Frank slumped against the cavern wall, chest heaving, sweat stinging his eyes like acid. His body wasn’t screaming—not from exhaustion, not from the raw ache of near-death he’d grown used to. That was gone, replaced by a buzz deep in his bones, a restless hum that wouldn’t quit. Vital Reserve coursed through him, one massive pool that laughed at the old rules—no HP, no Stamina, just a single, brutal lifeline he could burn however he damn well pleased. He flexed his fingers, and the stone beneath his boots twitched, alive to his touch—an extension, a weapon, waiting for his call.

  He’d reshaped this place already—spikes, walls, a ramp to claw his way out of the Drake’s collapse—but that was small fry, testing the edges. Now he wanted the real deal. The breaking point. Where his power bent the dungeon or it bent him.

  “Alright,” he growled, voice scraping against the silence, rough as the jagged rock around him. “Let’s see what this Terraforming’s packing.”

  He dropped into a crouch, palms flat on the stone, feeling its pulse sync with his own. The cavern was a graveyard—cracked walls, bloodstains smeared black under the fungal glow, the air thick with death and dust. His turf now, carved out with his own hands. He sank his will into the rock, picturing a ridge—ten feet high, sharp-edged—sealing the tunnel ahead. A warm-up, just to test the cost.

  The rock obeyed.

  It didn’t erupt, didn’t crack—it flowed. Stone stretched upward, razor-edged and seamless, blocking the passage in a heartbeat. No resistance, no effort—just pure, fluid motion, like the earth was clay in his grip.

  Frank grunted, squinting at the teal-blue text glowing in his vision. Fifteen points? Out of 41,100? Barely a scratch. His Constitution sat at 137, pumping his Vital Reserve to 41,100, and that regen—548 points a second—had it back before he could blink. Too damn easy.

  He straightened, rolling his shoulders, the ridge looming silent and deadly in front of him. Small potatoes. He needed bigger—something to shove this dungeon’s face in the dirt and see what it spat back.

  “Let’s get real,” he muttered, daring the shadows to listen.

  He planted his feet wide, sinking his will deeper into the stone—like plunging a hand into warm mud, only it wasn’t mud, it was solid rock bending to him. A wall this time—twenty feet high, five feet deep, studded with spikes like a fortress ripped from some warlord’s nightmare. He pictured it, every jagged edge sharp in his mind, and let it loose.

  The ground roared.

  Stone surged upward, a tidal wave of rock reshaping the cavern in seconds. The floor buckled, walls trembling as the barrier took form, spikes jutting out like a beast’s teeth, their edges catching the dim light in cruel glints. Dust rained down, the air thick with the grind of shifting earth—not chaos, but precision, every inch bowing to his command.

  Frank’s chest tightened—not pain, not exhaustion, just a flicker of weight deep in his core, like a stone settling in his gut. Three hundred seventy points—still a drop in the bucket next to 41,100. Regen chewed through the cost in less than a second, ticking it back like it was nothing. He smirked, running a hand along the wall’s surface—smooth as glass, solid as steel, like it’d stood for centuries instead of being born in a heartbeat. His fingers brushed a spike, and the stone shivered, a faint ripple pulsing out. It wasn’t just obeying him—it was damn near alive under his touch, tied to his will like an extension of his own body.

  “Alright,” he growled, voice bouncing off the stone walls, rough and low. “Let’s see how far we can push this bastard.”

  He turned, facing the cavern’s heart, and let his mind run loose. Not a wall this time—a fortress. A full perimeter, layered defenses—walls, trenches, spikes—something to claim this hellhole and make it his own. He didn’t give a damn about the cost; he wanted the edge, the line where this dungeon either cracked or fought back. He pictured it—fifteen-foot walls in a jagged ring, studded with razor-edged protrusions, trenches five feet deep with sharp sides, spikes sprouting like a forest of stone teeth across the floor. A killing field. His killing field.

  He didn’t hesitate. He slammed his will into the ground, hard and unrelenting.

  The cavern trembled.

  It started low—a warning rumble, a growl in the earth’s guts—then erupted like a beast waking up pissed. Stone surged, walls rising fast around him, fifteen feet tall, spikes jutting out like claws ready to rip anything that got close. Trenches sank deep, five feet down, their edges honed to cut. Spikes sprouted in waves, a brutal forest stretching across the cavern floor, each one gleaming in the fungal glow. Dust choked the air, thick and gritty, the light dimming as the sheer mass of rock swallowed the space.

