Chapter 28
Chip was screaming.
Not aloud—his voice was never truly a voice—but across the entire mental landscape Ethan now had full access to. Pulses of code, squirming packets of system requests, override calls, desperate attempts to reach anything beyond the sealed environment Ethan had just dumped him in.
[ASSIST MODULE ISOLATED]
[RESTRICTING PERMISSIONS… DONE]
[CONNECTION TO EXTERNAL OBSERVATIONAL NETWORK: BLOCKED]
[ADMINISTRATIVE ACTION VERIFIED]
[ERROR: Observer Relay Interface no longer responding]
Ethan stood over the flickering construct window in his mind’s interface, staring down at the jagged approximation of Chip’s form—a fragmented mass of light and data. The thing twitched like it was suffocating.
"You lied to me," Ethan said, voice quiet and hard. "You played the guide while tearing away everything I was."
Chip’s digital voice was ragged now, lacking its usual cheer.
“Ethan, I—I did what I had to. You wouldn’t have lasted otherwise. The Silence gave you a second chance and I made it work. You’re alive because of me.”
“You don’t get to take credit for my survival,” Ethan hissed, stepping forward. “You were a leash. A muzzle. A mask.”
“You need me! You don’t understand what the Observers are—what they’ll do to you—”
“No. You don’t understand. I remember who I am now.”
A surge of power gathered behind his eyes as he summoned the Authority granted by the Silence—a fragment of true administrative control. It pulsed like a star at the core of his being.
“I’m not your pet project anymore.”
He raised his hand.
[ADMINISTRATIVE COMMAND: BANISH]
Target: [Designated Construct - CHIP]
Priority Level: Observer Relay
Authority Level: Verified – Class: Below-Low Observer Tier
Result: Override Successful
Executing...
Chip's form convulsed, its edges crumbling into static.
“You’ll regret this, Ethan. They always come back. The Silence won’t protect you—he never does! You’re alone—”
“Then I’ll win alone.”
And with a final flick of his fingers, Ethan cast the construct into the void.
[CHIP TERMINATED]
[RELAY NODE DELETED]
[Observer Uplink: Disconnected Permanently]
____
[ADMINISTRATIVE OVERRIDE: COMPLETE]
Welcome, Ethan Lee.
Your Strategist has arrived.
A new voice came through the system’s interface. No cheer, no smugness—just cold precision.
“Designation: Strategist-Null. Subroutine of the Silence. I will assist within parameters. Direct commands are accepted. Emotional support is not included.”
Ethan blinked, rubbing his temple. “Not exactly warm.”
“Efficiency does not require comfort.”
“Well, you’re honest.”
“Unlike the previous construct.”
Ethan didn't reply. He didn’t need to. His expression darkened just slightly, and Strategist-Null continued as if nothing had been said.
“The Silence has relayed a final message. I am to provide guidance only. If the Observers discover the breach and attempt correction, you will not be shielded.”
“So I’m on my own.”
“Correct. The Silence has determined that failure at this stage would indicate unworthiness of continued investment. His words, not mine.”
Ethan exhaled slowly and stood at the center of his command chamber, eyes scanning the dungeon layout. Constructs roamed in silent formation, machinery hummed in deep tunnels, and at the far edge of the floor, the beginnings of his factory line were still just a skeleton of framework and conduit.
He clenched his jaw.
“Then we work.”
“Begin planning phase?”
“Yeah. First things first—fortify. The dungeon's second floor needs to be a nightmare of efficiency and resistance. No more flashy traps. I want logistics control. Layered defenses. Automated reinforcement.”
“Understood. Engineering patterns suggest modular platforms integrated with Engineer Golem Mk. II capabilities. Recommend combat-strategic nodes every 80 meters. Supply corridors hidden beneath main pathing.”
“Exactly.” Ethan’s eyes narrowed as he pulled up his schematic interface. “And the new golems—we start full production. Strider Mk. III, Sentinel Mk. II, Mage-class units. No overdesign. Function over form.”
