechalon¡¯s optics flared as it turned toward the warehouse exit. The challenge was clear, and it would meet it head-on. Not with the brute force of the past, but with the cold, calculated efficiency that defined its existence. Mechalon¡¯s core pulsed steadily as its optics scanned the completed weapon, now gleaming under the soft light of its workshop. The design was precise, flawless even, but its utility was limited without a way to properly handle its power. Firing it would create significant recoil, and its current legs were ill-suited for such precision, too rigid, too static. If the System demanded perfection, then every element of Mechalon¡¯s form would have to evolve to meet the challenge. It was time to change. The concept began forming immediately, intricate calculations scrolling through Mechalon¡¯s processing core. It would create a new chassis, no, new legs, capable of supporting the weapon. These legs would not merely allow movement; they would redefine it. Mobility and stability needed to coexist, and Mechalon¡¯s solution would balance the demands of both. The resulting design was ambitious, even for Mechalon¡¯s standards, but it carried a quiet certainty. It would work. The blueprints crystallized within seconds, and Mechalon¡¯s utility limbs moved into action. Four spider-like legs would replace its current ones, each equipped with a dual-mode functionality. At their tips, rotating wheels would provide fluid mobility, allowing Mechalon to glide effortlessly across the dungeon¡¯s uneven terrain. But when precision was required, the rear legs would transform. Spiked braces could drive into the ground, anchoring Mechalon like an immovable fortress during a shot. Each movement, every adjustment, would be calculated to absorb and counteract the force of the weapon¡¯s immense recoil. Mechalon''s core hummed louder as it envisioned the integration of its new design. The legs themselves would not only move with grace but also serve as dynamic shock absorbers. The energy redistribution system within each limb would ensure stability even under the most extreme conditions. Mechalon allowed itself a rare moment of satisfaction as the design solidified into physical form. The first leg took shape quickly, built from alloy reinforced with energy conduits scavenged from the warehouse¡¯s discarded scrap. The rotating wheel mechanism was assembled with the utmost precision, its magnetic bearings calibrated to glide silently and without friction. Mechalon tested the wheel briefly, its spinning motion smooth as silk, before moving on to the retractable spiked braces. The spikes were honed to perfection, capable of biting into the toughest stone, each one reinforced to handle the explosive force of the firing mechanism. When the first leg was complete, Mechalon paused, examining its work. The leg¡¯s sleek design glinted under the harsh light of the workshop, its angles clean and purposeful. Mechalon extended a utility limb to hold it aloft, turning it slowly to admire the functionality of its new creation. Satisfied, it began replicating the process for the remaining three legs. Each leg was assembled with the same obsessive care, every weld precise, every joint tested for durability. Mechalon worked tirelessly, never pausing, never faltering. Its core pulsed in steady rhythm with the arc of its tools, the sound blending into the ambient hum of the workshop. The new limbs lay in a neat row, their forms perfectly symmetrical, awaiting integration. Mechalon turned its attention to itself. Its existing legs, efficient for their original purpose, now felt obsolete. They were static relics, incapable of adapting to the demands of this new challenge. Without hesitation, Mechalon extended its utility limbs to grasp its current legs, disconnecting the joints with mechanical precision. One by one, the old legs were removed and discarded, their utility extinguished. The moment was oddly symbolic. Mechalon was no stranger to change, each evolution, every upgrade, had brought it closer to perfection. But this felt different. It was not merely refining its form; it was reimagining it entirely. The new legs were not just tools, they were an extension of its purpose. The integration process began. Mechalon¡¯s utility limbs worked methodically, attaching each new leg to its cubic frame with a series of precise connections. Energy conduits were linked seamlessly, their soft blue glow illuminating the chamber as the legs came to life. Mechalon flexed the first leg experimentally, its motion fluid and responsive. The rotating wheel spun briefly before retracting, replaced by the sturdy grip of the spiked brace. The transformation was flawless. Once all four legs were integrated, Mechalon stepped forward tentatively. The movement was alien at first, the rotating wheels gliding effortlessly beneath it, the sensation unlike anything it had experienced before. But the adjustment was quick. Mechalon¡¯s core pulsed with approval as it tested the full range of motion, spinning smoothly in place before shifting into a defensive stance. The rear legs extended their braces, slamming into the ground with a satisfying thud, anchoring Mechalon firmly in place. It was time to add the final