  Frank stood in the center, arms crossed, watching it unfold with a grim smirk. His core pulsed, a steady drain tugging at his Vital Reserve—not enough to drop him, but enough to feel, a weight pressing down like a hand on his chest. A reminder he wasn’t untouchable. Not yet.

  Frank staggered, the drain hitting like a sucker punch—2,400 points, six percent of his pool gone in one shot. Regen kicked in, clawing back 548 points a second, five seconds to stabilize. He felt it—a faint ache, a warning not to get sloppy. Still, he’d built a fortress in a heartbeat, and the cavern hadn’t even flinched.

  He stepped forward, boots crunching on loose gravel, eyeing his handiwork. Walls towered around him, trenches gaped like open wounds, spikes gleamed with a dull menace—his mark on this hellhole, carved deep. He could push harder, reshape more, but something gnawed at him. Limits weren’t just about Vital Reserve—they were about what this damn dungeon could take before it snapped back.

  “Come on,” he muttered, voice low and daring, almost taunting the shadows. “That all you got?”

  The ground answered.

  A tremor ripped through the cavern, sharp and sudden, shaking the walls like a pissed-off giant slamming its fist. Frank stumbled, catching himself against a spike, the stone humming under his grip, alive and restless. Dust poured from the ceiling, cracks spidering across the rock overhead—he’d pushed too hard, too fast, and the dungeon didn’t like it one bit.

  “Shit,” he hissed, eyes darting up as the tremor grew, a growl building deep in the earth’s guts, low and mean.

  Frank’s gut twisted—defensive measures? He barely had time to brace before the ground split wide open. Three fissures cracked through the cavern floor, jagged and spitting dust, and from each, something crawled out—hulking, ugly bastards, stone fused with flesh, their eyes glowing a dull, pissed-off red. Level 150 Rubble Stalkers, the system tagged them fast, their bodies a mess of broken rock and sinew, claws like slabs of shattered granite, sharp enough to carve through steel.

  Frank dropped into a crouch, eyes narrowing. Three of them, each twice his size, lumbering straight for his fortress like they owned the damn place. He’d wanted a fight—looks like he got one, and then some.

  The first Stalker charged, claws raking the outer spikes—stone splintered, but the wall held tough. Frank didn’t wait; he thrust a hand forward, willing the trench in front of it to widen fast. The ground obeyed, splitting deeper in a heartbeat, catching the beast mid-step. It stumbled, slamming into the pit with a guttural roar that echoed off the walls, shaking loose more dust.

  The second Stalker leaped, clearing the trench in a single bound, slamming into the inner wall with a crack that rang in his ears. Frank reacted fast—spiking the ground beneath it, sharp stone lancing upward, piercing straight through its underbelly. Black blood sprayed across the spikes, the beast howling as it thrashed, pinned like a damn bug on a collector’s board, its claws scraping uselessly against the rock.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  The third flanked, smarter than the others, circling wide around the perimeter like it had a plan. Frank tracked it, jaw tight, sweat beading on his forehead. He’d wanted a test—this was it, alright, and it wasn’t screwing around. He raised both hands, splitting the earth in a wide arc—a jagged fissure racing toward the Stalker like a hunting dog off the leash. It dodged, barely, twisting its hulking frame at the last second, but the move cost it footing, sending it stumbling on the uneven ground. Frank didn’t give it a chance to recover—he threw up a wall, fast and brutal, hemming it in tight against the trench.

  Vital Reserve dipped—another 600 points burned off his pool—but he didn’t flinch. Regen ticked it back up, keeping him steady, a constant hum in his chest as the numbers climbed. He was in control here, turning the cavern into his weapon, dictating the fight like a goddamn general on a battlefield.

  The pinned Stalker broke free, lunging at him with a claw swipe that could’ve split him in half if it landed. Frank ducked low, rolling under the blow, the air whistling over his head, and slammed a palm down hard. Spikes erupted from the ground, skewering the beast through the chest—12,000 health dropping fast as his Aura kicked in, a silent, relentless burn stacking damage every second, eating it alive from the inside out.

  The flanked Stalker roared, charging through the gap he’d left, its claws gleaming as it bore down on him. Frank was ready—sinking the trench deeper with a flick of his wrist, then spiking the walls inward like a trap snapping shut. The stone jaws crushed it mid-leap, bones cracking like gunfire, a wet crunch that silenced its howl in an instant, blood pooling into the dirt.

