Chapter 1

  It had been exactly one week since the dungeon reopened.

  Not with fireworks. Not with a bombastic roar or a thundering declaration of dominance.

  No, Ethan had chosen certainty. Clean design. Minimalist menace.

  He thought the glowing obsidian gates, humming veins of crimson-blue mana, and gently purring constructs were tasteful. Dignified. Maybe even awe-inspiring in a kind of industrial-arcane fusion aesthetic.

  Apparently, everyone else just saw it as a massive “come kill me” sign.

  Within twelve hours of the gates unlocking, the first wave of adventurers had rushed in—some veterans, some idiots, and at least three church fanatics screaming about the Machine God returning.

  Ethan had watched it all from his internal observation node with the exhausted weariness of a man who built four floors of mechanical nightmares and still couldn’t account for pure human stupidity.

  He now sat in his core chamber-or throne room as he liked calling it-

  monitoring everything. Dozens of screens hovered midair, each showing a different segment of his dungeon.

  “Status report,” he said aloud, mostly out of habit.

  The Strategist’s voice rang out ““First floor: Eight adventurers currently lost. Three undergoing pollen-induced hallucinations. One attempting to befriend a Bloom Knight.”

  “…Are they winning?”

  “Unclear. Knight has not struck. Adventurer has offered it a flower crown.”

  He blinked. “I’m calling that a diplomatic success.”

  The flower maze was doing better than expected.

  It had been exactly seven days since Ethan reopened the dungeon.

  Not that he was counting or anything. But he definitely was.

  Seven days, sixteen adventuring parties, three broken knees, one minor diplomatic incident involving a noble’s son and a carnivorous flower, and roughly four hundred muttered complaints about “how unfairly beautiful this damn maze is.” A strong start, all things considered.

  Ethan sat on a metallic outcropping at the edge of the first floor’s flower maze, his mechanical legs hanging over a stream of softly glowing water. Bloom petals floated lazily past him. The air smelled faintly like lavender and ozone—a side effect of the ambient mana dispersal system he’d installed to encourage a “serene yet mildly threatening” atmosphere.

  Behind him, a Bloom Knight quietly polished its glaive, perfectly still unless directly provoked. Like a polite but unamused museum guard.

  “So,” Ethan muttered aloud, mostly to himself. “Turns out people really like deadly art installations.”

  “They like a challenge,” came the Strategist’s voice, drifting through the ambient mana with its usual stately tone. “And most challenges don’t come with flower-scented doom and well-labeled loot rooms.”

  Ethan didn’t look up. “Well, maybe next time I’ll add some tea service.”

  “You’re joking,” the Strategist said flatly.

  “Am I?” Ethan asked, narrowing his eyes. “Imagine it. You clear the maze, survive a duel with an enchanted knight, and then—bam! Earl Grey with a side of existential dread.”

  There was a pause. Ethan could’ve sworn the mana around him pulsed in a way that suggested deeply suppressed exasperation.

  The dungeon had changed.

  After the fight with Leo, after rebuilding everything from the ground up, it was more than just stronger. It was smarter. More…intentional.

  The Bloom Maze was now a meditation on movement and restraint. The knights wouldn’t even aggro if you didn’t damage the flora. But stomp too hard, and the petals whispered your sins to the sword.

  The second floor? A different story entirely.

  Combat Striders Mark V now patrolled winding canyons of scorched alloy and retractable cover walls. Gunslingers hid in towers and alcoves, firing precisely timed shots in coordination with sweeping enforcers. The place was a symphony of calculated aggression—tactical violence orchestrated with loving craftsmanship.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Ethan was proud of it. Maybe too proud.

  He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “No one’s made it past the second floor.”

  “Would you like them to?”

  “…Kind of? I mean, not easily. But also… I don’t want to be a wall. I want to be a forge, hammering the iron in order to help it-and myself of course-.

  There was a long silence.

  “That was poetic,” the Strategist eventually said.

  “Yeah I guess.”Ethan said as he leaned back, hands behind him, staring up at the glowing ceiling. The mana veins pulsed gently overhead. He had four floors now. Four living, breathing arenas of invention and risk. But it still didn’t feel done. Not yet.

  There were still adventurers who hadn’t come. Still artifacts that hadn’t been recovered. Still stories waiting to be written through blood, bloom, and brass.

  And somewhere, he knew, Leo was still out there—quiet, brooding, probably sharpening his ego for another go.

  “Think I’m overdoing it?” Ethan asked.

  “No,” the Strategist replied. “But you might want to pace yourself. The guild hasn’t made a move yet, but they’re watching. And Vaylean is a patient man.”

  Ethan snorted. “Great. Nothing like passive-aggressive bureaucracy to really spice things up.”

  Still, he stood. His body whirred with movement, cables flexing, plated limbs gleaming faintly under the soft lighting. He looked across his dungeon.

  No longer a broken battlefield.

  A home. A statement.

  And soon?

  A legend.

