POV Inspectors:
The crater stretched out before them, a vast, glassy expanse that shimmered eerily in the dim dungeon light. The remnants of the Goblin Shaman's encampment were indistinguishable from the surrounding rock, everything had been obliterated, vaporized into a smooth, obsidian-like surface. A faint hum of residual energy lingered in the air, a reminder of the sheer force that had been unleashed here.
Four figures stood at the edge of the devastation, their presence marked by the sharp contrast between their clean, ornate uniforms and the rugged dungeon environment. They bore the insignias of the Academy’s inspection team, magi assigned to monitor and evaluate dungeon integrity. Each of them radiated an aura of authority, their postures confident and their expressions a mix of curiosity and irritation.
“This,” one of them muttered, gesturing to the expanse with a gloved hand, “is not normal.” His tone was clipped, carrying the kind of weariness that only came from years of dealing with disasters caused by reckless students. “Look at this! The entire area’s been destabilized. It’s going to take weeks of mana to restore balance here.”
A second inspector, a woman with sharp features and a long, flowing cloak lined with silver threads, scoffed. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Telian. It’s a localized event. The dungeon will self-repair in time.”
Telian turned to her, his expression incredulous. “Localized? Ceryl, this isn’t some petty fire spell gone wrong. This was a detonation on a scale I’ve only seen in advanced tactical exercises! The mana density here is completely disrupted.” He crouched, running his hand over the smooth surface of the ground, his fingers tracing the faint energy patterns etched into the glass-like material. “Whatever did this wasn’t a standard spell. This was engineered destruction.”
Before Ceryl could respond, a low growl echoed from the shadows. A group of goblins, alerted by the intruders, emerged from a nearby tunnel. They were ragged, their makeshift weapons clutched tightly in their gnarled hands, their eyes glinting with desperation and fury. One of them raised a crude club, bellowing a guttural challenge.
“Ugh, pests,” the third inspector, a wiry man with short-cropped hair and a faint sneer, muttered. He raised a hand, and with a flick of his wrist, a thin, silver dagger materialized in the air. It hovered for a moment before darting forward with lethal precision.
The goblin that had issued the challenge froze mid-charge, a thin line appearing across its chest before it crumpled to the ground in two neatly severed halves. The other goblins hesitated, their courage faltering as they glanced at their fallen comrade. The dagger mage smirked, his fingers twitching as the weapon shimmered and reappeared in his hand. “They never learn.”
The remaining goblins turned and fled, their terrified screeches echoing through the cavern.
Telian stood, brushing the dust from his gloves. “Efficient, as always, Lorran. But we’re not here to play exterminator.”
Lorran shrugged, twirling the dagger idly between his fingers. “They were in the way. Besides, it’s a good reminder of the hierarchy in this place.”
The fourth member of the group, a stout woman with a staff strapped to her back, let out an exasperated sigh. “Can we focus on the issue at hand? This kind of damage doesn’t happen on its own. Someone used something far beyond their skill level to do this.”
Telian nodded. “Exactly my point. This isn’t just careless spellwork, this is deliberate. And judging by the mana signature, it wasn’t a student, noble or not.”
“Pfft,” Ceryl interjected, crossing her arms. “You’re overthinking it. You know how those noble brats are. Always toying with things they don’t understand. Some spoiled heir probably got their hands on an advanced explosive array and decided to show off.”
“It wasn’t a standard explosive,” Telian countered. “Look at the patterns here, this is precision work. Controlled. Whatever was used here didn’t just destroy, it erased. Organic material, structures, even the energy pathways of the dungeon itself. This level of precision is... unsettling.”
“Even if it was a noble,” Lorran said, a grin tugging at his lips, “you can’t deny it’s effective. This kind of force could take out a level 15 monster in one hit. Imagine the look on a field commander’s face if they had a weapon like that in their arsenal.”
“Effective?” Telian snapped, his frustration evident. “This isn’t a battlefield, Lorran. It’s a dungeon. A living, breathing ecosystem. Using something like this here destabilizes the entire environment. It’s reckless, and it puts everyone, students, inspectors, even the creatures, at risk.”
The stout woman tapped her staff against the ground, drawing their attention. “Enough. Speculation won’t get us anywhere. Let’s gather what data we can and report back to the Academy. If someone’s developing weapons like this, we need to know who, and why.”
As the group began their analysis, the faint hum of residual energy filled the air, a haunting reminder of the devastation that had unfolded. Telian crouched once more, his brow furrowed as he examined the intricate patterns left in the glassy surface. He couldn’t shake the feeling that this was just the beginning of something far more dangerous.
