The trouble with success was that it tasted like certainty.
Malgorath had never been particularly skilled at moderation—not in school, not in duels, not in the cafeteria line when the abyssal pudding was served—and now that he had Dungeon Points in his account again (a fact he checked roughly every seven minutes), he felt the ancient, irresistible pull of grander things.
He did not want a dungeon.
He wanted a monument.
He wanted an architectural insult to reality itself.
He wanted a place where heroes would step inside and immediately think: Oh. We are going to die here.
The cemetery forest of Floor 1 was functioning. The traps were armed. The cursed statue whispered. The Skeleton Knight patrolled like a stern father in a haunted playground. And Malgorath—newly minted Demon Lord with the attention span of an exploding spell scroll—decided it was time for a boss chamber.
Not "a room."
Not "a chamber."
A Mausoleum of Doom.
Naturally.
Splurg found him at dawn (again, "dawn" in this place meant the sky filter shifted from bleak to slightly bleaker) standing in the middle of the forest with his hands spread wide, as if he were about to hug the entire floor.
"Master?" Splurg asked cautiously, clutching the Dungeon Management Brief to his chest like a nervous parent clutching a child's report card. "Why are you smiling like that?"
Malgorath did not answer immediately.
He simply gazed at the fog like it had personally complimented him.
"Splurg," he said at last, voice deep and regal, "do you know what separates a minor Demon Lord from a legend?"
Splurg blinked. "Uh… horns size?"
"Presence," Malgorath snapped, offended. "Theatrics. Finality. A legend does not merely build corridors and traps. A legend builds a stage."
Splurg's ears perked up. "A stage?"
"Yes!" Malgorath spun with dramatic flair, cape flapping. "A grand chamber. A final hall. A place where the hero's heartbeat becomes a drum and my name becomes their last prayer!"
Splurg nodded slowly. "So… like a boss room."
Malgorath flinched.
"Do not insult me with your tiny words," he hissed. "It is not a 'boss room.' It is a Mausoleum Boss-Chamber of Eternal Despair and Architectural Excellence."
Splurg looked down at his checklist. "Should I write that down?"
"No," Malgorath said quickly. "It's… it's implied."
He waved Splurg closer and jabbed at the System Screen hovering above a tombstone like a smug ghost.
[DUNGEON MANAGEMENT]Floor 1: Undead BiomeDP Total: 58(+56 Points gained from fame spreading)Available Construction:
Crypt Corridor Expansion — 15 DP
Mausoleum Chamber (Basic) — 35 DP
Ornamental Sarcophagus — 5 DP
Bone Chandelier — 6 DP
Echo Enhancement (Dramatic) — 3 DP
Boss Arena Upgrade (Spacious) — 20 DP
Splurg stared at the list and made a small noise, somewhere between awe and panic. "Master… that's… a lot."
Malgorath's eyes gleamed. "Yes."
Splurg pointed at the DP total. "We only have fifty-eight."
Malgorath smiled wider. "Yes."
Splurg's voice cracked slightly. "Master, if you spend most of that, we won't have enough to replace units if a raid goes poorly."
Malgorath lifted his chin. "Then the raid will not go poorly."
Splurg's face said that is not how raids work, but his mouth stayed shut because loyalty was, unfortunately, one of his core features.
Malgorath tapped Mausoleum Chamber (Basic) — 35 DP.
Splurg squeaked. "Master—!"
The ground groaned.
A shockwave of necromantic energy rippled outward like a sigh from the earth itself. Tombstones trembled. Trees shivered. The fog swirled into a spiral, sucked toward a point deeper in the forest.
Then the forest opened.
Stone rose from beneath the moss—massive slabs of black granite, carved with runes and skull motifs. Pillars twisted upward like the ribs of a giant buried beast. A wide stairway descended into an enormous chamber that hadn't existed a moment ago.
A mausoleum.
Not a simple crypt.
A cathedral of death.
