The cemetery forest did not applaud.
It did not cheer.
It did not rise into a standing ovation the way Malgorath believed all true audiences did when witnessing genius.
It merely settled.
Fog drifted back into place like a curtain falling after a brutal play. Lantern flames steadied. The crooked tombstones resumed their silent vigil. Somewhere, a skeletal crow that didn't exist yesterday decided it had always existed and cawed once into the pale moonlight.
And in the middle of that eerie calm, Malgorath—newly minted Demon Lord, self-proclaimed Architect of Doom, and recent beneficiary of someone else's death—stood with his arms spread wide, breathing as if he had just conquered a continent.
"They fled," he whispered, voice trembling with satisfaction. Then louder, because Splurg was nearby and Malgorath preferred his triumph witnessed: "THEY FLED IN FEAR AT MY NAME!"
Splurg, crouched beside the fallen archer's corpse like an anxious undertaker, flinched and looked up. His oversized ears drooped a little.
"Master," he said carefully, "they fled because they were hurt and terrified, yes, but also because—well—because one of them died and the others didn't want to join him."
Malgorath waved dismissively. "Semantics. Their spirits were crushed by my brilliance."
Splurg blinked. "Their spirits were crushed by the dart trap, Master."
"Exactly!" Malgorath declared, as if that proved his point.
He paced in a slow circle, cape fluttering in an imaginary wind. His mind replayed the moment the hero fell—how the archer's body hit the moss, how the cleric's face had turned pale, how the mage's voice had broken. It was horrible.
It was glorious.
It was… something he couldn't name, a sensation like swallowing a hot coal and realizing it was power.
Behind him, Splurg turned back to the corpse.
The archer lay sprawled on the damp ground, eyes half-lidded, lips slightly parted as if still mid-protest. A thin smear of blood darkened the moss where his neck had struck. His bow had fallen a few feet away, snapped at the top.
Splurg reached for the bow.
Then hesitated.
He glanced at Malgorath's back—at the grand posture, the proud horns, the way Malgorath looked like a statue of arrogance carved into flesh.
Quietly, Splurg picked up the bow anyway and laid it across the archer's chest, as if giving him a final dignity.
Then Splurg whispered something under his breath. Not a prayer, exactly. A goblin didn't know the proper holy words. But it sounded like respect.
Malgorath's System Screen chimed.
He whirled around as if responding to a royal decree.
The translucent interface floated before him, bright and unapologetic.
[RAID SUMMARY: FLOOR 1]Hero Party: "Ashwood Lunch Brigade"(unconfirmed name; heroes argued)Hero Deaths: 1Hero Survivors: 3Monsters Lost: 1 skeletons, 1 zombie Dungeon Points Gained: +77Current DP Total: 77Fear Output: HighNotoriety: Low (but growing)Unlocked: Minor Boss Slot (Floor 1)
Malgorath's eyes drank in the numbers like a starving man staring at a feast.
"Seventy-seven," he whispered reverently.
Splurg shuffled closer. "That's… a lot for the first raid."
"It is," Malgorath agreed, voice hushed with awe. Then he snapped his chin up. "Of course, it is exactly what I planned."
Splurg's mouth twitched like he wanted to smile but wasn't sure it was appropriate.
Malgorath tapped the DP total again, just to confirm it was real.
It was.
Seventy-seven points. Not much compared to the legendary Demon Lords of old, who could summon hurricanes of undead with a flick of their wrist—but to Malgorath, it felt like being handed the keys to the universe.
He began to laugh.
A deep, villainous laugh, carefully practiced.
It came out slightly strained and a bit too excited.
"Splurg," he said, still laughing, "do you know what this means?"
Splurg nodded dutifully. "It means we can buy more monsters, Master."
"Yes," Malgorath said. "More monsters. More traps. More terror."
He pointed toward the entrance gate, where the fog still drifted outward like breath.
"They will return," he declared. "They will crawl back with allies and arrogance. They will bring their shiny weapons and their faith and their foolish courage."
His grin sharpened.
"And when they do… we shall greet them properly."
Splurg's ears perked up. "Properly like… with snacks?"
"Properly like with pain, Splurg."