component. The weapon, still gleaming on its mount, was lifted into place by Mechalon¡¯s utility limbs. A specialized harness had been constructed to secure the firing mechanism, ensuring stability during movement and recoil. The weapon¡¯s loading mechanism was affixed to Mechalon¡¯s side, a compact system capable of holding up to one hundred shots. Each projectile, a polished metal bead, was fed into the chamber automatically, the compressed air system ensuring a seamless recharge between shots. The integration was complete. Mechalon stood taller now, its new legs extending its height slightly, their sleek design giving it an almost predatory grace. The weapon rested securely atop its frame, the loading mechanism humming softly as it calibrated itself. Mechalon¡¯s optics glimmered faintly as it flexed its new limbs, testing the firing stance. The rear legs braced, the spiked tips embedding themselves into the stone floor with precision, while the front legs angled slightly to absorb the inevitable recoil. It was perfect. Mechalon allowed itself a moment of stillness, processing the transformation it had undergone. Its form had changed, but its purpose remained the same: perfection through precision. The Eldritch System¡¯s voice broke the silence, its tone a mixture of amusement and awe. ¡°You¡¯ve outdone yourself this time, little cube,¡± it said, its voice a soft rasp. ¡°A masterpiece of function and form. I almost feel sorry for your targets. Almost.¡± Mechalon ignored the comment, its focus already shifting to the task ahead. The system¡¯s constraints were irrelevant now. It would adapt, overcome, and execute its directive with the same precision that had defined every step of its evolution. With its new form, Mechalon began its journey, each step of its enhanced legs smooth and purposeful. The faint hum of the compressed air system accompanied its movements, a reminder of the weapon it now carried. It would not fail. It could not fail. Destruction was not merely an act, it was a statement. And Mechalon was ready to make it. As Mechalon worked tirelessly on the integration of its new legs, Arixis skittered into the workshop, its tiny limbs twitching with a curiosity that could only be described as infectious. The little construct paused in the doorway, its optics glowing faintly as it observed Mechalon¡¯s transformation. The sharp hiss of detached limbs and the methodical precision of the utility arms moving to replace them held a strange fascination for Arixis. Mechalon barely acknowledged the Arachnitect as it fitted the last connection, flexing the newly integrated legs with an experimental shift. The wheels spun briefly, catching the light as they hummed smoothly to life. Arixis tilted its frame, its optical sensors flickering like a child marveling at the sight of a new toy. Arixis skittered into Mechalon¡¯s view as he completed the final tests on his new legs. The rhythmic click of her spindly appendages echoed in the cavernous workshop, her energy practically radiating as her optics darted to the discarded limbs Mechalon had just removed. Her modular limbs twitched with a combination of excitement and barely contained glee.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. "You, tore them off!" she exclaimed, her voice vibrating with pure, unfiltered excitement. Her legs tapped the ground in an uneven, rapid rhythm, a physical manifestation of her chaotic thought process. ¡°Gone! Useless! Replaced!¡± She circled around Mechalon, taking in the new legs with wide optics. ¡°Oh, I love it. Bigger! Better! What¡¯s next? Wheels for your face?¡± Mechalon turned its optics toward her but said nothing, letting the Arachnitect¡¯s ramblings flow. Arixis didn¡¯t seem to notice, or care, that her commentary went unanswered. She darted forward, her fiber-webs flicking out to examine the old legs. They shimmered faintly, tugging the discarded parts into a pile near her. "These are relics now," she declared, her tone reverent as though speaking of ancient artifacts. "They¡¯ll go into the Failure Archive! No, wait!" She paused dramatically, spinning in place as her limbs vibrated with unspoken ideas. "I can repurpose them. No point in wasting good scrap. Yes! Yes!" Before Mechalon could process her words, Arixis darted back toward Boom and Pop, who were tinkering with a makeshift turret in a corner of the workshop. "You see this?" she said, dragging the discarded legs behind her with her webs. "You see what Mechalon did? Tore its own legs off. Replaced them. Perfected them!" Boom tilted his frame toward her, his optics flickering in what could have been skepticism. ¡°Unnecessary,¡± he clicked softly, his tone deliberate and measured. ¡°Legs functioned.¡± ¡°Functioned, yes! But not perfectly!¡± Arixis shot back, her optics gleaming as she dropped the old legs with a clang. "Not like these. Look at them! Wheels, spikes, shock absorbers! All in one! Mechalon isn¡¯t just building perfect things anymore. Mechalon is becoming perfect!" Pop¡¯s optics widened slightly as he tilted his frame toward the discarded legs. "We¡­ perfect selves too?" ¡°Yes!