Evolutions were a beautiful, glorious thing. I treasured them immensely, loved all who climbed their path, and worked with both my knowledge and their soul to choose the best they could become.

So it was truly a balm to feel so many little lights spring up throughout my halls.

Both of excitement, and also of relief.

Because yeah. I needed these evolutions.

With the mana I'd scrapped and scraped, losing three fourths of what I should have gotten, I'd only had enough to recreate the lesser creatures of my halls. So the populations of burrowing rats were back up, not at what they had been but with enough to regrow back to their previous size. So still empty dens, still less movement and life and hunger than had been there before, but enough to regrow. That was why I built ecosystems, after all. The mana gained from invasions was better used for more important things, not constantly replenishing my populations. Even in the raid-frenzy I only called for most of my creatures, leaving those pregnant or guarding eggs back in their dens, keeping away the too-young and a small group that would be enough to keep the group alive.

For all that I'd mostly evolved past needing to rely on my innate dungeon abilities, I was endlessly grateful for the part of me made of stone walls and endless deeps that knew exactly how many I needed to retain, how large to make the groups, how intricate to make the family lines.

I was a dragon. I certainly wouldn't know how to keep rats alive without those instincts.

So my halls weren't exactly back in perfect shape, still down about a third of their previous prey populations, and that was without the larger beasts I had yet to recreate. It had simply been too much of a mana sink—I had to get the food sources back before I could add predators, of course.

But it hurt, I must admit, to create a pitiful little school of silverheads instead of shaping a new sarco crocodile.

I missed him, and I missed my cloudskipper wisp, and I missed my mother cave bear. They'd lived such brilliant, beautiful lives, only to be cut short before any of them had even gotten a chance to evolve.

So I would evolve new monsters that would grow strong enough to never allow those invaders to take from me again. I swore it.

Was it something I could swear? Technically not. Invaders would keep invading me no matter how much I spat and cursed their presence, and they would always bring swords and blades and magic. I couldn't stop them from killing my creatures entirely.

But I could make damn sure they wouldn't make it out of my halls alive.

I reached for the messages crawling over my core.

Easily dozens, all bright and shining and wonderful, and I let my attention get tugged between all the creatures—I'd start on the smaller ones first, move through those that I knew I could pick quicker and let them get evolving, because there were certain lights in the back of my mind that I knew I would be agonizing for hours over and there was no need to let littler things wait around while I tried to make a decision.

So.

Your creature, a Burrowing Rat, is undergoing evolution!

Please select your desired path.

Ratking (Uncommon): Commander of the lesser rats, it uses its long and powerful tail to bind them to its will, forcing all those in the vicinity to serve it with reckless abandon whether their lives are kept or lost.

Shadowthief Rat (Rare): Burglars, collectors, rogues. It has learned that it serves best from the darkness as it seeks to build its shining hoard, striking in a flurry of blows before disappearing back to lairs unseen.

Mage Ratkin (Rare): Unlike its arcane brethren, this creature chooses a specialization in only one branch of mana, and can now generate their own attuned mana to use as they see fit. As they study and train, their power can grow to be reminiscent of a true mage.

Huh.

These were the first rats evolving that hadn't had to spontaneously upgrade their diet to include inorganic jewels, and the choices reflected that. Initially, I wanted to select mage ratkin—the colony on the fourth floor was growing stronger and stronger with every passing day, and soon both the original would be evolving and they would be able to venture out into the wider halls to claim wider territory. Adding more to their number would only speed up that process.

But then I paused, and looked at the rats glowing in preparation for evolution.

The path down to the fourth floor was always open, and I'd dropped all my less-than-subtle hints about how much more mana was down there about as many times as I possibly could. But these rats hadn't made the journey, hadn't ventured further below in search of greater prizes. They stayed here to guard their current jewels.

Hm.

They couldn't stay on the first floor after their evolution, I knew that. Nuvja wouldn't exactly approve of too many changes to her floor, even for all she'd changed the original contract and was probably a little more cut-and-loose with rules than the other gods I'd made deals with, and thus they'd have to travel below. I'd take time out of my busy schedule and help bring their jewels with them, because I was a kindly overlord like that, but even with that, I doubted they would just team up with the mage ratkin. They'd had the chance to swallow jewels and travel below before, and they hadn't taken it.

And, well. There were nearly a dozen of them primed for evolution, which was plenty to start their own species.