Its doors were carved with skeletal angels whose faces wept stone tears. Torches flared along the walls, their flames a pale green that licked the air without warmth. Inside, rows of empty sarcophagi lined the sides like audience seats waiting for corpses to fill them.
Malgorath inhaled deeply.
It smelled like dust, old magic, and ambition.
"Yes," he whispered, genuinely moved. "Yes… this is what I deserve."
Splurg stepped down the stairs carefully, eyes wide. "It's… beautiful," he admitted, then quickly added, "in a horrifying way."
Malgorath swept forward like a king entering his throne room.
"In the center," he commanded, "place a sarcophagus. Ornamental. Dramatic. Preferably with spikes."
Splurg tapped Ornamental Sarcophagus — 5 DP.
A sarcophagus rose from the floor with a grinding rumble. Its lid was carved with Malgorath's face.
It looked nothing like Malgorath.
It looked like a bat had tried to sculpt him from memory while drunk.
Malgorath stared at it.
Splurg coughed. "System defaults, Master."
Malgorath sniffed. "It is… flattering."
He added a bone chandelier because of course he did. Then echo enhancement, because nothing sounded more powerful than your own voice bouncing through a chamber like thunder.
By the time he was done, the System Screen displayed:
DP Remaining: 9
Splurg made a small whimper.
Malgorath ignored it.
Because the mausoleum was perfect.
Almost.
It needed one final thing.
A trial run.
A living audience member.
A hero.
They did not have to wait long.
Some heroes came in parties, loud and brave and foolish.
Others wandered alone—scouts, treasure seekers, or unlucky locals who thought the haunted gate was a shortcut.
Those were the easiest to catch.
Splurg spotted him first: a lone figure picking his way through the cemetery forest, sword drawn but trembling. He wore the half-armor of a low-ranking adventurer and carried a small pack on his back. His eyes flicked nervously from fog to tombstone.
"He's alone," Splurg whispered, peering through the scrying stump. "And he's humming to himself. That's usually a fear response."
Malgorath's grin sharpened. "Perfect."
Splurg blinked. "Perfect to… kill?"
"Perfect to test," Malgorath corrected, though his tone suggested the two were synonyms.
Malgorath raised his hand, fingers curling like claws around invisible strings. The Skeleton Knight—his proudest investment—stepped from the fog behind the lone adventurer with silent grace.
The hero froze.
He turned slowly.
The Skeleton Knight raised its sword.
The hero yelped and bolted.
He ran straight into a net trap.
He hit the thorny vines with a thud, tangled and panicked. He squirmed, eyes wide, making small desperate sounds. His sword fell from his hand.
Splurg winced. "He's… really scared."
Malgorath's voice softened—not with compassion, but with satisfaction. "Yes. Fear is a beautiful music."
He stepped forward into the fog, letting the hero see him.
Malgorath made sure his horns caught the lantern light.
He made sure his cape swirled.
He made sure his face wore the smug, inevitable expression of someone who believed the world existed as an audience.
The hero's eyes locked on him.
"D-demon," the hero stammered.
Malgorath spread his arms like a host welcoming a guest.
"Welcome," he said, voice amplified by the echo enhancement—even here, in the forest, it sounded like it came from everywhere. "You stand at the threshold of my domain. I am Malgorath."
The hero swallowed. "I— I was just— I thought this was—"
"A shortcut?" Malgorath guessed, amused.
The hero nodded frantically.
Malgorath leaned close, smile sharp. "There are no shortcuts in my realm. Only lessons."
Splurg quietly approached from behind, carrying rope and a small sack. "Master, maybe we should… not traumatize him too much? We need scouts to spread word—"
"We will spread word," Malgorath said, tone dark and confident. "With his screams."
Splurg hesitated, then began cutting the hero free—not to let him escape, but to drag him properly.
The hero pleaded, voice cracking. "Please! I didn't mean to— I didn't steal anything! I didn't even see treasure!"
