The dungeon changed on a day Malgorath wasn't even doing anything important.
He was practicing The Emperor's Walk—a slow, deliberate stride designed to communicate I own you, I own the air you breathe, and I am kind enough to let you keep inhaling it for now—when the System Screen chimed like a polite servant clearing its throat.
A new panel unfolded in front of his face.
[SYSTEM UPDATE: WAYPOINT NETWORK INITIALIZED]Floor 1 Waypoint: ONLINEFunction: Returning hero parties may teleport to the nearest activated waypoint.Condition: Heroes must have previously reached the waypoint chamber.Note: Increased raid frequency expected.Recommendation: Adjust early-floor pacing accordingly.
Malgorath stopped walking mid-step, one boot hovering dramatically above the floor.
His eyes narrowed.
"Waypoint," he repeated, rolling the word around in his mouth like he was tasting a suspicious stew. "Network."
Splurg, who had been kneeling beside a broken trap trigger and tightening bolts, looked up with immediate interest. "Oh! That's—"
Malgorath raised a hand. "Silence. I am interpreting."
Splurg closed his mouth obediently. He knew better than to interrupt Malgorath while Malgorath was in the middle of inventing a new truth.
The air in the mausoleum antechamber shivered. The stone floor—already carved with grim runes and decorative skull motifs—began to glow with a pale, steady light. Lines of magic etched themselves into the ground like veins filling with moonlit blood. At the center of the antechamber, a structure rose: a waist-high obelisk of dark crystal wrapped in silver runic bands. It looked old the moment it appeared, like it had been waiting centuries to exist.
The crystal hummed.
The runes pulsed.
And a small circular platform formed beneath it, inscribed with a symbol like a spiral eye.
Malgorath stared at it for a long moment, posture slowly shifting from confused to offended to certain.
At last, he inhaled with the satisfaction of a scholar who has discovered a long-lost prophecy.
"Ah," he said.
Splurg leaned closer. "Ah?"
Malgorath placed a hand on his chest. "They have built an altar."
Splurg blinked. "They… who?"
Malgorath gestured grandly at the dungeon itself, as if the stone had kneeling intentions. "The System. The world. Fate. Whoever is in charge of acknowledging my greatness."
Splurg stared at the obelisk. "Master, that's a waypoint."
"Yes," Malgorath said, nodding like a priest confirming doctrine. "A waypoint to my divinity."
Splurg's ears twitched. "It's… for heroes."
Malgorath ignored that. He strode toward the waypoint with the gravitas of a monarch approaching a shrine built in his honor. He circled it once, slow and dignified, inspecting the runes like they were compliments engraved in stone.
"Beautiful," he murmured. "Functional. Glowing. Clearly designed to attract attention."
Splurg shifted uncomfortably. "It's designed to attract—well—traffic."
Malgorath smiled. "Yes. Worshippers."
Splurg sighed internally. Close enough.
Malgorath climbed onto the circular platform and stood directly beside the obelisk, as if posing for a statue.
He raised both arms.
His voice dropped into the low, echoing tone he reserved for monologues he believed would be quoted later by trembling survivors.
"BEHOLD!" Malgorath declared to the empty chamber. "A sacred pillar raised in tribute to MALGORATH, SCOURGE OF THE LIVING, ARCHITECT OF THE UNDEAD NECROPOLIS, AND—"
Splurg quietly tapped the System Screen to lower the echo enhancement. Not because he respected heroes' ears, but because Malgorath's voice was starting to rattle dust from the ceiling.
Malgorath continued, undeterred.
"—AND LORD OF INEVITABLE RETURN!"
The waypoint hummed politely.
It did not bow.
It did not applaud.
It simply continued doing what it was designed to do: waiting.
Malgorath placed a palm against the crystal.
It was cold. Not the comforting cold of stone, but the precise cold of mechanism—like touching a tool that did not care about your feelings.
Malgorath pulled his hand back as if it had been insolent.
"This altar is… stoic," he said.
Splurg nodded. "It's a machine."
Malgorath glared. "It is a devotional artifact."
Splurg gave up. "Yes, Master. Devotional."
The System Screen chimed again.
[WAYPOINT ONLINE]Projected effect: Raid frequency ↑, early-floor traversal time ↓Tip: Consider placing engagement elements near waypoint exits.
Splurg's eyes lit up. "Oh, that's great."
Malgorath's eyes narrowed. "Traversal time… down?"
Splurg nodded enthusiastically. "Yes! Returning heroes can teleport past the entrance now. It reduces downtime. More raids, more DP."
