The first sign that Malgorath's dungeon had acquired customers arrived as a polite chime inside his skull.
Not a literal chime, of course. He was a Demon Lord, not a wind-up toy. It was the System Screen his divine right made into a floating interface deciding that now was the perfect time to poke him like an impatient clerk.
A translucent window unfolded in the air, its letters hovering smugly in pale blue.
[ALERT: HERO PARTY DETECTED]Entry Point: Floor 1 — Undead BiomeEstimated Strength: LowThreat Rating: Snack-Sized
Malgorath's pupils dilated.
He sucked in a breath so sharp the fog around him trembled.
"Subjects," he whispered reverently. Then, louder, with the kind of panic he would later insist was excitement: "SUBJECTS HAVE ENTERED MY REALM!"
Splurg, who was crouched beside the monitoring nook arranging candles into a symmetrical "ominous" pattern, flinched and smacked his own forehead with a skull-shaped lantern. "Ow! Master, shh—!"
Malgorath ignored him. He spun in a full cape-sweep and sprinted toward the nearest surveillance panel.
Now, Malgorath would later claim he did not sprint. He glided with predatory grace, a sovereign drifting toward his throne. In reality, his ceremonial boots caught on a root, and he very nearly performed a face-first tribute to the moss.
He recovered with what he considered excellent dignity.
Splurg scurried after him, clutching the System Screen as though it were a sacred relic. "Master! Remember—let them walk in! Fear takes time to cook!"
"I know how fear works, Splurg!" Malgorath hissed, voice cracking slightly on fear because his excitement was trying to escape through his lungs. "I invented fear! Fear was nothing before it met me!"
Splurg did not argue. He just nodded vigorously, the way one nods at a very confident person holding a lit match near a barrel of oil.
They reached the "monitoring panels," which Malgorath had insisted on calling The Eye of Malgorath.
It was, in truth, a hollowed tree stump with a crystalline scrying lens wedged inside it at a jaunty angle. Splurg had installed it while Malgorath practiced villain laughs.
Malgorath pressed his face close. "Show me," he commanded.
The crystal shimmered.
And there they were.
Four figures stood just beyond the crooked iron gate of Floor 1, staring into the pale moonlight and drifting fog of the cursed cemetery forest. Their silhouettes were framed by tombstones, twisted trees, and lanterns that flickered like nervous eyes.
They did not look heroic.
They looked like they had gotten lost on their way to a picnic.
"Is this… the place?" asked the first, a knight in dented armor with a helmet plume that drooped like wet grass. His sword was real, at least, though the scabbard was held together with cord.
The second—an archer with a too-big bow and a too-small confidence—peered into the gloom. "The map said, 'ominous gate, definitely cursed,' and I think this qualifies."
The third was a mage, robed in fabric so faded it might have once been respectable. He adjusted his glasses like someone trying to read a sign that refused to be read. "It smells like… damp history."
The fourth, a cleric with a sun emblem and a permanent expression of mild irritation, pinched her nose. "It smells like dead. And I told you we should've eaten before we came."
Immediately, they began bickering.
"No, we did eat," the knight protested. "We had bread."
"That was a rock," the cleric snapped.
"It was shaped like bread!"
The archer shifted uncomfortably. "Can we not argue in the haunted fog? My mother said arguing in haunted fog invites spirits."
The mage, still squinting, said, "Technically, it invites nothing. Spirits are attracted to emotional energy, not verbal disagreement—"
"Great," the cleric said. "So if we stop arguing, the dungeon will be polite and let us leave?"
The knight puffed up. "We're heroes! We don't leave! We conquer!"
Malgorath's jaw slowly stretched into a grin so wide it bordered on religious experience.
"Oh," he breathed. "Yes. Conquer. Please. By all means."
Splurg leaned in, eyes wide. "They're… they're kind of cute."
"They are prey," Malgorath corrected automatically, though he did have to admit: for heroes, they had a certain snackish quality.
The System Screen pinged again.
[NOTICE: HERO PARTY ENTERED FLOOR 1]Fear Output: MinimalDungeon Points Gained: 0
Malgorath bristled. "Minimal? They're standing in my fog! My fog is screaming, for darkness' sake!"
