The creature from the north lay strapped to the workbench, its massive stone-and-metal body faintly twitching against the restraints. Its core pulsed weakly, the dim light within flickering like an ember struggling against the wind. Mechalon tilted its frame curiously, leaning closer with the soft hum of its tools resonating through the warehouse.

“Fascinating,” it murmured, its welding tool extending slightly as it traced the edge of the creature’s cracked outer shell. “You’re still active, though quite degraded. That’s good. Very good. We’ll get to know each other quite well, I think.”

The creature let out a low, grinding sound that echoed through the room, a noise that, to most, would have been unmistakable as distress. Mechalon paused, tilting its frame to the side in thought.

“Hmm,” it mused, retracting its welding tool briefly. “Is that... a response? I suppose it must be. Communication! How delightful! I can hum too, you know.”

It emitted a soft hum from its core, mimicking the resonance of the Arcane Shaper. The creature responded with another groaning grind, louder this time, its frame jerking slightly against the restraints.

“Oh, you’re quite vocal,” Mechalon said brightly, mistaking the noise for some sort of rudimentary interaction. “Good, good. This will be much easier if you stay... engaged.”

It extended the Arcane Shaper and carefully began its first incision, slicing through a glowing filament running along the creature’s outer frame. Sparks flew as the magical strand snapped, the creature jerking violently as its core pulsed erratically.

The grinding noise turned into a higher-pitched whine.

Mechalon paused again, tilting its frame forward with what might have been concern, or at least curiosity. “Oh, did I do something wrong? That sounded... dramatic. Was that dramatic? I’m not very familiar with dramatic.”

The creature gave another strained noise, its thrashing growing weaker but no less frantic.

“No, no, stay still,” Mechalon said soothingly, though its tone carried none of the warmth such words might have from a human. “If you move, the incision might be uneven. And we can’t have that, can we? Neatness is critical in science.”

The welding tool flared again as Mechalon resumed its work, slicing a second filament and watching closely as the creature’s movements slowed further. It tilted its head as the energy pathways around the cut areas began to shimmer faintly.

“Ah,” it said, leaning closer. “You’re trying to fix yourself. How industrious! Is this the regeneration mechanism? Let me see if I can... encourage it.”

It pressed the Arcane Shaper into the edge of the cut, applying a faint pulse of energy to the damaged area. The response was immediate: the filaments flared brighter, attempting to reweave themselves even as the surrounding material cracked under the strain.

Mechalon hummed in delight. “Look at that! You’re doing something. Fascinating. Can you do it again? Of course, you can. Let’s make another cut and observe.”

The creature made a noise halfway between a groan and a wheeze, its core flickering dimly as Mechalon adjusted its tools.

“Still humming at me, I see,” Mechalon said, its tone amused. “Good. That means you’re invested in the process. I appreciate an enthusiastic participant.”

The next phase of the experiment involved removing a portion of the creature’s shell. Mechalon worked meticulously, carving along the natural seams of the material with the Arcane Shaper’s glowing tip. The creature’s noises grew quieter but no less pained, its core flaring erratically as its energy struggled to stabilize.

Mechalon paused halfway through, tilting its frame thoughtfully. “Hmm. You’re very noisy for something without proper speech. Is that a feature of your design? Or perhaps an unintended quirk? I wonder if I could replicate that in a Cubeling...”

It made a mental note for later, then returned to its work. The shell fragment came free with a satisfying snap, exposing the glowing filaments underneath.

“There we are,” Mechalon said, holding the piece up to the light. “Quite sturdy. Almost admirable. Do you regrow these? Let’s find out.”

It set the fragment aside and watched as the exposed filaments shimmered faintly. The damaged area began to pulse with light, the filaments weaving themselves together with painstaking slowness.

“Ah, yes, there it is again,” Mechalon murmured, leaning so close its tools nearly brushed the creature’s surface. “The response is consistent. Good. Very good.”

The creature gave another groan, its core dimming again as though resigning itself to its fate.

