The labyrinth was alive with warmth and movement. Over 250 Wendren—each one gifted intelligence by the sacred tree—bustled through the pathways. Decorations made of woven vines, bioluminescent fungi, and delicate bone carvings adorned the entrances to the huts and the pathways between them. The scent of cooking meat and fragrant herbs filled the air, blending with the damp, earthy aroma of the swamp.
Marked Skull's gaze swept across his people, his chest swelling with pride. Hunters, warriors, shamans, and medicindren—each performing their tasks with joyful determination—moved like a harmonious dance through the labyrinth.
His eyes settled on a small group of Wendren gathered around a low fire. Lucy sat among them, her insectoid lower body comfortably curled beneath her. Her human hands worked nimbly as she twisted delicate flowers into intricate crowns. The Wendren around her, their eyes glowing softly, wore the crowns with a mix of pride and reverence.
More Wendren passed by, proudly displaying their own flower crowns. The respect they held for Lucy—the sacred messenger—was clear in their eyes. The crowns were more than decorations; they were symbols of trust, of shared life, and of the bond between them and the sacred tree.
Lucy’s face glowed with quiet happiness. It was the first time she had left the hollow tree in days. The shadows that had haunted her seemed to lift, if only a little, under the warmth of the community around her.
The labyrinth thrummed with life. Wendren of all roles hummed in melodic conversation, their voices weaving into a hauntingly beautiful song. Some sang softly as they stirred bubbling pots over open fires. Others decorated huts with hanging vines and glowing mushrooms.
Near a larger fire, shamans sat in focused meditation. One conjured orbs of water, making them float and dance in midair. Another hovered a few inches above the ground, eyes closed in serene concentration. A third stood with hands alight in controlled flames, the fire reflecting off their gleaming carapace.
The hunters tended to their quillthrower parasites, polishing the sleek carapaces until they shone like obsidian. The fires cast flickering shadows across their forms, the glow making their parasite weapons gleam ominously.
Marked Skull let out a long, slow breath, the weight of leadership easing as he took in the sight. Fires bathed the labyrinth in a golden glow, making everything seem warmer, more alive.
Thank the sacred tree for giving me life, he thought. This view is worth all the pain we have endured.
Lucy:
Lucy's hands moved in a delicate dance, weaving bright petals and slender stems into another flower crown. Her fingers were quick and sure, the motions familiar and soothing. Around her, a group of Wendren watched closely, their large glowing eyes filled with admiration. They tried to mimic her, their two fingers and parasite-thumb struggling to achieve the same finesse.
The crowns she made seemed to be beloved by the Wendren for reasons she didn’t quite understand. But their happiness made her happy. As soon as she started weaving them, at least four hunters had immediately rushed out to gather more flowers from the fifth floor's sprawling swamplands. The flowers they returned with were massive, vibrant, and otherworldly, their petals larger than her head.
She smiled as she saw one Wendren draping a giant flower petal around their shoulders, attempting to fashion it into a cloak. The result was clumsy but endearing. The flowers out there must be gigantic! After the feast, she’d definitely have to explore the fifth floor. The thought sent a thrill through her. It felt good to have something to look forward to again.
If only Adrian cared about things like this, she thought with a twinge of sadness. He was always so focused on his experiments, the dungeon, and his precious biomass calculations. Feasts, community, even the Wendren’s happiness—none of it seemed to matter to him. At least he was too distracted to get any strange ideas about experimenting on the Wendren.
Her eyes narrowed briefly. Oh, if he even thinks about it, he’ll get an earful from me!
But today wasn’t a day for grumpiness. Today was a celebration. The whole village buzzed with excitement, and even the air felt lighter.
She glanced toward Corpsemountain's grove, nestled at the edge of the labyrinth. The massive, grotesque creature had decorated his clearing in his own... unique way. Hunted animals hung from the roots like grim ornaments, their blood seeping into the damp earth. Entrails were artistically draped across branches like garlands.
Lucy wrinkled her nose. “Well... he has his own taste in beauty,” she murmured. At least Corpsemountain was sharing some of the meat with the village. That was something, right?
A soft, rhythmic humming filled the air, pulling her attention back to the Wendren around her. They swayed gently, their deep, resonant tones vibrating through her chest. The sound was comforting, like a lullaby or a heartbeat. She couldn’t help but sway along, the motion loosening the last knots of tension inside her.
It’s so nice here. Everyone loves me. Everyone!
