Black Core Ascendent — Synopsis
When an ordinary man dies with nothing to his name but regret, an ancient presence grants him a second life — not as a hero, but as a Black Core, the sentient heart of a newborn dungeon buried in the deep earth.

Weak. Unformed. Surrounded by predators and adventurers who seek to shatter him before he grows, he must learn to survive in a world where even a moment of hesitation means death.

But every creature he kills, every drop of mana he devours, reshapes him.
His cavern expands.
His influence spreads.
And the instincts of the dungeon — cold, relentless, and hungry — whisper promises of power without end.

Caught between fading human morality and the rising will of the dungeon, he begins to walk a path no core has ever taken:

From prey to predator.
From darkness to dominion.
From forgotten man… to ascendent force.

Rumors spread.
Guilds mobilize.
Cultists whisper of an “unnatural core” that must be destroyed.
But it is already too late.

In the depths, a power is awakening — patient, hungry, and destined to reshape the world from below.

This is the story of a reincarnated dungeon forging its own evolution,
and the rise of a sovereign born from stone, shadow, and blood.

Surface exploration required refinement.


The humanoid puppet walked stiffly the last time—bones click in ways biological knees never should. If I wanted to gather resources above, the vessel needed higher mobility.


The puppet's knees bent more like a cat's now.


The moss-skin thickened with absorbed minerals.


I tested its movement inside the cavern before ascending.


When it stepped out into the forest again, dawn had matured into full morning. Ashroot Forest was louder during daylight, but its noise was structured differently. Morning creatures argue. Noon creatures hunt.


Above, birds argued about territory. Below, insects fought invisible wars. Some distant predator shrieked in a dying tone—a sound like a rotten flute.


The forest carried old mana traces. Ancient, stable, and lazy. Whatever anomaly I represented would spread into it over time. Trees here drank mana. Leaves stored it. Even mushrooms emitted faint pulses.


I knelt beside a massive root system and pressed the puppet's hand to the bark. Mana seeped into me in thin streams—information, density, composition. The forest was healthy. Not hostile. Not friendly. Neutral.


I sensed a burrow nearby and sent the puppet crawling closer. Inside, sleeping, was something like a fox but wrong—two tails, fur streaked with faint electric glow. A mana-fox. Rare. Expensive. Dangerous only when cornered.


A trail of hoofprints caught my attention next. Deep. Heavy. Probably a horned boar. Good meat, better armor. If I wanted tougher constructs, boar bone would help.


The puppet followed the tracks until they faded out—washed away by rainfall.


Beyond that lay something else: human presence.


Probably not scouts—too many footprints, too casual. Travelers or hunters. The direction indicated they walked toward the town to the west.


Good. That told me where civilization lay.


The puppet stood still among the trees.


Learning the world is not a sprint. It is a survey. A quiet mapping of terrain and threat.


Then I walked the puppet back to the dungeon and deposited the mana-fox corpse into my pit.


I returned to shaping tunnels for the rest of the morning.


Chapter 12 - ROOTS OF THE FOREST