Chapter 2

  Day 1

  The temple bells rang before dawn.

  Not Redroot’s bells—those hadn’t worked since the last mana storm. No, these were from the Church’s newly constructed bell tower, apparently installed in the three weeks Vaylean had spent negotiating taxes with a coalition of angry herbalists.

  By midmorning, pilgrims had arrived.

  By noon, tents had sprung up like mushrooms across the hills. He counted seven open-air markets and three pop-up “guidance stations,” all with pamphlets and suspiciously coordinated uniforms.

  By nightfall, the Church had declared the dungeon a divine miracle.

  They even installed a mana-powered organ.

  Day 2

  Vaylean spent most of it reading reports.

  Seventeen adventuring parties entered the dungeon. Only five made it out before nightfall. Of those, two refused to speak, one asked for a room to weep in, and the other two kept asking where Ethan had gotten his metallurgy books.

  “He’s not a god,” Vaylean muttered, watching a sketch of a Bloom Knight animate itself with blessed ink.

  “Apparently,” his secretary said dryly, “he’s at least very impressive.”

  That night, he added another line to his ledger.

  Contingency Plan: If the Dungeon is a Nation-State.

  Day 3

  The Guild sent a letter.

  A very polite letter. Which, as everyone knew, was the worst kind.

  It thanked him for his “excellent stewardship of the region,” offered “additional resources to maintain stability,” and then hinted—not very subtly—that perhaps it was time to “reevaluate dungeon sovereignty concerns.”

  “Translation?” his secretary asked.

  “They want to move in,” Vaylean sighed. “Take control.”

  “Of what? The town?”

  “Of him.”

  He didn’t say Ethan’s name. It felt… risky. Like invoking a force of nature.

  Instead, he burned the letter. Then the table it sat on, just to be safe.

  Day 4

  Someone carved a mural into the town square overnight.

  It depicted a giant mechanical man lifting a broken city out of the rubble while tiny pilgrims clung to his legs. A small plaque read THE SALVATION MACHINE.

  Vaylean stared at it for a long time.

  Then he pulled out a bottle of wine.

  “I give up,” he muttered to the empty plaza. “You win, crazy robot god.”

  Day 5

  Two squads from the Guild arrived at dawn.

  “Just for observation,” their captain said, smiling a little too widely. “And crowd control. In case of miracles.”

  They set up camp outside town, near the third temple annex the Church was building.

  Tensions mounted.

  A brawl broke out in the tavern over whether Ethan preferred red or blue mana filaments. A priest got punched. The priest won.

  Vaylean issued a formal decree: Stop worshipping the dungeon core inside town limits.

  It was ignored.

  Day 6

  He stood on a balcony at dusk, watching the dungeon gates glow as another party descended.

  This place had changed. No, transformed.

  It wasn’t about loot anymore. Or XP. Or dungeon runs.

  This was a cultural event. A pilgrimage. A test of faith.

  And he was the only one still pretending it was normal.

  Day 7

  A report landed on his desk.

  Corwin’s party had returned.

  He read the note three times.

  So. The first ones to survive the original incident were back. They were strong. Involved. Important.

  More importantly, they knew Ethan.

  Vaylean smiled, slow and tired.

  Finally, a thread he could pull.

  _______

  The Strategist paused, letting the words hang in the air like a slap to the face.

  Corwin rubbed his temples. “Of course he said that.”

  Derrick flopped onto the nearest bench, armor clanking. “I almost got turned into fertilizer by a flower knight, and the man’s worried about our timing?”

  Renna laughed weakly, still brushing bits of luminescent pollen off her cloak. “Honestly, this is exactly the level of pettiness I expected.”

  The Strategist, perfectly serene, folded its ethereal hands. “He also added a footnote.”

  “Oh, great,” Lena muttered. “There’s more?”

  Clearing its throat again, the Strategist adopted a voice so dry it could have desiccated a cactus. “Quote: ‘Hope you didn’t think the third floor would be easier. Good luck not dying. Smiley face.’”

  There was a long silence.

  “Third floor?” Derrick asked warily.

  The Strategist only smiled, bowed, and promptly disappeared in a flicker of mana.

  A low groan rippled through the group.

  Corwin slumped against the wall. “I miss when dungeons just threw slimes at you.”