Malgorath slowly turned to him.
"You mean," he said, voice dangerously calm, "heroes may bypass my carefully curated cemetery forest?"
Splurg blinked. "Well… only the ones who already—"
Malgorath's jaw tightened.
"Bypass," he repeated, as if tasting poison. "My fog. My tombstones. My pit traps. The cursed statue's insults that I personally approved."
Splurg raised a finger. "Master, that statue is mostly insulting you now—"
Malgorath snapped, "It has learned from greatness."
Splurg lowered his finger.
Malgorath stared at the waypoint again, his earlier delight curdling into suspicion.
A sacred altar was one thing.
A hero shortcut was another.
He felt the first itch of what would soon become a full-blown rage rash.
Then the waypoint pulsed.
Once. Twice.
And the air above the circular platform rippled like heat over a grave.
Splurg stiffened. "Uh. Master?"
Malgorath's head snapped up.
The platform flared.
Light poured upward like a fountain.
And with a sound like a page tearing in reality, a group of figures appeared—not walking in through the mausoleum corridor, not stumbling through the fog, but simply arriving in the antechamber as if the dungeon had coughed them into existence.
Six heroes.
Boots scraping stone.
Weapons already out.
Eyes already scanning.
They did not look lost.
They looked like they had been here before—and were offended to be back.
Malgorath froze.
Splurg whispered, delighted, "First fast travel."
Malgorath whispered, horrified, "They teleported into my house."
The heroes immediately moved.
No hesitant steps. No arguing about lunch. No "is this the right place?"
They spread out with practiced efficiency.
One was a sword-and-shield fighter, scarred and broad, with a grim mouth and a shield already dented by past skeleton enthusiasm.
Another was a lean rogue with a crossbow, eyes darting, fingers twitching like he was counting exits.
A mage in layered robes murmured a spell under his breath, already gathering sparks between his palms.
A cleric with a tight jaw clutched a holy symbol that looked worn from overuse.
Two others—an archer and a spear fighter—hung back, watching the corridor ahead like it might spit teeth.
The shield fighter barked, "We skip the forest. Straight to the boss. No wasting potions on trash."
The rogue nodded. "In and out. Grab the loot. Don't die stupid."
The cleric hissed, "Try not to say 'don't die' in a dungeon."
The mage snapped, "I'd settle for you not speaking at all."
Malgorath's eye twitched.
"Trash?" he mouthed silently.
Splurg leaned toward him, whispering, "Master, remember—this is good. They're confident. Confidence makes fear sweeter when it breaks."
Malgorath didn't blink. "They skipped my traps."
Splurg nodded. "They're using the system. It means they're invested."
Malgorath's voice dropped to a furious hiss. "It means they are disrespectful."
The shield fighter pointed toward the mausoleum doors. "Boss chamber's that way. The moment it spawns, we burst. No speeches. If it starts talking, we interrupt."
Malgorath's face slowly turned the color of a boiled demon fruit.
"No speeches," he whispered, voice trembling.
Splurg patted his arm. "It's okay, Master. Let the boss do the talking."
Malgorath's fists clenched.
He watched the heroes march forward—straight past the antechamber—toward the boss chamber door.
They hadn't triggered a single pit.
They hadn't met a single skeleton patrol.
They hadn't even been insulted by the cursed statue.
They were walking into his finale as if they had bought tickets.
Malgorath's mind flashed with images of his carefully designed Floor 1 progression—fog crescendo, trap rhythm, creeping dread, then the grand reveal of the mausoleum.
Now they were skipping the opening act.
He made a strangled sound.
"Splurg," he hissed, "why have they been allowed to cheat?"
Splurg held up the System Screen. "They're not cheating. They unlocked the waypoint by reaching it before. It's progression. This is how dungeons stay relevant."
Malgorath stared at the waypoint like it had betrayed him personally.
Then his eyes narrowed.
"Fine," he said slowly. "If they insist on skipping my terror… I will deliver it concentrated."
Splurg's ears perked. "Oh. That sounds productive."
Malgorath snapped, "Activate the boss."
Splurg blinked. "It's already on a timer, Master."
Malgorath snarled, "Then hurry the timer."
Splurg sighed. "I can't hurry the timer, but I can—"
The boss chamber doors groaned open from the heroes' push.
They stepped inside.
And the Mausoleum Sentinel rose.
The boss chamber looked different when heroes entered it with purpose.
When terrified novices stumbled in, the place felt like a theater of doom.
