The passage of weeks blurred together into a montage of triumphs, laughter, and the occasional chaos within Golem’s Gambit. Brent often found himself switching between watching over the game room, observing the exchange counter, and reveling in the runs of both the first and second floors. The dungeon, once young and uncertain, was now bustling with adventurers from all corners of the land.

  The game room had quickly become a hit, with adventurers flooding in early just to try their hand at the medieval arcade. Shuffleboard tables were always occupied, the clicking of pucks echoing through the hall as players bickered over scores. Foosball became the source of many heated rivalries, with dexterous adventurers spinning the handles wildly to land goals. And darts? Well, it had become the surprising favorite—though Brent had made a mental note to remind Ferron not to test his own aim when the crowd wasn’t looking.

  “I swear, boss, it’s good practice for the traps!” Ferron had argued, only for Brent to deadpan, “Sure, but maybe aim away from the people next time?”

  The token exchange system was another resounding success. Lines formed daily at Golem’s Gambit Rewards, with adventurers eagerly trading their hard-earned bronze, silver, and gold tokens for everything from rare potions to magical trinkets. Occasionally, there were disputes over prizes, but Emil managed to smooth things over.

  “An adventurer argued that their bronze token should count as silver because it ‘looked shinier,’” Emil said, shaking his head. “This world needs better education on metallurgy.”

  Brent couldn’t help but laugh. “Or maybe a pamphlet explaining our token values.”

  The runs through the first-floor track were a whirlwind of activity. Highlights from each team stood out vividly in Brent’s mind. Some adventurers excelled in Rolling Stones, deftly dodging boulders while shouting clever taunts at each other. Others fumbled hilariously in Magnetic Mayhem, their carts colliding as they wrestled with the magnetic forces pulling them off course.

  Shadow played a major role in many rooms within the dungeon, where adventurers continued to be thrown off guard by his illusions. Brent had noticed Shadow becoming increasingly creative with his traps, though he sometimes felt a hint of chaos in the trickster’s actions.

  Kagejin’s mini-boss room became infamous for its difficulty. Many teams barely scraped through, only for the Winter Wonderland to leave them flailing as their carts skidded across the icy track.

  “Do you think it’s too slippery?” Brent had asked Emil one day.

  “It’s supposed to be a challenge,” Emil replied. “Though I admit, watching adventurers spin in circles is more amusing than expected.”

  The second floor was an entirely different beast. Only the most seasoned teams dared to venture there, knowing the tracks were longer, faster, and packed with more deadly traps. Vulcanis’ Molten Forge had garnered a reputation as the make-or-break room. His fiery temper and hammer swings forced adventurers to rely on precision, teamwork, and sometimes sheer luck.

  “I told you not to call me ‘lava-brain,’” Vulcanis once muttered, recounting an incident where an adventurer had insulted him mid-run.

  “The insult wasn’t the problem,” Emil had teased. “It was the fact you almost broke the track trying to smash them.”

  And, of course, Zyrris’ Astral Nexus became legendary. Adventurers spread tales of his taunts, illusions, and unrelenting celestial power. Teams often entered the room with confidence, only to leave battered, confused, and occasionally in awe of Zyrris’ grace under pressure.

  “I take pride in testing their resolve,” Zyrris had said during one of his reports to Brent. “Though their driving skills leave much to be desired.”

  The dungeon’s minions had grown into their roles over time, adapting to adventurers' strategies and even developing rivalries with frequent challengers. Ferron often led the charge in maintenance and trap design, grumbling about adventurers who destroyed his carefully laid plans.

  “They don’t appreciate the craftsmanship,” Ferron huffed one day.

  “They’re adventurers, not architects,” Brent had replied, patting Ferron’s metallic arm with his Dungeon Eye projection.

  Shadow, meanwhile, kept to himself more than usual. While he still delighted in crafting chaotic illusions, Brent noticed a growing distance in the trickster’s demeanor. He didn’t dwell on it too much, trusting Shadow to stay committed to the dungeon’s success—for now.

  By far, one of Brent’s favorite moments was watching the exchange counter light up with excitement as adventurers held up their prizes for all to see. The other gathered adventurers would cheer with excitement, or sneer in jealousy of the accomplishment.

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  “I’m telling you, boss,” Ferron said during a meeting on how to bring even more people to the dungeon. “We need some way for them to continue to brag about this. Really build up the competition.”