The Jungle Labyrinth was already a group-filled floor, with the competing ratkin and horned serpent's army. What was one more?

In objective terms, the ratking would be the first choice there—choose several strong leaders and entreat other burrowing rats to follow them, disappearing underground as they built an army of unforseen proportions that all served with a suicidal loyalty. Certainly something that blended very well with the fourth floor's cramped corners and endless distractions.

But then I saw the word hoard.

Shadowthief rats were clearly an evolution born from Nuvja's blessing, one of the first true god-inspired paths I'd had the option of taking, though clearly Rhoborh had played some part in the thornwhip algae. The description was unhelpfully vague—did they have shadow mana or merely disguised themselves in it, and was flurry of blows based on their physical ability or something more?—but in the end, it was enough.

Because these rats had stayed on the first floor instead of venturing further down to protect their jewels, and this evolution would only strengthen that.

And, besides. Invaders often brought tasty little treats with them, and this invasion had already given me several new artefacts I was very interested in getting my claws on—what about an entire race of creatures who were built entirely to steal and take more things?

I would certainly never say no.

So I guided the rats into a hollow I carved in the first floor, bundling them all together and spooking a hungry luminous constrictor away, and selected shadowthief rat.

All dozen of them lit up in pale yellow-white, eyes closing and minds soothing over as the mana bursting in their channels was finally released; their first evolution, so I had hopes it wouldn't take too long and I could soon welcome these lovely new creatures to my halls. Thieves indeed.

To be fair, I liked thieves only when they were on my side. There'd been too many moronic fools who'd thought they could steal my dragonhoard, and there were only so many times that could be amusing before it became infuriating.

But these little rats would be stealing for me, and that was more than acceptable.

And they were hardly the last of my evolutions.

I reached for the next bunch, even more numerous than the last, spread over my first four floors with almost two dozen ready to reach new scattered heights—luminous constrictors.

And where the rats had been uniform, the evolution messages here I was receiving were very, very different.

Fascinating.

The constrictors on the first two floors, about a dozen, had the same core message, one studded with familiar options. It made sense; I was starting to really understand evolutions, more than just fun powerups that appeared whenever my creatures gathered enough mana. They were born from experiences and exposures, whether from enemies, environments, or godly influence. For these constrictors, without going deeper, they hadn't had the chance to find anything new, and thus were stuck with more baseline evolutions.

Didn't mean they were bad evolutions. I was still certainly going to take it.

Your creature, a Luminous Constrictor, is undergoing evolution!

Please select your desired path.

Colossal Boa (Uncommon): Growing to titanic lengths, this constrictor lurks in the shadows and strikes at passing victims. With its immense strength and size, there is little that can successfully fight off its fatal hold.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Umbral Constrictor (Rare): It forsakes its previous life in favour of its new hunting style, shrouding itself in shadows as it slinks through the undergrowth. Its prey never sees it coming, and they rarely have time to regret that mistake.

Crowned Cobra (Uncommon): Where once it waited, now it strikes. Armed with venom-launching fangs and a flared hood, it stalks through the undergrowth in search of richer prey.

Damnit. For all I knew it was unlikely, I'd still kind of hoped for another horned serpent. Her power was just so brilliant.

All three options appealed to me, but I also had to consider that these creatures would very likely be joining the horned serpent's army, whether they wanted to or not. So far, only the snakes too weak to venture past the first two floors and the fledgling sea serpent had been able to resist her call, and given that she was going to evolve, I doubted that anyone would be resisting her after that. She was a powerful, powerful beast, and for all that I loved my serpentine brethren, they didn't exactly have the mind needed to stay independent.

Dragons had no such problem, but snakes unfortunately did.

Ah well. Her strength meant more for me.

I pondered the available options.

The crowned cobras on the fourth floor had well proved how useful ranged attacks were, especially those of a venom influence, and the mentioned crown had the elegance that I rather appreciated. Umbral constrictors were more physical, taking out enemies with force for all that they remained hidden, and colossal boas were brawlers, focusing on brute strength and raw power.

All good, really. That was irritating.

But Seros' battle had shown me how overly massive creatures weren't aided by the fourth floor, too pinned down in the endless winding tunnels and cramped corridors, and for something that didn't have four limbs to move around quickly, the colossal boa would have a very poor time of things trying to utilize its massive size. Another issue with the umbral constrictor; it was too similar to luminous constrictors in its hunting style to really validate picking it as opposed to something more strictly useful for the horned serpent.