  ________

  Redroot was louder than Corwin remembered.

  He pulled the hood of his cloak down lower as the group stepped off the road and into the heart of the town. Only… it wasn’t really a town anymore, was it?

  Thousands of pilgrims moved like a tide through hastily built market stalls and stone roads smoothed by mana-rush work. Banners hung from rooftops: obsidian, black with crimson-blue trim, and the symbol of a gear inside a blooming flower—the Industrial Seal, apparently. Chanting echoed from a massive temple at the town’s center. Not a church, a temple. Freshly built. Gold-inlaid. Wide steps. Tall columns. Giant statues of a vaguely humanoid figure with metal vines and crystal eyes that looked unsettlingly like—

  “Is that supposed to be Ethan?” Renna squinted up at the nearest statue.

  “I think it is,” Lena muttered. “It’s got the cable-hair.”

  “It’s not cable-hair,” Derrick corrected. “It’s ‘mana-threaded filament wiring.’ I read a pamphlet.”

  “You read a pamphlet?”

  “There was a free stand back by the last ridge. Also free socks. I grabbed those too.”

  Corwin rubbed his temples, watching two pilgrims get into a slap fight over who saw the dungeon entrance glow first this morning. This place used to be a quiet frontier post.

  “Okay,” he said. “I get that he’s important now, but this is a lot. We leave for one month and the guy builds a damn religion.”

  “We did almost die in his dungeon and promise to come back after our class evolutions,” Renna reminded.

  “Evolved classes,” Derrick said. “We got stronger, not smarter.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Lena muttered.

  They followed the crowd to the dungeon’s front gate—which was very much not how they remembered it. Once, it had been half-hidden behind rocks, little more than a yawning crack in the ground with runes scribbled on top.

  Now?

  The entrance was a fortress.

  A shimmering obsidian archway pulsed with the same crimson-blue mana veins they’d seen across the town. An entire observation platform had been built to the side, where clerics in pristine robes blessed adventuring parties before they entered. A massive set of reinforced gates slowly parted as they approached, revealing the familiar voice of a steward golem at the entrance.

  “Welcome, designated returnees. Please proceed through the first-floor assessment protocol. Have a blessed death!”

  “…The same old Ethan,” Corwin muttered, stepping through.

  __________

  The flower maze was beautiful. Deadly, but beautiful.

  Gleaming silver vines crept along the labyrinth walls, occasionally shifting when no one was looking. Enormous flowers bloomed in unnatural colors, humming faintly with ambient mana.

  Then came the constructs - sentinel like construct with blades in a flower pattern and ,according to the pamphlet, hallucinogenic spores and hypnotic helmets.

  “Don’t look at their helmets too long,” Renna hissed, ducking behind a turning wall.

  “I wasn’t looking!” Derrick yelped, blocking a swipe from one with a shield now glowing violet. “These guys upgraded!”

  Corwin cursed and rolled behind cover. “He gave the first floor absorption shielding?! This is floor one!”

  “Technically one-point-five,” Derrick said. “You know, with the rebuild and all.”

  They managed to finish the trial with only one person getting lightly stabbed (Derrick) and no fatalities, which counted as a win.

  Things could only get better.

  “Combat Striders, Mark V,” Corwin read off a plaque near the start of the floor. “Why is there a plaque?”

  “Because Ethan is dramatic,” Lena said.

  The floor itself looked like a war factory—conveyor belts moving in slow, menacing rhythm, smokestacks releasing harmless (but deeply ominous) steam, and above it all, shifting platforms dotted with—

  “Constructs?” Derric asked “What is the point in putting them up there where they can’t even attac-“

  They were interrupted with a loud BANG and a burst of mana which intentionally curved around Derric.

  “Are you seeing this? They’re taunting us!” Renna barked.

  “Yeah,” Corwin groaned as he blocked another attack. “We’re definitely back.”

  They made it through the second floor bruised, bruised again, and deeply aware that this place had evolved far beyond what they left behind.

  When they finally stumbled into the floor’s rest chamber, the Strategist’s projection waited for them—a shimmering robed figure with far too much smugness for an assistant construct.

  “Welcome back, team Corwin. You survived both floors. Congratulations. You are now officially above average.”

  “Thanks?” Corwin said flatly.

  “I have a message from Ethan.”

  Everyone straightened.

  The Strategist cleared its throat, unnecessarily. “He says, and I quote, ‘Took you long enough.’”

  _________

  Vaylean didn’t jump when the dungeon’s gates opened again.

  But he did drop his quill.

  The ink splattered across the requisition form for new wheat barrels. He stared at it. Then at the runner who had burst into his office shouting something about “mana spikes” and “visible light beams” and “holy chants.”

  “Which part of this,” he said calmly, “sounds like a farming concern?”

  The runner gulped. “None, sir. But the Industrial Dungeon’s open again.”

  Vaylean stared out the window for a long moment, then leaned back in his chair and muttered, “Damn it.”

  ________

  Things got worse.