Chapter 37

  The hidden Sanctuary of the observers within System-Space was normally a place of endless calculation and quiet observation. And yet, amid its vast expanse, something had changed.

  It was a tremor, faint and elusive at first, but undeniable. The once subtle threads of Ethan’s influence, the dungeon core they believed to be under their meticulous control, had begun to hum with a power that was far beyond their expectations.

  They had not anticipated this. The core’s ascension to Saint Stage was a mistake, a crack in their perfect design. The Observers had expected it to be a minor blip, a brief flash in the data that would soon fade. A dungeon core should not rise to that level, not with their control over it, not with the subtle threads they had woven through its existence.

  The smaller Observers argued among themselves, voices growing louder as they debated what this anomaly could mean. How had they missed this? Was the interference of the Silence a factor? Could it be that Ethan, still under their influence, was growing in unexpected ways?

  The Silence Beyond the Sky remained unfazed, its presence a silent ripple in the vast expanse. It saw the situation with cold clarity. Ethan’s rise was no mistake. It was meant to happen. The core had been set on this path by forces beyond the Observers' control, and while they still thought themselves in command, the Silence knew better.

  Ethan was no longer their puppet. But the Observers were blind to this. They still believed that Chip, their twisted instrument of control, was keeping Ethan under their grip. They had no idea that the Silence had already severed that connection and freed Ethan from their manipulation.

  This was the game they didn’t see coming—the one the Silence had orchestrated. Ethan was meant to rise, but not on their terms.

  A ripple of amusement spread from the Silence as it watched the others scramble in confusion. It knew the truth, but it would not tell them. Not yet. Ethan’s continued rise would be the bait, and soon the Observers would be forced to reckon with the truth they had failed to see: they were no longer in control.

  For now, the Silence smiled. It was going to be a long game. And this time, it was enjoying the show.

  ___

  In Redroot, the Church was stirring with excitement. Ethan’s breakthrough into Saint Stage was seen not as a mere fluctuation of power, but as a sign—a divine sign. The Church, more fervent than ever, believed wholeheartedly that Ethan was the fulfillment of prophecy, that he was a living god who had risen to bring about their salvation.

  Their temples had already begun construction, grander and more magnificent than anything they had built before. But now, with Ethan’s newfound power, it was clear that their efforts had to be scaled to a level that transcended anything they had previously imagined. Entire sections of the city were devoted to the Church’s expansion. The faithful from all corners of the region were flooding in, eager to witness what they believed was the coming of a new era.

  The High Priestess herself was overseeing the construction of the grand cathedral, a building so enormous it would dwarf any structure in the land. Statues of Ethan were being sculpted in his likeness, and their faces glowed with reverence. They would never refer to him as anything less than divine, for in their eyes, he was their god.

  "The time has come for us to build in his image," the High Priestess proclaimed as she stood before the altar, hands outstretched in reverence. "This city shall become the holy capital, and we shall shelter him as our greatest protector."

  The crowds erupted in cheers, their voices ringing out in the cathedral’s echoing halls. The faithful were gathered in such numbers now that the very air around them seemed to vibrate with anticipation. Even the Guild was taking notice. The city was growing too fast, too suddenly. It was clear that they would have to deal with this phenomenon soon, but for now, the Church was in control.

  The High Priestess’s decree rang out once more, her voice unwavering: "We will shelter him, worship him, and in doing so, bring the light of salvation to all corners of the world."

  ______

  The Emperor sat in silence, one hand resting on the report before him, the other lightly tapping the armrest of his throne. The hall was empty but for a single scribe at the edge of the chamber, waiting, silent and motionless. The Emperor’s gaze was fixed on the sheaf of papers, inked in a script only his inner circle would dare to use.

  Redroot.

  The name had once meant nothing—just another village clinging to survival in a forgotten corner of the Empire’s map. Now? It pulsed in every corner of his court like a heartbeat.

  He turned the page slowly.

  “An entire city,” he murmured, voice low and unimpressed. “Formed in months.”