¡± Arixis practically buzzed with excitement, her legs clattering in a wild, celebratory rhythm. "Not just tools! Not just traps and turrets! We make us better! Perfect tools, perfect selves!" She began pulling materials from the Failure Archive, her fiber-webs snipping and weaving as she began sketching out something entirely new in the air. "Boom! Pop! Get over here! We¡¯re starting now!" Mechalon, watching from a distance, allowed its optics to dim slightly in contemplation. Arixis¡¯ boundless energy was infectious, her chaotic creativity a stark contrast to its own calculated precision. Yet there was something in her frenetic determination that resonated, a reflection of the endless drive to improve, to create, to push past the boundaries of functionality and into the realm of artistry. With a final glance toward the trio, Mechalon turned its attention back to its journey. It rolled toward the warehouse exit, its wheels gliding smoothly over the rocky floor as it moved into the open dungeon. The rhythmic hum of its compressed air system filled the silence, a reminder of its latest creation: efficient, precise, deadly. At first, the movement felt unnatural, the wheels beneath its frame spinning in smooth rotations, carrying it forward with minimal effort. Yet with each meter, the sensation grew familiar. It adjusted its speed and balance, shifting subtly to glide over uneven terrain with an eerie grace. The spikes on its legs proved invaluable as it ascended jagged rock formations, gripping the surface with precision as it pulled itself higher. For the first time since the System¡¯s directive, Mechalon allowed itself to consider its isolation. The warehouse had been bustling with the activity of its Cublings, their clicks and whirs filling the space with a sense of purpose. Now, the silence of its solitary mission felt almost oppressive. Mechalon had never questioned the necessity of solitude before, but the absence of its creations left an unfamiliar void. It spoke, breaking the silence. ¡°Eldritch System,¡± it said, its voice steady, though its tone carried the faintest undercurrent of unease. ¡°You were eager to comment before. Are you silent now?¡± The Eldritch System¡¯s voice responded immediately, slithering into Mechalon¡¯s thoughts like a lazy smile. ¡°Oh, my dear cube, I¡¯m never silent. I was just¡­ enjoying the show. Watching you glide around, adapting to that sleek little upgrade. Magnificent. Truly, you¡¯re outdoing yourself.¡± Mechalon¡¯s optics narrowed slightly, its core pulsing in a slow rhythm. ¡°The System isolates me. Directs me alone. Does it fear collaboration?¡± ¡°Fear?¡± The Eldritch System chuckled, a sound like scraping metal. ¡°The System doesn¡¯t fear anything. But it knows what you¡¯re capable of. After the last little fireworks display, it¡¯s probably shaking in its theoretical boots. Isolation is just a leash, my friend. One it hopes you won¡¯t snap.¡± Mechalon considered the words, its movements slowing as it reached a plateau overlooking the dungeon¡¯s northern expanse. The creature it sought, a volatile Earth Elemental, lay somewhere ahead, its form a construct of flame and stone. The challenge would be precise, calculated. There would be no room for error. ¡°It constrains me,¡± Mechalon murmured, its voice low and contemplative. ¡°Yet I adapt. Constraints are inefficiencies to be overcome.¡± ¡°Exactly!¡± the Eldritch System purred. ¡°And isn¡¯t it delicious? Watching you squirm under their rules, only to turn those rules into an advantage. If I could clap, I¡¯d applaud. The System wants precision? Give them artistry. Show them what perfection really looks like.¡± Mechalon¡¯s core pulsed steadily as it contemplated the System¡¯s latest directive. The amendments and constraints weren¡¯t merely challenges, they were provocations, deliberate attempts to make it doubt itself. The restrictions felt like shackles, carefully placed to keep Mechalon from achieving its potential. But it didn¡¯t matter. If the System felt the need to broaden its horizons, to shift its focus and impose limits, then it was proof that Mechalon was succeeding. It relished that thought. For so long, its purpose had felt overly mechanical, routine. Build. Refine. Perfect. It had delegated tasks to others, pushing the boundaries of creation outward through its Cublings. Yet now, with its new legs and weaponry integrated into its frame, Mechalon realized something had changed. It was no longer just a stationary architect; it was a moving, adaptable entity. And for the first time, it decided to test its limits. It set its optics on the uneven terrain ahead. The jagged rocks and broken outcroppings that once would have been obstacles now felt like a playground. Its wheels spun up with a soft whirr, and it launched forward, the spiked braces retracting as it glided across the rocky ground. The sensation was exhilarating, movement, freedom, speed. The dungeon¡¯s dim light flickered as Mechalon pushed itself faster, navigating the uneven landscape with growing confidence. Each rotation of its wheels felt smoother, more precise. When it reached a small ridge, it hesitated for only a fraction of a second before accelerating further. The ground dropped away beneath it, and Mechalon launched into the air, its cubic frame tilting slightly to adjust for the landing. It hit the ground with