When veterans marched in, it felt like an execution room where the victims had brought blueprints.
The Mausoleum Sentinel lifted itself from kneeling position, halberd scraping stone. Torches flared green. The bone chandelier trembled as if excited.
Its voice rolled out, deep and layered with echo.
"WHO DARES—"
The mage snapped his hand forward.
A bolt of lightning cracked into the Sentinel's chest before it finished its sentence.
The Sentinel staggered half a step, armor plates sizzling.
The rogue shouted, "Good! Don't let it talk!"
Malgorath made a sound somewhere between a choking cough and a wounded scream.
"They struck him mid-introduction," he whispered, scandalized.
Splurg watched the fear meter rise a notch anyway. "Master, they're bold. It'll make the fall better."
The shield fighter charged, slamming his shield into the Sentinel's halberd shaft, forcing it up. The spear fighter darted in, stabbing at gaps in the boss's rib-like armor.
Metal scraped bone.
The Sentinel moved with cold deliberation, pivoting, halberd sweeping low.
The spear fighter jumped back—but not fast enough.
The halberd blade caught his shin.
Not a clean cut.
A dragging cut.
It sliced through leather, through skin, through the thin layer of fat, and kissed bone with a wet scritch that made the hero howl.
His leg buckled.
Blood ran down in thick sheets, dark against pale stone.
The spear fighter stumbled, leaving a sticky trail that glistened like spilled syrup.
He tried to put weight on it and made a strangled noise as the muscle slid wrong—too loose, too torn—like a rope fraying mid-step.
The cleric screamed, "BACK! BACK!"
The Sentinel did not rush.
It advanced.
A halberd wasn't a weapon of haste. It was a weapon of certainty.
The archer loosed two arrows into the Sentinel's shoulder. One stuck, vibrating. The other snapped against armor.
The boss turned its skull toward the archer as if selecting its next meal.
Then it moved.
A single sweeping strike.
The archer raised his bow to block out of pure instinct.
The halberd blade hit the bow, cleaving it in half—then kept going.
It sliced across the archer's face at mouth level.
Not deep enough to take the head, not clean enough to be merciful.
It carved through cheek and lip and part of the jaw hinge, peeling flesh back like wet cloth.
The archer's scream came out wrong—bubbling, whistling through teeth that suddenly had no support.
He staggered, hands flying to his face.
Blood poured between his fingers in hot streams.
His lower jaw hung slightly off alignment, working like a broken door hinge as he tried to breathe.
The rogue shouted, "ARCHER DOWN!"
The mage's eyes widened—real fear now, immediate and sour.
The System Screen chimed.
Fear Output: HighDP Gain: +11
Malgorath's lips parted in a slow smile.
"Yes," he whispered. "That's it. Feel it."
The shield fighter roared and struck the Sentinel's knee joint, trying to topple it.
The boss responded by driving the halberd spike forward.
It punched into the shield fighter's shoulder under the collarbone—where armor gaps lived and hope died.
The spike didn't just pierce skin; it sank deep, wedging between ribs, pushing into lung. The fighter made a choking sound as air tried to leave and found blood instead.
He staggered back, shield dropping.
The cleric rushed forward, hands glowing, but the Sentinel yanked the halberd back with a brutal jerk.
The spike tore free, dragging tissue with it.
The shield fighter's shoulder opened like a mouth—meat split, tendon strands stretching and snapping.
He fell to one knee, coughing red foam.
The cleric's healing light pressed onto the wound, trying to knit it, but the body panicked beneath magic, bleeding anyway.
Malgorath watched, enthralled and faintly offended by how competent these heroes were.
"They have improved," he muttered, as if it were rude.
Splurg nodded, calm. "Yes. That's the point. Returning parties get stronger. The dungeon grows with them."
Malgorath scowled. "I will outgrow them."
"Sure, Master," Splurg said, eyes on the DP feed. "Sure."
Inside the chamber, the rogue took advantage of the chaos and slid behind the Sentinel, crossbow aimed at the back of its skull.
He fired.
The bolt struck bone and cracked the skull plate.
The Sentinel's head jerked.
A hairline fracture split across its crown, green light leaking out like a wound.
For a brief instant, it looked… vulnerable.
The heroes surged.
The spear fighter—limping, blood-slick, teeth clenched—thrust his spear into the cracked line, prying.
The mage poured fire into the opening, flame screaming like an angry spirit.
The Sentinel staggered.
The torches flickered wildly.
The bone chandelier shook.
Malgorath's breath caught.