One day I'd picked colossal boa. I still wanted its devastating size.

For all dozen serpents, I selected crowned cobras.

The next five came from one floor down, and I barely had to skim their options—luminous viper, umbral constrictor, and silver krait—before I was shuffling them off, guiding them out of the water they'd been floundering through their attempts to swim in and carving a little hollow before them to curl up inside. They lazily snapped at each other, the hunger and the hunt pushing past the pressing calm of evolution, but it was child's play to get them to settle down and stay in the same den. Easier to protect them through the changes.

Because they would all be silver kraits.

As much as I loved the fledgling sea serpent and I would only love him more as he evolved past fledgling and into a true monster of the sea, giving up his speed and venom had been a painful cost. He'd terrorized the Underlake in ways that the brutish sarco or enormous Seros just couldn't, and I'd desperately missed his stealthy ways.

So yeah, I was welcoming these new additions. I hoped they would take his place well. And there would be five this time, a proper coiling threat slinking through the shadows with fangs bared—still having to breathe air and limited by their only partial water adaptations, but infinitely more graceful than their current form. Hazy light overtook all their forms, curling up in slumbering piles of evolutions.

And then my attention was dragged down one more floor to the six I'd been most excited about.

Because these luminous constrictors were already a part of the horned serpent's army, and that meant potential.

I latched onto their messages with very characteristic greed.

Two were disappointing, having the same options as the first batch—I guided them back to the stone jungle, resting in the sprawling den that the horned serpent allowed her servants to rest in when they had earned their keep with food. She was a harsh tyrant, but a powerful one, given as for all the time she'd had her army the only losses had come from infighting, punishment, and this invasion, and even then they were minimal compared to the bloodshed happening on higher floors. The snakes were happy to either bring her food or become food themselves.

In another life, she would have been a gold-drake.

And now her army was about to spread.

Three of the luminous constrictors had their own lists, and I read them with rising glee.

Your creature, a Luminous Constrictor, is undergoing evolution!

Please select your desired path.

Crowned Cobra (Uncommon): Where once it waited, now it strikes. Armed with venom-launching fangs and a flared hood, it stalks through the undergrowth in search of richer prey.

Radiant Lizard (Uncommon): Shedding its previous form, it skitters through the twisting underbrush of its home with speed it could only have dreamed of before. It leaves a twisting trail of light in its wake, marking its territory and burning its enemies if they dare cross it.

Jeweltone Serpent (Rare): Learning from those around it, they sacrifice their scales for the elegance of gems. Though they are slow and ponderous, they can force great feats of magic, and only need replace their jewels once they are used up.

Oho.

The second one, unfortunately, was right out—it was the horned serpent and her serpentine horde, and she had enough pride that I guessed she wouldn't accept any outliers. Knew that she wouldn't, actually, as shown by the spined lizards I'd attempted to send her way; she'd killed them outright no matter how useful their spine-launching ability would have been to her cause.

Cantankerous little bastard. I loved her dearly.

But the loss of radiant lizards meant nothing in face of the jeweltone serpent.

Inspired by the mage ratkin I had to guess, which meant that the horned serpent might have to open a sort of truce to be able to obtain new gems for her followers, but I saw the words magic and barely had to think past them. The tone was strange, implying that the serpents didn't have magic themselves but merely forced the gems to cooperate, but that was fine. A later evolution could help solve that.

All that mattered was that there was magic involved.

I curled all three lovely little constrictors up in the den, tucked further back than the others because I was rather expecting this to be a longer evolution, and then let my gaze fall upon the last serpent, scales alit with spiraling mana.

She was a fierce thing, still young and growing, but she had killed one of the humans that had made it to her floor—more specifically, she had killed one of the mages.

One of the mages that used psychic mana.

Her evolution options were luminous viper, colossal boa, and horned serpent.

I could have purred.

Did I know that my first horned serpent was an outlier? Yes. The power she wielded was well and above what any second-evolution creature should have; controlling a few snakes, yes, but not nearly a hundred and with a compulsion that extended three floors straight up. I wasn't expecting this new one to have that same level of strength.

But I had hopes she would grow into it eventually.

And besides, the fourth floor wouldn't house my horned serpent forever. She'd set her sights far above these cramped tunnels, lovely as they were, and I would indulge her as all good dungeons should. One day, when she reached that fabled peak of her fifth evolution, I would likely grant her an entire floor to herself.

