Malgorath had decided that returning heroes were a kind of worship.
It was the only interpretation that preserved his dignity.
They used the Waypoint like it was a door they owned. They sprinted past his "atmosphere." They arrived sweaty and determined and rude. Yet they kept coming back, again and again, like moths to a flame—except the moths brought spreadsheets.
Malgorath stood before the Waypoint obelisk one morning and addressed it as if it were a congregation.
"Attend me, sacred altar," he intoned, one hand raised in solemn blessing. "I sense the approach of my devoted—"
Splurg, crouched beside a trap mechanism, whispered without looking up, "Customers."
Malgorath continued louder, "—DEVOTED TRESPASSERS."
The Waypoint hummed. It did not care.
The System Screen chimed anyway.
[ALERT: HERO PARTY DETECTED]Entry: Floor 1 WaypointParty Size: 4Estimated Strength: Moderate-HighNotable: High Efficiency Pattern DetectedThreat Rating: Annoyingly Optimal
Malgorath's eye twitched.
"Annoyingly optimal?" he repeated, offended. "How dare the System editorialize."
Splurg's ears perked. "Oh. That tag is rare."
Malgorath turned. "Rare?"
Splurg nodded, eyes shining with the calm excitement of someone who liked numbers. "It means they've done this a lot. Or they're trained. Or both."
Malgorath's smile sharpened. "Excellent. I shall break them and make their efficiency my poetry."
Splurg muttered, "Efficiency doesn't become poetry, Master."
"It will when I'm done with it."
The Waypoint platform flared.
Light poured upward like a pale fountain. Reality peeled open, and four figures stepped out without stumbling, without hesitation, without even looking mildly impressed by the fact that they'd just teleported into a haunted mausoleum corridor.
They arrived like people showing up late to a meeting.
The first man to step forward was… painfully normal.
He wore a simple leather coat reinforced with light armor plates. His sword was clean. His boots were practical. His hair was tied back. His expression was calm, focused, and faintly amused—as if everything around him was mildly inconvenient rather than lethal.
He took one breath, glanced at the corridor, and said in a steady voice:
"Alright. Route is the same as last run. We're at the waypoint exit corridor. Dart wall should be around the second bend, slightly low angle. Zombie ankle-grab is likely behind the third pillar. Boss chamber in… twelve minutes if we don't get sloppy."
Malgorath's mouth slowly opened.
Splurg stared, rapt.
The man continued, turning slightly toward his party like a coach addressing a team.
"Remember: we're not here to prove anything. We're here to get through clean. No heroics. No bravado. If you feel brave, bottle it and sell it later."
The party behind him nodded, clearly used to being managed.
A stern woman in chainmail checked her shield straps with the efficiency of someone who didn't believe in luck.A robed mage adjusted a pouch of spell components and looked like she'd rather be reading.A cleric with a tired face cracked his neck and muttered, "If I die again, I'm haunting you."
The calm man smiled politely. "Noted."
Malgorath leaned close to the scrying console, as if proximity might help him understand what he was witnessing.
"Splurg," he whispered, voice tight, "why is that hero… narrating?"
Splurg whispered back, impressed, "He's calling out mechanics, Master."
Malgorath's eye twitched harder. "Mechanics? This is not a tavern game. This is my dungeon."
The calm hero reached into his pocket and pulled out a small piece of chalk.
Then, without drama, he knelt and drew a simple symbol on the stone floor near the edge of the corridor.
A clean line. An arrow. A little warning mark.
The chainmail woman asked, "That still the pressure plate?"
"Yep," the calm hero said. "Same placement. But the trigger's been shifted two inches left since last time."
Malgorath's breath caught. "Two inches?"
Splurg nodded slowly, unable to hide a tiny grin. "I shifted it two inches."
The calm hero—Caderyn, though Malgorath didn't know his name yet—tapped the chalk mark and said conversationally, "Good adjustment. Makes it catch people who memorize. But not random enough to be unfair. Whoever maintains this dungeon understands pacing."
Malgorath's soul briefly left his body and returned holding a knife.
"He complimented—" Malgorath began, then choked. "He complimented the maintenance."
Splurg's ears went pink with pride. "I mean… he's not wrong."
Malgorath slowly turned his head toward Splurg. "You are enjoying this."
Splurg blinked innocently. "Enjoying what, Master?"
Malgorath hissed, "Being praised by the enemy."
Splurg shrugged. "Praise is praise."
Malgorath made a sound like a kettle about to explode.
The calm hero stood and walked forward, chalk still in hand. He looked at the corridor like a farmer inspecting a fence.