Splurg peered at the fear meter. "They're still arguing about lunch, Master."
"Then we shall educate them," Malgorath said, voice low and dramatic. "Introduce the curriculum."
He jabbed a finger at the screen like he was personally giving the order to fate.
"Release… the ambiance."
Splurg blinked. "Master, ambiance is already—"
"More!"
Splurg sighed and tapped a setting labeled Ambient Sounds: Children Laughing Backward.
Immediately, faint giggles echoed through the cemetery forest. The sound was wrong—too high, too distant, like a memory of laughter that had been drowned and then taught to swim.
The hero party froze.
The archer whispered, "Did you hear that?"
The mage swallowed. "Yes."
The knight—trying very hard to be brave—laughed too loudly. "Ha! Probably just… evil squirrels."
The cleric glared at him. "Evil squirrels don't giggle."
"Maybe they do here!" the knight insisted.
Malgorath put a hand over his mouth to keep from cackling out loud.
"There," he whispered to Splurg, eyes gleaming. "Now they tremble."
The System Screen nudged him with another readout.
Fear Output: LowDungeon Points Gained: +1
Malgorath's chest warmed with triumph.
"One point," he murmured. "A humble beginning. Like the first drop of rain before the flood."
Splurg nodded. "That's good! Fear builds as they fight."
"I know," Malgorath said again. "I know."
He watched, rapt, as the heroes stepped through the gate.
The fog curled around their boots like curious fingers.
The cemetery forest swallowed them.
And Malgorath's dungeon, at last, came alive.
The first trap was a pitfall hidden beneath moss and bone-dust, placed just past a bent gravestone labeled HERE LIES SOMEONE WHO SHOULD HAVE LOOKED DOWN.
Splurg had calibrated it to be "nonlethal." A net of thorny vines waited below, meant to catch heroes and leave them bruised but alive.
Malgorath, however, had secretly adjusted the "dramatic drop distance" slider because he believed falling should feel like betrayal.
The knight stepped forward, leading as bravely as a man could lead while still thinking about bread-rocks.
The ground gave a quiet click.
Splurg whispered, "Oh no."
The knight blinked. "Did you hear that—?"
Then the earth vanished.
He dropped with a startled yelp, arms flailing. His helmet plume fluttered as he fell into the pit.
There was a wet thump—the net caught him—and then a string of creative profanity that suggested he was alive but reconsidering heroism.
The archer leaned over the edge. "Sir Brannock?! Are you okay?"
From below: "I AM… FINE… AND ALSO BETRAYED BY THE GROUND!"
The mage adjusted his glasses. "This is why we test with a stick."
The cleric crossed her arms. "Well, at least something happened. I was starting to think this dungeon was just a themed park."
Malgorath whispered ecstatically, "Yes. Yes. Suffer."
The System Screen flashed.
Fear Output: ModerateDungeon Points Gained: +6
Malgorath's grin sharpened.
Splurg gently tugged his sleeve. "Master… don't forget we need some to survive."
"I haven't forgotten," Malgorath lied smoothly.
He watched as the archer and cleric hauled the knight out using a rope. The knight emerged covered in moss, dignity in tatters, but alive.
Alive heroes meant repeat business.
Repeat business meant more Dungeon Points.
Malgorath approved.
For now.
They moved deeper into the forest, weapons drawn, their banter quieter, their steps careful.
The fog thickened.
Lanterns flickered.
Then, with the subtle timing of a stage director who had studied terror like an art form, Splurg activated the first skeleton patrol.
Three skeleton warriors rose from behind tombstones like bad decisions returning from the past.
Their bones clacked.
Their empty eye sockets glowed faintly.
The smallest skeleton—goblin-sized—popped up last, waving a tiny rusted dagger with enormous enthusiasm.
The archer gasped. "Undead!"
The knight raised his sword. "Finally. A proper threat!"
The mage lifted his staff, whispering a spell.
The cleric sighed, cracking her knuckles. "Alright. Let's get this over with."
Malgorath's heart pounded.
He imagined himself as a dark king upon a throne of skulls, watching his minions execute perfect choreography—heroes screaming, bones cracking, fear pouring into his coffers like wine.
In reality, one skeleton immediately tripped over a tombstone and faceplanted.