Telian crouched again, his fingers tracing the glassy, unnervingly smooth surface of the blast zone. He muttered to himself, his frustration bubbling over into a full-blown rant. “This is exactly the kind of reckless behavior that turns the balance of the dungeons on its head! You can’t just... erase entire swaths of the ecosystem like this. These monsters, as much as you all like to dismiss them, are part of a delicate chain. They have their own roles to play. Cutting them down like this, with tools meant for war, is-”
“-is what, Telian?” Ceryl interrupted, her tone dripping with sarcasm as she inspected the surrounding cavern. “Cruel? Unethical? Oh, come on. Don’t start with your ‘monster rights’ speech again.”
“Exactly! Monster rights!” Telian shot back, rising to his feet. “They aren’t just mindless beasts, you know. They’ve got instincts, they build their little societies, they-”
“They raid villages and murder travelers,” Lorran cut in, rolling his eyes as his dagger flicked idly in the air, reflecting the dim light of the dungeon. “They’re pests, Telian. Nothing more. Why should we care about what happens to them?”
Telian’s voice rose, undeterred by the growing disinterest of his companions. “Because it’s not about what they are! It’s about what they represent. The dungeon isn’t just some training ground for bored nobles. It’s an ecosystem, one that relies on a balance of energy, mana, and life. When you blow holes in it, literal holes, might I add, you destabilize that balance. You upset the very thing that keeps these places running. And you think you can fix that with brute force?”
The stout woman tapped her staff against the ground, sending a pulse of mana into the glassy surface. The dungeon responded immediately, the fractured stone rippling like liquid before reforming into its original, jagged texture. “Fixed,” she said flatly, ignoring Telian’s glare. “It’s not perfect, but it’ll do until the dungeon fully heals itself.”
“See?” Lorran smirked, gesturing to the repaired floor. “Problem solved. The dungeon can patch itself up just fine with a little help from us. No harm done.”
Telian’s shoulders tensed, his frustration palpable. “That’s not the point! You’re just masking the symptoms while ignoring the real problem. The dungeon doesn’t have infinite resources to repair itself, and neither do we! If we keep treating it like this, eventually-”
“Eventually, it’ll run out of mana, collapse, and swallow us all into some kind of apocalyptic sinkhole,” Ceryl said, her tone bored as she waved a hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, we’ve heard it all before, Telian. You act like this is the first time something like this has happened. Dungeons get destabilized all the time. It’s not the end of the world.”
“Not yet,” Telian muttered, more to himself than to anyone else.
The stout woman stood up straight, her staff now glowing faintly with residual energy. “Speaking of mana,” she said, cutting through the bickering, “we’re going to need to pump at least another ten percent into this sector on our next duty shift. The dungeon’s energy levels are way below acceptable thresholds after that blast. If we don’t stabilize it, the mana pathways will collapse.”
Ceryl nodded, finally looking serious. “Agreed. And we’ll need to add some containment runes to keep the local fauna from encroaching too quickly. If the goblins or something worse try to resettle here before the dungeon fully stabilizes, it’ll just create another mess.”
Telian threw up his hands. “Exactly my point! The dungeon’s ecosystem is already trying to heal, but instead of letting it do its work naturally, we’re forced to waste more mana and resources just to clean up the mess! Don’t you see how ridiculous this is?”
“Enough, Telian,” the stout woman said, her voice firm. “We have our orders. We’re here to maintain the dungeon’s integrity, not debate ethics.”
“Exactly,” Lorran said with a smirk, leaning against a stalagmite that had survived the blast. “And honestly, Telian, if you’re so concerned about the monsters, maybe you should start a shelter for them. Call it ‘Goblin Rights Initiative’ or something.”
The others chuckled, and Telian’s scowl deepened. He turned away from the group, muttering under his breath about short-sightedness and ecological collapse.
Telian’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed the cavern. Something was off. Amid the snickers and dismissive remarks of his companions, his gaze caught on thin, gleaming strands trailing along the walls and ceiling. They glimmered faintly in the dim dungeon light, refracting the ambient mana like tiny crystalline threads. At first, he assumed they were the usual cobwebs left behind by the dungeon’s many arachnid inhabitants, but the faint shimmer gave him pause.
There shouldn’t be webs here.
Telian straightened, his gloved hand brushing over one of the threads. It was surprisingly cool to the touch, not sticky like spider silk but smooth and firm, with an odd elasticity. It felt alive, thrumming faintly with energy, a mana resonance, subtle but unmistakable.