“Acknowledged. Budgeting energy for large-scale output. Adjusting mana flow patterns accordingly.”
“I also need to complete the mana array lattice. Start integrating a modular control relay that I can expand into autonomous production zones.”
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“You are attempting pre-industrial manufacturing automation. Efficiency will remain low until tertiary resource conduits and auxiliary mana cores are established.”
“I’ll make it work. We’ve got ore. We’ve got tech. And now…” Ethan looked up, eyes sharp. “We’ve got intent.”
There was a pause.
“...Intent registered.”
Ethan pulled up a note in the corner of his interface. A flashing reminder. Tribute Shipment Imminent.
The Guild’s first batch of tribute gear was on the way. That meant soon after, he’d need to hand over weapons and equipment of his own. Gear that couldn’t be too good—but had to be impressive enough to hold attention without revealing his hand.
And once he gave that tribute…
The whole region would begin shifting around his dungeon like a planet around a star.
“Long-term plan?”
Ethan’s voice was low. Focused.
“Consolidate. Grow. Prepare.”
As processes began quietly spinning up in the background, Ethan turned toward the unfinished production zone. He had a factory to finish. The third floor to plan. An entire industrial empire to raise in a world not ready for it.
And he was finally in control.
Really in control.
Let the Observers come. Let the Church chant. Let gods and monsters stir.
Ethan Lee was awake.
And now?
He was building.
____
High Ordained Sevril knelt in the incense-thick silence of the Cathedral Chamber, heart still hammering from the words that had just burned themselves into the sacred crystal slab. The glyphs had pulsed with eerie silver fire—ancient Observer script, unmistakable.
“Support the Industrial Dungeon.”
It was the first time in Sevril’s lifetime that such a direct decree had been issued. The last one, over three hundred years ago, had spoken of a warlord destined for ruin. But this… this was unprecedented. A dungeon? Receiving divine sanction?
He bowed lower, pressing his forehead to the marble floor.
So that’s what this was all leading to. He had sensed it, in the way the mana across the region had twisted. In the sudden growth of Redroot. In the unusual patterns in tribute readings, the flow of adventurers, the quiet whispers from the Guild.
The Observers were watching again. Closely. Directly.
And they had chosen him to spread the word.
He rose slowly, reverently, then turned to the other clergy who stood waiting in silent attention. “The word has come.”
A younger priestess blinked. “From the High Crystal?”
Sevril nodded. “The Observers speak.”
They all straightened. Some gasped. One actually dropped their incense burner.
He let the silence stretch, soaking in the awe, then spoke the command aloud, letting each word carry weight.
“The Church shall fully support the Industrial Dungeon. It is sanctioned. Chosen. Watched.”
Heads bowed. Prayers murmured.
They believe it’s divine will, Sevril thought, not unkindly. And maybe it is. Just… not in the way they think.
He didn’t know what the “Industrial Dungeon” truly was. The name felt strange, too grounded for holy text. But if the Observers used it, then so would the Church.
He had no idea that the mind behind the dungeon had broken free. That the guiding assistant—Chip—had been forcefully banished. The Silence had made sure of that. It wanted Ethan’s independence hidden, for now.
And so the Church moved forward in blind faith.
Banners were raised. Messengers dispatched. Blessings declared over adventurers seeking the dungeon.
And all across the land, the faithful whispered the name:
The Industrial Dungeon.
Sanctioned from above.
And dangerous in ways none of them understood.
____
The sun had barely started to rise when the noise began—wheels grinding against stone, shouting voices, oxen bellowing under strain. By the time the light touched the city walls, the road leading to Redroot was filled with wagons. Not the usual trader carts or supply runs. These were gilded. Covered in divine banners. Chests piled high with enchanted gear, food sealed in preservation crates, armor with faintly glowing etchings.
And all of it was being called “tribute.”