"Oh." Splurg nodded as if pain and snacks were adjacent concepts. "Right. Pain snacks."
Malgorath pretended not to hear.
He snapped his fingers. "System. Open Summons."
The System Screen shifted to a new panel.
[SUMMONS: UNDEAD]Available Units (Unlocked):
Skeleton Warrior — 20 DP
Zombie — 15 DP
Skeleton Archer — 25 DP
Skeleton Knight — 40 DP (New!)
Wight Guard — 60 DP (New!)Minor Boss Slot:(Empty)
Malgorath's pupils dilated again.
Skeleton Knight.
Wight Guard.
The words alone sounded like power.
Splurg leaned in, eyes wide. "Master, those cost a lot—"
"We have a lot," Malgorath interrupted, savoring the arrogance in his own voice.
Splurg glanced at the DP total again. "Seventy-seven. That's… not that much, Master."
Malgorath scoffed. "It is enough to begin. Besides, I will simply earn more."
Splurg opened his mouth to argue, then shut it, because arguing with Malgorath was like arguing with a storm cloud: possible, but exhausting.
Malgorath pointed at Skeleton Knight — 40 DP.
"Yes," he murmured. "A true champion of bone. A warrior of dread. The kind of thing heroes write poems about before it kills them."
He tapped summon.
The air cracked.
A circle of green light flared on the ground.
Bones rose from the earth—not scattered scraps like before, but the remains of something larger, older, heavier. The bones assembled with purpose, clacking into place like a well-built machine. A ribcage expanded. A skull locked into a thick spine. Gauntlets of bone snapped on.
Then armor appeared.
Not iron, not steel.
Something dark and ancient, like shadow hammered into plates.
The Skeleton Knight stood up slowly, drawing a sword that looked far too sharp for something dead.
Its empty eye sockets glowed faintly green.
It stared at Malgorath.
Malgorath held its gaze like an emperor inspecting a general.
"Yes," he whispered, satisfied. "Kneel."
The Skeleton Knight did not kneel.
It simply stood there.
Then it tilted its skull slightly, as if confused.
Splurg whispered, "Master, I don't think they… kneel. They're undead. Their joints aren't great."
Malgorath cleared his throat. "Right. A symbolic kneel. In spirit."
The Skeleton Knight raised its sword and tapped the blade against its chest plate in a salute.
Malgorath nodded solemnly, pretending this was exactly what he wanted.
The System chimed.
Skeleton Knight summoned. -40 DPCurrent DP Total: 37
Splurg's eyes widened. "Master, we only have thirty-seven left now."
"Thirty-seven is plenty," Malgorath said, though his confidence wobbled for half a second.
He glared at the Wight Guard option—60 DP—like a hungry wolf staring at a deer behind a fence.
He could not afford it.
Not yet.
His pride snarled.
But then he noticed something else: the Minor Boss Slot.
Empty.
Waiting.
Tempting.
Splurg must have seen the gleam in Malgorath's eyes because he quickly said, "Master, maybe we should save points for traps and repairs. Also, you promised not to splurge. You said DP was precious."
Malgorath scoffed loudly. "I promised nothing. I implied. There's a difference."
Splurg blinked, then sighed.
Malgorath tapped the System again, eyes narrowing.
"Fine," he muttered. "We shall not summon the Wight Guard yet."
Splurg's shoulders relaxed.
Malgorath continued, voice warming with self-importance. "We will, however, reinforce our floor. Add archers. Add atmosphere. Add consequences."
He selected Skeleton Archer — 25 DP.
Splurg gasped. "Master—!"
Malgorath ignored him.
A new summoning circle flared. A slender skeleton rose, bow already in hand, quiver strapped to its back. Its bones were leaner, its movement quicker. It immediately loosed an arrow into a tree for practice.
The arrow embedded in bark with a satisfying thunk.
Splurg swallowed. "Okay… that one is good."
The System chimed again.
Skeleton Archer summoned. -25 DPCurrent DP Total: 12
Silence.
Even Malgorath's cape seemed to sag slightly.
Twelve.
That was… not plenty.
Splurg stared at the DP total like it had personally betrayed him. "Master…"
Malgorath held up a hand. "Do not speak."
Splurg closed his mouth.