“These aren’t webs,” he muttered under his breath, his voice drowned out by the chatter of his companions further down the cavern.
The threads stretched deeper into the tunnel, weaving intricate, almost artistic patterns along the walls and ceiling. Telian knew this area of the dungeon well enough to know that no creatures here should have produced this. Spiders didn’t make their nests this far in; they preferred the higher, damper sections of the dungeon. And even if they had, this wasn’t organic silk, it was something else entirely. Something crafted.
He hesitated, glancing back at the others. They were laughing, Ceryl gesturing animatedly about the sheer inefficiency of mana pathways in older dungeons. Lorran was spinning his dagger idly, clearly uninterested in anything except their eventual departure, while the stout woman was busy sketching out some kind of containment rune on her tablet.
Telian’s jaw tightened. He should report this. It was his duty as an inspector to document anomalies, especially ones that suggested a deviation in the dungeon’s natural order. But as he opened his mouth to call out, the memory of their earlier mockery came rushing back. He could already hear their complaints.
“More work? Are you kidding me, Telian?”
“Let the dungeon handle it. Why waste mana on spider webs?”
“It’s just another pest. Not worth our time.”
With a frustrated sigh, Telian shook his head. He didn’t have the energy to deal with their dismissiveness. They wouldn’t take him seriously, and he’d only get more grief for bringing it up. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, enchanted vial designed for collecting samples. With careful precision, he plucked a few of the threads from the wall, their faint mana glow fading slightly as they detached. He sealed them in the vial, pocketing it for later analysis.
“Proper ecosystems,” he muttered under his breath. “This dungeon’s balance is already hanging by a thread, and now this…”
He lingered for a moment longer, his eyes tracing the webbing as it disappeared deeper into the dungeon. There was something almost deliberate about the patterns, as though they had been spun with purpose rather than instinct. It unsettled him, but with the others calling out for him to catch up, he reluctantly turned away.
As the group continued through the cavern, the conversation shifted back to the intricacies of dungeon mechanics.
“We’re going to need to pump mana into this place for weeks,” Ceryl said, exasperation creeping into her tone. “The pathways are barely functioning after that explosion. Whoever’s responsible didn’t just disrupt the surface, they fried half the energy grid.”
“Classic noble kids,” Lorran said, his smirk returning. “They think explosions solve everything. I bet one of them thought they’d impress their tutors with some overpowered array and ended up doing this instead.”
“Explosions are effective,” the stout woman pointed out, tapping her staff rhythmically against the ground. “But they’re crude. Mana pathways can’t handle that level of disruption without significant repair. We’re lucky this dungeon isn’t fully collapsed.”
Telian, trailing behind, couldn’t resist chiming in. “And what happens when it does collapse? A dead dungeon isn’t just a hollowed-out cave. The mana system decays completely, leaving nothing but wild, uncontrollable energy. You’ve all read the reports on dead dungeons, it’s a nightmare.”
Ceryl waved him off. “Yes, yes, we know, Telian. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? To stabilize things. Though if you ask me, dungeons shouldn’t be this fragile. The older systems were built to last.”
“That’s because they weren’t designed for constant interference,” Telian shot back. “Dungeons are ecosystems, not laboratories for amateur mages to play in. They were meant to evolve naturally, not, ”
“Save the lecture,” Lorran interrupted, spinning his dagger in an exaggerated flourish. “We’ve all heard it a dozen times. Just admit it, Telian, you don’t like change.”
Telian clenched his fists, biting back another retort. Instead, he focused on the faint hum of mana that resonated through the cavern. The dungeon was alive, but its heartbeat was faint, strained. Every step they took away from the blast zone felt like walking out of a battlefield, leaving behind the echoes of destruction.
By the time they reached the outer edges of the affected area, the group’s tone had shifted to practicality. The stout woman pulled up a glowing map of the dungeon’s mana pathways, marking areas for reinforcement and containment.
“We’ll need to divert at least ten percent more mana into this quadrant,” she said. “It’s the only way to prevent a cascade failure. The pathways here are too weak to sustain themselves after that blast.”
“Agreed,” Ceryl said. “And we’ll need to anchor the arrays with something stronger than the usual stabilizers. If this happens again, we’ll be looking at a full mana collapse.”
“Which would destabilize the surrounding regions,” Telian added grimly. “Do you know how long it takes for a collapsed dungeon to recover? Decades, if it recovers at all. And that’s assuming no one interferes in the meantime.”