"Alright," he said. "Let's go."
And they did.
Fast.
Not reckless. Not panicked.
Just… efficient.
They moved like they'd practiced this path in their sleep.
The dart corridor came.
Caderyn raised a hand. "Dart wall. Angle's wrong."
The mage blinked. "Wrong how?"
"Too low," Caderyn said, tone mild. "It's aimed at ankles. Good for fear. Bad for kills. Step high, stay close to the left wall, and don't sprint. Sprinting triggers the second volley."
He pointed. "Chalk marks. Follow them."
Malgorath's hands clenched on the edge of the console.
"He's—" Malgorath whispered, voice shaking. "He's giving a tour."
The party followed Caderyn's chalk marks precisely. They stepped where he stepped. They paused where he paused. When the darts fired, they hissed past calves and scraped armor, embedding into stone with tiny angry thunks.
No one screamed.
No one bled more than a scratch.
Caderyn nodded, satisfied. "See? Easy."
Malgorath's rage swelled like a storm cloud.
Splurg leaned in, whispering, "Master… the fear output is still climbing. They're calm on the surface but—look."
The System Screen displayed a trembling bar.
Fear Output: ModerateDP Gain: +6 (sustained tension)
Malgorath sneered. "They are not afraid. They are insulting."
But then the zombie ankle-grab triggered.
A rotten hand shot from behind a pillar and clamped around the cleric's boot.
The fingers were swollen and slick. Black fluid oozed from under the nails like old ink. The grip tightened—bone-hard—crushing leather and toes with slow pressure.
The cleric yelped, stumbling.
The zombie lurched forward, mouth opening wide, teeth jagged and wet.
Caderyn moved instantly.
He didn't shout. He didn't panic.
He simply grabbed the cleric by the collar, yanked him backward, and drove his sword down through the zombie's wrist.
The blade split rotten flesh like stepping through soaked paper. The wrist severed with a wet schlop. The hand stayed clamped to the boot, still twitching.
The zombie's arm stump sprayed dark ichor, thick and stringy, splattering the floor like tar.
The zombie hissed and lunged anyway.
Caderyn kicked it in the chest.
The kick didn't send it flying—zombies were heavy—but it staggered, and that was enough. The chainmail woman crushed its skull with her shield edge. Bone and gray mush burst outward. The zombie's jaw chattered once, then went still.
The cleric pried the severed hand off his boot with visible disgust. It peeled away with a sticky sound, leaving skin behind—just a thin strip, like fruit rind.
He gagged. "I hate this place."
Caderyn patted his shoulder. "You're doing great."
Malgorath watched the gore with a flicker of satisfaction.
Yes. This was how it should be.
Then Caderyn crouched and examined the blood smear and severed hand like an inspector.
"Zombie placement shifted forward," he noted casually. "Smart. Keeps veterans honest."
Malgorath's eye twitched again.
Splurg's grin returned.
Malgorath hissed, "Stop taking notes in my pain palace."
They hit the cemetery forest proper, but Caderyn didn't slow.
He held up chalk again and marked tree roots, uneven stones, hidden trip wires. Every time he saw a suspicious patch of moss, he tapped it with the tip of his sword. Every time the fog thickened, he tilted his head and listened, counting the skeleton patrol clacks like he was timing footsteps in a hallway.
He wasn't scared.
He was solving.
The skeleton patrol emerged—two Skeleton Knights and a Skeleton Archer hidden in the trees.
The Skeleton Archer loosed an arrow.
Caderyn moved a fraction of a second before it fired, stepping aside as if he'd predicted the trajectory.
The arrow thudded into the stone behind him.
The mage snapped her fingers, and a web of frost burst outward, coating the skeleton archer's bow arm. The bone froze. Cracked.
The archer skeleton tried to draw anyway and snapped its own arm off at the elbow.
Caderyn winced sympathetically. "That's unfortunate."
Malgorath bristled. "It is a soldier of mine!"
Splurg whispered, "It'll be repaired."
Caderyn shouted calmly, "Shield up! Knights incoming!"
The Skeleton Knights charged, blades raised.
The chainmail woman braced and absorbed the first strike with her shield. Sparks flew. The force rattled her bones. The impact made her teeth click.
She didn't flinch.
The cleric raised his holy symbol, light blooming like a blade. The nearest Skeleton Knight's armor smoked as the light seared it.
The skeleton didn't scream. It simply kept swinging.
Caderyn darted in, fast and precise. He didn't hack. He didn't duel.
He aimed for joints.
