Upon awakening, John immediately contacted Max, issuing a series of instructions. "Max," he began, his voice carrying a hint of the dungeon's echoing resonance, "I want you to make an announcement. Tell everyone that a new song will be released on the tenth floor. Make sure the message is clear and widely disseminated." He then turned his attention to the dungeon, addressing it directly. "And I need you to start preparing my quarters, my new sanctuary. I want it ready within three days, no exceptions." He paused, anticipating the dungeon's potential question about the timing of the payment. He understood that the dungeon might be uncertain about when he would have enough beast cores to cover the construction costs. So, he elaborated on his projected timeline, explaining that he expected to have ample resources by the time the adventurers reached the tenth floor and began paying to hear "Hell's Bells." "I expect to have more than enough beast cores to cover the construction and your fees by the time the adventurers reach the tenth floor," he assured the dungeon. "The revenue from 'Faith' and the new song should provide ample funds. In the meantime," he added, "I trust you'll begin construction immediately." A subtle shift occurred within John's thoughts, a mirroring of the dungeon's own calculating nature. He found himself thinking in terms of floors and levels, of strategic resource management, his human perspective blending with the dungeon's ancient consciousness.

  The dungeon was, after all, a dungeon, a vast and powerful entity that had weathered countless storms and witnessed the rise and fall of civilizations. However, it did acknowledge the very real risk of losing the other songs, the unreleased melodies that John had promised. If he were to perish, the dungeon mused, its thoughts echoing through its vast chambers, the music would cease. The flow of energy would dwindle. I would return to the silence. The thought was unbearable. And it also recognized the lack of accountability that would inevitably follow John’s demise. Who would control the flow of adventurers? it wondered. Who would ensure the delicate balance between challenge and reward? Without John's guidance, the dungeon feared a descent into chaos, a return to the days of mindless slaughter and wasted potential. If he were to die, who would ensure the continued flow of music and the strategic benefits it brought? It announced, through Max, that the second song, “Hell’s Bells,” would be released in exactly one week’s time, as John had instructed. The dungeon, already anticipating the joy of experiencing the new music with Max, of sharing those powerful melodies, was suddenly interrupted by a disturbing piece of information. It overheard, through its network of sensory tendrils that permeated every corner of its domain, the main guard, Bob, engaged in a clandestine conversation, plotting to coerce John into making further changes to the dungeon, changes that would undoubtedly benefit Bob and his allies. The dungeon listened as Bob's voice, laced with venom, spread through the training grounds. "He hoards the music for himself," Bob hissed, his words dripping with false concern. "He profits from our struggles, our sacrifices. He grows fat on our beast cores while we risk our lives." Bob was actively stirring discontent among the other inhabitants, accusing John of greed for charging adventurers for access to the music, painting him as a money-hungry opportunist. Additionally, and perhaps even more concerning, the dungeon caught wind of two elven women, Anya and Alana, engaged in their own secret scheming, plotting to somehow “ensnare” John, though the exact nature of their plan remained unclear. Less than an hour had passed since John’s warning, and already the dungeon was realizing the full extent of the danger he faced, the very real possibility that he could be harmed for his assistance, for the invaluable contributions he had made. The dungeon reflected on its existence before John’s arrival, before the music and the strategic partnership. The dungeon recalled the echoing silence of its empty corridors, the cold, sterile air devoid of life and music. It remembered the gnawing emptiness, the constant hunger for power that had plagued its existence. It recognized the stark contrast: a silent, desolate existence, devoid of melody and significantly less power, a mere shadow of its current self. John’s influence, his strategic thinking, and his musical contributions had rapidly strengthened it, transforming it into something far more powerful and vibrant. A sense of urgency, a protective instinct, began to grow within the dungeon’s vast consciousness. It had to act. It had to protect John. It immediately planned to inform Max of the unfolding situation, relaying the information it had gathered about Bob and the two elven women. And more importantly, it resolved to use its ample power, the power that John had helped it acquire, to construct a secure sanctuary for him, a truly impenetrable fortress on the tenth floor. It would also appoint dedicated guards, loyal to the dungeon and to John, to protect him within this designated safe zone, ensuring his safety and preventing any harm from coming to him.