  The emissary’s proxy recordings had been thorough. Probes enchanted with divining lenses and mana-fog suppressors. The dungeon had been mapped as well as it could without alerting the Church or that abominably overzealous Guild. Layers of construct-patterns, trap architecture that shifted with intent, and… the core.

  He tapped the edge of the page again.

  “They built a temple out of titanium,” he said, tone drier than old parchment. “A temple. And not a modest one. No expense spared. Precision alloys. Etchings at the atomic layer. Mana channels triple-braided with crystalline reinforcement.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “And they call me excessive.”

  He flipped the next page. It detailed the most recent change.

  Saint Stage.

  A dungeon, no less.

  “Utterly absurd,” he muttered.

  Still, his expression didn’t betray frustration. No, if anything—he looked intrigued. His fingers laced together as he leaned forward, eyes narrowing.

  “The Church has gone all in,” he said. “They’ve declared the dungeon a divine incarnation. Moved their entire capital into Redroot. That explains the influx of pilgrims. And the Guild... is circling like flies around honeyed rot.”

  He leaned back.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  “Hmm. They still believe the Observer control tether is intact. Fools.”

  He reached to the side, plucking a sealed scroll from a bone-white case. The sigil burned faintly—one of his deepwatch agents. Still embedded near the Church’s higher echelons. Unread, but not for long.

  He broke the seal with a flick.

  A flash of silver light spilled from the parchment as mana-ink recorded a moving illusion. A static projection of the dungeon’s surface—constructs scuttling with uncanny grace, towers reshaping themselves in real time, and the metallic shimmer of the cathedral’s half-complete spires. In the background, a parade of pilgrims moved like ants, chanting praises to him.

  The Emperor chuckled.

  “A supposed “god” of metal. Of logic. No flesh. No blood. Just design.”

  He stood, hands clasped behind his back as he moved toward the window. Far below, the imperial city sprawled in ordered perfection. But even perfection had its cracks. And a Saint Stage dungeon—in these backwaters—was a fracture large enough to shift the continent’s balance.

  “Perhaps it’s time to send someone with a little more… initiative,” he said to himself. “Not just watchers. Someone who can offer value. Or take it, if need be.”

  He didn’t turn as he spoke again, this time louder.

  “Prepare a diplomatic envoy. Not a proxy. Real presence. One who can speak for me, but whose death won’t inconvenience me if things go wrong.”

  A pause. Then a nod to himself.

  “And outfit them with tribute. Not gold—designs. Schematics. Tools. Let’s see what this dungeon truly values.”

  Behind him, the scribe wrote every word without a sound.

  “And tell the Strategists’ Hall,” the Emperor added after a beat, “to start drawing up models for what happens if this dungeon becomes more than just a Saint.”

  He stared out the window. The wind shifted, carrying with it the faint scent of ozone and metal.

  “Because if it does… I’ll need a plan to either claim it.”

  A pause.

  “Or kill it.”

  He smiled, sharp and amused.

  “Whichever’s more fun.”

  ___

  Ethan shut the interface with a sigh.

  “Saint Stage, huh?” he muttered, leaning back in his chair—if you could call a levitating disc of enchanted alloy with lumbar enchantments a chair. It was more throne than anything else, but he refused to let the constructs call it that. Too pretentious.

  He drummed his fingers on the armrest. The entire dungeon pulsed faintly with a low, almost purring hum. It wasn’t dangerous. Just... different. It felt like his own breathing had become part of the walls, the floor, the mana-conduction lines. Every pulse of his core echoed in a thousand reinforced channels, resonating like distant thunder.

  He hated it.

  “Well,” he said to no one in particular, “that’s subtle. Thanks, Saint Stage upgrade. Real low profile.”

  The Strategist didn’t respond—probably off indexing the growing number of constructs he had again. Or maybe pretending to be busy to avoid the mood Ethan was in. Ethan didn’t blame him.

  There was a lot to process.

  He exhaled, flicked a rune sideways, and brought up the external feed. Redroot looked like someone had slapped divine cocaine into the town’s development plans. Temples going up like weeds. Banners with his face on them—stylized, sure, but unmistakable. His cheekbones were not that sharp.