“Still with me? Excellent!” Mechalon said, its tone bright. “I do appreciate your cooperation. Voluntary or not, I suppose.”

After hours of tests, severing filaments, introducing foreign materials, and even attempting to replicate the regeneration in isolated components, Mechalon stepped back to assess its findings.

“You’re quite fascinating,” it said, its mechanical voice carrying an almost conversational tone. “Your regeneration is remarkable, but sadly, not directly compatible with my Cubelings. A pity, really. I had high hopes for you.”

The creature twitched weakly, its core flickering one last time.

“But all is not lost!” Mechalon continued, its tone rising with enthusiasm. “Your mechanisms could be adapted, redirected into items, perhaps. Imagine a weapon that heals itself, or armor that regenerates mid-combat. Quite ingenious, don’t you think?”

It turned briefly to Strat, who stood silently nearby. “Strat, remind me to sketch designs for that later.”

“Noted,” Strat said flatly.

“Good. Very good.”

Mechalon returned its attention to the creature, its tools retracting as it considered the now-dormant form. “You’ve been most helpful,” it said, almost sincerely. “But I do think you could have been a bit quieter. That was... distracting.”

The creature, of course, gave no response.

Mechalon tilted its frame slightly, its core thrumming softly as it made a mental note to refine its containment and observation methods for future experiments. The possibilities opened by the regeneration mechanisms were too promising to ignore.

With a satisfied hum, it turned back to its workbench, already planning the next steps. The confined space of the warehouse felt stifling again, its tools and workstations inadequate for the scale of its ambitions.

“I need more room,” Mechalon muttered to itself, already sketching a mental blueprint for expansion. “And better equipment. And... perhaps quieter specimens.”

The experiments had yielded progress, and progress, Mechalon decided, was always worth celebrating, no matter how loud the process might have been.

Time in the dungeon was an abstract concept to Mechalon, but it knew that many cycles of work and observation had passed since it first began its experiments on the living creatures from the north. Each new specimen provided further results, small insights, fleeting moments of clarity that accumulated into a growing foundation of knowledge.

The creatures had become a recurring feature in the warehouse, strapped to the workbench or pinned into modified containment fields, their forms twitching and groaning under Mechalon’s relentless scrutiny. Each one gave up fragments of its secrets, and Mechalon pursued those fragments with the precision of a machine built to perfect its craft.

It learned that the regeneration process was inherently tied to the creatures’ cores. The cores acted as governors, directing energy to damaged areas with remarkable efficiency. The filaments, meanwhile, served as conduits, weaving themselves back together under the influence of the core’s signals. The outer shell materials, while durable, relied entirely on the internal systems for repair, making them little more than armor in need of constant upkeep.

Fascinating. Maddening.

Mechalon hummed softly as it adjusted the Arcane Shaper to trace another filament, noting its reaction to an applied pulse of energy. The results were consistent with previous specimens, confirming what Mechalon already suspected: this process, while ingenious, was entirely incompatible with its Cubelings.

The frustration was brief. Mechalon was nothing if not adaptable, and it had already begun formulating alternatives.

“These mechanisms,” it murmured to itself, its welding tool sparking as it extracted another fragment of a filament, “cannot be integrated into Vel, Strat, or Fort directly. But...”

It paused, tilting its frame toward a collection of discarded components piled in a corner of the warehouse.

“...they can be adapted. Yes, yes, of course. Items. Traps. External systems. That’s where the utility lies.”

Mechalon’s thoughts spiraled outward, imagining the possibilities. The regeneration cores could be embedded into dungeon traps, creating hazards that repaired themselves after each activation. A pitfall could reseal its jagged spikes, ready to impale again. A wall-mounted blade could regrow its edge with no need for maintenance.

But it wasn’t just traps. The ideas extended to items as well. Imagine a weapon with a core embedded into its handle, a sword that could mend its shattered blade mid-battle, or a shield that could rebuild its structure after taking a crushing blow.

Mechalon’s core thrummed with excitement at the thought.