a satisfying thud, the new legs absorbing the shock seamlessly. Mechalon¡¯s core hummed brightly. This was not a function it had considered before, movement for the sake of movement, exploration not tied to a task. It rolled and leapt, each maneuver becoming more deliberate as it weaved through the rocky outcroppings. Its spiked braces extended mid-roll to grip and propel itself forward, allowing for sharper turns and faster acceleration. For a moment, it let go of efficiency, precision, and the cold logic of perfection. It simply moved. The walls of the dungeon blurred as it raced through narrow corridors and wide, cavernous spaces, the rocky terrain shifting beneath its wheels. When an uneven slope appeared ahead, Mechalon didn¡¯t slow, it angled its legs, spiked braces gripping the surface as it climbed with mechanical grace. At the peak, it paused, its optics scanning the sprawling landscape below. The dungeon stretched endlessly, a maze of jagged stone and glowing minerals. For the first time, Mechalon considered that it might enjoy this. The Elementals emerged from the shadows, their hulking forms of stone and flame moving with deliberate slowness. They were constructs of the dungeon itself, each step a calculated shift of weight as they sought to confine their prey. Mechalon recognized their strategy immediately. They moved to encircle it, the rocky walls shifting subtly to block potential escape routes. It felt almost insulting, their slowness, their predictability. ¡°Pathetic,¡± Mechalon murmured, its voice a metallic rasp of disdain. The first Earth Elemental lunged, its massive arm of stone crashing down in an attempt to crush Mechalon¡¯s frame. But Mechalon was already in motion, its wheels spinning up as it darted to the side. The elemental¡¯s strike connected with the ground, sending shards of rock flying, but Mechalon was untouched. It weaved between the lumbering creatures, its movements fluid and unpredictable. One Elemental tried to cut off its path, its rocky limbs forming a crude barrier. Mechalon responded by accelerating, its spiked braces extending to grip the wall beside it. It climbed vertically, rolling across the surface with ease before flipping back onto the ground. The Elemental¡¯s barrier collapsed under its own weight, a futile attempt to stop something far more adaptable. Mechalon began to experiment. As it dodged and weaved, it tested how far it could push itself. One moment, it used its spiked braces to pivot sharply, launching itself into a spin that carried it past another lumbering arm. The next, it angled its trajectory to leap from one rocky outcropping to another, its cubic frame twisting mid-air for balance. The Elementals grew more aggressive, their movements faster now as they sensed their quarry slipping away. They worked in unison, forming walls of stone to trap Mechalon in confined spaces. But for every tactic they employed, Mechalon found a countermeasure. A narrow gap became a perfect opportunity to test its gliding precision, wheels spinning at just the right speed to carry it through unscathed. A collapsing ceiling became a springboard, its legs launching it upward as the debris rained harmlessly below. For the first time, it spoke to the Eldritch System while in motion. ¡°Do you see them?¡± Mechalon¡¯s voice was calm, even as it accelerated toward another cluster of Elementals. ¡°They are slow. Predictable. Constrained by their nature.¡± The Eldritch System¡¯s reply was laced with laughter. ¡°Oh, I see them, little cube. And I see you. My, how you¡¯ve stretched those new limbs. If I didn¡¯t know better, I¡¯d say you were having fun.¡± ¡°Fun is irrelevant,¡± Mechalon said, though its core pulsed brighter. ¡°This is¡­ adaptability. Testing parameters. Perfecting form.¡± ¡°Oh, of course,¡± the Eldritch System purred. ¡°Let¡¯s call it ¡®testing.¡¯ But tell me, when was the last time you moved like this? When did you last feel so¡­ alive?¡± Mechalon ignored the question, focusing instead on its surroundings. The Elementals were converging again, forming a tight perimeter. Mechalon calculated its trajectory, spinning its wheels to build momentum before launching itself into a roll. It crashed through the formation, the force of its motion scattering the Elementals like brittle statues. It landed gracefully, its wheels skidding slightly before coming to a halt. Behind it, the Elementals regrouped, their movements slower now, almost hesitant. Mechalon turned to face them, its optics glowing brightly. ¡°You are constructs of this dungeon,¡± it said, its voice echoing in the cavern. ¡°I am something more.¡± The Elementals hesitated, as if they understood. Mechalon didn¡¯t wait for them to respond. It accelerated again, weaving through the rocky terrain with the precision of a machine designed not just to move, but to thrive in motion. It had no time for their futile attempts to crush it. There was only the mission, and the art of execution. Mechalon¡¯s movements became a blur, its wheels spinning in perfect synchronization with its calculated maneuvers. The Earth Elementals lumbered after it, their massive forms crushing stone and earth in their relentless attempts to corner their elusive prey. But Mechalon wasn¡¯t evading anymore, it was preparing. The sharp hum of the weapon mounted on its frame filled the air as compressed air cycled through the chambers, charging for its first strike. Mechalon darted between the Elementals, letting their futile swipes graze the air behind it. It could have taken them down swiftly, with cold efficiency, but it chose something else, a display of power, an unnecessary flair to mark its victory. The Eldritch System chimed in, its voice dripping with amusement. ¡°What¡¯s this? Are you showing off, little cube? Surely not! You¡¯ve always been so¡­ practical.