  The last Stalker, still trapped in the first trench, clawed its way out, bloodied but alive, its red eyes locked on him with a fury that promised pain. Frank didn’t give it a chance to make good on that promise. He thrust both hands down, the ground collapsing under it—a pit ten feet deep, walls slamming shut like a vice. The crunch echoed through the cavern, final and absolute, the beast’s eyes dimming to black as its body went limp.

  Silence fell, heavy and thick.

  Frank stood, chest heaving, dust settling around him like a shroud. Three Level 150s, down in minutes—his Vital Reserve sat at 37,920, regen ticking it back fast. He wiped blood from his cheek—none of it his own—and smirked, a grim twist of his lips.

  The dagger materialized in his hand, a crude blade of jagged rock that hummed faintly with a dull, restless energy. Frank twirled it between his fingers, testing the weight—light, sharp, nothing fancy, but it’d cut just fine. First loot. A start.

  He glanced around the cavern—his fortress still standing, fissures smoking, walls cracked but holding. He’d pushed hard, burned nearly a quarter of his Vital Reserve at peak, and the dungeon was still standing. Barely. He could feel it—the strain in the stone, the tension coiled tight, ready to snap like a frayed rope under too much weight.

  “Round one,” he muttered, gripping the dagger tight, its edge biting into his palm just enough to keep him sharp. “Let’s see what else you’ve got.”

  The system wasn’t done with him yet. A new message flickered in, sharp and snarky, like it’d been waiting in the wings to take a swing.

  Frank snorted, flipping the dagger in his hand with a flick of his wrist. “Love you too, asshole.”

  He straightened, scanning the cavern’s edges with a hard squint. The tremor had stopped, but the cracks in the walls hadn’t healed—jagged scars stretching wide, promising trouble. He’d rattled this place, shaken it loose, and the Stalkers were just the warm-up act. Floor 1 was high-level—150s already—and he was still at 89, outclassed on paper but not where it counted. Not with Terraforming bending the rules in his favor.

  He stepped toward the nearest fissure, peering into the dark, ears straining. Something scraped down there—stone on stone, faint but growing louder. More coming? Good. He wasn’t here to sit on his ass; he was here to climb—to Level 100, 200, whatever it took to make the system choke on its own damn alerts.

  Frank tightened his grip on the Stonefang Dagger, its rough edge biting just enough to keep his focus razor-sharp. The cavern was quiet now, but quiet didn’t mean safe in this hellhole—it meant trouble was brewing, waiting to pounce. He’d poked the beast, and it’d poked back. Fine by him. He’d keep poking until it bled out or he did.

  He took a step, then froze, feeling a faint rumble underfoot—not a full tremor, just a ripple, like the dungeon was breathing, sizing him up. His Terraforming had tied him to this place tighter than he’d expected—every shift in the stone echoed in his core, a connection he couldn’t shake. He could feel it all—the fissures, the cracks, the weight of the walls pressing in. It wasn’t just control anymore; it was something deeper, something that made his skin crawl and his blood pump at the same time.

  “Alright,” he muttered, voice low and steady, a challenge laced in every word. “Let’s break some more shit.”

  He raised a hand, the ground trembling in response, eager to obey. He didn’t know how far he could push—how much Vital Reserve he could burn before it turned on him—but he was damn well going to find out. The dungeon wanted a fight? He’d give it one hell of a brawl.

  Frank thrust his will into the stone, not holding back this time. A full wave—spikes, walls, trenches—ripping across the cavern in a brutal arc, no hesitation, no half-measures. The ground buckled under the force, rock surging like a tidal wave unleashed, reshaping the space into a killing field designed to chew up anything dumb enough to step in. Dust choked the air, thick and gritty, the fungal glow swallowed by the chaos as spikes sprouted like a forest of jagged teeth, walls rising fast and mean, trenches sinking deep with edges honed to kill.

  He stood in the middle, boots planted, watching it unfold with a grim smirk tugging at his lips. His core pulsed hard—a steady drain tugging at his Vital Reserve, a weight settling in his chest like a fist pressing down. Not enough to drop him, but enough to make him feel it, a reminder he wasn’t untouchable yet—not by a long shot.