  Long ago, in the silent depths of its vast consciousness, the dungeon had conceived an idea, a contingency plan for a situation much like this one. However, until now, there had been no reason to implement it. Now, with John facing potential threats, the time had come. It engaged in a detailed discussion with Max, its most trusted confidante, about the optimal way to establish John’s abode, his secure sanctuary. Several options were considered. The initial idea was to utilize an existing mountain within its domain, carving out a portion of its imposing facade to create a hidden entrance, or alternatively, to expand a section of the tenth floor and create a single, heavily fortified front entrance to the home. Max also proposed that the dungeon could summon a few of its most formidable creatures, powerful guardians bound to its will, to further reinforce the area and establish it as an undeniable safe zone. Upon hearing Max’s suggestion to expand a section of the tenth floor and maintain only a single, easily defensible front entrance, the dungeon was struck by a powerful sense of déjà vu. A wave of familiarity washed over the dungeon, a sense of echoing memories. It saw its own past reflected in its present, the patterns of its creation repeating themselves in this new alliance with John. It was reminded of how it had designed its initial levels, creating a clear and defined path for adventurers to follow. The original plan, before Max’s insightful input, was to simply create a small, secure section for John, a hidden refuge tucked away from prying eyes. But Max emphasized that it was absolutely crucial for the people within the dungeon, and even those outside its confines, to recognize, without a shadow of a doubt, that John had gained the dungeon’s trust and unwavering support. "It's not enough for John to be safe," Max insisted, her voice echoing through the dungeon's consciousness. "He needs to be seen as safe, as protected. The adventurers need to understand that he is under your care, that an attack on him is an attack on the dungeon itself." This public recognition, this clear demonstration of their alliance, would hopefully lead them to accept him, to understand that challenging this bond, this powerful partnership, would effectively render the dungeon unconquerable, an insurmountable obstacle. By establishing John’s presence on the tenth floor in such a visible and undeniable way, it would eliminate the need to construct a new sanctuary for him every ten floors, saving both time and resources. She's right, the dungeon realized. A public display of support will solidify our alliance and deter any potential threats. The image of John, standing proudly within his sanctuary on the tenth floor, a symbol of their combined power, filled its consciousness. The dungeon, fully understanding the strategic implications of Max’s proposal, assured her that all arrangements on the tenth floor for John’s new abode would be completed within the next three days, as John had requested. A warm wave of energy pulsed through the connection between the dungeon and Max, a silent promise of swift action and unwavering support. It also conveyed to Max the underlying intentions of the people surrounding John, the plots and schemes it had overheard, ensuring that she was fully informed of the potential threats.

  John had just finished his morning stretches, his muscles warm and limber, when Max relayed the disturbing conversation that had taken place within the depths of the dungeon. A wave of disappointment, cold and sharp, washed over him. He'd genuinely liked Bob, admired his dedication and pragmatism. He's just doing his duty, John reasoned, trying to understand Bob's motives. Protecting his queen, ensuring her position. But the sting of betrayal remained. And the girls... He'd felt a connection with them, a shared passion for growth and self-improvement. Perhaps they're just playing a game, he mused, testing their newfound power. But a part of him couldn't help but feel hurt, a sense of misplaced trust echoing within him. He knew he couldn't afford to be naive in this world, but a part of him longed for genuine connection, for trust that wasn't based on manipulation or strategy. He pushed those thoughts aside, focusing on the immediate threat. A chilling glint appeared in John's eyes, a sudden shift in his usually calm and approachable demeanor. His expression remained neutral, almost serene, but the coldness in his eyes spoke volumes. He fixed his gaze on one of the guards, his stare unwavering and intense, and calmly, almost conversationally, warned, "Should I be disturbed during my closed-door cultivation for any reason, no matter how trivial or seemingly insignificant, I will not hesitate to hold accountable all those who trouble me, including every single guard complicit in the disturbance, whether they were directly involved or simply turned a blind eye." Contrary to his usual jovial and easygoing demeanor, John displayed no trace of malice in his voice or expression. He didn’t raise his voice, he didn’t make any dramatic gestures, but the sheer coldness in his eyes, the unwavering intensity of his gaze, sent a shiver down the guard’s spine. However, the guards, blinded by their own arrogance and preconceived notions, completely underestimated him, dismissing his cautionary words as empty threats. They failed to grasp the true essence of John’s character, the quiet determination that lay beneath his calm exterior. None of them considered the possibility of him actually reaching the tenth floor, of him ascending to a position of such power and influence. Having only entered the dungeon once, and only briefly at that, Bob, along with many others, presumed to have unraveled John’s tactics, to have figured him out completely. They believed him to be nothing more than a clever trickster, a charlatan who had simply gotten lucky. They were about to learn just how wrong they were.