Malgorath's eyes glittered. "Oh, you will see treasure."
He gestured toward the stairway leading down into the mausoleum.
Splurg, grimacing, helped haul the hero toward it.
As they descended, the hero's breathing became ragged. The green flames in the torches made his skin look sickly. The stone angel skeleton carvings stared down at him like judges.
At the bottom, Malgorath stepped into the center of the chamber, standing before his sarcophagus with the wrong face.
He raised both arms.
The echoes multiplied his voice into something grand.
"Behold," he declared, "the Mausoleum of Malgorath. Here, heroes are not merely defeated. They are processed."
The hero's knees buckled. "Processed?"
Malgorath nodded solemnly. "Yes. Into fear. Into despair. Into points."
Splurg cleared his throat. "Master, don't say the points part out loud."
Malgorath waved him off and turned back to the hero, eyes blazing with theatrical malice.
"You have trespassed," Malgorath intoned. "And in doing so, you have earned the privilege of witnessing my might. Tell me, tiny mortal… do you pray?"
The hero's lips trembled. "I— I—"
Malgorath leaned closer, voice low. "Because you will soon."
Then he straightened and shouted, "SKELETAL KNIGHT! ATTEND ME!"
The Skeleton Knight stepped forward, armor clanking like doom.
Splurg stood near the wall, hands clasped, murmuring something under his breath. It looked like prayer. Or maybe just stress.
The hero's eyes darted around wildly. "Wait! Wait! I can leave! I'll leave right now! I'll never come back!"
Malgorath smiled, delighted.
The System Screen chimed softly at his shoulder:
[FEAR BONUS TRIGGERED]Fear Output: High (Focused Terror)DP Gain: +4 (ambient)
Malgorath's grin grew.
"Yes," he whispered. "Fear pays."
He threw his arms wide. "Run," he commanded.
The hero blinked. "What?"
Malgorath's voice thundered. "RUN! Let the chase begin!"
Splurg's eyes widened. "Master—?"
But the hero didn't wait.
He sprinted.
Up the stairs, through the doorway, into the fog.
Malgorath watched him go like a playwright watching an actor hit their mark.
Then he snapped his fingers.
"Pursue."
The Skeleton Knight surged forward, sword raised.
Malgorath followed at a slower pace, savoring the moment. He did not run—he stalked.
He imagined himself as inevitable death, gliding after the fleeing mortal.
Splurg hurried beside him, anxious. "Master, why did you let him go?"
Malgorath scoffed. "Because it is dramatic. And because his fear will spread like wildfire."
Splurg bit his lip. "But… he might escape."
Malgorath's smile faltered.
"Of course he won't," he snapped, though his voice carried a hint of uncertainty.
They emerged into the cemetery forest.
Fog swallowed them immediately.
Lanterns flickered like nervous eyes.
Somewhere ahead, the hero's footsteps pounded through moss.
The Skeleton Knight's armor clanked steadily, close behind.
Malgorath's heart hammered—not from running, but from anticipation.
This was perfect.
This was art.
This was—
A scream cut through the fog.
Not the scream of death.
The scream of someone who had just seen the exit.
Splurg hissed, "Master!"
Malgorath's stomach tightened.
They pushed forward and burst through a thinning wall of fog—
And there he was.
The hero.
At the iron gate.
One hand gripping the bars, the other fumbling with the latch.
His face was contorted with desperate hope.
The Skeleton Knight surged forward, sword raised—
And then, in a moment of disastrous timing, the hero wrenched the gate open and stumbled through.
Out.
Into the world beyond.
The gate slammed behind him.
The System Screen chimed.
[HERO ESCAPE CONFIRMED]Survivor Status: YesFear Output: Very High (Escape Adrenaline)DP Gain: +9Notoriety Increased: +1
Malgorath stared at the gate.
At the empty space beyond.
At the fact that his "trial run" had just become a loud advertisement.