The goblin-sized skeleton tried to look intimidating by puffing out its ribcage and accidentally popped a rib loose.
Splurg covered his mouth, shaking.
Malgorath hissed, "Stand! Stand, you incompetent calcium!"
The heroes did not laugh.
Because the first skeleton—despite the stumble—managed to swing its sword and slice the archer's sleeve clean off, nicking skin beneath.
A thin line of blood appeared.
The archer's eyes widened.
The sound that came out of him was not heroic.
It was human.
He stumbled back, clutching his arm.
The fog seemed to darken.
Malgorath's grin faltered—only for a moment—because the sight of blood made the whole thing… real.
Then the knight roared and charged.
Steel clanged on bone.
The skeleton warrior's arm snapped at the elbow, spinning away like a thrown stick.
The skeleton did not scream. It simply reoriented and swung again with its other arm, relentless.
The mage cast a burst of flame. It hit a skeleton's ribcage, igniting old cloth and sending sparks into the fog.
The skeleton staggered, burning, then kept coming.
The cleric lifted her sun emblem, light spilling outward like a blade. The smallest skeleton squeaked—actually squeaked—and crumbled into a pile of bones.
The heroes cheered—briefly—because killing something felt like control.
Malgorath watched the pile of bones and felt a strange pang.
Not grief.
Not sympathy.
Annoyance.
"That one had spirit," he muttered.
Splurg peered at the System Screen. "Master, your DP… it's—"
A notification popped up.
Monsters Defeated: 1Heroes Engaged: YesFear Output: HighDungeon Points Gained: +12
Malgorath's annoyance vanished like smoke.
"Twelve," he whispered, reverent again. "Yes. Yes. Feed me."
Splurg's voice softened. "Master. We get more DP if the fight lasts. Don't—"
"Let it play out," Malgorath said, trying to sound calm, though his claws were digging into the bark of the tree stump.
The fight did play out.
And it played out ugly.
A skeleton's blade caught the knight along the thigh, slicing through armor gaps. Blood spilled, dark in the moonlight.
The knight grunted, teeth clenched, and hacked the skeleton's skull clean in half.
The skull split.
It still tried to bite him.
The mage screamed a spell that sent shards of ice into another skeleton's chest, pinning it to a tree. The skeleton rattled, pinned, arms still flailing.
Then the zombies arrived.
Two shapes lurched from the fog, their bodies swollen with death, mouths slack. Their feet dragged through wet moss. Their hands—what they had of hands—reached out.
The smell hit the heroes like a slap.
The archer gagged.
The cleric's face went pale. "Oh, that is vile."
The knight shouted, "Hold the line!"
Malgorath whispered, awed, "Yes. Yes. Gnaw."
One zombie latched onto the knight's boot, teeth scraping leather. It bit down, tearing through the edge of the boot and into flesh.
The knight screamed.
Not a noble scream.
A raw one.
He kicked, but the zombie clung like a curse.
The cleric slammed her mace down on the zombie's skull. Bone cracked. Black ichor sprayed. The zombie's jaw hung loose—then it tried to bite anyway.
The mage, trembling, hurled fire again. Flames caught the zombie's ragged clothing.
It burned.
And still it reached.
The archer loosed an arrow in panic. It struck the second zombie's shoulder, sinking in.
The zombie didn't care.
It shambled closer.
Malgorath's breath caught—because this was not theater anymore.
This was horror.
Real people.
Real pain.
And his dungeon was doing exactly what it was built to do.
The System Screen chimed.
Fear Output: Very HighDungeon Points Gained: +18
Malgorath's eyes flicked to the number like a starving man watching bread appear.
He swallowed.
"More," he whispered.
Splurg looked up at him, ears drooping slightly. "Master… we need at least one to leave. If all die, no one tells others. No repeats."
Malgorath didn't respond.
Because at that moment, the archer—panicking, bleeding, overwhelmed—backed away too fast.
He stepped on a rune he didn't see.
A necrotic glyph flared beneath his boot.
The dart trap corridor, triggered by his movement, fired.
Three darts flew.
Two missed, hissing past his head.
One struck his neck.
He slapped at it, confused.
"Wait—what—?"