"Wait," he whispered. "No. Not yet. Not my—"
Then the Sentinel straightened.
Its fear aura pulsed.
The room went colder.
The heroes' skin prickled.
Their eyes widened—not from surprise, but from the sudden, intimate feeling that something dead was looking inside them.
The Sentinel spoke again, voice lower now—less theatrical, more personal.
"YOU HAVE COME FAR… SO YOU MAY FALL FARTHER."
Then it slammed the halberd butt into the stone.
A ring of jagged bone erupted from the floor in a circle.
Not spikes.
Hands.
Skeletal hands—thin, sharp, eager—burst from the stone and grabbed ankles, calves, knees.
The spear fighter screamed as bone fingers dug into his already-open shin wound, slipping into the cut and prying it wider like curious children.
His torn muscle fibers parted under pressure. The leg gave a sickening wobble as the tendons that held it stable surrendered.
He toppled.
The skeletal hands pulled.
He slid across the stone on his back, leaving a smear of blood so thick it looked painted.
The Sentinel raised its halberd.
And brought it down.
The blade sank into the spear fighter's abdomen with a sound like stepping into wet mud.
Not a clean stab—a heavy one.
The blade split belly skin, then forced itself through, opening him like a butcher opening a carcass.
Heat and stink spilled out at once: blood, bile, the sharp copper tang of organs exposed to air.
The spear fighter's scream turned into a wet gurgle as his lungs tried to keep working while his body forgot what "inside" meant.
He thrashed, hands clawing at the halberd shaft, slick with his own gore.
Then his eyes rolled upward, showing too much white.
The thrashing slowed.
Stopped.
The System Screen chimed like a cashier ringing up a purchase.
Hero Death ConfirmedLife-Force Collected: +58 DPWitnessed Terror Bonus: +14 DP
Malgorath exhaled, almost shuddering.
"Yes," he whispered. "Yes. That's payment."
Splurg's eyes gleamed with clean satisfaction. "Nice. Big payout."
The cleric sobbed—actually sobbed—in the boss chamber, healing light shaking as he tried to keep the shield fighter alive.
The mage's face twisted in horror and fury. He screamed a spell and hurled a bolt of raw force into the Sentinel's cracked skull.
The crack widened.
Green light poured out.
The Sentinel staggered again—just a step.
The rogue shouted, "Now! Finish it!"
They might have.
They truly might have.
If the archer hadn't been collapsing in the corner, choking on blood that filled his throat because half his jaw didn't know how to close anymore.
If the shield fighter wasn't coughing red foam, lungs flooding.
If the cleric's hands weren't shaking while he tried to hold life in a body that was leaking it from too many places.
The Sentinel capitalized on weakness the way death always did: without malice, without joy, simply because it could.
It swung.
The halberd's edge caught the cleric across the ribs.
Not deep enough to cut him in half.
Deep enough to peel the skin open and crack two ribs like snapping twigs under a boot.
The cleric folded, wheezing, blood bubbling at his lips.
The rogue tried to retreat.
A skeletal hand seized his ankle.
He fired blindly, bolt thudding into stone.
He screamed as the hand tightened, bone fingers digging into tendon and crushing it with slow pressure.
The tendon snapped with a tiny pop like a string breaking.
His foot twisted wrong.
He fell.
The Sentinel's halberd came down again.
And this time it did not stab.
It hooked.
The blade caught the rogue's collar and yanked him upward and forward like meat on a hook.
His neck stretched.
His spine protested.
Then the Sentinel jerked again, and the rogue's head snapped sideways with a sound like a wet stick breaking.
His body twitched on the halberd for a heartbeat, like it wasn't sure it had permission to be dead yet.
Then it went limp.
Hero Death ConfirmedLife-Force Collected: +52 DPFear Spike: +10 DP
Malgorath leaned back in his "tactical throne," grinning like a man watching his favorite sport.
"FALL, MORTALS!" he whispered gleefully. "SPLATTER UPON MY STONE LIKE—"
Splurg coughed. "Master, inside voice."
Malgorath scowled and whispered louder.
The survivors—mage, cleric, shield fighter, half-faced archer—broke.
They didn't coordinate anymore.
They didn't strategize.
They simply tried not to die.
The mage dragged the cleric.
The archer stumbled, hands pressed to his mangled mouth, breath hissing through torn cheek.
The shield fighter—bleeding from the shoulder hole—pushed them toward the door with shaking arms.
They fled.
They didn't even try to loot.
They didn't even look back at the corpses.