His sword slid into the gap behind the knee plate, severing a tendon of magic binding bone to armor. The Skeleton Knight's leg collapsed. The skeleton dropped to one knee, still swinging.
Caderyn pivoted and sliced through the spine connection with one clean cut.
The skeleton's skull rolled off and clattered across the ground.
The second Skeleton Knight swung for Caderyn's head.
Caderyn ducked and stepped in close, pressing his shoulder into the skeleton's chest to ruin its leverage. He drove his sword up under the rib plate and into the chest cavity. The blade struck something enchanted inside—an ember of green light—and the skeleton shuddered violently as if it had been punched in the soul.
Then it fell apart.
Bone and armor scattered like dropped cutlery.
The entire fight lasted twenty seconds.
Malgorath stared in slow horror.
Splurg whispered, "That was… clean."
Malgorath's voice cracked. "He dismantled them like furniture."
Caderyn wiped his blade on moss. "Good. Same as last run. Our time is excellent."
The mage said, "This is the weirdest compliment I've ever heard."
Caderyn smiled faintly. "You're welcome."
Malgorath slammed a fist onto the console stump.
It hurt his knuckles.
He didn't care.
"I REFUSE!" he roared into the empty control room. "I REFUSE TO BE OPTIMIZED!"
Splurg flinched. "Master—"
Malgorath pointed wildly at the scrying lens. "That man is treating my dungeon like a route! Like a morning jog!"
Splurg said carefully, "He is still generating DP. Look."
The System Screen chimed.
Fear Output: High (Professional Stress)DP Gain: +18
Malgorath's mouth snapped shut.
He stared at the DP feed like it was a lover he hated.
Then he whispered, hoarse, "Fine. He may solve. I will still profit."
They reached the mausoleum antechamber.
Caderyn glanced at the waypoint obelisk as they passed.
"Waypoint's stable," he said. "Good. Less variance."
Malgorath hissed, "Stop praising my altar."
The party approached the boss doors.
Caderyn held up a hand. "Same plan. Shield takes first hit. Mage cracks the skull seam. Cleric keeps us alive. I'll handle adds if the hands appear."
The cleric muttered, "I hate the hands."
Caderyn nodded. "Everyone hates the hands. That's why they work."
They pushed the doors open.
The Mausoleum Sentinel rose.
Torches flared. Echo rolled. The bone chandelier shook.
The boss's voice thundered:
"WHO DARES—"
Caderyn threw a chalk stick at its face.
The chalk hit the skull and bounced off.
The boss paused for half a heartbeat—confused.
Caderyn said politely, "Hi."
Malgorath screamed at the console like someone had stabbed his ego with a spoon.
"HE THREW CHALK AT MY BOSS!"
Splurg's eyes were shining with excitement. "Master, look at the fear spike from that audacity."
The System Screen chimed.
Fear Output: Very High (Boss Engagement)DP Gain: +25
Malgorath choked. "Stop making this profitable!"
The fight began.
This time the heroes didn't rush blindly.
They stayed spread. They avoided the center slam. When the Sentinel raised its halberd, the shield woman intercepted at an angle, redirecting the force instead of absorbing it head-on.
The halberd scraped across her shield, carving a groove, sending splinters and sparks.
The mage unleashed a focused beam of lightning that crawled along the Sentinel's armor seams, seeking the cracked skull line.
The boss stomped.
Skeletal hands erupted from the floor.
They grabbed ankles.
They dug into skin.
One hand caught the cleric's calf and squeezed.
Flesh bulged between bone fingers like dough pressed through a grate. The pressure was slow, deliberate—crushing muscle, grinding nerves until pain turned white-hot and nauseating.
The cleric screamed and swung his mace down, shattering the hand. Bone shards flew, some embedding into his own leg like jagged splinters. Blood welled around them, dark and thick.
Caderyn moved like he'd rehearsed.
He slid across the floor, slicing through hands, severing wrists, stepping carefully to avoid being grabbed. When a skeletal hand clamped around his boot, he didn't panic. He drove his sword down between its fingers and twisted. The hand snapped apart like brittle twigs.
"Hands cleared," he called calmly. "Boss is open."
The shield woman rammed her shield into the boss's halberd shaft, forcing it high.
Caderyn darted in and stabbed directly into the skull crack the mage had widened.
The sword point sank into bone with a grinding crunch. Green light leaked around the blade, sizzling like fat on a pan.
The boss staggered.
It swung wildly.
The halberd blade clipped Caderyn's shoulder—just a graze—but it peeled armor and skin alike, leaving a raw stripe that bled immediately. The cut wasn't deep, but it stung like being branded.
