The puppet climbed out again to survey the forest with more nuance now that its joints moved properly.
Morning had settled into late afternoon. Sunlight angled through the canopy at a slant, scattering in thin gold stripes. Ashroot Forest glowed like a cathedral with a broken sermon.
The puppet stepped between roots, silent now.
Better.
First observation: animals had moved further away from the central glade. My emergence, my mana, my presence—subtle as a whisper—still rippled through the forest's ecology. Animals respond to imbalance before humans ever notice.
Second observation: the scent trails from earlier were gone. Covered by wind and travel. But newer ones formed. A deer herd had passed recently. Two boars. A fox. And faintly—very faintly—humans.
A camp?
A hunting party?
I searched for smoke, metallic scent, fabric oil.
Nothing.
But sound travels better than scent.
Two minutes of stillness—puppet crouched, listening.
A woodpecker hammered a tree.
Leaves rustled overhead.
A distant owl hooted even though the sun hadn't fully set.
And then—steel scraping leather.
A sword being adjusted in its scabbard.
Humans.
Close enough that the puppet's ears picked it up.
Far enough they wouldn't see me unless foolishly eager.
I did not approach. I was not ready to speak, and I did not intend to be seen. Information matters more than pride. Dungeons do not announce themselves.
But I listened.
Four voices.
One deep.
One light.
One calm.
One too anxious to hide it.
Travelers.
Adventurers.
Fresh or foolish.
Their footsteps moved parallel to the puppet's position—northwest, toward the thicker part of the forest.
Not toward me.
Not yet.
But their route would bring them within several hundred meters of my hidden entrance by nightfall. Close enough to smell the absence of life in my radius.
I tested the puppet's ability to mimic animal sounds. It rasped.
Useless.
I backed away silently.
The forest floor shifted underfoot in a pattern I did not expect. Not hostile. Just old. Roots moving deeper underground, sharing information the way trees do.
The puppet paused, hand pressed against bark. The tree pulsed with faint mana—responding to me like a heartbeat disturbed. Soon, my influence would trickle through its roots.
It would not become my creature—yet.
But it would become aware.
The puppet withdrew.
I returned to the dungeon.
There was work to do.
Humans were coming.
Maybe not tonight.
Maybe not tomorrow.
But the spiral was ready.
The traps were primed.
The monsters were hungry.
The dungeon was reinforced.
And I would not meet them unprepared.
🜁 SUBPART 10 — THE PARTY ENTERS ASHROOT (≈500 words)
(Adventurer POV — dungeon still has no awareness)
The forest grew darker faster than Ren expected.
One moment sunlight painted the moss.
The next it vanished beneath thick branches as if smothered by a hand.
"Should've left earlier," Sella muttered, glancing up. "Ashroot eats daylight long before dusk."
Joran adjusted his sword belt. "Relax. We're not camping. We're getting eyes on the anomaly and heading back."
Ren nodded weakly, clutching his lantern.
"It's just… quiet."
"Forests are quiet," Joran said.
"No," Liria replied softly. "Forests are busy. This one's listening."
Ren wished she hadn't said that.
They walked slower now. The path narrowed into a corridor between trees. The air smelled different—less animal, more soil, more moisture, more… something. Something heavy.
Ren wiped his palms on his tunic.
"Do you hear that?"
"Hear what?" Joran asked.
"That… nothing. No birds. No insects. Just—nothing."
Sella's jaw tightened.
"Yeah. I noticed."
The trees leaned over the path. Not literally—Ren knew trees didn't move—but it felt like they did, like they wanted to observe.
Liria traced a sigil in the air. The blue light flickered faintly, then steadied.
"Mana density is rising the deeper we go."
"Is that bad?" Ren whispered.
"It's… unusual."
Joran grinned. "Unusual means opportunity."
They continued, lantern light pushing shadows aside.
Ren nearly tripped over a root that rose unnaturally high, like it had been pulled from the soil recently.
The archer froze suddenly.
"Hold," Sella said quietly.
Everyone stopped.
Ahead—scattered on the ground—was a carcass.
A fox.
Twisted.
Neck broken cleanly.
But that wasn't the disturbing part.
Fresh.
Not scavenged.
No bite marks.
No signs of struggle.
Liria crouched over the body, eyes narrowed.
"This wasn't a predator kill," she murmured. "This was… execution."
Joran clicked his tongue.
"So something big passed through."
"No," Liria said. "Something precise."
Ren looked around, heart hammering.
"We shouldn't be here."
"We took the job," Joran reminded him.
"And we'll finish it," Sella added, though her voice lacked its usual bite.
A cold breeze slid across the path, carrying with it a faint, unfamiliar smell.
Not death.
Not animal.
Something deeper.
Older.
They didn't know it.
They couldn't name it.
But the forest had already changed.
An unseen boundary had been crossed.
Ashroot was no longer simply a forest.
Something new lived beneath it.
And it was waiting to be found.