Her heart felt full, almost overflowing with warmth. These creatures, with their glowing eyes and strange forms, accepted her completely. Here, she wasn’t strange or broken; she was respected and cherished.
Her eyes caught a familiar figure moving through the labyrinth. Marked Skull, the Wendren chieftain, made his rounds, his broad shoulders and confident stride cutting a path through the crowd. His glowing eyes swept over the preparations, a quiet pride evident in his posture.
Lucy’s excitement bubbled up again. The main event was coming soon—the ritual! She could barely contain her anticipation. Whatever it was, she just knew it would be something wonderful.
Adrian:
He pulsed with excitement. “Oh boy, this is going to be good!” He almost had enough biomass for two of these beauties. If he could get a basic triangle set up near the third-floor entrance, he’d finally be able to mess with reality just a little. Nothing too dramatic — just enough to make life hell for adventurers. A bit of darkness here, a bit of misleading firelight there... delightful.
The expansion of the second floor should buy him some time before any adventurers made it to the third floor. By then, he’d have monsters ready and waiting — and perhaps a few surprises.
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Adrian’s thoughts were momentarily interrupted by a familiar skittering presence. He glanced through his awareness to see Lucy outside the hollow tree, surrounded by a group of Wendren, carefully weaving flower crowns. “Finally! She’s out of the hollow tree.”
He didn’t understand what the hell the flower nonsense was about, but the Wendren seemed to love it. As long as she was feeling better, he’d take it. Better this than having her cling to the walls like a sentient cobweb.
Just then, the humming outside grew louder. Drums thumped with an insistent rhythm, their deep beats resonating through his core. A low, melodic chanting began to weave its way into the soundscape.
“Oh great, now what?” Adrian muttered. He focused his awareness outward.
Through the eyes of an oculnid perched outside the hollow tree, he could see the labyrinth bustling with activity. Fires blazed, casting flickering shadows across the walls. Wendren of all roles moved in a rhythmic dance of preparation — cooking, decorating, singing. The bioluminescent glow of moss and fungi mingled with the warm firelight, creating an otherworldly beauty.
Near the center, Marked Skull was making his rounds, his imposing figure outlined against the shifting light. He paused briefly to glance at Lucy, who was swaying gently, laughing as she placed a flower crown atop a Wendren’s head. Other Wendren proudly wore their own crowns, displaying them like sacred treasures.
Adrian’s core pulsed, a rare flicker of warmth threading through his usual exasperation. “Ridiculous... but kind of impressive.”
Suddenly, the humming shifted into a more urgent cadence. The drums grew louder, the rhythm faster. Adrian’s irritation faded as a sense of anticipation filled the air.
Something big was about to happen.
They came.
A line of Wendren, proud and solemn, marched through the labyrinth’s main path. Their steps were synchronized, the hum of their voices vibrating in harmony with the steady beat of the drums. Each Wendren held a shroomwood torch, the flames casting eerie, flickering light that danced across the flesh-like walls of the labyrinth.
At the forefront was Marked Skull, his imposing figure wrapped in a ceremonial cloak. The garment, made of stitched-together flower petals and insect carapace, swayed gently with each step. His three glowing eyes shone like embers, reflecting the torchlight.
Behind him walked two Medicindren, their delicate hands holding curved knives of chitin and bone. Their faces were painted with swirling patterns of mud and blood, a stark contrast to their serene expressions.
The path was lined with bioluminescent moss and fungi, casting strange hues — greens, blues, and faint purples — that pulsed in time with the drums. At the center of the procession’s destination lay the stone carving, etched with symbols that seemed to squirm in the flickering light.
A pile of hunted animals and herbs rested on the stone, their forms eerily arranged. Strange additions were mixed in — twisted roots, parasitic flowers, and bones arranged in spiral patterns. Adrian’s core pulsed with mild disgust and grudging approval.
Grotesque. Fitting.
The hum rose to a crescendo as the procession reached the carving. The Wendren gathered in a wide circle, the flames of their torches illuminating their skeletal faces and glowing eyes. The air felt thick, expectant.
Marked Skull stepped forward, his cloak slipping from his shoulders to reveal his bare chest. His muscles tensed, the lines of his form stark under the torchlight. He extended his hands to the Medicindren beside him.
Adrian’s core pulsed with apprehension. “If this turns into some sacrifice nonsense after I’ve pumped him full of biomass, I swear—”
The Medicindren drew their knives across Marked Skull’s palms. Dark blood welled up and dripped to the stone below. The glowing carvings drank the blood eagerly, the bioluminescent lines flaring brighter.
