Time moved strangely inside a dungeon.
In the world above, weeks passed with sunrise and sunset and birds that had never seen a tombstone in their lives. In Malgorath's Undead Necropolis, time passed in raids. In screams. In System notifications that chimed like cheerful bells no matter what horror had just unfolded.
At first, Malgorath counted every Dungeon Point like it was a rare jewel.
By the third week, he stopped counting them one by one.
He began counting them in piles.
He began thinking in terms of growth.
And that, unfortunately, was where the real danger started.
The cemetery forest was no longer a sloppy stage held together by enthusiasm and a goblin's duct-tape competence.
Now it was… organized.
Terrifyingly so.
Tombstones were arranged in deliberate rows, forming corridors of broken stone and shadow. The fog wasn't just "creepy"; it rolled in timed pulses like the dungeon itself was breathing. Lanterns flickered in patterns that guided heroes forward—forward toward traps, toward dead ends, toward the distant promise of treasure that may or may not exist.
Malgorath's undead army had multiplied.
Skeleton Warriors marched in patrol pairs now. Skeleton Archers perched in dead trees like bony vultures with excellent aim. Zombies lurked beneath mossy graves, bursting upward at the most inconvenient moments.
And the Skeleton Knight—Malgorath's beloved investment—no longer looked like a lone champion.
He looked like a captain.
Because Malgorath had bought him friends.
"Behold," Malgorath announced one evening (again, "evening" meant the sky filter shifted from pale moonlight to slightly paler moonlight), spreading his arms in the mausoleum boss chamber. "My empire of bone!"
Splurg stood beside him, clipboard in hand, nodding dutifully.
Below the grand bone chandelier, a small squad of Skeleton Knights stood at attention—three now instead of one—armor clanking softly, swords held upright like grim candles.
A Wight Guard hovered near the sarcophagus, draped in rotting ceremonial cloth, its eyes glowing with cold intelligence. It did not shuffle like a zombie. It watched. It judged.
Malgorath basked in it like sunlight.
Splurg, in contrast, was covered in dust and minor bruises from repairing trap mechanisms.
"Master," Splurg said carefully, "remember when we had, like, two DP?"
Malgorath sniffed. "A distant memory. Like the era before civilization."
Splurg glanced down at the System Screen.
[DP TOTAL: 612]Floor 1 Stability: HIGHRaid Frequency: STEADYHero Survivors: 62%Hero Fatalities: 38%Notoriety: MediumFloor 1 Boss Slot: Occupied
Splurg's ears twitched. "We've… come a long way."
Malgorath placed a hand on his chest dramatically. "Yes. Through my genius. My brilliance. My unmatched talent."
Splurg nodded, as loyal as ever—though something behind his eyes had changed in the last few weeks.
At first, Splurg flinched at screams.
Now, when the System chimed Hero Death Confirmed, Splurg's face lit up the same way it used to when he got compliments.
It was subtle.
But it was there.
He'd started humming while cleaning up corpses.
Malgorath noticed.
He did not comment on it.
The boss room—Malgorath's beloved mausoleum—had also evolved.
Where once it had been overbuilt and empty, now it was alive with dread.
The sarcophagus in the center still had Malgorath's inaccurately sculpted face on it, but Malgorath had leaned into the mistake by declaring it "a symbolic depiction of his hidden true form."
He had added banners.
He had added more echo enchantments.
He had added an ominous choir track that played faintly from nowhere, as if the dungeon itself was humming in anticipation.
And now, at last, he had added a boss.
Not a "minor boss."
Not a "mini-boss."
A boss.
A creature with a name.
A creature with a stage.
A creature that could make heroes regret their career choices.
Malgorath stood before the System Screen, fingers steepled, eyes gleaming.
"Splurg," he whispered reverently, "today, we birth legend."
Splurg adjusted his mismatched leather armor like he was about to attend a wedding. "Yes, Master! The Boss Ritual Checklist is ready!"
Malgorath ignored the word checklist and tapped the Boss Construction menu.
[BOSS CREATION: FLOOR 1]Recommended Boss Tier: Minor (Stable)Available Templates:
Bone Warden (Tank) — 220 DP
Lich Acolyte (Caster) — 260 DP
Grave Stag (Ambush) — 200 DP
Mausoleum Sentinel (Balanced) — 240 DPOptional Modifiers:
Regenerating Bones — 40 DP
Fear Aura — 30 DP
Summon Adds — 50 DP
Dramatic Entrance — 10 DP (highly recommended)
Malgorath's eyes locked on Mausoleum Sentinel (Balanced).
Balanced meant reliable.
Balanced meant it could survive long enough to scare heroes.
Balanced meant Malgorath wouldn't have to replace it every other day.
He tapped it.
Then he tapped Fear Aura because of course he did.
Then Dramatic Entrance because he had to.
Splurg raised a hand. "Master, do we need regenerating bones too—?"
"Silence," Malgorath whispered. "The drama must breathe."
Splurg obediently lowered his hand and whispered, "Right. Drama breathing."
The mausoleum floor cracked with green light.