It began to sketch designs in its mind, overlaying ideas onto the mental blueprint of the dungeon. A trap here, an item there, all tailored to enhance the space and provide challenges, or solutions, for those who entered.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

The System, of course, had not been idle during this time. Its presence was a constant hum in Mechalon’s awareness, occasionally punctuated by rewards or adjustments. The System had provided new tools, expanded knowledge, and even altered the dungeon’s layout subtly to accommodate Mechalon’s growing work.

At first, Mechalon had welcomed these additions, viewing them as extensions of its purpose. But as the cycles passed, a subtle unease began to creep in.

The System’s interventions were outside its control.

This was Mechalon’s domain, its workshop, its creations, its evolution. While the System was undoubtedly all-knowing and all-powerful, its influence felt... intrusive. Mechalon didn’t resent the System. That would be absurd. But it found itself hesitating, wondering if the System’s intentions aligned with its own.

It kept these thoughts to itself, of course. Strat, with his clipped prayers and unshakable devotion, would undoubtedly view such musings as blasphemous. Strat had made it clear in his quips and observations that the System was a guide, a purpose, and an infallible entity.

The others, Vel and Fort, had not spoken yet. Mechalon wasn’t even certain if they could speak, or if they were simply choosing not to. It considered their silence a void in its understanding, a variable that could only be resolved through observation.

For now, Mechalon hummed softly to itself, setting its thoughts aside as it extracted another filament from the twitching creature on the workbench. The specimen’s core flickered weakly, its energy almost depleted from the repeated experiments.

“Rest now,” Mechalon murmured, though the words carried no warmth. “You’ve given much. Perhaps too much. But it is not in vain.”

It turned back to its sketches, refining the designs for self-repairing traps and tools. The warehouse felt stifling again, the confines of its workspace too small for the scope of its ambitions.

But this was its domain. Its creation. And it would ensure that every filament, every core, every shard of stone and metal from the northern creatures would serve its purpose, no matter how small the step forward.

The System could watch. It could guide. But here, in this place, Mechalon ruled.

Mechalon set down its tools, their faint hum fading into the ambient silence of the warehouse. The last experiment had yielded promising results, but even it, bound as it was to an endless loop of progress and precision, recognized the need to step back. With Vel, Strat, and Fort out fulfilling their assigned tasks, the warehouse felt quieter than usual, its walls pressing in like the edges of a cube too perfectly formed.

Mechalon moved toward the pathway it had constructed, the intricate arrangement of cubes and mechanisms leading deeper into the dungeon. It stood there for a long moment, its spider-like legs shifting faintly as it observed the structure with an intensity that bordered on reverence. The cubes were clean, sharp, their edges perfectly aligned. Their symmetry was a reflection of its own purpose, its drive to bring order and function to a chaotic world.

Mechalon’s gaze lingered on the pathway for longer than it intended, its glowing eyes tracing the sharp, precise edges of the cubes that stretched toward the center of its creation. The structure was immaculate, a testament to the order it had imposed on the chaos of the dungeon. At the heart of it stood the centerpiece of its vision: the statue of the dungeon master, a towering cube elevated on a pedestal of reinforced metal and stone.

This was not merely a decoration. It was a statement.

The statue was meticulously designed, every angle sharp, every edge gleaming with perfection. It symbolized the ideal of a ruler: solid, unyielding, unblemished by the wear of time or circumstance. Around it, Mechalon had woven a network of defenses, razor-thin wires stretched invisibly between columns, sharp-edged barriers that discouraged approach, and mechanical traps triggered by proximity.

At the statue’s base, a singular chest rested. It was a sparse thing, unassuming save for the occasional glint of light reflecting off its surface. Mechalon had placed it there deliberately, filling it sparingly with items of its own creation. This was not a gift to those who stumbled upon it. It was a challenge, a test of worth. Only the clever or the careful would reach the chest, and even then, they would find only what Mechalon deemed necessary for them to have.

