The alert repeated.
Not because the system lacked clarity—but because Seth had not yet responded.
"Construction of the Third Floor is complete.
Construction units have ceased function.
Material reserves are below operational threshold."
Seth remained seated.
The hum of the domain was steady. Temperature constant. Structural stress negligible. No breach alarms. No hostile presence.
Yet.
He exhaled through his nose and tilted his head a fraction toward the central array.
"Monitor," he said. His voice was calm. Even. "Summarize."
At once, the domain responded—not visually, but in layered sound, data converted into structured speech and spatial audio cues that mapped themselves cleanly into his awareness.
"Primary alloy reserves at seven percent.
Secondary composites at eleven percent.
Mana-conductive filaments depleted.
Automated fabrication suspended.
Expansion halted."
A pause—measured.
"Defensive systems unaffected.
Core stability nominal."
Seth tapped two fingers against the armrest.
"So," he said, "growth is frozen."
"Yes," the system replied. "At current levels, continued operation without resource input will result in degradation within forty-seven days."
"That long?" Seth muttered. "Generous."
He leaned back slightly.
There was no frustration in him. No anxiety.
This was not failure.
This was logistics.
"Causes," he said.
"Primary causes include:
— accelerated construction rate on Third Floor
— reinforcement layering beyond baseline
— redundancy protocols exceeding projected use
— unplanned integration of biological residents"
Seth did not interrupt.
The system continued.
"Resource consumption exceeded forecast by thirty-two percent."
Seth nodded faintly.
"Acceptable margin," he said. "Continue."
"Secondary cause," the system added, "is sustained inactivity of external resource intake."
Seth inhaled once, slowly.
There it was.
He had known it would come to this eventually. Internal recycling only delayed the inevitable. Dungeons could grind adventurers, gods, and monsters alike—but they did not generate raw matter.
Matter had to be taken.
"Options," Seth said.
A soft tonal shift indicated transition to solution modeling.
"Option one: dismantle nonessential structures for reuse."
"Rejected."
"Weakened defensive depth. Unacceptable."
"Option two: engage external trade networks."
"Rejected."
"Exposure risk. Traceable transactions. Political entanglement."
"Option three: dungeon lure escalation."
Seth frowned.
"That is not efficient," he said.
"Correct," the system replied. "Time-to-yield unpredictable. Mortality rates insufficient to sustain construction-grade extraction."
"Next."
"Option four: targeted extraction."
Seth smiled faintly.
"Confirm parameters," the system requested.
Seth straightened.
"Locate nearest high-density resource node," he said. "Prioritize distance, yield, and minimal oversight."
A brief pause.
Then—
"Nearest viable node located.
Designation: Western Far Mines.
Current controlling authority: House Bun.
Distance: seventy-three kilometers.
Political status: external to Andreas territory.
Border-adjacent."
The name registered.
House Bun.
A minor noble household. Old land. Long-held mining rights. Conservative, insular, and complacent.
Seth tilted his head.
"Legal complications?"
"Extraction without sanction constitutes territorial violation."
"Probability of detection?"
"Low," the system replied. "Current security infrastructure outdated. Patrol cycles infrequent. Surveillance primarily visual."
Seth exhaled softly.
Visual.
"Yield estimate?"
"Enough to restore construction capacity to eighty-four percent," the system said. "With continued operations, full capacity achievable."
"Good."
He stood.
"Proceed."
"Confirming," the system said. "Deploy reconnaissance drone?"
"Yes."
A faint vibration passed through the floor as mechanisms deep within the domain shifted.
"Drone deployment in progress."
Seth turned away from the central array, already moving.
The workshop received him with familiar acoustics.
He did not need to see the space. He knew it by sound, by airflow, by the subtle change in temperature where machinery radiated stored heat.
"Prepare attire," he said.
Mechanical arms responded immediately.
Fabric slid. Buckles clicked. Metal components aligned with soft magnetic locks.
Gone was the white shirt.
Gone was the composed, neutral presentation.
Black fabric layered over him—matte, sound-dampened, resistant. Utility belt locked into place around his waist, each module clicking home with a satisfying finality. The cloak followed, hooded, weighted at the hem to prevent flutter. A black cloth mask was placed over his lower face—not concealing blindness, but identity.
No blindfold.
Not today.
He flexed his hands, feeling the gloves settle. Thin. Reinforced. Tactile.
"Status of drone," he asked.
"Drone has reached mid-transit," the system replied. "No anomalies detected."
"Good."
Seth reached the rack at the far end of the workshop.
His fingers brushed cold alloy.
The cyber bike.
Compact. Low-profile. Engine quiet enough to pass as wind at speed. Reinforced suspension. Terrain adaptive.
He swung a leg over and settled onto the seat.
Before departure, he paused.
"Monitor."
"Yes, Seth."
"Begin relocation protocol."
"Specify."
"Use the mecha carrier," he said. "Transport all assets from the Second Floor to the Third. Nonessential items only. Prioritize materials, tools, reserves."
"Confirmed."
"And inform Agatha."
There was a fractional pause—not hesitation, but routing.
"Message transmitted," the system said. "Agatha has acknowledged."
Seth nodded.
"Command?"
"In my absence," he said, "she oversees internal stability. No new construction. No experimentation."
"Understood."