Marked Skull’s voice was deep, resonant. “With my blood, the circle is complete. We share what the sacred tree has given us and return it back to it. The sacred beat binds us to our purpose, but leaves us our will. It chose us, as we chose it.”
He pressed his bleeding palms to the center of the carving.
A pulse of energy shot through the labyrinth. The bioluminescent moss flared so brightly that even Adrian’s senses momentarily blurred. The pile of offerings glowed, the twisted roots writhing, the herbs smoldering with a faint, greenish flame.
Suddenly, the air seemed to snap. A voice, cold and unfeeling, echoed not just in the labyrinth, but everywhere.
Global System Announcement!
Sentience detected! A new sentient race wanders the planet!
Congratulations, Wendren! May your species thrive in ages to come!
Adrian’s core froze. For a moment, there was silence.
Then a roar of exultation erupted from the Wendren. Their hums turned into triumphant, melodic cries. They raised their torches high, their skeletal faces reflecting pure joy.
Adrian’s core pulsed erratically. “They… they achieved sentience? The system recognizes them now?”
Another message flashed before him, this one private:
System Notification: Title Received
Giver of Life
Every animal born inside the dungeon or spawned through the dungeon systems has an increased reproduction success rate of 50%.
Adrian let out a long, weary pulse. “Not particularly useful, but… huh. Guess I really did create a species.”
He turned his awareness back to the celebration. The Wendren danced and sang, their voices rising in chaotic harmony. Marked Skull’s eyes glowed brighter than ever, his hands raised to the sky.
Adrian’s core pulsed faintly, a whisper of pride creeping in.
“Welcome to the madhouse, Wendren.”
Marked Skull:
Marked Skull's hands still dripped with blood as he read the global announcement. The weight of those glowing words etched itself into his mind. The system itself had borne witness to their ritual. The system had accepted them. They were a real species now—no longer just dungeon-born aberrations, but a true people, acknowledged by the world.
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GLOBAL SYSTEM ANNOUNCEMENT:
Sentience Detected!
The Wendren have emerged as a new sentient race. May your species thrive for ages to come!
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A shiver ran down his spine. The announcement reverberated through his very being. He looked at his bloodied hands, the crimson drops mingling with the glowing moss on the stone carving. This moment, this act, had granted his people something greater than survival. It had granted them purpose.
Then, another message unfolded in his mind, clear and undeniable.
SYSTEM MESSAGE:
All members of newly evolved species are offered classes based on their interests, societal roles, and skills. The ritual is necessary to gain system access but will be simplified for future initiates to a combination of hunted animals, plants, and the blood of the participants.
Our deeds, our purpose, our roles—they have been recognized.
A glowing box appeared before his eyes, displaying three paths, each resonating deep within him:
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Select Your Path:
1. Warrior Chieftain: Lead through strength and strategy. Enhance your combat skills and the abilities of those who follow you.
2. Protector of Malice: Embody the dungeon’s ferocity and malice. Defend your people with overwhelming power.
3. Keeper of Balance: Guard the harmony between destruction and growth. Ensure that the tribe and the sacred tree remain in equilibrium.
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Three paths. Each one spoke to him, whispered truths about who he was and who he could become. But only one screamed for his attention. He had always been an extension of the sacred tree’s will, a guardian of his people. A defender. A force of fury and protection.
His voice rang out, clear and unwavering:
“I choose the Protector of Malice!”
His declaration vanished beneath the roar of hundreds of Wendren voices as they shouted out their own choices, the air alive with the hum of new beginnings. A surge of energy pulsed through him, a dark, protective strength coiling in his veins.
CLASS GAINED: PROTECTOR OF MALICE!
You are the shield forged in the dungeon’s malice, the wrath that protects your kin.
He felt it. The power. The purpose. He was no longer just a chieftain; he was a Protector of Malice.
He looked around, seeing the same realization bloom on the faces of his people. New roles, new power, new destinies ignited behind their glowing eyes. The village buzzed with newfound potential, a storm of possibility waiting to be unleashed.
Marked Skull raised his arms high, blood still dripping onto the glowing carvings.
“My siblings! My people! My tribe! The age of the Wendren has come!”
The response was deafening, a wave of pride and power crashing through the labyrinth:
“The age of the Wendren has come!”
Drums thundered. Voices howled. The feast was about to begin.
And tomorrow, the hunt would prove their strength.