  The dungeon’s popularity soared, and with it came the steady influx of Dungeon Points. Brent felt a surge of pride watching the results of his team’s hard work, but he also knew there was still more to do.

  As Brent monitored the day’s activities, Emil appeared at his side with a knowing smile. “It’s been quite the journey, hasn’t it?”

  “And it’s only getting started,” Brent replied, his core glowing faintly. “We’re making something special here. I can feel it.”

  The Verdant Depths scout crouched in the shadow of a jagged outcropping near the bustling entrance to the Golem’s Gambit. Cloaked in the dark essence of its master, it was all but invisible, blending into the natural surroundings as it observed the adventurers coming and going with keen, predatory focus. The scout’s angular, beast-like frame was hunched low, its glowing green eyes tracking every movement with an unsettling intelligence.

  There was no room for error. The mission was critical, and its master’s trust was not to be squandered.

  The scout’s gaze flitted between several adventuring parties, its mind weighing the merits of each potential target. It wasn’t merely a matter of planting the seed—it had to choose someone inconspicuous but mobile, a figure who would almost certainly venture into the dungeon.

  First, it considered a wiry elf dressed in muted leathers with a bow slung across his back. The elf moved with purpose, his steps quiet and deliberate. A ranger. They’re predictable in their exploration. But too sharp-eyed, the scout thought. The chances of the elf detecting the seed’s presence before entering the dungeon were uncomfortably high. It dismissed him quickly.

  Next, its attention settled on a boisterous group of dwarves guffawing as they shared a round of ale. Their armor gleamed in the sunlight, adorned with sigils of their clans. No… too loud, too closely knit. If one finds the seed, they’ll all investigate. Too risky. The scout moved on.

  Then its glowing eyes landed on a group of younger adventurers—newer to the trade, by their hesitant movements and mismatched gear. One of them, a lanky human with a short sword strapped awkwardly to his hip, seemed particularly naive. He fumbled with a small pouch at his waist, coins spilling onto the ground. His companions groaned as they helped him retrieve them.

  The scout’s lips curled into a dark, toothy grin. Perfect. Foolish, inexperienced, easily overlooked. If the seed goes unnoticed long enough, it will root before anyone suspects a thing.

  Satisfied with its choice, the scout retreated further into the shadows, far enough from prying eyes. It reached into the fold of its cloak and withdrew the seed—a smooth, glossy orb that shimmered faintly with a verdant hue. Its surface pulsed as if alive, its energy humming with latent power. Holding the seed in its clawed hand, the scout let out a low growl, focusing its essence into the object.

  “By the will of the Verdant Depths,” it whispered, its voice a chilling rasp. “Let my consciousness take root.”

  The seed’s faint glow intensified, and the scout’s body trembled as the essence of its being flowed into the orb. A timer, visible only to the scout, appeared in its mind's eye: 24 hours until consciousness transfer . The countdown had begun. In that time, it had to find a place to safely hide its physical body. Afterward, its mind would fully transfer to the seed, and its original form would become inert—a vulnerable shell.

  The scout shuddered as the transfer completed, its breathing ragged. The seed now pulsed steadily, carrying its essence within. No turning back now.

  It crept silently toward its chosen target, the hapless human adventurer still distracted by his companions’ teasing. With calculated precision, the scout waited for an opportune moment—a slight commotion as one of the adventurers argued with a merchant. In the ensuing distraction, the scout’s shadowy form darted forward, its clawed hand slipping the seed into the adventurer’s pouch with eerie dexterity.

  The deed was done. The seed nestled snugly among the human’s belongings, blending seamlessly with the mundane contents of the pouch. Its glow dimmed, becoming imperceptible to the naked eye.

  The scout lingered for only a moment, ensuring its work went unnoticed. Satisfied, it melted back into the shadows, its heart pounding with a mixture of triumph and urgency.

  I must hide… I must endure.

  The timer in its mind ticked ominously, each second a reminder of its precarious position. It moved swiftly, its eyes scanning the area for a secluded spot—somewhere deep, somewhere dark, somewhere safe.

  But as the scout fled into the wilderness, seeking sanctuary, it couldn’t shake the feeling that something unseen was watching. The Verdant Depths had given it this mission, but there was always a price to pay.

  The scout’s shadowy form disappeared into the distance, and the seed—a seemingly innocuous object—remained hidden in the adventurer’s pouch, ready to begin its insidious work.