Caderyn hissed once.
Then he smiled faintly.
"Good hit," he told the boss, as if complimenting a sparring partner. "But you're telegraphing."
Malgorath made a sound of pure hatred.
"TELEGRAPHING?!"
Splurg whispered, thrilled, "Master, this fight is lasting. Long boss fights are huge DP."
The System Screen chimed again and again.
DP Gain: +9DP Gain: +12Fear Output: Sustained Extreme
The boss roared and slammed the halberd down.
Stone cracked.
Bone fragments erupted.
A shard the size of a finger punched into the mage's cheek and stuck there, vibrating. Blood ran around it. She didn't stop casting. Her teeth clenched so hard her jaw trembled.
The cleric's leg bled from bone splinters lodged in flesh. He limped, leaving a trail of red smears. Every step squelched.
The shield woman's arm shook from repeated impacts, muscles burning, shield splintering.
Caderyn kept moving, breathing steady, calling instructions like he was guiding a drill.
"Now. Left. Don't commit—fake. Good. Heal the mage. Watch the hands. Don't stand in the crack—"
The Sentinel faltered.
Its skull crack widened into a fracture.
Green light poured out like a wound.
Caderyn drove his sword in deeper and twisted.
The Sentinel's head split with a horrible crunch. The green light flared, then sputtered like a lantern drowning in water.
The boss collapsed.
Armor hit stone.
The halberd clattered.
The chamber fell quiet except for heavy breathing and the wet drip of blood from the mage's face shard.
Malgorath stared, frozen.
"They… won," he whispered.
Splurg's eyes were shining like coins. "Master, look at the payout."
The System Screen flashed:
[BOSS DEFEATED]DP Gained: +240Bonus: High Efficiency Run (rare) +60Total DP: +300Dungeon Level Progress: +12%
Malgorath's brain tried to be angry and greedy at the same time and briefly short-circuited.
Then he recovered and screamed anyway.
"NO!"
Caderyn wiped his sword clean, breathing calmly through the pain in his shoulder.
He looked at the spot where the portal usually would appear.
Nothing happened.
No swirling gateway.
No dramatic tear in reality.
Just… stone.
Caderyn blinked once, mildly surprised.
"Huh," he said.
The mage, still bleeding around the bone shard, asked, "What?"
Caderyn frowned. "No portal. That's… interesting."
The cleric groaned, "Please don't tell me that means we have to fight it again."
Caderyn's mouth twitched. "Oh, we'll fight it again. But it means the dungeon hasn't unlocked the next floor yet."
Malgorath slammed both hands onto the console.
"IT HASN'T WHAT?!"
Splurg glanced at the System Screen and winced. "Master… Floor 2 is locked until dungeon level requirement. We're close but not there."
Malgorath's voice cracked into a shriek. "SO HE BEATS MY BOSS—CLEANLY—LIKE IT'S A MORNING STRETCH—AND THERE IS NO REWARD?!"
Splurg shrugged. "He got DP for us. That's the reward."
Malgorath's horns practically vibrated with rage.
Caderyn looked around the boss chamber, disappointed but not upset. Then he pulled out his chalk again.
He drew a small check mark on the stone near the fallen boss.
"Boss clear time: improved," he murmured, as if logging results. "We'll be back tomorrow. Maybe by then the next floor unlocks."
He turned to his party with that same calm coach tone.
"Good work. Clean execution. We leave through waypoint. Don't get cocky on the way out."
The party nodded.
They limped—bloodied, bruised, with a bone shard still in the mage's face—toward the waypoint and vanished in pale light.
Malgorath watched them disappear.
Silence hung in the control room.
Then Malgorath whispered, voice low and trembling, "Splurg."
Splurg swallowed. "Yes, Master?"
Malgorath's eyes were wide, fever-bright.
"That man," Malgorath hissed, "is a problem."
Splurg nodded slowly, grudging admiration mixing with greedy excitement. "Yes, Master. A very profitable problem."
Malgorath's hands clenched into fists.
"I will learn his name," he vowed. "I will study his patterns. I will crush his efficiency until it weeps."
Splurg glanced at the DP total ticking upward and smiled.
"Yes," Splurg said softly. "And when he comes back… we'll be ready."
Malgorath stared at the scrying lens as if it had personally offended him.
The speedrunner had arrived.
And Malgorath—Demon Lord of theatrics, tyrant of drama—had just found the one enemy he could not tolerate:
A hero who treated his masterpiece like homework.