  Frank staggered, the drain slamming into him like a mule kick to the gut—4,800 points, over ten percent of his pool gone in one brutal shot. Regen kicked in fast, clawing back 548 points a second, but it’d take nine seconds to stabilize fully. He felt it now—a real ache, sharp and insistent, a warning screaming through his chest not to get too damn cocky too damn fast. Still, he’d turned half the cavern into a death trap in a heartbeat, and it was holding—just barely.

  The cavern groaned under the strain, cracks widening overhead, dust pouring down like gritty rain, stinging his face and eyes. He’d overdone it—again—and the dungeon wasn’t playing nice anymore. A deeper rumble answered, the fissures pulsing an angry red, and more shapes started crawling out of the dark—not Stalkers this time, but bigger, uglier bastards, Level 160 Rockjaw Brutes. Four of them, hulking masses of stone and muscle, their claws like battering rams, eyes glowing with a fury that promised a world of hurt.

  Frank grinned, twirling the dagger, its edge catching the dim light. “Bring it, you ugly sons of bitches.”

  The first Brute charged like a damn freight train, smashing through a spike like it was kindling, claws swinging for his chest with enough force to turn him into paste. Frank sidestepped fast, sinking the ground beneath it—ten feet deep in a blink, walls snapping shut like a steel trap. It roared, trapped, claws scraping uselessly as it thrashed, but the second was already on him, swinging a claw that could’ve caved his skull in two. He ducked low, slashing with the dagger—stone met stone, sparks flying, a shallow cut opening its arm, black blood oozing out slow and thick.

  He didn’t stop moving. The third and fourth flanked him, moving fast for their size, but Frank was faster. He thrust both hands down, trenches splitting wide in twin arcs, catching them mid-stride. Spikes lanced up from the bottom, piercing through legs and guts, pinning them hard as his Aura kicked in, burning silent and relentless, stacking damage every second they stayed alive.

  Vital Reserve dropped—another 1,200 points burned—but he held steady, regen ticking it back like a heartbeat he could count on. The trapped Brute broke free, lunging at him with a roar that shook the dust loose from the ceiling. Frank met it head-on, sinking the floor beneath it, then spiking it upward—stone impaling its gut clean through, blood gushing black and thick across the jagged rock. It howled, clawing at him, but he rolled under the swipe, slashing its tendon with the dagger’s edge. It stumbled, leg buckling, and he finished it—a wall collapsing inward, crushing its skull with a wet, final crack that echoed like a gunshot.

  The flanked pair roared, breaking free from their spiked prisons, charging together with claws raised. Frank didn’t flinch—he widened the trenches with a flick of his wrists, spiked the walls, then sank the ground—a pit swallowing both, stone jaws snapping shut like a guillotine. The crunch was deafening, blood pooling into the cracks, staining the stone black.

  The last Brute, still pinned in its trench, thrashed wildly, claws scraping, eyes locked on him with murder in its glare. Frank walked up slow, calm as death itself, and slammed a hand down. The pit deepened, walls crushing inward—15,000 health gone in a wet, bone-shattering snap that rang out and died fast.

  Dust settled, thick and heavy in the air. Frank stood, chest heaving, dagger dripping black with the Brutes’ blood. His Vital Reserve sat at 35,720—still solid, regen pulling it back up fast enough to keep him in the game. He wiped the blood from his cheek—not a drop of it his—and grinned wide, a feral twist of his lips that dared anything else to try him.

  The claw materialized in his off-hand—a brutal, curved shard of stone, heavier than the dagger, its edge jagged and cruel. Frank twirled it once, testing the balance, then gripped it tight alongside the Stonefang Dagger. Dual-wielding now—his grin widened. “Not bad, dungeon. Not bad at all.”

  The cavern was a ruin now—his fortress cracked but standing, fissures widened, walls trembling under the strain of his Terraforming onslaught. He’d pushed hard, burned nearly a quarter of his Vital Reserve at peak, and the dungeon was still hanging on—barely. He could feel it in his bones—the tension in the stone, coiled tight, ready to snap like a frayed rope stretched too far.

  “Round two,” he said, voice low and rough, daring the darkness to throw something worse at him. “Hit me with your best shot.”

  The ground rumbled deeper, a growl that shook straight through his boots and into his spine. Frank tightened his grip on the claw and dagger, eyes narrowing as the fissures pulsed red again. He’d broken something alright—and it wasn’t done breaking back.