Then his eyes rolled back.
He fell.
Hard.
His body hit the moss with a dull thud.
The archer twitched once… and went still.
The cleric froze, horror draining the color from her face. "No… no, no, no—!"
The knight shouted his name—something like "Perrin!"—and tried to lurch toward him, but the zombie still gnawed at his boot, pulling him back.
The mage made a strangled sound in his throat.
Malgorath's mouth went dry.
He had imagined death as a clean, dramatic thing. A villain's victory. A triumphant snap of fingers.
This was… abrupt.
Ugly.
Final.
The System Screen, uncaring, lit up.
Hero Death Confirmed: 1Life-Force Collected: +40 DPDungeon Points Total: 40Status: Satiated (Briefly)
Malgorath stared at the number.
Forty.
A fortune.
His heart leapt.
A laugh bubbled in his chest.
He clapped a hand over his mouth to keep it from escaping—half because he didn't want the heroes to hear, half because some corner of him recognized that laughing at this moment would be… wrong.
Splurg's voice was small. "Master…"
Malgorath tore his eyes away from the corpse and forced his grin back into place.
"Excellent," he whispered, voice shaking with awe. "We have begun."
Splurg shook his head. "But… we promised—some survive…"
Malgorath's gaze snapped back to the fight.
The cleric was trying to drag the archer's body away while fending off the second zombie. The mage cast spells in frantic bursts, hands trembling, sweat shining.
The knight, boot torn, blood dripping, roared as he finally wrenched free of the zombie's bite and slammed his sword down.
The zombie's head split.
It kept moving.
He chopped again.
Finally, the zombie collapsed, twitching.
The knight stumbled.
He was hurt.
The mage was terrified.
The cleric was furious—holy light burning in her eyes.
They were close to breaking.
Malgorath's fingers twitched.
He could press.
He could unleash more.
He could earn more.
And yet—
Splurg's warning echoed: repeat visitors.
Malgorath's jaw clenched.
He watched the cleric lift her emblem and blast the last zombie backward in a wave of sunlight. The zombie shrieked—actually shrieked—and melted into smoke.
Silence fell.
Only the crackle of burning cloth remained.
The heroes stood panting in the fog, staring at their fallen archer.
The cleric's hands shook as she closed the dead boy's eyes.
The mage whispered, "We… we should leave."
The knight swallowed, face hard. He nodded once. "We retreat."
Malgorath's claws dug into the wood.
He could stop them.
He could send the skeleton warrior—the good one—out now, finish them, drink in more DP.
His throat tightened.
But Splurg leaned close, whispering urgently, "Master. Let them run. Let them tell."
Malgorath inhaled slowly.
Then he forced himself to loosen his grip.
"Go," he whispered, voice like a curse. "Run back to your little villages. Tell them Malgorath waits."
The heroes staggered away, half-carrying the knight, leaving the archer behind because they could not carry both the living and the dead.
They fled through the gate.
Out of the fog.
Out of the cemetery forest.
Back into whatever world thought it was safe.
The System Screen chimed again.
Raid Ended: Partial RetreatHero Deaths: 1Hero Survivors: 3Dungeon Points Gained Total: +77New Feature Unlocked: "Minor Boss Slot (Floor 1)"
Malgorath stared at the words.
A slow smile spread across his face.
His first raid.
His first death.
His first profit.
He turned to Splurg, who was looking at the fog-covered ground with an expression that was hard to read—proud, maybe, but also… uneasy.
Malgorath lifted his chin. "You see, Splurg? My genius is unquestionable."
Splurg swallowed. "Yes, Master. You… you did great."
Malgorath didn't notice the tremor in Splurg's voice. He was already dreaming.
In his mind, the survivors would stagger into a tavern, whispering about the cursed cemetery forest and the Demon Lord within. Adventurers would flock. Heroes would come in waves. His DP would rise like a tide.
His dungeon would grow.
He would grow.
He would become everything he imagined.
Behind him, the fog curled lovingly around the tombstones. The lanterns flickered. Somewhere in the dark, a skeleton tried to put its head back on and failed three times.
Malgorath laughed softly.
Not because it was funny.
Because the dungeon had finally taken its first breath.
And it was hungry.