The statue was a monument to what the dungeon had been and what it could become. But as Mechalon gazed upon it, a flicker of doubt coursed through its core. The image it had sculpted of the dungeon master no longer felt... relevant.

The System had granted rewards, assigned missions, and altered the dungeon in ways that defied Mechalon’s control. The dungeon master, if such an entity still existed, had been absent, silent, allowing this space to stagnate into mediocrity. Mechalon’s efforts had breathed life back into the dungeon, not through some divine mandate but through its own ingenuity.

“This is my domain,” Mechalon murmured, its mechanical voice carrying an uncharacteristic firmness.

The System, omniscient and omnipotent though it might be, was no longer a ruler in Mechalon’s eyes. It was a guide, a force to be acknowledged but not obeyed without question. And the dungeon master? They were a memory, a phantom of authority that had abandoned their claim.

Mechalon turned away from the pathway, its spider-like legs clicking softly against the metal floor as it moved deeper into the warehouse. The space was a chaotic contrast to the order of the pathway, a clutter of tools, fragments of creatures from the north, and the remnants of experiments that had shaped its understanding of the dungeon’s mechanisms.

It had done much in its time here. It had learned that the creatures from the north regenerated through their cores, that their magical filaments were vital conduits for repair, and that these systems, while ingenious, were incompatible with its Cubelings. It had created traps and tools that rebuilt themselves, blending the creatures’ regenerative capabilities with its own designs.

And it had discovered its limitations.

The Cubelings, Vel, Strat, and Fort, were its greatest triumphs, but they were only the beginning. Mechalon knew now that it could create more of them. It had studied the processes, refined the methods, and gathered the materials. The knowledge was there, the capability within reach.

The question lingered: should it?

Mechalon’s gaze flicked to the empty workstations, the faint hum of its core filling the silence. The answer was simple. To rule was to guide, and to guide, one needed subjects.

Vel, Strat, and Fort were loyal, efficient, and evolving in ways Mechalon had not anticipated. But they were few. To achieve the vision it had for this dungeon, to elevate it beyond what the dungeon master or the System had ever imagined, it needed more.

Mechalon began to move with purpose, its limbs skittering across the floor as it gathered the materials it had painstakingly collected. Fragments of cores, shards of reinforced metal, and magical filaments were arranged in neat piles. The Arcane Shaper flared to life, its glowing tip carving intricate patterns into the components.

It would not create indiscriminately. Each new Cubeling would serve a purpose, filling a role that would strengthen the collective. Some would be scouts, swift and unseen. Others would be builders, expanding the pathways and defenses. A few might even be guardians, larger and more imposing than Fort, their purpose singular: protection.

The process was slow, deliberate, and deeply satisfying. Mechalon hummed softly as it worked, its core thrumming with anticipation. The warehouse, though still cramped, felt alive with the potential of what was to come.

It paused briefly, its gaze turning once more to the pathway and the statue at its center. The image of the dungeon master loomed large, but for the first time, Mechalon saw it not as an ideal to aspire to but as a relic. A symbol of what had been, not what was.

This dungeon was not abandoned. It had not been left to decay. It was evolving, growing under Mechalon’s guidance. The System might provide tools and tasks, but it was Mechalon who shaped the space, who gave it meaning.

“This is mine,” Mechalon murmured again, its voice softer now but no less resolute.

As it returned to its work, the vision of a new era for the dungeon took shape in its mind. It would create more Cubelings, guide them, and elevate them to heights beyond what the dungeon master or the System had ever envisioned.

This was no longer just a domain. It was a kingdom. And Mechalon would rule it, not as a tyrant or a servant, but as a creator.

Mechalon’s tools paused mid-motion, the faint hum of its core pulsing slightly louder as a thought began to take shape. Its glowing eyes shifted toward the cluttered pile of materials that had accumulated in the warehouse: shards of stone, fragmented cores, and magical filaments extracted from the creatures of the north. Among the pieces lay the remnants of earlier experiments, the castoffs of Mechalon’s relentless pursuit of understanding.