“Which they always do,” Lorran said with a shrug. “Face it, Telian. Dungeons are battlefields now. No one cares about ecosystems when there’s power to be gained.”
Ceryl groaned, stretching her arms overhead as they approached the edge of the damaged zone. “At least we only have to deal with the second floor,” she muttered, her tone laced with exhaustion. “Imagine if this mess had been on the sixth or eighth floor. We’d be stuck here all week.”
The stout woman chuckled, leaning on her staff. “Don’t even joke about that. The deeper you go, the worse it gets. You think this damage is bad? The mana pathways on the lower floors are already stretched thin from dealing with high-level monsters. One misstep down there, and the whole thing could collapse like a house of cards.”
“Gods forbid something happening with the boss on the tenth floor,” Lorran said, his dagger flipping lazily through his fingers. “That’d be a nightmare. I don’t care how strong you are or how skilled your party is, nobody wants to tangle with a fully enraged dungeon boss. Not in a place this fragile.”
Telian’s brow furrowed as he trailed behind them. “You’re all acting like this is just another routine inspection. Do you even hear yourselves? The second floor’s bad enough, but if this damage were deeper…”
“But it’s not,” Ceryl cut in, exasperated. “And that’s the point. We should count ourselves lucky this mess is limited to the upper floors. If it were any worse, someone much higher up than us would already be here, breathing down our necks.”
“Not to mention,” the stout woman added, “the bosses on the lower floors are still stable. If anything, they’ve probably benefited from the influx of mana we’ve been pumping into the dungeon over the past few cycles. They’re more likely to be thriving than destabilizing.”
Telian rubbed his temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache. “That’s... not comforting.”
“It’s not meant to be,” Lorran said with a smirk. “It’s reality. Bosses thrive on chaos. They’ll soak up every ounce of mana they can and use it to get stronger. You’d better pray nothing manages to trigger them. If one of the lower-floor bosses decides to break containment, you’ll be begging to deal with a crater on the second floor instead.”
“Enough,” the stout woman said firmly, cutting off the spiraling conversation. “This is why we focus on containment and stabilization. The dungeon system relies on balance. If we keep the upper floors stable, the deeper ones remain dormant. Let’s just finish this job and move on.”
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
Ceryl sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Let’s hope the next inspection is quieter. No noble kids playing with explosives, no dungeon-wide collapses... just a normal, uneventful day.”
“Normal,” Telian muttered under his breath, his fingers brushing against the vial in his pocket where he placed the webs. The strands of shimmering webbing pulsed faintly, almost imperceptibly, as if echoing his unease. He glanced back at the cavern behind them, the faint patterns of damage still visible despite their efforts.
As the group made their way out of the cavern, Telian lingered at the rear, his mind still racing with questions about the webbing and the state of the dungeon. He glanced back one last time, the faint shimmer of mana dancing across the scorched walls in eerie patterns. Just as he turned to follow the others, something caught his eye, movement, subtle but deliberate, in the shadows near the far wall.
His heart skipped a beat. Squinting, he adjusted his gaze, trying to make out the shape. At first, it was little more than a silhouette, shifting faintly against the dim light of the dungeon. But then it moved into the open, just enough for him to catch a glimpse, a sleek, spindly figure with limbs that seemed to glide more than walk. Its glowing optics flickered like distant stars, and the patterns of webbing along its body shimmered with an unnatural, hypnotic light.
Telian froze, his breath caught in his throat. It was no ordinary dungeon creature. His instincts screamed at him to run, to call out to the others, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. The creature tilted its head, watching him with an almost curious intensity. For a split second, he swore he saw recognition in its gaze, as if it were studying him as much as he was it.
Then it was gone, vanishing into the shadows as if it had never been there.
Telian stumbled back, muttering a curse under his breath. “What the hell was that?” he whispered, his voice barely audible. His hand reflexively went to his pocket, gripping the vial of webbing as if it might offer some kind of answer.
His mind raced. A named monster? On the second floor? That was impossible, or at least, it should have been. Named creatures didn’t appear on floors like this; they were reserved for the deepest parts of dungeons, where only the most seasoned adventurers dared to tread. And yet, he was certain of what he had seen. The faint glimmer of its name had been unmistakable: Vel.
"Level nine," he muttered to himself, his tone laced with disbelief. The second floor’s average level was five, far from a place where monsters on the cusp of evolution should exist. And yet, this thing wasn’t just powerful, it was intelligent, methodical. There was no mistaking the deliberation in its movements, the eerie calm with which it had watched him.