Malgorath stared at his new forces: one Skeleton Knight, one Skeleton Archer, and the remaining original zombie who was currently chewing on a gravestone because it smelled like salt.
Not exactly an empire.
But it was a start.
Malgorath inhaled slowly.
Then he laughed again—because he had to.
"Twelve is… a tactical number," he said.
Splurg nodded cautiously. "Yes, Master. Very tactical."
Malgorath spun dramatically. "Now! Traps!"
Splurg perked up immediately. This, at least, he could do without spending too many points.
He opened the trap panel.
[TRAPS]
Pitfall Trap (Basic) — 5 DP
Poison Darts (Sleep) — 8 DP
Cursed Statue (Fear Aura) — 10 DP
Swinging Axe — 12 DP
Music Box of Dread — 15 DP
Splurg's finger hovered over Cursed Statue.
"This one," he said. "Fear aura increases DP generation because heroes get stressed, even if they don't die."
Malgorath's eyes lit up. "A statue that generates fear? Excellent! Build it!"
Splurg hesitated. "It costs ten. We only have twelve."
Malgorath waved. "Do it. Fear is an investment."
Splurg nodded, tapping summon.
The ground shuddered.
A stone statue rose near the entrance: a hooded figure with hands outstretched, face obscured. Its stone surface was cracked, and faint whispers seemed to seep from it, like the stone itself was murmuring threats.
The air around it felt colder.
Splurg shivered. "Ooh. That's… genuinely creepy."
Malgorath smiled, pleased. "Good. Let them feel watched. Let them feel judged. Let them feel small."
Cursed Statue placed. -10 DPCurrent DP Total: 2
Splurg stared.
Malgorath stared.
Two.
They had two Dungeon Points.
A Demon Lord with two points was like a king with two coins and a crown made of paper.
Splurg whispered, "Master… we can't even afford a pitfall now."
Malgorath's jaw clenched.
Then he pointed dramatically at the zombie chewing on stone. "We have traps already! We have… improvisation."
Splurg blinked. "Improvisation isn't in the manual."
Malgorath sniffed. "The manual is for weak minds."
Splurg opened his mouth, then closed it again. He picked up the Dungeon Management Brief (which he carried around like a comfort object) and flipped through pages.
"Master," he said slowly, "there's a section about maintenance costs. If heroes kill our skeleton knight, we'll have to replace him. And we have two points."
Malgorath froze.
His mind did quick arithmetic (not his strong suit) and concluded that losing a forty-point unit while holding two points was… catastrophic.
He forced a smile.
"Then," he said, "the Skeleton Knight will simply not be killed."
Splurg stared at him.
Malgorath stared back, as if daring reality to disagree.
Somewhere, a lantern flickered nervously.
Splurg finally said, "Master… heroes might come back stronger. They saw what we have. They'll prepare."
Malgorath waved the concern away with theatrical arrogance, but the words wormed into his mind.
He remembered the survivors' faces.
The cleric's fury.
The mage's fear.
The knight's stubbornness.
They had retreated, yes.
But they had not surrendered.
"They'll return," Malgorath said, voice lower. "Good. Let them. I shall crush them harder."
Splurg swallowed. "Crushing too hard means no survivors."
Malgorath's eyes snapped to him. "And what is a dungeon without survivors, Splurg?"
"A… short-lived one," Splurg said softly.
That was the problem.
Malgorath wanted power. He wanted growth. He wanted to become the Demon Lord he imagined himself to be.
But the System demanded balance.
Kill too few, and he would starve.
Kill too many, and he would run out of prey.
He hated balance.
Balance was for accountants and circus performers.
Yet here he was, staring at a dead archer's body while counting points.
Malgorath turned away sharply, as if the corpse offended his pride.
"Dispose of it," he snapped.
Splurg flinched. "Master?"
"The body," Malgorath said, voice tight. "It's… clutter."
Splurg nodded slowly. He approached the corpse again, gentle.
He didn't drag it carelessly.
He didn't toss it into a corner like trash.
He lifted it as best he could, straining under the weight, and carried it deeper into the cemetery forest—toward a freshly formed grave beneath a twisted tree.
Malgorath watched, chest heavy with something he refused to name.
