Chapter 20

  A small group of adventurers sat gathered around a table in Redroot’s only tavern, the dim candlelight flickering against their well-worn armor. They weren’t as tense as the villagers had been, but there was an unmistakable undercurrent of excitement between them.

  “This dungeon’s different,” said Corwin, the broad-shouldered fighter who looked like he had taken one too many hits to the head but still carried himself with confidence. “Not just another mana farm. It thinks.”

  Across from him, Talia—lean, wiry, and always watching—tapped her fingers against the rim of her mug. “And it has gear. Enchanted gear. That’s new.”

  “A dungeon that makes its own equipment.” Joran, their healer, shook his head. “Sounds like a headache waiting to happen.”

  “It sounds like an opportunity,” replied Iri, the group’s scout. She leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Everyone’s going to want a piece of this place, but we’re here first. That means we get ahead of the competition.”

  Corwin grinned, raising his drink. “Now that’s the kind of thinking I like.”

  Joran sighed, but he didn’t argue. The dungeon was dangerous, yes—but it was also valuable. And if they played their cards right, it could be more than just another job.

  Talia’s gaze flickered toward the entrance as the assessment team reappeared, stepping back into the village after their negotiations with the dungeon. Vael’s expression was unreadable, but the fact that they hadn’t left in a hurry or called for reinforcements meant only one thing.

  “We’re going in soon,” Talia said, finishing her drink in one swallow. “So let’s be ready.”

  ___

  Ethan’s core pulsed steadily as he examined his dungeon layout. With seven regulated delves allowed per day, he had to make sure his defenses were constantly reset and his constructs properly maintained. The Engineer Golems were already working to repair damage from previous skirmishes, reinforcing the mechanical defenses and ensuring scavenger units could retrieve any discarded equipment.

  The problem wasn’t maintenance. The problem was structure.

  His dungeon wasn’t designed like traditional ones. There was no gradual increase in difficulty, no clear paths leading deeper into more dangerous areas. Every room was a potential death trap, every corridor layered with lethal defenses. It was a fortress, built to kill—not to be explored.

  That was fine when he expected nothing but invaders. But now? Now he had to accommodate adventurers who would enter daily.

  Chip, of course, was the first to point out the flaw. “Look, I get the whole ‘nobody walks out alive’ aesthetic you’ve got going, but this isn’t sustainable.”

  Ethan’s irritation flared. “Why should I care? If they die, I get mana and loot.”

  Chip snorted. “Yeah, and if too many of them die too quickly, the Guild will just throw more people at you until you’re gone. You’re thinking like a cornered animal. You need to think like a business.”

  Ethan’s irritation deepened, but Chip pressed on.

  “Right now, adventurers see you as a mystery. They’re interested. If you make this dungeon an actual experience—something they can delve repeatedly for rewards—you’ll get a constant influx of challengers. They’ll generate mana just by being here. And if one or two ‘accidentally’ meet their end? That’s just a bonus.”

  Ethan went silent. The idea disgusted him at first. But the more he thought about it, the more sense it made.

  Chip hummed. “You need an actual difficulty curve. Low-level areas for the weaklings, real challenges deeper in. And loot. Chests, rewards, hidden bonuses. If they think they can beat the odds, they’ll keep coming back.”

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  Ethan exhaled slowly. “So you want me to make my dungeon entertaining?”

  “I want you to make it irresistible.”

  A grudging chuckle escaped Ethan’s core. “Fine. Let’s see how they handle that.”

  ___

  Ethan’s awareness spread through his dungeon as he examined the layout. Chip had a point—his design wasn’t optimized for long-term sustainability. If he wanted to maintain the steady influx of adventurers while ensuring that only the reckless or unlucky perished, he needed to restructure everything.

  His dungeon was built for war, not exploration. Every hall, every chamber had been designed to funnel enemies into lethal encounters with no margin for error. It was efficient—but too efficient. If he kept things this way, the Guild would eventually mark his dungeon as too dangerous to be worth the risk, and stronger forces would come to destroy him.

  That wouldn’t do.

  So he began making changes.

  The first step was implementing clear progression. Right now, every part of his dungeon was equally dangerous. That needed to change. The entrance would remain mostly the same—a mechanical, gear-laden cave leading into the depths—but after that, he would create distinct layers.

  The first floor would be the “Entry Zone.” Minimal hostility, just enough danger to keep things tense but not outright lethal. Simple clockwork creatures, a few weak combat constructs, and environmental hazards designed to challenge rather than outright kill. Here, adventurers could get a feel for the dungeon’s mechanics without immediately losing their lives.

  He crafted several new traps, focusing on inconvenience rather than death. False floors that dropped adventurers into a short pit—just deep enough to rattle their nerves. Spinning blade walls that moved predictably, forcing careful timing to pass. Clockwork sentries that only attacked if provoked.

  Next, the “Trial Layer.” This would be the real start of the dungeon’s challenge. Constructs would be stronger here, with Scout Scavengers replaced by Improved Scavengers and Combat Striders patrolling key paths. The traps became sharper—dart launchers, pressurized flamethrowers, floors that triggered energy pulses if not stepped on correctly. Still survivable, but requiring skill to avoid.

  For the deeper layers, Ethan embraced deception. The “Illusion Corridor” would feature his Basic Mirage Golems, creating shifting illusions that would lead adventurers into ambushes or disorient them before real threats attacked. He added false treasure rooms, baiting delvers into wasting resources for empty chests or spring-loaded compartments containing only rusted gears.

  But the real prizes would be hidden. Secret paths, alternate routes, puzzles that unlocked rare rewards—all meant to encourage adventurers to explore rather than brute-force their way through.

  And then came the final floor, the heart of his dungeon’s defenses. Ethan wasn’t na?ve enough to think the Guild wouldn’t eventually send stronger adventurers, but if they made it this far, they would earn their fight. This area would be brutal—Combat Striders in formation, Engineer Golems actively repairing traps mid-battle, mechanical turrets launching enchanted projectiles. A final gauntlet before reaching the true core chamber, though, of course, the real core would remain hidden.

  With the structure in place, he turned his attention to loot placement.

  Chip had been right—adventurers needed incentive. So Ethan scattered rewards carefully.

  Low-tier rewards in the early layers: simple enchanted trinkets, minor gear enhancements, basic metal scraps that could be repurposed.

  Mid-tier rewards in the Trial Layer: stronger enchanted components, rare materials, and mechanical blueprints scavenged from fallen intruders.

  And for the deep layers?

  Custom-crafted gear.

  This was where Ethan’s real advantage lay. He could create weapons, armor, and tools with his system-given ability. If he provided high-quality, unique equipment that couldn’t be found elsewhere, adventurers would keep coming back just for the chance at more.

  Of course, there would also be fake rewards—traps disguised as chests, weapons that crumbled into rust after being removed from their pedestals, cursed gear that drained mana instead of enhancing it. If adventurers wanted real treasure, they would need to think.

  By the time Ethan finished his adjustments, his dungeon had been transformed.

  What was once a fortress of death had become something far more dangerous.

  A challenge.

  An experience.

  A game.

  And games had a way of drawing people in.

  Chip let out a slow whistle. “Well, that’s a hell of an upgrade.”

  Ethan’s core pulsed with satisfaction. “Let’s see how they handle it.”