The Iron Keg Tavern had never been quiet, but tonight, it was chaos. Conversations crashed over each other like storm waves, chairs scraped as people leaned in to gossip, and the smell of spilled ale mixed with roasted meat hung thick in the air. A dice game in the back corner had completely stalled, players frozen mid-roll as the latest rumor swept through the crowd. Even the bard—halfway through a rousing ballad—lowered his lute and cocked his head toward the nearest group, listening.

  Across the tavern, the same phrase shot from table to table like a spark in dry tinder.

  "Did you hear? The Obsidian Blades are in town!"

  A ripple of reactions followed. Some adventurers exchanged wary glances, others scoffed, and a few younger ones straightened up as if expecting the legends to walk in at any moment.

  A half-orc mercenary near the bar lowered his tankard with a heavy thunk, ale sloshing over the rim. "You're joking." His tusked mouth twisted into a skeptical grin. "What the hell would they be doing here?"

  A wiry elf two stools over leaned in, eyes sharp beneath the hood of his travel-worn cloak. "They’re running the new dungeon," he murmured. "The one with the races."

  The half-orc let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "That’s gotta be a mistake. What, they get bored killing dragons and decide to take up kart racing?"

  A low chuckle came from the next table, where a stocky dwarven woman with a scar across her cheek had been listening. She swirled the last of her drink in its mug before setting it down. "Aye, well, they’re either desperate for a real challenge, or they think it’s a joke. Either way, they’ll be through it before the barkeep can refill my drink."

  A younger adventurer, barely out of his first few dungeon runs, leaned forward with wide eyes. "But... what if it’s actually hard?"

  The cloaked elf snorted. "Hard? For them? Please." He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "They’ve crushed fortresses, shattered ancient curses, outmaneuvered demon princes. They aren’t just adventurers—they’re legends. The Blades don’t run dungeons, they conquer them."

  The half-orc rolled his shoulders, his grin fading slightly. "So what do they want with this one?"

  The elf drummed his fingers on the wooden table. "Could be a warm-up. Could be a test." He hesitated, lowering his voice. "Or maybe... they think there’s more to it than we know."

  That caught more attention. A few heads turned, eyes narrowing.

  The dwarf raised an eyebrow. "What are you saying? That this ain't just some gimmick dungeon?"

  The elf shrugged. "All I know is this—if the Obsidian Blades are running it, they see something worth their time. If the dungeon’s good, word spreads. And if it’s a joke..." He let the thought hang, tapping his fingers against the wood.

  Someone at the next table snorted. "Poor bastard running the place. He’s got no idea what’s coming for him."

  The tavern rumbled with knowing laughter, but beneath it, a quiet tension settled in. Whatever the Obsidian Blades were looking for, they'd find it soon enough.

  Ferron had witnessed plenty of disasters in his time—collapsed corridors, unstable magic, dungeon cores throwing tantrums—but nothing quite like Brent’s reaction when he delivered the news.

  The dungeon core pulsed once, his crystalline form thrumming in agitation. The chamber around him was dimly lit, the only glow coming from his own essence, casting fractured light against the walls. His consciousness expanded through the dungeon, flickering from room to room, adjusting traps, checking mechanisms. Every part of the Golem's Gambit was an extension of himself—every track curve, every hazard, every carefully designed trap.

  Right now, he was focused on a particular section where one of the brand-new speed boosters had been acting up, adjusting the energy flow directly. His presence flickered there, trying to figure out why the damn thing was giving him so much trouble.

  “We’ve got a problem, boss. A big one.”

  Ferron’s deep voice rumbled through the chamber, his heavy metal-plated frame standing near Brent’s Core pedestal. The iron golem was built for strength and durability, but more importantly, for management—and his tone suggested this was something beyond a mere mechanical issue.

  Brent’s essence pulsed again. “Did Kagejin break another kart?”

  Ferron folded his arms. “Worse.”

  Brent flickered across the dungeon, pulling his awareness back to Ferron. “Worse, how?”

  Ferron shifted his weight, the sound of metal grinding against stone filling the chamber. “You’ve got company coming. Big company.”

  Brent hesitated. “Isn’t that the whole point? Adventurers come, they race, they lose—well, actually a lot of them win, some lose, though that's not as often anymore, maybe I'm rambling— anyway, it’s fun, right?”

  Ferron let the silence stretch before exhaling a slow, measured breath—more for effect than necessity.

  “Not these adventurers.” He leveled his gaze at the core. “The Obsidian Blades.”

  Brent’s light dimmed slightly. “.....and that name is supposed to me something to me?”