He felt heat rise up his neck.
Not triumphant heat.
Angry heat.
"That—" he began, voice shaking. "That was not—"
Splurg breathed, "He got out."
Malgorath spun on Splurg like a storm.
"HE GOT OUT!" Malgorath roared, echoing off tombstones. "Do you realize what this means?!"
Splurg flinched. "It means… more heroes might come?"
"Yes!" Malgorath snarled, then immediately reconsidered. "No! I mean— yes, but— it means word will spread in the wrong way!"
Splurg blinked. "Wrong way?"
Malgorath gestured wildly at the gate as if it personally insulted him. "He will tell them Malgorath is sloppy! He will tell them he escaped my ultimate boss chamber!"
Splurg frowned. "Master… isn't that… good? Survivors spread fear and bring more raids."
Malgorath's eyes narrowed. "Not like this."
Splurg hesitated. "How, then?"
Malgorath drew himself up, voice dripping with wounded pride.
"A survivor must flee because I allowed it," he hissed. "Because I spared them. Because I am merciful in my cruelty."
He jabbed a finger at the empty air beyond the gate.
"Not because my choreography failed and my Skeleton Knight was two steps too slow!"
Splurg opened his mouth, then closed it.
He decided this was not the moment to point out that Malgorath had literally ordered the hero to run.
Malgorath's breathing was sharp. His claws flexed.
Then his eyes flashed with new panic.
"If he returns," Malgorath muttered, "he will prepare. He will bring others. He will bring… competent heroes."
Splurg nodded slowly. "That's… the idea. More raids mean more DP."
Malgorath ignored the logic and fixated on the insult.
"My legacy," he whispered, horrified. "It undermines my legacy."
Splurg blinked. "Master, your legacy is like… two days old."
Malgorath turned slowly toward him.
Splurg swallowed. "But I understand what you mean."
Malgorath slammed a fist into the air. "We must fix this!"
Splurg sighed. "Master—"
"Pursue!" Malgorath barked, pointing at the gate as if the Skeleton Knight could follow through solid reality. "Chase him! Bring him back! I will rewrite the ending!"
Splurg scrambled. "Master, the gate is… it's outside our floor boundary. The monsters can't—"
Malgorath froze.
He stared at Splurg.
Then slowly, painfully, he turned toward the System Screen.
A small tooltip hovered near the gate icon.
Monsters cannot leave assigned dungeon boundaries unless upgraded.
Malgorath's eye twitched.
He made a sound that was half growl, half strangled gasp.
Splurg patted his arm awkwardly. "It's okay, Master. He'll bring more heroes. We can kill them then."
Malgorath's voice was low, dangerous. "No."
Splurg blinked. "No?"
Malgorath leaned in, horns casting shadows over his eyes.
"We will not simply wait," he hissed. "We will prepare. We will fortify. We will make the next raid so perfect that no one will remember he ever escaped."
Splurg nodded slowly, relieved to have a plan that did not involve screaming at the gate.
Malgorath straightened, regaining theatrical composure.
"Splurg," he said with cold certainty, "begin renovations. The mausoleum will be deadlier. The traps will be smarter. The monsters will be stronger."
Splurg swallowed. "But… balance, Master. Survivors—"
Malgorath's smile returned, razor thin.
"We will have survivors," he said. "But they will flee with the correct story."
Splurg hesitated. "Which story is that?"
Malgorath's eyes glittered in the fog.
"That Malgorath let them go."
Behind them, the mausoleum waited, grand and overbuilt and hungry.
Ahead of them, somewhere beyond the gate, a terrified lone hero was already running toward civilization, ready to tell everyone about the Demon Lord with the cemetery forest and the bone-armored knight and the terrifying boss chamber that he barely escaped.
Word would spread.
The dungeon would grow.
And Malgorath—proud, furious, determined—would make sure the next act ended the way he wanted.
Because a Demon Lord could tolerate many things.
But not bad reviews.