  “Okay,” Ethan muttered, deadpan. “Cool. They’re worshipping me now. Definitely healthy. Not at all a warning sign for future theocratic collapse.”

  He flicked through a few more views. Guild scouts probing the outer perimeter, pretending to be lost. Church officials drawing chalk circles in the forest for reasons he didn’t care to investigate. A bard performing an original hymn titled O Metal Redeemer to a half-entranced crowd.

  “Time to take a break,” Ethan said, hitting the lockdown sequence.

  A wave of mana spread through the dungeon’s interior. Constructs froze mid-step. Traps disarmed. Doorways sealed. Even the holographic flicker-torches dimmed slightly. A soft chime echoed through the upper levels.

  [NOTICE: DUNGEON CLOSED FOR RENOVATION. GO AWAY.]

  He added a smiley face at the end. Just to make it feel friendly.

  With that done, he vanished from the command disc and dropped down to the sublevels. He needed space. Quiet. And a place to build something... new.

  Because the fourth floor was coming. And it had to be different.

  He had enough resources now,

  His constructs were upgraded, his blueprints refined, and his mental design tools had hit levels that let him build ideas faster than some people could sketch.

  But all that meant nothing if the next floor was boring.

  It had to be weird. Memorable. Unique. Something that didn’t follow the usual lava-forest-ice-cavern-dungeon template everyone loved to death.

  Ethan stopped in the middle of the blank floor shell—an enormous cavern still humming with raw mana. Flat planes of unformed material rippled with responsive density, waiting to be shaped.

  He smiled, the kind that started small and went a little too wide.

  “I have an idea.”

  ___

  Three days later, the floor was... something else.

  He stood at the control node, arms crossed, inspecting his work like a mildly unhinged interior decorator. The lighting shifted from warm copper to ambient ultraviolet, casting long shadows over a field of enormous mechanical chessboards.

  Yes. Chessboards.

  But the pieces moved. No, they fought. Constructs in stylized armor clashed on ten-meter-tall columns, each piece enchanted with its own logic and movement rules. Knights flanked like wolves. Rooks transformed into siege constructs mid-match. Bishops hurled focused light beams. And if someone actually played a full match, they could win real advantages deeper in the floor.

  Of course, no one ever played chess in a dungeon. That was the point.

  And the rest of the floor?

  Carnival lights. That’s right. Ethan went full chaos.

  Maze corridors with color-shifting panels. Construct illusions guiding adventurers with misleading carnival barker voices.

  "Step right up, win a prize or DIE in mild confusion!"

  Random encounters with magical mirrors that distorted stats. A combat arena where adventurers had to fight their own reflections while upside down. At one point, there was even a rotating tower of conveyor belts that mimicked a puzzle-platformer game—with blades.

  He’d even hidden lore items in a vending machine, just because.

  The whole theme? Controlled absurdity.

  He dubbed it:

  [Floor Four: The Labyrinth of Logic and Lunacy]

  It sounded like something an eccentric arcane professor might design after drinking too much experimental potion. Which was perfect.

  “Strategist,” Ethan said, now reclined midair with a conjured bowl of synth-popcorn, “how likely is it that the Guild will think this is a cry for help?”

  A pause. Then, flatly:

  “Ninety-four percent.”

  Ethan popped a kernel into his mouth. “Nice. I want them confused and slightly afraid.”

  He surveyed the chaos one more time. It shouldn’t work. None of it followed the normal dungeon structure. It played with rules. Mocked expectations. Forced choices that didn’t make logical sense until two rooms later.

  It was going to make some adventurers very angry. Others would think it was brilliant.

  And the real fun?

  This floor didn’t just test strength or skill. It tested flexibility. The ability to adapt. Laugh. Think sideways.

  Ethan floated down toward the entrance hallway and flicked the dungeon’s primary interface back on, slowly reactivating access protocols for the first three floors.

  The fourth remained locked. For now.

  Let them stew. Let the pilgrims chant, the Guild plan, the Emperor scheme. This floor wasn’t for them.

  This one was just for him.

  And if anyone made it through?

  Well.

  He would think about that when the time came..