  After delivering his warning to the guards, John retreated to the quiet solitude of his bedroom, seeking the focused calm of meditation. He closed the heavy oak door behind him, shutting out the noise and distractions of the palace. The room was cool and dim, the only light filtering through the narrow windows. He settled onto the plush cushions of his bed, crossing his legs, his spine straight, his hands resting gently on his knees. He closed his eyes and focused on his breath, drawing in deep, rhythmic inhalations and exhaling slowly and deliberately. Fifteen minutes into this deep, meditative state, as his breathing became even and measured, thoughts of time, its flow and manipulation, began to occupy his mind. In his mind’s eye, two distinct clocks materialized, hovering before him like celestial orbs. One was a pristine white, its surface shimmering with an ethereal glow, its black hands sharp and precise. The other was a void of deepest black, its white hands gleaming like stars against the darkness. On the white-faced clock, all three hands—the hour, minute, and second hands—were perfectly aligned, pointing directly at six. This symbolized John’s current mastery over his own time magic, his ability to control and manipulate the flow of time as it related to himself. As this realization dawned upon him, a subtle shift occurred. The hands on the black-faced clock began to move counterclockwise, a faint ticking echoing through his mind, slowly at first, then with increasing speed, revealing the vast amount of time John had taken from others, the stolen moments that had been added to his own lifespan. Conversely, and in perfect synchronicity, the white-faced clock’s hands began to move clockwise, at the same accelerating pace, indicating the time John was now reclaiming, the borrowed moments he was now making his own. Lost in the depths of his cultivation, completely absorbed in the intricate dance of time, John emerged after an indeterminate period, a stretch of time that felt both fleeting and eternal. When he finally opened his eyes, he could hear the faint rustling of leaves in the courtyard outside, the distant chatter of birds in the trees. He could smell the subtle fragrance of the flowers blooming in the garden, the earthy scent of the soil after a recent rain. His vision sharpened, the intricate patterns of the tapestry on the wall coming into focus with crystal clarity. He realized he had gained four hours, a significant leap in his cultivation. But the transformation was more than just an internal shift; it was also visibly apparent. His skin was coated with a dark, almost oily substance, a byproduct of the intense cultivation process. This substance seemed to enhance his senses, sharpening his sight, hearing, and smell to an almost superhuman degree. However, it also emitted a potent, musky odor, a lingering testament to the powerful energies he had harnessed. Realizing the intensity of the smell, John immediately prepared a bath, spending a full hour scrubbing and soaking until he finally rid himself of the lingering scent, returning his senses to a more manageable level.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  The world around him seemed to slow down, each detail coming into sharp focus. He could hear the faintest whisper of the wind, the rustling of leaves outside his window. He could feel the blood coursing through his veins, the subtle vibrations of energy within his cells. His mind processed information with lightning speed, making connections and analyzing data with an efficiency he had never experienced before. The key difference now, however, was that his physical body could effortlessly match his heightened perception. He moved with a newfound grace, his body responding effortlessly to his every command. It was as if his physical form had become an extension of his will, a perfectly tuned instrument ready to play any melody he desired. There was no lag, no disconnect between his mind and his body; they were perfectly synchronized, moving and reacting in perfect unison. John, his mind still buzzing with energy, queried Max, “How long have I been cultivating? It feels like I’ve been gone for ages.” “Nearly two days, John,” Max replied, her voice calm and measured as always. “Moreover,” she added, a hint of tension creeping into her usually calm voice, "Bob and the girls are growing restless. I can sense their impatience, their growing frustration." “Really?” John said, a slight frown creasing his brow. “Okay, so that black substance that was coating my skin…that was the impurities that you couldn’t utilize, right? The waste products of the cultivation process?” he asked, seeking confirmation. “Precisely,” Max confirmed, her voice now devoid of any hint of emotion. Without further ado, without any hesitation, John retrieved the third-level beast core, the one he had been saving for this very moment and consumed it in a single gulp. The core ignited within him, a searing heat that spread through his limbs like wildfire. He gasped, his muscles tensing, his body bracing for the onslaught of energy. A wave of intense heat spread through his body, followed by a surge of raw power that felt akin to downing a shot of the strongest whiskey imaginable. The energy coursed through his veins, burning like liquid fire, but it was a controlled burn, a power he could now harness and direct. With his newly advanced spirit cultivation, John could now clearly sense the intricate transformations taking place within his body, the subtle shifts in his energy pathways and the strengthening of his core. The energy that had once trickled through his veins like a modest stream, a gentle flow barely noticeable, had now swelled to the proportions of the mighty River Styx, a powerful, unstoppable torrent of raw magical energy. He could feel it surging through him, filling every cell with power, making him feel stronger and more alive than he had ever felt before.

