After depositing the mana-fox in the pit, I took a moment to review the dungeon's pulse.
Mana moved through the stone in thicker lines now, like veins swelling around a heart that had finally decided it intended to keep beating. The new monsters—the six-limbed shadowcat, the belchers, the hardened beetle clusters—caused the mana to circulate faster. Living things disturb the flow. That disturbance becomes pattern. Pattern becomes structure.
A dungeon is only as strong as its internal logic.
I carved more channels in the stone to support that logic.
The first new addition was a water vein. Condensation from the forest above filtered down naturally. I gathered it into a shallow trench. Not large—just enough to create a reflective surface. Humans always look down at water, checking footing, searching for depth. Good distraction.
Under the water, I embedded small mana-reactive roots that would stimulate bioluminescence when stepped over. A soft glow. Nothing dangerous.
But light in darkness draws the eye.
Eyes lead the feet.
Feet lead to traps.
One step to the left: stable ground.
Two steps right: pressure trigger.
Three steps right: downward slide.
I lengthened that slide into a smooth stone throat, depositing anything unfortunate into the second-layer spiral. A free fall always improves morale. Just not for the falling party.
Next, I strengthened the feeding ecosystem.
The fungus bed expanded, developing thick stalks that pulsed softly as they digested bones. The blind rodents scattered deeper into tunnels. The beetles formed three small nests—clusters of chitin and mandible clicking that echoed faintly like skeletal rain.
Good.
Noise inside a dungeon is information.
Noise from prey is opportunity.
Noise from hunters is a promise.
With each addition, stone vibrated warmly around me—the closest thing to approval.
I turned my attention to the puppet. It sat motionless by a wall, head tilted just enough to suggest thought. It had no real thoughts. It simply awaited instruction. That made it, ironically, more obedient than living servants ever would be.
But the puppet had potential: authority, mobility, infiltration.
It would need more refinement.
Better joints.
Better sensory organs.
A proper voice.
The current attempt could croak, but not speak. Speaking required vibrations. Vibrations required lungs. Lungs required something close to flesh.
One step at a time.
I pressed the puppet's palm against a wall and let mana seep into it, imprinting new pathways.
Then I froze.
A ripple in the forest above.
Not danger.
Not storm.
Footsteps.
Multiple.
Humans.
Far—still outside the practical threat radius—but the direction matched the scent I traced earlier. They were moving toward Ashroot's deeper layers.
Not toward me directly.
Not yet.
But soon.
The dungeon inhaled.
I felt the stone tighten in anticipation.
Not fear.
Not hunger.
Preparation.
Predators prepare.
Prey hopes.
I have no use for hope.