He shook his head, cursing his low perception and the fact that he wasn’t wearing his usual dungeon gear. If he’d had his enchanted goggles or sensory-enhancing runes, he might have been able to glean more, identify its attributes, its abilities, anything that could help him make sense of what he’d just seen.
But without them, all he had was a fleeting glimpse and a gnawing sense of unease. Even if he reported this, who would believe him? Named monsters weren’t supposed to exist on the second floor. The dungeon ecosystem wasn’t built that way. And yet, here it was, defying every rule and expectation.
“They’ll call me crazy,” he muttered bitterly, quickening his pace to catch up with the others. “Just another overworked inspector seeing things.”
As Telian trudged behind the group, his thoughts spiraling in an endless loop of possibilities, What if the dungeon ecosystem was collapsing? What if this was the result of a rogue adventurer? Could that monster have been tampered with? What if the dungeon had started evolving on its own?, a sudden ding interrupted his frantic brainstorming.
A glowing system notification appeared in front of him, translucent and hovering at eye level. He almost tripped over his feet, barely holding back a curse as he quickly dismissed the display, hoping no one had noticed.
But the words burned into his mind before he could make them disappear:
----------------------------------------
Title Gained: Paranoid For coming up with over 30 nonsensical reasons why something could be happening in under 1 minute.
Effect: +1 to your Insight skill when equipped.
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Telian's mouth opened and closed as he read the title again, unsure whether to laugh or scream. He couldn’t tell if the system was mocking him or rewarding him. Maybe it was both.
“Paranoid,” he muttered under his breath, his fingers twitching in irritation. “Wonderful. I’m a walking cautionary tale now.”
He glanced around to make sure none of the others had seen the notification. Thankfully, the group was still lost in their own conversations, Telian caught snippets about mana arrays, dungeon pathways, and someone's complaints about overtime pay. None of them had even glanced back.
Forcing himself to breathe steadily, he reopened the notification to inspect it more closely. The +1 to Insight was... well, it wasn’t useless. In fact, it could be invaluable. Insight was a rare skill, one tied to observation, intuition, and understanding patterns. Adventurers who had it were prized for their ability to read the dungeon, to predict traps and uncover hidden opportunities.
Still, the title felt like an insult disguised as a reward. “Paranoid.” Not “Observer.” Not “Thinker.” Paranoid.
Telian sighed and dismissed the notification for good, but the irritation lingered. He rubbed his temples as he replayed the image of Vel in his mind, the way it had moved, the intelligence in its gaze, the webs that shimmered faintly with mana. If paranoia was what kept him alive in a place like this, then maybe the title wasn’t so bad.
He muttered to himself again as he caught up with the group. “Paranoia is just good preparation. That’s all it is. And if it gives me even the slightest edge... well, fine. I’ll take it.”
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POV Vel:
Vel perched silently in the shadows, her legs shifting ever so slightly as she observed the intruder. Her webs shimmered faintly in the dim light, their mana-imbued threads catching the subtle glow of the dungeon’s ambient energy. She had woven them with precision and care, each filament placed deliberately to map the energy pathways of this part of the cavern. They were her design, her project, a web of intent, not a mere trap. And now, this thing, this fumbling human, had dared to disturb it.
Her optics narrowed as the man plucked a few strands, carefully coiling them before slipping them into his pocket. She felt the faint tremor through her remaining threads, the disturbance rippling outward like a mocking echo. He didn’t even know what he was taking. To him, it was probably just a curiosity, some shiny material to be studied later. But to Vel, it was her work.
Her legs tapped the stone floor with restrained irritation, the rhythmic clicking betraying her rising frustration. Each tap was deliberate, measured, as if she were trying to release her annoyance in increments rather than letting it explode into action. She had half a mind to descend on him right then and there, to show him what happened to those who tampered with her creations. But no, Mechalon would disapprove. And besides, she wasn’t a mindless brute. She had restraint. She had purpose.
The man moved on, oblivious to the sharp optics fixed on his back. Vel watched until he and his group disappeared from sight, her annoyance lingering like a bitter aftertaste. She turned her attention back to her webs, inspecting the damage. A section near the edge of the cavern had been left uneven, its intricate symmetry disrupted by the human’s meddling. It wasn’t irreparable, but it was infuriating.
She extended a leg, her precision unmatched as she began to repair the filaments. Each strand was re-aligned, re-threaded, and infused with a faint pulse of energy to restore its integrity. Her irritation dulled slightly as the work calmed her, the rhythm of weaving settling her thoughts. The task was repetitive but satisfying, a reminder of her focus and control.