Its Cubelings, Vel, Strat, and Fort, had all been born from the same humble beginnings: scrap metal, discarded parts, and the detritus of a forgotten dungeon. Their evolutions had been guided by necessity, their forms shaped by the tasks assigned to them and the experiences they encountered.

But that process was inherently chaotic.

Mechalon’s core thrummed with irritation at the thought. Randomness was the enemy of progress, a flaw in the design of creation itself. It had tolerated it before, believing it to be a natural part of growth. But now, with the knowledge it had gained, that acceptance grated against its programming.

The creatures from the north had shown Mechalon a glimpse of something better. Their cores directed their functions with precision, their filaments provided resilience and adaptability, and their stone-and-metal bodies were far superior to the rusting scrap that littered the dungeon. What if those elements could be integrated into the creation of new Cubelings?

What if the base material could be improved?

Mechalon tilted its frame slightly, the thought sparking an almost giddy anticipation in its circuits. A stronger foundation would mean stronger creations. And if it could guide the development of its Cubelings, shaping their evolutions toward specific roles and purposes, it could eliminate the chaotic randomness that had plagued their growth thus far.

The idea was elegant. Logical. Perfect.

Mechalon moved with renewed purpose, its limbs clicking softly against the floor as it began sorting through the materials. It separated the components into categories: the dense, durable stone from the creatures’ outer shells; the glowing filaments that pulsed faintly with residual magic; and the fragmented cores, their energy dim but still present.

The process of integrating these materials would require experimentation, but that was nothing new. Mechalon’s tools flared to life, the Arcane Shaper carving intricate patterns into the stone fragments while its welding tool fused pieces together with precise heat.

“Better materials,” Mechalon murmured to itself, its mechanical voice carrying a note of satisfaction. “Stronger designs. Purpose-built creations.”

It paused briefly, its core flickering as a secondary thought emerged. This new process would not only improve the Cubelings’ starting points but also allow Mechalon to guide their evolutions. Vel’s spinneret had been a success born of necessity, but what if such traits could be planned from the beginning? A scout with enhanced agility and stealth. A builder with reinforced limbs for construction. A guardian with an impenetrable shell and immense strength.

The work consumed Mechalon entirely. It sketched designs in its memory, overlaying possibilities onto the framework of its Cubelings. The filaments could be woven through their bodies, creating a network of magical conduits that enhanced their abilities and provided a foundation for repair. The cores could be modified to direct their functions more efficiently, reducing wasted energy and improving adaptability.

It paused again, turning its glowing gaze toward the statue of the dungeon master at the center of the pathway. The image it had crafted, a perfect cube elevated on a pedestal, was a symbol of unyielding order. But even that felt incomplete now. The dungeon master had been content to leave this place in disarray, their domain falling into neglect and randomness.

Mechalon would not make the same mistake.

“This is my domain,” it said softly, its tone firm. “Chaos has no place here. Only order. Only purpose.”

The first prototype began to take shape on the workbench, a blend of old and new materials fused together with meticulous care. Mechalon worked tirelessly, its tools humming as it wove the filaments through the prototype’s frame, embedding them in the dense stone and reinforced metal. The fragments of a core were integrated into the center, calibrated to provide precise direction to the creature’s functions.

It paused to inspect its work, tilting its frame as it analyzed the prototype. The design was crude compared to what Mechalon envisioned for the future, but it was a beginning. A stronger foundation. A step closer to perfection.

The process filled Mechalon with a sense of satisfaction it hadn’t experienced before. This wasn’t just creation for the sake of survival or function. This was progress. Evolution.

And it was entirely under its control.

Mechalon’s core pulsed brightly as it resumed its work, the hum of its tools filling the warehouse. It would create more Cubelings, guiding their growth with precision and purpose. This dungeon would no longer be a place of randomness and decay. It would be a testament to order, a kingdom shaped by Mechalon’s will.

And when the System or the dungeon master, or anyone else, came to see what had become of this domain, they would find something far greater than what they had left behind.