  _______

  Ethan watched their reaction through the surveillance feed, sipping from a very battered steel mug.

  He nudged the Strategist, who had rematerialized at his side.

  “Was the smiley face too much?”

  “Given the psychological state of your test subjects, I would say it was perfect,” the Strategist said primly.

  Ethan leaned back in his chair—which groaned under the strain of too many half-finished repairs—and let out a sigh that was half exhaustion, half satisfaction.

  It had taken weeks of frantic work to rebuild the floors, recalibrate the constructs, and polish the dungeon into something more than just a disaster site. And now?

  Now it felt alive.

  Even if the church outside had gone a little too far, even if pilgrims tried to sell Ethan-themed candles at the gates, even if a new “Order of the Industrial Flame” had been created in the Church.

  Inside these walls?

  This was his.

  He closed the surveillance window with a flick of his fingers and stood, feeling the mana hum beneath his feet like a pulse.

  “Alright,” he muttered. “Time to really get this going.”

  The Strategist floated after him. “Should I prepare the fourth floor?”

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  Ethan smirked. “Let’s see if anyone even gets there first.”

  ___________

  “Alright,” Corwin said, drawing his sword and trying to rally his battered team. “We’re still alive.

  And we still have a deal to uphold.”

  Renna wiped her blade clean with a determined scowl. “Right. Deal first, trauma later.”

  Lena gave a shaky thumbs-up. “I’m one hallucination away from marrying a flower knight, but sure.”

  Derrick just stared at the next staircase downward and muttered, “Smiley face… I’ll show him a smiley face.”

  They limped forward—bruised, battered, and very aware that they were walking into whatever insanity Ethan had cooked up next.

  But somehow?

  That felt like coming home.

  __________

  If the first two floors had been chaos dipped in mana and set on fire, the third floor felt almost… nostalgic- classics form before the dungeon’s rework.

  They still got hurt, Coriwn almost got decapitated by a Sentinel golem which was apparently “just saying hello” according to the Strategist’s helpful commentary.

  But it was manageable. Familiar.

  The fourth floor was worse, of course. It always was.

  But as they got through the floor often know as the tipping point in which the dungeon turned mad, the saw the doors to the core room and they rumbled open slowly, parting like ancient stone jaws.

  Inside, it was… quiet.

  The room was massive—a cathedral of smooth metal and faintly glowing conduits that spiderwebbed across the floors and walls. In the center of it all, atop a raised platform of glistening steel, floated the dungeon’s core: a massive, brilliant orb of interwoven crimson and blue, pulsing gently with life.

  And standing next to it, arms crossed, was Ethan.

  Well—Ethan’s new body.

  He looked fully assembled now, a towering metallic figure with a half-finished human frame—part man, part machine, with carefully shaped plates of alloy armor covering his form and faint lines of mana running beneath the surface like veins. His eyes flickered, bright and calculating.

  He tapped his foot impatiently as Corwin’s battered group stumbled in.

  “Took you long enough,” Ethan said, deadpan.

  Renna gave a low groan and collapsed onto the floor.

  Lena just laughed weakly. “Hi, Ethan. You look… uh, taller.”

  “Thanks,” Ethan said dryly. “You’re bleeding on my floor.”

  Corwin managed a tired grin. “It’s good to see you, too.”

  The Strategist materialized beside Ethan in a shimmer of blue light, holding what looked suspiciously like a clipboard.

  “According to protocol,” the Strategist said with infuriating cheer, “you have completed your contractual obligation of ‘surviving all accessible dungeon floors after the rebuild.’ You are now eligible for audience with the Core Entity—also known as Ethan, Keeper of Industrial Advancement, Patron Saint of Machines, Blesser of Bolts—”

  “Okay, no,” Ethan cut in, glaring at it. “We are not using that title.”

  The Strategist coughed into its sleeve, utterly unrepentant.

  “Anyway,” Ethan said, rubbing the back of his metallic neck, “you made it. You kept your word. That counts for something.”

  Derrick blinked up at him. “Wait, is he… proud of us?”

  “I think he is,” Lena whispered back, awestruck.

  Renna groaned. “Tell him to put it in writing. I want a plaque.”

  Ethan chuckled quietly—a deep, mechanical rumble that still somehow sounded tired and human.