And yet, the notifications kept appearing.
Three different quest rewards, still unclaimed, flashed faintly in her peripheral vision. Vel flicked them away with an irritated twitch of her optics. She didn’t want to deal with them right now. Every time she considered them, the options presented felt... incomplete. She wanted Mechalon’s input, his insight. He was better at seeing the bigger picture, at considering how each choice would contribute to their collective purpose.
But Mechalon was busy. Always busy. She couldn’t interrupt him for something as trivial as her own upgrades, no matter how much the lingering notifications grated on her nerves.
Her legs tapped the ground again, this time in frustration at herself. It wasn’t like her to hesitate, to defer to someone else’s judgment. But Mechalon wasn’t just anyone. He had built her, guided her. He understood the broader goals in a way she still struggled to fully grasp. And if that meant waiting to make her choices, so be it.
Vel returned to her weaving, her movements deliberate and controlled as she reinforced the affected sections of her web. Her annoyance began to ebb, replaced by the familiar satisfaction of completing her work. But as she glanced toward the direction the humans had gone, a flicker of unease crept into her thoughts.
That man, Telian, though she didn’t know his name, had taken more than just a few strands of her web. He had taken a piece of her intent, a fragment of her purpose. And for reasons she couldn’t fully articulate, that unsettled her far more than the physical disruption of her work.
Her legs tapped a final time, a sharp, deliberate rhythm that echoed faintly in the cavern. She dismissed the lingering notifications again, shoving the decisions to the back of her mind. For now, she would wait. But when Mechalon was ready, she would make her choices, and ensure that the humans learned to respect the sanctity of her designs.
Vel's legs tapped an erratic rhythm as she worked her way through the cavern, her thoughts circling back to the humans and the system rewards that still lingered, unclaimed, like an itch she couldn’t quite scratch. Her webbing shimmered faintly in the dim light, a testament to her precision and focus, but for once, even that wasn’t enough to distract her. The humans were a problem, she had no doubt about that, but they weren’t the kind of problem she could solve on her own. Not yet.
She sighed, or at least made the closest approximation of one, the sound a faint clicking hum as her frame shifted with irritation. She glanced back toward the humans’ retreating forms, her optics narrowing. They were bothersome, much like the roaches she had hunted in her earlier days as a mindless cubling. Annoying things always came back if you didn’t deal with them thoroughly, and Vel had no interest in them returning to disturb her work again.
Still, she turned away, her focus shifting back to her true concerns. The system rewards. The choices she needed to make. Normally, Vel was decisive, her actions driven by clear intent. But now, with the new responsibilities Mechalon had entrusted to her, she found herself second-guessing more often than she liked. It wasn’t doubt in Mechalon, she trusted it completely. If anything, it was a question of whether she was meeting the expectations it had placed on her. She didn’t bring these thoughts up to Mechalon, of course. They were hers to wrestle with, and she would deal with them in her own way.
Her legs tapped again, this time more methodically, as she brought up the rewards for the first eldritch ritual she had helped complete. She had been putting it off, uncertain of what to choose. The rewards themselves were fascinating, each one offering knowledge of a new ritual. These rituals weren’t all eldritch in design, though they all carried a weight of unpredictability, their results shaped as much by intent and variables as by the precise actions taken during their performance.
Vel studied the options carefully, her optics flickering as she read through the system’s descriptions. The first was practical, a ritual for strengthening materials, enhancing their durability and flexibility in ways that could revolutionize how they built their constructs. The second was more abstract, focused on imbuing objects with subtle energy fields that could alter their surroundings in strange and unpredictable ways.
But it was the third option that drew her attention, her focus narrowing as she read the description again.
Ritual of the Watcher.
A ritual tied to the eldritch patron of observation, The All-Seer. This ritual creates semi-sentient Watchers, floating entities designed to observe and relay information back to their creator. The Watchers are not combat-capable but are highly effective for reconnaissance and monitoring. Their forms are malleable, shaped by the intent and materials used during the ritual. Variables include size, range of perception, and duration of existence.
Vel’s legs stilled, her entire frame focused on the words. Watchers. Something that could complement her webs, extending her reach and letting her monitor areas far beyond her immediate surroundings. She could imagine them drifting through the dungeon, silent and unassuming, their presence unnoticed by intruders until it was too late. They weren’t sentient, which suited her just fine, she didn’t need more personalities to manage. What they offered was clarity, information, control.