  A long pause.

  Ferron’s fingers twitched, his patience visibly wearing thin. “You don’t know?”

  Brent pulsed again. “Would I be asking if I did?”

  Ferron groaned, rubbing his massive hand down his metal-plated face. “Top-tier team. Veteran dungeon delvers. The kind of people who don’t just run dungeons—they tear them apart. They’ve probably fought dragons, liches, and gods on their coffee breaks.”

  Brent processed this. His core’s internal glow flickered slightly. “So… that’s bad?”

  Ferron let out a low, mechanical grumble. “Yes, it’s bad. If they wipe the floor with this dungeon, everyone else will see it as a joke. No challenge, no reputation. The Golem's Gambit will be nothing more than a novelty attraction at the festival.”

  Brent’s core dimmed further. He had worked too hard for that. He had planned every turn, every hazard, every section of the race with care. If thes e adventurers strolled through like it was nothing, his dungeon—his entire purpose—would be meaningless.

  "Wait. You know these adventurers?" Brent asked, suddenly realizing that he had created Ferron, leaving him with little knowledge of the outside world.

  "Well...I...uh....no. But everyone in the gameroom is talking about them and they seem super important," Ferron replied, feeling sheepish now.

  "So, you got caught up in the excitement and now want me to as well?" Brent continued questioning.

  "Look, the bottom line is if everyone that comes in here is only talking about them in almost reverent tones, they must be a big deal, and we need to get ready," Ferron said, trying to get Brent to focus.

  “Okay. Okay!” His glow brightened as his presence darted through the dungeon, his awareness stretching over every critical section. “We can fix this. We just need to—”

  “Prepare?”

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  The voice was barely a whisper, but Brent felt its presence before he detected the speaker. His awareness snapped to a ledge where Kagejin crouched, as silent as ever, silver eyes gleaming.

  Brent would have jumped if he had a body.

  Kagejin’s claws tapped against the stone, his voice smooth and certain. “You don’t need to prepare. You need to let them underestimate you.”

  Brent’s core pulsed again, letting out a sigh. “I think I’d rather be prepared.”

  Ferron folded his arms. “Then I suggest you get to it. We’ve got about an hour before they show up.”

  Brent’s presence shot through the dungeon, checking, adjusting, perfecting every track, trap, and hazard.

  Brent’s presence flickered from room to room, his awareness spreading across Golem’s Gambit as he examined every single part of the racecourse. The dungeon hummed with energy, the traps and obstacles responding to his focus. But no matter where he looked, everything suddenly felt… too simple. Too predictable. Too weak.

  "This section’s too easy," Brent muttered, his voice echoing faintly in the core chamber. "The jump pads should launch higher. What if they don’t even break a sweat on this stretch?"

  Ferron, walking the length of a stone bridge over the river in the jungle room, turned his heavy head toward the ceiling as if asking the gods for patience. "Boss, we just adjusted those last week. The launch height is perfect. Any higher, and we’re not running a dungeon race—we’re catapulting people into the afterlife."

  Brent’s energy pulsed with indecision. "Okay, okay. Fine. But the trapdoor—did we check the trapdoor timing? If it opens too late, they’ll just run past it. If it opens too early, it’s predictable."

  Ferron stomped over to the pressure plate and gave it a solid kick with his iron foot. A moment later, the trapdoor sprang open, revealing a deep pit filled with tightly wound spring platforms. After a second’s delay, the platforms shot upward, launching a few stray stones into the air.

  "There," Ferron grunted. "Works fine. Drops ‘em, bounces ‘em back up, doesn’t kill ‘em. Just how you designed it." He glanced up toward the unseen presence of Brent’s awareness. "Unless you suddenly want it to kill ‘em?"

  Brent hesitated. "No! I mean—no, of course not. It just has to be… good. Really good. We can’t have them rolling through here like it’s a morning jog."

  Kagejin landed beside Ferron with a soft thud, his feet barely making a sound against the stone floor. His silver eyes gleamed with amusement. "Then perhaps we should sharpen the spikes in the gauntlet section. Nothing like a little blood to remind them they’re not invincible."

  Brent pulsed in alarm. "Do you think they aren't sharp enough? We need to get on that now!"

  Kagejin smirked, flexing his claws. "Shaper is always better."

  "Do it. I'd sharpen them myself, but...no hands," Brent muttered, really wishing he could make jazz hands at a perfect moment like this. His presence flickered over to the next section of the track, where Ferron was already testing the speed boosters.