  “Come on,” he said, turning and walking toward a smaller chamber tucked behind the core platform. “Let’s talk. There’s… a lot to catch up on.”

  Chapter 7

  The side chamber was smaller, more private — a room of polished stone and dark steel, lit by a soft glow from thin mana lines etched into the walls. A heavy table dominated the center, surrounded by chairs that looked suspiciously reinforced to withstand combatants collapsing into them.

  Corwin’s team did exactly that, groaning as they sank into the seats.

  Ethan remained standing, arms folded across his alloyed chest, watching them with an unreadable expression.

  “You survived,” Ethan said again, voice a low rumble. “So now… it’s time to uphold your end of the deal.”

  Corwin straightened a little. His body hurt, but he met Ethan’s gaze without flinching. “Yeah. We’re here. Full report, whatever you need.”

  “Good,” Ethan said. He tapped the table once with a metallic knuckle and a glowing projection sprang up between them — a map. Not just the dungeon grounds, but the surrounding areas. Roads, towns, valleys, forest trails, all stitched together with eerie precision.

  “You’ve been out there. I need updates,” Ethan said. “I can’t exactly leave this place to stroll around.”

  Renna whistled softly. “This is… actually better than what the guild has.”

  “Of course it is,” the Strategist said from behind them, smugness dripping from its voice.

  Lena leaned in. “Alright. Short version? Vaylean’s getting more aggressive.”

  Ethan’s gaze sharpened. “Define aggressive.”

  “He’s ignoring the guild’s instructions to leave the Industrial Dungeon alone,” Corwin said grimly. “The guild council told him—repeatedly—that it’s too important politically and economically now. Too many pilgrim groups. Too much influence.”

  “And,” Derrick added with a shrug, “kinda hard to justify kicking in the door when half the noble houses are sending offerings here.”

  Ethan’s metallic fingers drummed once against his forearm. “But Vaylean doesn’t care.”

  “Nope,” Lena said. “He’s sending in scouting parties. Disguised ones at first. Now they’re just openly poking around the nearby villages, trying to rally locals. Making noise about ‘dungeon corruption’ and ‘secret weaponization’ or whatever.”

  The Strategist’s form flickered slightly, processing the information at speed.

  “Assessment: High probability of escalated conflict within two lunar cycles,” it intoned.

  Corwin leaned forward. “And not just him. There are rumors. About him recruiting mercenary bands. Ones not tied to the Redroot Guild officially.”

  Ethan stared at the map for a long moment, his core flickering slightly behind him, casting sharp shadows across the room.

  “They’re getting desperate,” he finally said. His voice was low, thoughtful. “They think they can break me while I’m still ‘new’ after the rebuild.”

  “Are they wrong?” Renna asked, cautious.

  A slow grin stretched across Ethan’s metallic face — a dangerous, gleaming thing.

  “They’re very wrong,” he said. “But they’ll try anyway.”

  The Strategist chimed in, almost gleeful. “Shall I prepare accelerated defense protocols? Emergency contingency constructs?”

  Ethan waved a hand. “Not yet. Let’s not give them proof I’m preparing for war. But… we will quietly prepare.”

  Corwin leaned back, studying Ethan carefully. “You’re serious about this, huh?”

  “This dungeon is my life,” Ethan said simply. “It’s my home. My body. My future. I’m not letting some overambitious thug tear it apart because he’s afraid of something he doesn’t understand.”

  For a moment, the room pulsed with quiet resolve — the living heartbeat of the dungeon itself answering Ethan’s conviction.

  Finally, Derrick spoke up. “So what do you want from us?”

  Ethan’s gaze turned back to them — sharp, evaluating.

  “I want eyes and ears,” he said. “I want you in Redroot. I want you blending in with the adventurers, the merchants, the guild rats. Feed me information. Warning signs. Patterns. Anything.”

  “And if it comes to a fight?” Renna asked.

  “Then you fight for your home,” Ethan said simply. “Because like it or not, you’re part of this now. You’re part of me.”

  The team exchanged glances. There wasn’t much hesitation.

  Corwin grinned, blood still crusted in his hair from a recent beating. “You had us at ‘stupidly suicidal odds.’”

  “Speak for yourself,” Derrick muttered. “I want hazard pay.”