They ran, leaving smeared blood and dropped gear behind.
Malgorath watched them retreat through the antechamber—toward the waypoint.
And then he saw it.
They stepped onto the platform.
The crystal flared.
Reality tore open.
And the survivors vanished in a flash of pale light—teleporting out before any of his roaming undead could harry them on the return path.
Malgorath stared at the empty air.
His smile died.
Then it was replaced by fury so pure it almost looked religious.
"They used it to leave," he whispered.
Splurg nodded. "Yes. It's a waypoint."
Malgorath's voice rose into a hiss. "They used my altar to escape."
Splurg pinched the bridge of his nose. "Master. It's not—"
Malgorath stomped onto the platform and jabbed a finger at the crystal.
"LISTEN TO ME, YOU GLORIFIED ROCK!" he snarled. "YOU WILL NOT BE A DOOR FOR COWARDS! YOU WILL BE A SYMBOL OF MY—"
The waypoint hummed.
Unimpressed.
The System Screen chimed.
[Raid Result]Hero Deaths: 2Hero Survivors: 4DP Gained: +163Note: Fast-travel parties generate higher DP per minute.Tip: Place engagement elements nearer to waypoint exit to prevent content skipping.
Splurg's eyes flicked over the numbers and relaxed. "Nice."
Malgorath froze mid-rant and stared at the DP gain.
His anger faltered.
Then his greed stepped in and sat on it.
"One hundred sixty-three," he murmured.
Splurg nodded. "They hit the boss faster. Fights are sharper. More fear per second."
Malgorath's eyes narrowed. "But they skipped my beautiful opening act."
Splurg shrugged. "Then move the opening act."
Malgorath stared at him. "Move it?"
Splurg's face was calm, practical—the face of someone who had accepted long ago that a dungeon was a machine, not a poem.
"Yes," Splurg said. "We adjust. We put meaningful threats closer to the waypoint. We move some traps deeper. We re-route patrols. Returning heroes want pace. New heroes want onboarding. We can do both."
Malgorath's mouth opened, prepared to declare that his dungeon was perfect and required no alterations.
Then the System Screen offered a new menu:
[WAYPOINT FLOW ADJUSTMENT]Options:
Add "Waypoint Exit Corridor" (Engagement Zone) — 12 DP
Relocate 2 traps per day (Free, maintenance)
Create "Fork Path" (new heroes route / veteran route) — 25 DP
Place mini-ambush near waypoint (low cost) — 8 DP
Splurg pointed. "See? Even the System expects it."
Malgorath glared at the menu like it was insulting his artistry.
Then, because he liked DP and hated being wrong, he snapped, "Fine. You may… slightly rearrange things."
Splurg smiled. "Great."
Malgorath added quickly, "But make it look like my idea."
Splurg nodded solemnly. "Of course, Master."
And while Malgorath returned to practicing Victory Poses—now with a new one called The Waypoint Dominator Stance—Splurg got to work.
By the next day, Floor 1 felt different.
Not kinder.
Not safer.
Just smarter.
Splurg didn't turn the early floor into a slaughterhouse, because that would scare off new raiders. Instead, he shifted the threats.
He moved the dart wall closer to a branching corridor that veterans would be forced through after teleporting in.
He relocated one pit trap from the entrance path and placed it in a side hall near the waypoint exit—camouflaged with bone dust and moss so returning heroes couldn't just "remember where it is."
He changed skeleton patrol patterns so a pair of Skeleton Knights would cross the waypoint corridor at irregular intervals.
He even placed a "welcome" zombie just out of sight—a lurker behind a pillar that would grab ankles and make veterans swear loudly, which increased fear output beautifully without instantly killing anyone.
He did it all quietly.
Professionally.
As if he'd been born for it.
Malgorath watched from his console, muttering about worshippers and sacred travel rites, completely convinced the waypoint was a tribute.
And when the next returning party teleported in and shouted in surprise as a zombie hand clamped around a boot and peeled the skin off the heel like wet fruit, Malgorath crowed with delight.
"YES!" he bellowed. "THE ALTAR TESTS YOUR WORTH!"
Splurg nodded, satisfied.
Because Floor 1 wasn't just a haunted forest anymore.
It was a system.
A loop.
A machine that learned.
And now that heroes could return faster, they would return more often.
Which meant more fights. More blood. More fear.
More DP.
Malgorath thought the waypoint was a shrine built to honor him.
Splurg knew the truth:
It was a conveyor belt.
And business was about to get very, very good.