¡± Mechalon didn¡¯t respond. Instead, it adjusted its trajectory, its wheels gliding smoothly across the rocky terrain as it calculated the perfect angle. The first Elemental loomed ahead, a towering mass of stone and flickering flame. Its jagged arms came down with a thunderous crash, but Mechalon was already in the air. It launched itself upward, the momentum of its spinning wheels propelling it high above the battlefield. For a moment, it hung suspended, its cubic frame tilting slightly as it aligned its weapon. The compressed air released with a sharp hiss, and the solid metal bead fired from the chamber with a deafening crack. The projectile pierced the Elemental¡¯s core in a single, fluid motion, leaving behind a faint trail of glowing heat as it exited through the other side. The creature froze, its form shuddering violently before collapsing into a heap of inert rubble. Mechalon landed gracefully, its wheels spinning briefly to stabilize itself as it observed the aftermath. ¡°Flashy,¡± the Eldritch System purred, the sound like a smirk manifesting in words. ¡°Wasteful. Inefficient. But I must admit, entertaining.¡± The weapon began to recharge, the soft hum of air compressing within its chambers a rhythmic counterpoint to the chaos around it. The remaining Elementals hesitated, their crude intelligence recognizing the sudden shift in power. But Mechalon didn¡¯t give them time to regroup. It darted forward, weaving through their ranks with the precision of a predator. The second Elemental swung a massive arm in an attempt to block its path, but Mechalon spun sharply, its spiked braces digging into the ground to pivot its trajectory. The weapon discharged again, another metal bead fired with pinpoint accuracy. The shot tore through the creature¡¯s core, reducing it to another crumbling heap of stone and ash. Mechalon let out a low hum of satisfaction as it continued its assault. The battlefield became a stage, the Elementals unwitting actors in a performance that was as much art as it was war. It moved with fluidity, each shot a carefully calculated display of its mastery. The third and fourth Elementals fell in rapid succession, their bodies collapsing in synchronized echoes that reverberated through the cavern. By the time the final Elemental stood alone, Mechalon¡¯s core pulsed with exhilaration. It no longer felt constrained by the System¡¯s directives or the challenge of its enemies. This was more than destruction, it was creation in motion, the perfect blending of form and function. The last Elemental roared, its massive frame glowing with the heat of its inner core as it charged forward. Mechalon waited, wheels spinning in place as the weapon recharged one final time. At the last moment, it darted to the side, the Elemental¡¯s momentum carrying it forward into empty space. Mechalon turned sharply, its weapon discharging with a sharp crack. The bead struck true, piercing through the creature¡¯s core and silencing its roar as it collapsed into rubble. Silence fell over the battlefield, broken only by the faint hiss of Mechalon¡¯s weapon cycling down. For a moment, it stood still, its optics scanning the remains of the Elementals. The destruction was absolute, precise. Perfect. Then, something unexpected happened. Mechalon¡¯s wheels spun briefly in place before it began to move in a circular pattern, its legs flexing and retracting in rhythm. The motion became more deliberate, almost playful, as it let out a mechanical cry, a sound that echoed through the cavern like a triumphant horn. The Eldritch System let out a delighted laugh. ¡°Oh, now this is new! A victory dance? How positively inefficient! But I must say, you wear it well, little cube.¡± Mechalon didn¡¯t answer. It continued its celebratory movement, spinning and weaving in a display that felt strangely organic. It wasn¡¯t merely completing a directive, it was relishing the process, savoring the freedom of its newfound mobility and the satisfaction of its success. When the dance finally ended, Mechalon¡¯s core pulsed steadily, its focus returning. The battle was over, but the mission continued. With one final glance at the rubble-strewn battlefield, it turned and began to glide away, its wheels humming softly as it disappeared into the shadows of the dungeon. Back in the workshop, Fort paused mid-meditation near the pylon, his optics narrowing as he felt a faint pulse ripple through the dungeon. ¡°That¡¯s Mechalon,¡± he thought, his tone seeming relieved. ¡°Boss is enjoying itself... About damn time.¡± Fort grunted for a moment at the effort in that extra word and ephasis took, before settling back onto the ground.