Bones rose—many bones, too many bones—assembling in the center near the sarcophagus. Armor plates formed from shadowed stone, locking into place. A tall figure emerged—humanoid but wrong, its proportions slightly too long, its skull crowned with jagged horns like broken spires.
It carried a halberd carved with funerary runes.
Its eye sockets glowed like lantern flames.
Then the Dramatic Entrance modifier triggered.
The bone chandelier above flickered violently.
The torches flared.
The floor rumbled.
And the boss rose from a kneeling position with the slow, deliberate grace of something that knew it was being watched.
A deep, echoing voice filled the chamber—half roar, half whisper.
"WHO DARES DISTURB THE TOMB OF MALGORATH?"
Splurg gasped. "It talks!"
Malgorath's grin nearly split his face. "Yes. Because I commanded it to speak."
The System Screen chimed.
Boss Created: "The Mausoleum Sentinel"DP Spent: 280Remaining DP: 332Boss Threat Rating: Moderate-HighRecommended: Provide rest point or survivable exit to avoid excessive hero attrition.
Malgorath immediately ignored the recommendation.
He stepped forward, voice booming. "Sentinel! You exist to guard my throne and crush those who insult me with their living breath!"
The Mausoleum Sentinel bowed—actually bowed.
Malgorath's chest puffed up so hard his armor creaked.
Splurg clapped enthusiastically, bouncing on his toes. "Master! It bowed! It's respectful!"
Malgorath nodded smugly. "It recognizes power."
Splurg looked at the boss's halberd and smiled brightly. "Can I pet it?"
Malgorath stared at Splurg.
Splurg blinked. "What? It's cool."
Malgorath sighed. "Later."
The next raid proved it worked.
A mid-tier hero party reached the boss room after sweating through fog corridors and dodging darts and losing two members to zombies.
When the Mausoleum Sentinel rose and spoke, the heroes stopped.
They didn't bicker about lunch.
They didn't crack jokes.
They stared at it with the kind of fear that tightens your throat and makes your hands shake.
Malgorath watched from the scrying console like a proud parent.
When the Sentinel swung its halberd and cleaved a hero's shield in half, the System Screen lit up with DP gains.
Fear Output: ExtremeDP Gain: +22 (boss terror)
Splurg, standing beside Malgorath, whispered, "That's… a lot."
Malgorath whispered back, "Yes. The boss is an artist."
When the hero screamed and fell, Splurg's eyes sparkled—not with horror anymore, but with the thrill of accumulation.
"DP!" Splurg whispered as if saying a sacred word.
Malgorath glanced at him.
Splurg smiled awkwardly. "Sorry. It just… it's working."
Malgorath nodded slowly.
He understood.
The dungeon fed them.
And feeding felt good.
It was after a particularly profitable week—one in which three hero parties died in the forest, two survived, and one limped out covered in ectoplasm while loudly vowing revenge—that Malgorath finally allowed himself to… relax.
He reclined on his "throne" (still a tree stump, but now draped with a tapestry of stitched-together hero cloaks) and sighed contentedly.
"Splurg," he said, "I believe we have achieved stability."
Splurg was counting bone fragments in a basket. "We have achieved something, yes."
Malgorath gestured grandly at the dungeon map on the System Screen.
Floor 1 glowed with stable markers. Trap icons were neatly placed. Patrol routes were optimized. The boss chamber pulsed with a faint warning symbol labeled DO NOT ENTER WITHOUT INSURANCE.
Malgorath smiled.
This was his realm.
This was his success.
This was the start of his legend.
Then the System Screen flickered.
A new panel unfolded, stamped with the Demon Bureau's emblem: a skull wearing a tie.
[DEMON LORD BUREAU: PERFORMANCE REPORT]Recipient: Malgorath, License #D-1-7713Floor 1 Status: PROFITABLEDP Influx: PositiveHero Retention: AcceptableRecommendations:
Add at least one "Survivable Exit" to maintain return rates.
Consider a "Hero Rest Point" (low-threat safe zone) to encourage deeper exploration.
Reduce sudden lethal trap clustering (complaints logged).
Complete quarterly paperwork (mandatory).Note: Excessive hero fatality rates may reduce long-term sustainability.
Malgorath's eye twitched.
"Complaints," he repeated, voice dripping with offense. "They filed complaints?"
Splurg leaned in, squinting. "It says 'complaints logged.' Maybe heroes complained?"
Malgorath scoffed. "Of course they did. Heroes complain about everything. If a skeleton bites them, they complain. If a zombie eats them, they complain. If the fog screams at them in reverse laughter, they complain."
Splurg nodded thoughtfully. "Reverse laughter is really unsettling. Good choice, Master."
Malgorath's chest warmed. "Yes. Thank you."
Then he re-read the recommendations.
Survivable Exit.Hero Rest Point.
Malgorath's lip curled.
"A rest point?" he spat. "In my dungeon? What is this, a roadside inn?"
Splurg scratched his head. "It's… kind of smart, Master. If heroes can rest, they'll go deeper. Deeper means they reach the boss. Boss means more fear. More fear means more DP."