He told himself it was irritation.
It was not.
Splurg returned a few minutes later, wiping his hands on his patchy armor.
"I gave him a grave," Splurg said quietly.
Malgorath grunted. "Fine."
Splurg looked at Malgorath's face, searching for something. "Master… do you feel bad?"
Malgorath's eyes flashed. "No."
Splurg nodded, but his expression said he didn't fully believe it.
Malgorath turned back to the dungeon, forcing his mind into planning mode.
"Alright," he said, voice regaining theatrical strength. "We have upgraded our forces. We have installed fear itself as a statue. We have begun crafting legend."
He pointed at the Skeleton Knight. "You. Patrol the central path."
The Skeleton Knight marched away with heavy steps, armor clanking like doom.
He pointed at the Skeleton Archer. "You. Take position near the fog corridor. Aim for ankles. Make them limp."
The archer skeleton nodded and disappeared into the mist.
He pointed at the zombie. "You. Stop chewing rocks. Eat… heroes."
The zombie groaned, which Malgorath decided was enthusiasm.
Splurg looked at the System Screen, then at the dungeon map. "We still need a way to encourage heroes deeper into the floor. If they retreat early, we get less DP."
Malgorath grinned. "Then we lure them."
Splurg's eyes brightened. "Treasure?"
Malgorath hesitated. Treasure cost points.
But… lures didn't have to be real treasure.
They could be suggestion.
He gestured at the System Screen. "Add an illusion of a chest. Something shiny. Put it near the cursed statue."
Splurg grinned widely. "Yes! That's cheap. Illusions cost almost nothing."
Malgorath nodded smugly. "See? Strategy. I am a genius."
Splurg tapped a few settings, and a small treasure chest appeared near the statue, gleaming faintly in the fog.
Malgorath admired it. "Perfect. Their greed will drag them forward. Their fear will keep them cautious. Their deaths will feed us."
Splurg nodded, then added quietly, "And some will live to come back."
Malgorath didn't answer.
He simply stared out through the foggy gate, imagining the survivors stumbling back to their villages and taverns.
He imagined them telling others:
A dungeon. An undead cemetery. A Demon Lord. A cursed statue. A boy who died.
Word would spread.
Heroes would return.
Stronger.
Smarter.
More dangerous.
Malgorath's smile faltered.
Then he forced it back.
Good.
Let them come.
He would be ready.
He would earn more points.
He would summon that Wight Guard.
He would build his Minor Boss.
He would—
The System Screen blinked.
A small warning appeared in the corner.
[NOTICE: DP LOW]Recommendation: Avoid high-risk encounters until DP replenished.
Malgorath glared at the screen.
"Do not advise me," he hissed.
Splurg patted his arm. "Maybe we should listen just a little, Master."
Malgorath sniffed. "No."
But in the silence after, he found himself staring at the cursed statue again, watching the fog curl around it, hearing the faint whispers it radiated.
The floor felt heavier now.
Not just like a stage.
Like a battlefield.
Somewhere out there, three wounded heroes were retreating—one barely alive, smeared with ectoplasm from a zombie's bite, coughing and sobbing and swearing they'd never return.
And yet Malgorath knew.
They would.
Because heroes were like fire.
They moved toward danger because they believed they were meant to conquer it.
And Malgorath—
Malgorath was danger.
He lifted his chin, cape fluttering in his imagination, and whispered to the empty air:
"Come back stronger. Come back angrier. Bring your bravest."
His smile turned sharp.
"I'll reshape this floor into your grave."
Behind him, Splurg watched his master with hopeful worry.
He wanted Malgorath to grow.
He wanted the dungeon to thrive.
He wanted heroes to keep coming so they could keep building.
But he also remembered the boy's lifeless eyes.
Splurg rubbed his hands together, forcing cheer back into his voice.
"Alright, Master," he said brightly. "Should I polish the tombstones or scare the scarecrow into being scarier?"
Malgorath turned, grand again. "Both. Everything. We are artists of dread."
Splurg saluted so hard he almost fell over.
The fog thickened.
The lanterns flickered.
And the Undead Necropolis of Malgorath, strengthened and sharpened, waited patiently for Act Two.