  His body thrummed with power, each heartbeat a drumbeat echoing through his being. He could feel the energy coursing through his veins, crackling across his skin, a symphony of strength and vitality. The energy slowly seeped into his organs, strengthening them, fortifying them against any potential harm. He felt his heart beat with a newfound vigor, his lungs expand with greater capacity, his digestive system hum with renewed efficiency. Every part of him was being fortified, refined, prepared for the trials to come. As it spread to his skin, he noticed his flesh becoming noticeably tougher, more resilient to physical damage. He ran a hand across his arm, surprised by the smooth, almost metallic feel of his skin. It was as if a layer of invisible armor had formed beneath the surface, protecting him from harm. This increased resilience, this newfound toughness, seemed to better contain the growing power surging within him, preventing it from overwhelming his body. Suddenly, as if a dam had burst within him, an internal barrier broke, releasing a strong, concentrated burst of energy that flowed through his entire body, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. The sensation was exhilarating, like being struck by lightning, but without the pain or negative consequences. It took an additional hour for his cultivation to fully stabilize, for the energy to settle into a steady, controlled flow. When it finally did, John’s senses were significantly enhanced. He was acutely aware of everything within a four-hundred-foot radius, perceiving even the smallest details with remarkable clarity. He could hear the faint rustling of leaves outside his window, the distant murmur of conversations several floors below, and even the subtle heartbeat of a small creature hiding in the shadows. He noticed Seraphina approaching, her presence drawing closer along with his spirit. He caught a whiff of her familiar perfume, a delicate blend of lavender and rose, moments before he heard the soft rustle of her silken robes. A familiar warmth entered his awareness. The white royal robe he had worn during his previous cultivation session was now ruined, stained with the dark impurities that had been expelled from his body. He had changed back into his old outfit, a practical and highly advanced combat suit. This outfit was not just ordinary clothing; it was a marvel of advanced technology, designed to withstand almost any form of attack. It was bulletproof, knife-proof, and fireproof, capable of deflecting even the most powerful blows. Its inner lining was composed of millions of microscopic nanomachines, constantly working to maintain and repair the suit. If it were to tear or become damaged in any way, the nanomachines would instantly spring into action, weaving themselves together to repair the tear, effectively self-repairing the damage. They also functioned as a self-cleaning mechanism, instantly removing any dirt, grime, or stains that might accumulate on the fabric. The nanomachines themselves moved and flowed like liquid metal, adapting to his movements and ensuring a perfect fit at all times. Then, just as he was finishing his assessment of his enhanced abilities and his improved attire, there was a knock at John’s door. John, anticipating this, inquired calmly, “Max, is everything ready? Are the preparations complete?” “Yes, John,” Max replied, her voice clear and concise. “Everything is as you requested. You also received more beast cores than anticipated, thanks to the increased dungeon traffic. I also had the dungeon create dedicated guards for you, as you instructed. Only you can enter your new abode; it’s completely secure.” John nodded, a sense of satisfaction washing over him. “Inform the dungeon,” he instructed Max, “that I am on my way. It’s time to move in.”

  While John delved deeper into his cultivation, Ayra and Alana pushed themselves to their limits within the dungeon. They fought with a newfound ferocity, their movements honed by John's teachings, their spirits ignited by the music echoing through the corridors. They reached the tenth floor, their bodies weary but their determination unwavering. A sense of pride mingled with anticipation. They were eager to see John again, to show him their progress, to bask in his praise.

  The town buzzed with excitement. The dungeon's music had become a sensation, drawing adventurers from far and wide. Taverns overflowed with patrons, their conversations filled with tales of daring exploits and the thrill of battling to the rhythm of John's melodies. But amidst the excitement, whispers of discontent began to spread. Bob, fueled by a misguided sense of loyalty to his queen, seized the opportunity to sow discord. He approached Will, the royal academy head, with a sly grin. "This John," he began, his voice dripping with false concern, "he's hoarding the wealth of the dungeon. He profits while we risk our lives." Will's eyes narrowed, his greed piqued. "We need to convince him to share the rewards," he declared, "to invest in the town, in its defenses."

  Will, enraged by Bob's suggestion, stormed towards the palace. "You fool!" he spat, his voice laced with venom. "You have no idea who you're dealing with! John could destroy this town with a flick of his wrist!" He immediately contacted Seraphina, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and fury. Seraphina's heart sank as she listened to Will's report. John, she thought, her worry growing with each passing moment, he must be protected. She rushed towards the palace, her mind racing. A guard stepped in front of her, his hand on the hilt of his sword. "My Queen," he began, his voice hesitant, "you cannot—" Seraphina didn't hesitate. With a swift, deadly motion, she drew her dagger, silencing the guard before he could finish his sentence. Her eyes hardened with determination. She would reach John, no matter the cost.

  Seraphina navigated the palace corridors with a speed born of desperation. Please, John, she pleaded silently, don't do anything rash. She knew his power, the devastating potential he held within him. She feared that if provoked, he could unleash a force that would destroy everything in its path. She burst through the doors of his chamber, her breath catching in her throat. The sight that greeted her was both terrifying and awe-inspiring.