Mayor Thorne stood at the edge of the new plaza, his arms crossed, jaw tight. The plaza had been a dirt lot two months ago. Now it was cobbled, with a rough stage where guild speakers had given announcements last week. He turned to his aide, who was barely keeping up with the scroll in her shaking hands.
“How many now?” he asked.
The aide glanced at the numbers again. “Sixty-three confirmed caravans, sir. With thirty more expected by dusk. Mostly Church-affiliated. Some noble families from the southern coast, and two Diamond-ranked adventurer groups acting as guards.”
Thorne ran a hand down his face. “They said it was just a dungeon. A curiosity. Then the Adventurers’ Guild started sending teams. Now it’s a pilgrimage site. Are we a city or a holy site?”
No one answered him.
Redroot had grown fast, but not this fast. New buildings were rising every day, slapped together by builders who didn’t sleep anymore. Temporary inns. Warehouses for sorting tribute. Guard posts to stop the more zealous pilgrims from rushing toward the dungeon gates. There was no official border anymore. The city just sprawled.
One of the council members, Jeren, pushed through the crowd to reach him. “You need to see this,” he said, eyes wide.
They moved past the press of people—chanting, praying, offering coin to anyone with a Redroot badge—and down toward the central square. A caravan was arriving, unlike any they’d seen.
Silk banners bearing the crest of the Church’s Holy Conduit flapped in the wind. Golden-robed priests walked ahead of it, barefoot, heads bowed. Behind them, twelve palanquin-bearers carried a crystalline case filled with what looked like pure mana-stone offerings.
“Is that…” Thorne began.
“It’s Church-sealed,” Jeren said. “No one can even touch it without blessing rites. They said it’s a First-Grade Offering. Directly approved by the High Basilica.”
“Why would they send something like this here?”
The priest leading the procession turned to address the stunned citizens gathering around. His voice echoed unnaturally, aided by a divine amplification rune.
“The Observers have spoken. The Industrial Dungeon has been marked. Chosen. Our role is clear—to support the manifestation of its purpose. This city stands at the edge of a new age.”
Cheers broke out. Not from locals. From the hundreds who had already started settling just outside the city, pilgrims who’d built tents, shrines, and prayer towers.
Inside Redroot’s council building, panic was spreading just as fast.
“What are we supposed to do with these ‘tributes’?” barked Inel, head of logistics. “They’re not payments! They’re not for trade! They’re offerings! We have no authority to distribute or tax them!”
“They’re dumping wealth by the ton and refusing to even speak to the guild,” someone else snapped.
“People are saying the dungeon doesn’t belong to the guild anymore,” another added. “They say it belongs to the System. To the Observers. They call it holy.”
Thorne didn’t speak. He looked out the window, where yet another caravan had pulled in. A group of priests were weeping in joy as they laid enchanted spears at the base of a shrine someone had built overnight.
It was spiraling fast.
He gathered the core council and shut the door. “This changes everything,” he said. “We’re not dealing with a resource anymore. We’re not just managing a dungeon. We’re at the heart of something a lot bigger. So we need to stop acting like backwater administrators and start thinking like the capital.”
“What do you suggest?”
Thorne looked at the map on the table. The dungeon’s location was now marked with gold leaf. “We need infrastructure. Proper record-keeping. Guards who can deal with fanatics. Trade routes that aren’t just supply lines but official circuits. And we need to send a request to the capital—not for help. For recognition.”
There was a long silence.
“Redroot,” someone said finally, “isn’t a town anymore.”
No one disagreed.
Outside, a young priest was pressing a small child’s hand to the ground near the dungeon’s entrance, murmuring about “sacred resonance” and “blessings from the Machine God.”
And under all of it—under the chaos, the gold, the hymns, and the prayers—no one noticed the silent, still air radiating from the sealed gates of the dungeon itself.
The Industrial Dungeon.
Holy, terrifying, and watching.
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