  “I’ll bake you a pie,” Ethan deadpanned.

  The Strategist added brightly, “It will be made of gears and regret.”

  Everyone laughed — a tired, genuine laugh — and just like that, the deal was sealed.

  There was work to do.

  And Vaylean?

  He had no idea the hornet’s nest he was about to kick.

  The core room’s hum faded into a heavy silence as Corwin unrolled a rough parchment map onto the nearest table — a surface of polished steel shot through with mana veins.

  Ethan leaned over, mechanical fingers steepled under his chin, unreadable.

  Renna stepped forward, tapping points on the map.

  “Vaylean’s been gathering forces here, here, and here,” she said, marking three small towns. “He’s ignoring the guild entirely. Redroot’s Guild Branch tried to rein him in, but he basically told them to shove it.”

  Derrick snorted. “Real diplomatic phrasing there, Ren.”

  “It’s what he meant,” Renna muttered.

  Corwin took over, voice steady. “He’s using the dungeon as a rallying cry. ‘Protect the people from unchecked core influence.’ Acting like you’re some… monster plotting to enslave Redroot.”

  The Strategist made a static noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort.

  “I haven’t even left the dungeon,” Ethan said, voice perfectly flat.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Lena said. “People don’t care about truth. They care about fear. And Vaylean’s feeding it.”

  Corwin grimaced. “The Guild’s official orders are to observe and integrate the dungeon. Not to destroy it. But Vaylean doesn’t seem to care anymore.”

  Ethan leaned back, servos whirring softly as he processed the information.

  “And the Church?” he asked.

  Renna hesitated. “Still on your side. If anything, more zealous than ever. They declared this place the ‘Heart of the Forging Saint.’ They’re funneling pilgrims by the hundreds.”

  “They’re also making Vaylean’s job harder,” Derrick added. “Too many eyes. Too many witnesses.”

  Ethan sat in silence for a long moment, internal processes ticking away beneath his polished exterior.

  The Strategist finally broke the silence, its projection flickering slightly.

  “In summary,” it said dryly, “Redroot is a barrel of powder. And Vaylean is the idiot waving a lit torch.”

  Ethan’s gaze sharpened.

  “So be it,” he said quietly. “If he wishes to make me his enemy, I will oblige him. But not unprepared.”

  He stood — a seamless, fluid motion that radiated weight and purpose.

  “You have already fulfilled your part of the agreement,” Ethan said, turning his gaze on Corwin’s party. “Since I’m asking you for more than the initial rewards, I can offer compensation.”

  He lifted a hand. Diagrams unfurled in the air — blueprints of delicate spinal reinforcements, mana vascular conduits, reinforced tendons lined with subtle alloy threads.

  “I offer you strength,” he said simply. “Not chains. Not control. Enhancements, designed by me, to make your bodies faster, tougher, more efficient.”

  He paused.

  “And… more amusing to watch when you panic,” he added dryly.

  Derrick coughed. “Wait, was that a joke?”

  “A functional one,” the Strategist muttered approvingly.

  Renna squinted at the hovering diagrams. “Nothing invasive?”

  “You’ll retain your souls, your minds, your wills,” Ethan said. “The augmentations are modular. If you reject them later, they can be removed.”

  Corwin met Ethan’s gaze.

  “No mind control tricks? No weird hidden loyalty runes?”

  Ethan gave a short, humorless laugh. “Corwin. If I wanted mindless slaves, I would build them. Not offer them upgrades.”

  The tension eased slightly.

  Derrick raised a hand hesitantly. “Will it hurt?”

  Ethan tilted his head.

  “Not significantly. You’ll sleep through most of it. The real pain will come later.” A pause. “In the form of sore muscles and your ego struggling to adjust to new capabilities.”

  Renna smirked. “Sounds like a regular Tuesday.”

  Corwin exchanged a look with his team.

  They all nodded, almost simultaneously.

  “Alright,” Corwin said. “We trust you. Upgrade us.”

  The Strategist clapped its hands together gleefully. “Excellent. Please sign the non-existent liability waivers and prepare for science.”

  Lena groaned.

  “You’re loving this,” she said.

  “I have no emotions,” the Strategist said, voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “But if I did, they would be… joy.”