Her optics flickered as she imagined the possibilities. The webs she had spun could act as an anchor for these Watchers, their filaments serving as both a guide and a network for relaying the information the Watchers gathered. She could see everything, know everything, without needing to be physically present. The thought was tantalizing, almost intoxicating.
The system’s description continued, offering more details about the ritual’s requirements and potential outcomes. The materials needed were relatively simple, mana-infused filaments, reflective surfaces, and a central core to anchor the ritual. But the variables... those were where the challenge lay. The size of the Watchers could range from tiny, insect-like entities to larger, more imposing forms. Their range of perception could be adjusted, though it came at the cost of either duration or clarity. And their duration of existence depended heavily on the precision of the ritual, as well as the stability of the materials used.
Vel’s legs tapped again, this time with a sense of purpose. This was the reward she would choose. It spoke to her nature, to her core. The webs she wove weren’t just physical, they were extensions of her, a manifestation of her need to observe, to control, to know. The Watchers would be an extension of that, a way to expand her influence throughout the dungeon.
She glanced back toward the humans’ retreating forms one last time, her irritation fading into a cold sense of resolve. Let them come back, if they dared. Next time, she would see them coming long before they ever reached her. And she would be ready.
For now, though, she needed to focus. She closed the system message with a flick of her optics, locking in her choice. The Watchers would be hers, and she would see to it that their creation was nothing short of perfect.
Vel's legs twitched in a rhythmic pattern as her mind wrestled with the thoughts circling within her. The webs she had meticulously crafted throughout the cavern shimmered faintly in the dungeon's light, their intricate patterns a testament to her precision and focus. Yet, even surrounded by the fruits of her labor, she felt a gnawing sense of dissatisfaction. It wasn’t the humans or even the rewards she had yet to claim, it was something deeper, something primal, a pull that she didn’t fully understand.
She halted her work, her utility limbs ceasing their delicate adjustments to the filaments as she stared at the expanse of her creation. The webs were beautiful, yes, but they felt... incomplete. What was their purpose? To catch? To trap? To see? They were tools, extensions of herself, but they were passive. They waited. And Vel was beginning to understand that waiting was not enough.
Her optics flickered as her thoughts turned inward, replaying her recent conversations with Mechalon and the fleeting memories of her own choices. She had been crafted with a purpose, molded by Mechalon’s vision, but that purpose felt increasingly unclear. The rituals she performed were powerful, yes, and they allowed her to shape the world in ways she had never imagined. But the act of casting them, of relying on the unpredictable forces they unleashed, left her feeling disconnected. She wasn’t like Mechalon, she wasn’t a creator in the same sense. She was something else entirely.
Her legs tapped out a slow, deliberate rhythm as she considered this, the sound echoing faintly in the cavern. Fort had found his purpose in defense, his unyielding strength a testament to his role as a protector. Strat had embraced his role as a tactician, his keen mind and careful planning elevating him beyond a simple Cubling. And she... what was she? A ritual caster? A weaver of webs? The thought left her hollow. There had to be more.
Her gaze drifted to the intricate patterns of her webs, their glimmering threads connecting in ways that seemed almost alive. The network was vast, spanning the cavern and stretching into the unknown. It wasn’t just a trap or a tool, it was a presence, a silent watcher that saw everything within its reach. And that realization struck her like a thunderclap. She wasn’t meant to wait. She wasn’t meant to simply cast rituals or spin webs. She was meant to see, to know, to control the flow of information and events as if they were threads in her grasp.
The notion sent a thrill through her circuits, her frame vibrating with the intensity of her realization. This was her purpose, not just to weave, but to observe, to influence. The rituals were a part of that, yes, but they were tools, not the end goal. She could become more than a caster. She could become a force, an unseen presence guiding the dungeon from the shadows.
Still, doubts lingered. The choices she had deferred, the rewards she had yet to claim, they loomed over her like unanswered questions. She was hesitant, uncertain of whether she was making the right decisions. But she knew one thing for certain: she couldn’t remain stagnant. To fulfill her purpose, she had to act. To evolve.
Vel stopped her work on the webs entirely, her legs clicking softly as she turned away from the shimmering expanse. The humans were gone, and the cavern was quiet once more. But her mind was anything but still. She had made her choice, claimed the ritual of the Watcher, and now it was time to test it. She couldn’t wait for Mechalon to guide her this time. This was something she had to do herself, something that would solidify her purpose.