One day.

And in that event, or even just with her coming evolution, she would need someone to take over the fourth floor, and this new snake had just presented herself as a likely candidate. I had little doubt that the horned serpent would first beat her into the ground to make sure she didn't even think about rebelling, but after that, well. I had my guesses that the current horned serpent, for all that she was evolving, was setting this up to be a matriarchal horde. A new successor would need time to learn from her before claiming territory, and I was more than happy to provide assistance needed.

I pressed soothing encouragement into the constrictor's mind as I guided her away, tucking her in the far back with all manner of delicate green moss and available water. Her evolution would take forever just like before. Ah well.

A cost I was very much willing to pay.

I tore myself away from the message bleeding off the current horned serpent's form, the options lingering on the edges of my mana—get the smaller stuff done first. I knew I needed time to think over hers.

A couple more mundane evolutions were easily dealt with—cave spiders into webweavers or shardrunner spiders, depending on what floor they were on; stone-backed toads into ironback toads; silverheads into silvertooths or electric silverheads, whichever school they were closest to. I shuffled them all off into safe places to evolve even as my excitement built to a fever pitch inside me.

Because, well.

Make no mistake. I loved all my creatures, brilliant and brave and fierce as they were, and my time as a dungeon had shown me how much strength even a silverhead could have. Everything in my halls could kill when push came to shove, and many of them already had—this invasion in particular had raised the lesser up from their previous meaningless existence, earning mana the likes of which they had never felt before. There was a strange, almost paternal pride I felt as I watched them kill.

But for all I loved them, there were some I loved more.

Why would I try to pretend otherwise?

I was a dragon. We were terribly biased creatures.

And so I reached for the first message that was lit up in beautiful strands of purple-grey, one I'd been very aware of but had restrained myself until I had enough time to think it over. My attention tugged back up to the first floor, curling around a den.

A den with two figures inside, one dead, one alive.

I hadn't dissolved any corpses yet, saving the mana for when I needed it and also because I had some experimentations I wanted to achieve with several specific corpses, and thus the lunar cave bear had been able to drag the body of his deceased mate over to the safety of his den. She was larger than him almost half over and his claws weren't made for any delicate movement, but still he'd managed to curl her up, tuck her paws over the hole in her head until she almost looked asleep. Then he'd laid down by her side, ignoring the call of his own evolution, and pulled shadows to surround both of their forms in the comfort of obscurity.

I watched them with a strange sense of grief.

I'd never had a mate. There was simply no need; dragons could feel when their population dropped enough to need more, and then one parent would choose to care for the eggs before they split again. Solitary beasts we were, and I'd been content with that.

Because surely I wouldn't have wanted to feel this pain, right? I hadn't thought they were this close—for all they'd had three cubs together, they spent the vast majority of their time trying their best to kill each other. Both had numerous scars from each other's claws.

But watching them curl up together, even in death, made something stir in my core. Would it have been nice, having someone who cared so much about me?

It didn't matter.

I opened my connection with him, shoving past the raw pain that echoed over his thoughts; I soothed the last of his remaining injuries and knitted calmness over his mind until his breathing evened out, slumping more to the ground as some of the tortured grief retreated. It was the least I could do.

Blooming green algae under them both, softening the bed of limestone, I peered at the message spilling from his core.

Congratulations! Your creature, a Lunar Cave Bear, is undergoing evolution!

Please select your desired path.

Midnight Cave Bear (Rare): A friend of shadows and darkness, it rings itself in pitch black regardless of what is around. Its attacks are never seen and its home is never found, and it lurks in the quiet space before dawn.

Lesser Bugbear (Rare): Rising to its back paws, it learns to learn and be aware of the wider world, though still seeing life through a haze of violence. Its battle tactics harden, its aggression increasing, and there are hints of some greater wisdom behind its eyes.

Two-Headed Bear (Exotic): A life spent in grief is no life at all. Summoning back the spirit of one departed, they combine in strength and intelligence, so long as they are able to work together. With doubled minds and a fearsome appearance, they are either slavering wrecks or dreadful beasts.

Oh.

Fucking hell, I would have made more bears if the system had told me their evolutions would have been this good, exceedingly high mana cost be damned. Even the annoyance of having to age them out of being juveniles wasn't that bad in face of this.

Now just to pick.