Silence. A thick, suffocating blanket of nothing. It's supposed to be the sound of fear, isn't it? The hush before the clash of steel, the desperate cries, the adrenaline-fueled chaos of an adventurer's raid. But this… this is just emptiness. Three days. Three agonizing eternities of meticulously planned traps lying dormant, my lone goblin patrol, Gabby, shuffling aimlessly through corridors that echo only with the faint, rhythmic pulse of my own mana. It’s maddening. I poured everything into this dungeon. Every iota of my nascent consciousness, every flicker of creativity, every ounce of my being. And for what? A void.

A gnawing fear, far sharper than any adventurer's blade, begins to fester within my core. What if it’s not fear that keeps them away? What if it’s… indifference? What if my dungeon is so utterly pathetic, so unremarkably uninspired, that it doesn't even warrant a sneer? The thought claws at me, a cold, insidious dread. I have to know. I need to know.

Reluctantly, I extend my senses, pushing beyond the familiar, comforting stone and earth of my domain. I reach out, probing the world beyond my dungeon walls. And there it is. A crudely scrawled sign, half-hidden by a tangle of overgrown weeds. "WARNING: Extremely Low-Level Dungeon. Seriously, Don't Bother." Beneath it, in smaller, mocking script, the final insult: "Entrance Fee: 1 copper coin." An arrow points resolutely away. A copper? Unauthorized! My mana flares in a surge of indignant heat. Who dares profit from my… my… establishment?

I delve deeper, seeking the truth behind this affront. The local adventurers’ guild, those self-righteous gatekeepers of heroism, they’re behind this. A flyer, circulated with their official seal of approval, details my dungeon's “highlights.” “Monster Boss: One (1) Level 2 Goblin.” Gabby. My Gabby. Sweet, clumsy Gabby. She’s more of a tripping hazard than a boss, bless her pointed ears. And the treasure? “Small treasure chest, seriously, so small.” They’re mocking me. Publicly. My meticulously planned dungeon, my magnum opus, reduced to a punchline, a source of derision. The sting of it… it’s almost physical, a phantom ache in my non-existent form.

Then, a flicker. A faint, almost imperceptible pulse. My dungeon points. They’re increasing. Twenty now. How? I haven't felt a single adventurer, haven't triggered a single trap. Puzzled, I probe deeper, sifting through the echoes of mana within my core, searching for the source. And I see it. A shadow. Cloaked, masked, utterly unremarkable. Not an adventurer, not a treasure hunter, not even a curious novice. An… investigator. He slips into my dungeon every day. Bypasses Gabby with a bored sigh, barely glancing in her direction. Chuckles condescendingly at the treasure chest. And then, he writes something on a piece of parchment. The flyer. He’s the one who wrote the flyer.

Rage wars with a growing sense of confusion. Why? Why bother with my insignificant, clearly laughable dungeon? I try to sense his level, to glean some understanding of his motives. Sixty-seven. Sixty-seven? My core shudders, a tremor of disbelief. I’m barely a one, a fledgling consciousness in the grand scheme of things. What possible reason could a level sixty-seven adventurer, a seasoned veteran, have for wasting his time here?

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

Then, it clicks. The pieces of the puzzle fall into place with a chilling clarity. "Safe Dungeon." The guild's designation. Training grounds for newbies, a carefully controlled environment for fledgling adventurers to test their mettle. And new Safe Dungeons, especially those near populated areas, require a high-level inspector for initial certification. Risk assessment. He’s not mocking me out of spite. He’s… certifying me. He's doing his job. The entrance fee… it’s not unauthorized, it’s not some petty theft. It’s standard procedure. A guild tax, a stipend for low-level adventurers, a small price to pay for safety and experience. Collected by them, not some rogue opportunist.

Relief washes over me, a wave of unexpected calm in the storm of my anxieties. It’s quickly followed by a strange sense of… opportunity. I’m not a joke, not a failure. I’m a resource. Protected, in a way, by the guild’s own regulations. They need low-level dungeons. And mine, however humble, however pathetic in its current state, fits the bill.

The anger subsides, replaced by a cold, calculating focus. I need to understand this system, this intricate web of rules and regulations. Who profits from the entrance fees? How can I improve my dungeon, not just for the fleeting satisfaction of validation, but to become a more valuable resource, a more desirable training ground? Perhaps then, I can influence my own fate, carve out my own niche in this world.

And the thief… he’s key. He’s my point of contact, my unwitting liaison. The one interacting with my dungeon regularly, reporting on its status, shaping the perception of my domain. My… representative. And his level… sixty-seven… it makes him crucial. Why would someone that powerful bother with this? The guild must be very particular, very discerning about who they send for these initial inspections. He's not just some grunt; he's a specialist.

I need to contact him. Not to threaten, not to beg, but to… negotiate. Subtly influence his reports, subtly guide his observations. Incentives. Not gold, of course, I have no gold to offer. Information. I can highlight the improvements I’m making, the subtle shifts in my dungeon's design. Subtly suggest that my dungeon is becoming more challenging, more rewarding, while still maintaining its “safe” status, of course. More importantly, I need him to promote me, to champion my cause. Suggest, in his official report, that I’m a particularly good training ground, a valuable asset to the guild. Hint at my potential for growth, the promise of challenges to come.

But how? I’m a disembodied consciousness, trapped within the confines of my core. No letters, no messages, no means of direct communication. My only hope is that he returns, that he continues his daily inspections. I focus my senses, anticipating his arrival tomorrow. I need to prepare. Make my dungeon just a little more… noticeable. A new, slightly more challenging trap, cunningly disguised to appear innocuous. Still safe, of course, safety is paramount. A more enticing treasure chest, even if the contents are still… modest. And subtle clues, hints of my growing potential, whispered secrets woven into the very fabric of my dungeon. Things only a keen observer, a seasoned veteran like him, would notice. Things he’ll hopefully include in his report, subtly weaving them into his official assessment.

I have to make him want to notice. Make him see the potential, the diamond in the rough. He’s my link to the guild, my conduit to advancement, my hope for a brighter future. My survival, my ambition, everything depends on it. Tomorrow, I begin my campaign. Operation: Win the Thief.