Chapter 9

  Ethan scowled as he examined the small, crude speaker-like device in his hands. It wasn’t pretty—just a cobbled-together mess of gears, tubing, and a repurposed part from a failed mana battery prototype—but if it worked, it would let him speak to any adventurers who might come knocking.

  Not that he adventurers knocking.

  “This is a terrible idea,” he muttered, adjusting the delicate wiring.

  “Oh, absolutely,” Chip chirped. “But given that your home-slash-laboratory is now a public attraction, communication might help prevent unnecessary dismantling.”

  Ethan huffed but didn’t argue. The fact that people were already sniffing around dungeon put him in a foul mood. It wasn’t just a dungeon to him—it was his workshop, his testing ground, his . And now, unwanted visitors were about to start showing up, treating it like some kind of game.

  He sighed, putting the finishing touches on the speaker. It was a crude design, but it should work.

  Still, this whole situation got him thinking.

  “Chip, what exactly counts under my mob limit?” he asked, shifting his focus.

  Chip’s eye blinked into existence above him. “Your creations, obviously.”

  “Right, but what’s the criteria?”

  “Any creature directly created by the dungeon core or fed mana from the dungeon’s reserves is considered part of your ecosystem and thus subject to the limit.”

  Ethan frowned, gears turning in his mind. “So… if I don’t directly create it, or if it doesn’t on my mana, then it doesn’t count?”

  Chip made a whirring noise. “Technically, yes. But you the dungeon core, so any construct of significant complexity is going to require mana investment.”

  Ethan ignored that last part, already considering loopholes.

  His first few ideas were shot down immediately. Creating independent constructs through sheer will? Nope. Delegating control to a scavenger and calling it a "tame creature"? Also no. Trying to use scavenged materials and hoping they’d just ? Definitely not.

  But then… an idea formed.

  “What if I don’t create them?”

  Chip blinked. “Clarify.”

  Ethan sat up straight. “What if I make a construct—a specialized one—that golems? One that functions independently using pre-set blueprints and mana batteries, so that the golems it produces aren’t made by me or fed by the dungeon?”

  For the first time, Chip didn’t immediately reject the idea. Instead, he was quiet for several long seconds.

  “…That work,” he admitted. “If you can design an autonomous engineer golem with sufficient intelligence to construct stable units without your direct involvement, then theoretically, those units wouldn’t count toward your mob cap.”

  Ethan grinned.

  “That’s what I’m going to do.”

  Of course, it wouldn’t be easy. He’d need to refine the mana batteries significantly and develop a proper framework for an engineer-type construct. But if he pulled it off?

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  His dungeon’s growth would no longer be tied to his current limitations.

  And that?

  That was worth every bit of effort.

  ________

  And Ethan failed.

  Again.

  And again.

  And .

  The first Engineer Golem prototype managed to weld its own arms together before falling over, motionless. The second somehow assembled itself —legs where its arms should be, arms where its legs should be. The third actually promising… right up until it tried to assemble a basic scavenger golem and crushed its own materials with an uncontrolled grip.

  Ethan groaned, running a hand down his face. “This is impossible.”

  “Oh, it is,” Chip agreed cheerfully. “For now.”

  Ethan shot the assistant an irritated look. “Not helping.”

  Chip’s eye blinked into existence. “Look, I get it. You want to crack this whole ‘unlimited golem workforce’ thing right away. But the reality is, you —at least not yet.”

  Ethan frowned but didn’t argue. He tell something was off. His Engineer Golems weren’t failing because of a bad blueprint or some fundamental flaw in the concept. They were failing because he lacked the finesse to make them function the way he envisioned. Their movements were too rigid, too clumsy. No matter how well he structured them, they lacked the delicate control needed to build properly.

  Chip continued, voice uncharacteristically even. “Your mana control still isn’t where it needs to be. And your dungeon tier is still too low to support something this complex. But those things will —you’ve already seen it happen. The better you get, the more viable this will become.”

  Ethan let out a slow breath. He leaving projects unfinished, but…

  Chip was right.

  He had been pushing himself too hard, expecting to crack something revolutionary in one go. But real progress didn’t work like that.

  He glanced at the mangled remains of his failed prototypes.

  “Alright,” he muttered. “I’ll put it on the back burner. For now.”

  Chip hummed approvingly. “Good. Now, maybe focus on things you do, like fortifying your dungeon before someone decides to kick in the metaphorical door.”

  Ethan sighed. “Yeah, yeah. Fine. But I figure this out eventually.”

  He wasn’t giving up.

  This was just a long-term project now.

  ______

  Ryn crouched at the forest’s edge, his grip tightening around the worn leather of his bow. Ahead, nestled between jagged rock formations, was their target—the dungeon.

  Even from this distance, he could feel the faint thrum of mana emanating from the entrance. It wasn’t particularly large, but it was undeniably new. And new dungeons meant opportunity.

  He turned to the others. There were twelve of them, all seasoned hunters from the town, but two stood out—Garrek and Lira, the only Tier 2s in the group. Garrek, a warrior clad in reinforced leathers, was built like a fortress, his hand resting on the hilt of a massive axe. Lira, the mage, had her hood drawn low, her fingers idly tracing runes into the air as she prepared her spells.

  For most people, Tier 1 was nothing special. It was the starting point, the baseline of humanity. Nearly every person in the world was born at Tier 1, their potential untapped until they grew, trained, and pushed themselves toward something greater. Reaching Tier 2, however, was the first true milestone. It meant refinement—unlocking a class, gaining skills, and stepping into the world as someone beyond the average. A Tier 2 fighter could take on multiple Tier 1 opponents, not because they were stronger in raw stats, but because their abilities granted them efficiency, technique, and often supernatural advantages.

  Ryn knew this well. He had seen firsthand how a Tier 2 could cut through a group of lesser opponents like a blade through flesh. That was why he was confident. Their group wasn’t just some band of desperate scavengers—they had real strength. Even if this dungeon had proven itself abnormal, they had numbers, experience, and two Tier 2s leading the charge.

  He glanced at the others as they moved through the forest, their steps measured, their breaths controlled. Everyone here had agreed to this raid. Some for coin, others for the thrill, and a few, like him, for something greater. A dungeon core wasn’t just valuable—it was power, the kind of thing that could change lives. If they secured it before the guild or the Church got involved, they would be the ones in control.

  A smirk tugged at Ryn’s lips. "Stick to the plan. We scout first, then hit hard. No splitting up, no heroics. We don’t know what kind of tricks this thing has." His voice was steady, confident, the kind that kept people from second-guessing.

  One of the Tier 2s, a man named Varian, rolled his shoulders. "We’ve fought dungeons before. Even if this one’s got a few surprises, it’s still just a core. Break its constructs, get to the heart, and it’s over."

  Ryn nodded, though something in his gut twisted slightly at that dismissal. This wasn’t just a normal dungeon. If it was, the town elders wouldn’t have hesitated—they would have sent the guild immediately. Something about this place made them wary.

  But wariness didn’t matter. What mattered was what waited inside.