  The iron golem stepped onto one of the acceleration runes, his massive weight activating the mechanism with a sharp hum. The floor beneath him glowed bright blue, then with a sudden burst of energy, the golem rocketed forward, skidding across the track like an armored boulder on ice.

  He slammed into the far wall with a deafening clang.

  Silence.

  Brent’s presence hovered. "…Oops."

  Ferron peeled himself off the stone, a dent in his shoulder plating. His glowing eyes narrowed. "Boss."

  Brent’s energy flickered. "It might be a tad too fast."

  Ferron rolled his shoulders, metal grinding against metal as he stretched his arms. "Or I just invented golem bowling. Either way, that needs tuning before someone dies."

  Brent quickly adjusted the boosters, reducing the intensity. "Alright, that’s better. Maybe… a little more kick than normal but not immediate deathtrap levels."

  Kagejin snorted. "Where’s the fun in that?"

  Brent ignored him and moved his awareness toward the water hazard. It had seemed like a great idea at first—a spinning whirlpool with falling platforms, forcing racers to time their movements carefully. But now, under the weight of expectation, it felt too tame.

  "I'm not sure I like this anymore," Brent said aloud.

  Ferron had just finished inspecting the stone ledge when he stopped and looked up. "So what's the alternative?"

  Brent’s core pulsed rapidly, his equivalent of a nervous twitch. "I don't know!"

  Kagejin idly sharpened his claws on a nearby pillar. "Then let’s toss in a few hungry fish."

  Brent’s glow dimmed. "No fish."

  "Big fish?"

  "No biting creatures, Kagejin! It's a freaking whirlpool!"

  Kagejin sighed theatrically. "You take the fun out of everything."

  Ferron finished tightening a section of track and dusted off his hands. "Boss, you’re spiraling. Again. The dungeon’s fine."

  "But what if—"

  Ferron turned sharply toward where Brent's presence hung in the air. His heavy metal fingers clenched and unclenched. "Breathe, boss. It’s a dungeon race, not a royal banquet. You’re not hosting tea."

  Brent’s energy wavered. "But what if it’s a bad dungeon race?"

  Kagejin grinned, leaping onto a nearby ledge. "Then it’s our job to make sure it’s not."

  Brent’s presence flickered between them, still tense but steadier now. They were right. He had built Golem’s Gambit to challenge adventurers, to test their skill.

  And if the Obsidian Blades were about to run it?

  Then he was going to make damn sure it was a race worth running.

  The last echoes of Ferron’s footsteps faded as he moved deeper into the dungeon, leaving the grand chamber empty except for the hum of arcane energy pulsing through the walls. The flickering torchlight barely reached the highest beams of the cavernous ceiling, where the shadows stretched long and deep.

  And somewhere among them, Shadow watched.

  Perched on a rafter high above the raceway, he remained still, his dark form blending seamlessly with the stone and the twisting lattice of wooden beams supporting the upper reaches of the chamber. Below, Brent’s frantic energy pulsed through the dungeon, his invisible presence darting from section to section, fussing over hazards and fine-tuning speed boosters like a nervous artist unwilling to put down the brush.

  Shadow’s eyes gleamed faintly in the dim light, the only sign that he was even there.

  Brent’s desperation to make things perfect was almost adorable in its naivety. He was trying so hard—checking, adjusting, second-guessing—doing everything in his power to create a dungeon that was both thrilling and fair. A challenge without real danger. A competition without true stakes.

  It was almost funny.

  Shadow had no illusions about what was coming. The Obsidian Blades weren’t just adventurers; they were conquerors. Dungeon runners who had spent their lives breaking challenges far worse than this one. They would walk through Brent’s carefully designed course with little more than mild amusement, leave with a few patronizing words about how it was “fun,” and then forget it ever existed.

  A flicker of movement below caught his attention—Ferron, giving one last check to a track section, his heavy footfalls echoing through the chamber. Kagejin, crouched near a ledge, idly testing the sharpness of his weapons against the stone.

  And Brent, who wasn’t there, yet was everywhere. The core’s presence rippled across the dungeon, his anxiety bleeding into the very walls. He was afraid that this wouldn’t be enough.

  Shadow tilted his head slightly.

  It wouldn’t be.

  Not unless someone… raised the stakes.

  His fingers flexed, claws barely scratching against the beam. The dungeon was good. Too good. Too well-balanced, too carefully measured. A challenge built for entertainment rather than survival. That wasn’t how the world worked.

  Brent still didn’t understand what it meant to run a dungeon.

  Maybe it was time to teach him.

  A slow smirk crept across Shadow’s face as an idea took root, curling like mist in the back of his mind.

  Yes. This could be interesting.