Malgorath hesitated.
Logic.
Again.
Always intruding like a clerk in a villain monologue.
He waved dismissively. "Perhaps. Later. I am… busy."
Splurg looked around. "Busy doing what?"
Malgorath turned away dramatically. "Planning Floor 2."
Splurg blinked. "Floor 2?"
Malgorath's eyes gleamed with ambition. "Yes. The next floor. The next biome. The next stage of my ascension."
Splurg's ears perked. "Oh! What theme? Fire? Slime? A goblin bazaar?"
Malgorath's mind immediately filled with visions of grandeur: an entire floor shaped like a skull, rivers of lava spelling his name, monsters chanting praise as heroes screamed in choruses.
He smiled like a man dreaming of an empire.
"Floor 2," he whispered, "will be… beyond comprehension."
Splurg nodded slowly. "Master… we haven't actually unlocked Floor 2 yet."
Malgorath froze.
He turned slowly to Splurg.
Splurg held up the System Screen timidly and pointed at the top:
Floor Count: 1Next Floor Unlock Requirement: Dungeon Level 5 OR Bureau Approval
Malgorath's smile strained.
"I am aware," he said.
Splurg blinked. "You are?"
"Of course," Malgorath snapped. "I was simply… envisioning. Strategizing. Manifesting."
Splurg nodded quickly. "Right. Manifesting."
Malgorath leaned closer to the screen and squinted at the bureau note again.
Quarterly paperwork.
His entire body recoiled.
"Absolutely not," he muttered. "I did not become a Demon Lord to fill out forms."
Splurg murmured, "You kind of did."
Malgorath ignored him and flicked the report away.
It vanished in a polite puff of blue light.
"Recommendations dismissed," Malgorath declared.
Splurg sighed. "Master… maybe we should at least add a small rest point. Like a bench? Or a safe tomb?"
Malgorath waved. "Yes, yes. Later. After I conquer Floor 2. After I earn my rightful rank. After the Bureau bows before me."
Splurg rubbed the back of his head, thoughtful. "Okay… but the traps near the entrance keep killing the squishier heroes. The survival rate is fine, but if we add a rest point, more parties might reach the boss. Boss fights are fun."
Splurg's eyes sparkled when he said fun.
Malgorath blinked at him.
Splurg quickly coughed and added, "Fun in a… professional dungeon way."
Malgorath smirked. "You enjoy the raids."
Splurg looked away. "I enjoy… the building. And the DP number going up. And… when heroes scream just right."
Malgorath's grin widened. "Ah. You are becoming properly demonic."
Splurg's face lit up, proud. "I am?!"
"Yes," Malgorath said, and for a rare moment, his voice was almost warm. "You are learning."
Splurg puffed his chest out, patchy armor creaking. "Thank you, Master! I will scream professionally!"
Malgorath laughed, then stood and spread his arms wide.
"Splurg," he declared, "I believe our first floor is complete."
Splurg blinked. "Complete-complete?"
Malgorath gestured at the mausoleum, at the fog, at the patrol routes, at the boss now waiting in its chamber like a patient executioner.
"Yes," he said grandly. "The Undead Necropolis is stable. Profitable. Fearsome."
He lifted his chin, horns catching green torchlight.
"It is a palace of bones."
Splurg smiled, proud and slightly haunted. "It really is."
Malgorath tapped the System Screen and snapped a triumphant portrait—an image of him standing dramatically in the mausoleum, skeletal knights behind him, the bone chandelier above, the sarcophagus at his back.
The snapshot caught Splurg too, standing beside him with his clipboard, eyes shining with loyal pride and a faint, unsettling joy.
Malgorath admired the image.
He looked powerful.
He looked like the Demon Lord he imagined he was.
He didn't look like a Level 1 novice who had accidentally stumbled into competence through a mix of luck, goblin diligence, and hero stupidity.
He turned the portrait into a banner and hung it in the mausoleum.
Splurg stared. "Master… that's… actually kind of cool."
Malgorath nodded smugly. "Yes. It is."
He spread his arms again, voice booming through the echo enchantment.
"Let the world know," he declared. "Let heroes gather. Let stories spread."
He smiled, sharp and hungry.
"The Undead Floor is complete. Any who dare enter will face Malgorath's masterpiece."
Splurg raised a fist and cheered softly, then paused, remembering the bureau note.
"Master… survivors," he reminded gently. "We still need them."
Malgorath waved as if brushing away a fly.
"Yes, yes," he said. "Some will survive. Some will flee. Some will return."
His eyes glittered, already dreaming of Floor 2.
"Now," he whispered, "the real conquest begins."
Behind them, the mausoleum torches flickered.
The boss waited.
The fog breathed.
And the Undead Necropolis of Malgorath—stable, profitable, hungry—stood ready for whatever foolish heroes dared step through its gate next.
But the undercurrent remained:
A Demon Lord who ignored advice.A goblin who was learning to smile at screams.A dungeon that had tasted blood—and wanted more.