If the first layer of the dungeon was a lung—breathing, expanding, regulating—then the second layer needed to be a stomach. A place things went and did not return.
I began reshaping the spiral descent.
A proper dungeon spiral is not simply a curved hallway. It is architecture designed to humiliate movement. Humans don't rotate well; their balance falters in circles. Perfect.
I widened some sections. Narrowed others. Subtle slopes in opposite directions. A floor that feels safe under one step and then shifts slightly when you commit both feet. Nothing dangerous yet—just unsettling.
The ambush niches came next.
I carved long horizontal slits along the inner curve of the spiral, high up. Ideal for something long-bodied to slide out of. The six-limbed shadowcat construct tested the first slit. It vanished into it smoothly, then crawled along the wall inside the stone like a jointed whisper.
Good.
I added more. A dozen. Two dozen. A network of predator shelves.
This required new monsters.
The shadowcat-thing was fast, but the dungeon needed diversity. Predictability kills predators. I dug another pit and filled it with nutrient slurry. From the slurry grew low-slung forms—wormlike bodies with bone plates, circular mouths with ringed teeth. Belchers, I decided, though the name was irrelevant. Their purpose wasn't subtle:
latch onto ankles
pull intruders off balance
make them fall down the spiral
let gravity do the rest
I placed three in the lower third of the descent.
Then four more.
Then a cluster.
They wriggled in contentment—not because they were happy, but because they existed. Existing is enough for a predator.
Now the spiral had teeth.
But it needed eyes.
Not literal ones.
Vision is too generous a sense.
I instead formed pressure-sensitive ridges in the floor. When weight passed over them, tiny mana signals would pulse back to me. Primitive, but efficient.
The dungeon grew alertness—like a muscle learning to stand.
With the spiral built, I turned my attention to air. Improper ventilation kills monsters faster than heroes do. I expanded the mole-lizard tunnels, not by moving stone but by encouraging the creatures to dig where I wanted them. Mana pulses guided them in the right direction, and soon an entire web of small ducts carried fresh air deeper into the dungeon.
The walls pulsed once, the way stone does when it acknowledges a job done correctly.
Good.
The dungeon was growing a personality: practical, silent, lethal.
Something I could respect.