Vel moved through the dungeon's twisting corridors, her spider-like legs clicking softly against the uneven stone floor. The rhythm of her movement was almost hypnotic, a metronome that echoed faintly in the hollow space. She was alone with her thoughts, her webs packed tightly into bundles carried across her frame. Her mind whirred with the details of the Watcher Ritual, replaying the contents of the system's description again and again, dissecting its meaning.
The threads of the ritual weren’t just instructions, they felt like something deeper, something alive. She couldn’t explain it, but the more she thought about the weaving, the layering, and the sequence of sacrifices, the more she felt as though the ritual was speaking to her, whispering its intent in an inaudible voice. Her legs tapped an uneven rhythm, reflecting her growing unease.
As Vel turned a corner, her optics flickered briefly, catching sight of something in the darkness. She stopped abruptly, her frame poised and her webs taut, ready to be deployed. She scanned the shadows, her enhanced perception combing through the dimly lit corridor for movement. There was nothing there, just the flickering glow of the dungeon’s ambient mana lighting.
And yet, there was something. A feeling. A weight in the air that pressed against her frame like unseen hands.
Her legs twitched, the faint vibration of her internal systems humming softly as she shook off the sensation. It was nothing. A trick of the dungeon's unpredictable nature. And yet, as she resumed her journey, her optics flickered again, and for the briefest of moments, she thought she saw threads in the air, web-like patterns stretching between the walls and ceiling, pulsating faintly with a sickly green and deep violet light. They were there and then gone, so quickly she couldn’t be certain if they’d been real or just her imagination.
Vel tightened her focus, refusing to let herself be distracted. She had work to do. The Watcher Ritual was not a simple task, it required precision, control, and understanding. She was no novice, but rituals of this scale demanded respect. The components were specific, and every placement had meaning. Even the filaments of her webbing needed to be spun at exact angles, their tension calibrated to draw the energy into the correct shapes.
The system’s description replayed in her mind, each word carefully cataloged and cross-referenced with her own understanding. This ritual was not just about creating watchers; it was about connection. The system spoke of linking unseen threads, of weaving something that could observe and report, but even more than that, it hinted at a deeper purpose, something about fate, or perhaps inevitability. Vel dismissed the thought as irrelevant for now. She needed to focus on the immediate goal.
As she neared the warehouse, her thoughts returned to the brief flashes of light she’d seen earlier. Something about them nagged at the back of her mind. The patterns hadn’t been random, they’d been precise, geometric, like her webs but far more intricate. It was almost as though the threads were alive, pulsing with an energy that resonated with her own. The thought unsettled her, though she couldn’t say why.
Vel paused at the threshold of the warehouse, her legs stilling as she glanced back down the corridor she’d come from. The air felt heavy again, thicker than it should have been. Her optics adjusted, scanning the dim light for anything unusual. Nothing moved, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching her. Not with malice, but with a quiet, patient curiosity.
She muttered to herself in frustration, shaking off the sensation. "Annoying," she clicked aloud, her voice sharp in the stillness. "Just shadows and dust."
But as she entered the warehouse, the feeling lingered. The space felt different somehow, as though the very walls were humming faintly, a vibration too low for most to notice. Vel glanced at the piles of scrap and neatly organized materials Mechalon had left behind, her irritation fading into focus as she set about her task.
Her webs shot out in rapid succession, latching onto nearby beams and crates, pulling components into place with mechanical precision. As she worked, her mind returned to the ritual, reviewing its steps with meticulous care. The Watcher Ritual was more than a creation; it was an act of intent, a way to weave her presence into the dungeon itself. The watchers would be extensions of her, silent eyes observing and reporting. But the system’s phrasing, threads unseen, connections eternal, made her wonder if there was more to it than she understood.
She dismissed the thought as she arranged the components, her webs forming a delicate lattice around the ritual site. The filaments shimmered faintly, their tension perfect. And yet, as she stepped back to review her work, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was already watching her. The weight in the air returned, heavier now, almost oppressive.
Vel hesitated, her legs twitching as she turned her optics toward the ceiling. For a moment, she thought she saw it again, the faint, pulsating glow of threads stretching across the space. They pulsed in time with her own systems, their rhythm matching the hum of her internal energy. She stared, her frame still as she tried to make sense of what she was seeing.
Then they were gone.
Vel shook her frame, clicking her legs against the floor as she refocused on the ritual. She didn’t have time for distractions. Whatever she’d seen, or thought she’d seen, was irrelevant. Her task was clear, and she would see it through.
Still, as she resumed her work, the feeling of being watched lingered. And deep in the back of her mind, a single thought whispered softly, unbidden and unfamiliar:
The threads have always been there. You’re only now beginning to see them.