Seth hesitated.
Then added, "If anything attempts to breach the domain—"
"It will be terminated," the system finished.
"Good."
He rolled the bike forward.
The cave mouth opened silently before him, stone decomposing into particulate mist before reforming behind him as he passed.
Cold air brushed his face.
Forest.
Night.
He stopped just outside the threshold.
"Monitor," he said. "Initiate external support deployment."
"Coordinates?"
"Twenty meters east," Seth replied.
There was a low rumble.
The ground responded.
Earth split—not violently, but deliberately. Stone parted like an opening jaw as a massive form rose from below.
The mecha load truck emerged.
Even without sight, Seth felt its presence—the displacement of air, the deep vibration of mass asserting itself against gravity.
Four off-road wheels settled first, thick and reinforced. Then, with a grinding hum, the secondary locomotion system unfolded.
Metal spider-legs extended, anchoring into the ground before lifting the chassis just enough that the tires hovered, suspended.
Hybrid mobility.
Four articulated arms rotated into ready position.
Two ended in heavy industrial pickers—clawed, precise.
Two terminated in drills, their tips already humming at idle, eager.
"Status," Seth said.
"All systems operational," the system replied. "Cargo capacity optimal."
"Follow protocol delta," Seth said. "No lights. No emissions above baseline."
"Confirmed."
Seth twisted the throttle.
The bike responded instantly.
He surged forward—silent, fast—tires gripping dirt, then stone, then packed earth as he left the cave behind.
Behind him, the mecha truck moved.
Not quickly.
Inevitably.
Seth rode without hesitation.
He did not see the road—but he did not need to.
The system fed him constant spatial data: incline, curvature, obstacles, atmospheric changes. Every vibration through the handlebars translated into terrain awareness.
He rode through forest, across ridges, skirting settlements without ever approaching them.
He did not think about Evelyn.
He did not think about Agatha.
This was not cruelty.
This was prioritization.
Shelter required structure.
Structure required resources.
Resources required action.
By the time dawn threatened the horizon, the drone reported.
"Target location confirmed," the system said. "Western Far Mines operational. Night shift minimal. Security negligible."
"Good."
Seth slowed.
"Proceed with phase two."
He veered off the path, guiding the bike into denser terrain, where sound was swallowed by foliage and distance.
The mecha truck followed, spider-legs engaging as the terrain steepened, climbing where wheels would fail.
They did not approach the mine directly.
They circled.
Seth dismounted when the ground leveled.
"Hold position," he said to the bike.
He turned toward the distant, unseen activity.
Voices. Metal. Pickaxes. Crude drills.
Old technology.
Primitive.
"Monitor," Seth said quietly. "Begin extraction planning."
"Confirmed."
Deep within House Bun's territory, the earth waited.
And Seth intended to take what it had.
Seth slowed.
Not because of terrain.
Not because of uncertainty.
Because the system adjusted its tone.
"Alert," it said. "Multiple life signatures detected. Armed. Pattern consistent with patrol units."
Distance resolved itself in Seth's awareness—not as meters seen, but as layered spatial presence.
"Guards?" he asked.
"Yes," the system replied. "House Bun security detachment. Estimated squad size: twelve. Distributed perimeter coverage outside primary mine entrance."
Seth exhaled quietly.
"So they did not abandon vigilance entirely," he murmured. "Merely dulled it."
He brought the cyber bike to a halt beneath the cover of dense rock outcroppings and thick-rooted trees. The engine fell silent the instant his hand released the throttle.
The mecha load truck followed suit, its spider-legs retracting slightly as it anchored itself, mass settling with controlled precision.
Seth dismounted.
He stood still for three seconds.
Not to think.
To listen.
Wind. Distant metal. Boots against stone. The subtle, irregular rhythm of living things that believed themselves unobserved.
"Monitor," he said quietly. "Confirm patrol awareness."
"No detection of anomalous signals," the system replied. "They are unaware of your presence."
"Good."
Seth turned toward the mecha truck.
"Open rear compartment."
Metal shifted. Panels parted. A soft hiss of pressure release followed.
Inside waited a single iron box.
Rectangular. Dense. Shielded.
Seth reached for it, fingers brushing cold alloy, then lifted it free with practiced ease and placed it on the ground.
He crouched.
"Disengage lock."
The lid clicked open.
Inside were four compact constructs—each no larger than a hunting dog. Their bodies were segmented, jointed, built low to the ground. Four legs each, articulated with insectile precision. Their shells were dark, matte, designed to swallow light. Along their thoraxes, translucent sacs pulsed faintly—compressed reservoirs.
Sleeping gas.
Non-lethal. Odorless. Fast-acting.
Their eyes were dark.
Inactive.
Seth rested his hand above them.
"Activate," he said.
A faint hum rippled through the box.
One by one, four sets of eyes ignited—dim red, barely visible.
"Autonomous infiltration mode," Seth continued. "Objective: disperse payload within primary mining tunnel. Avoid detection. Secondary directive: detonate on signal or compromise."
"Confirmed," the system said.
The constructs moved.
They flowed out of the box with unsettling smoothness, limbs clicking softly as they touched earth. Their movements were not hurried. Not cautious.
Purposeful.
They vanished into the dark like living shadows.
Seth closed the box.
Then turned away.
He did not rush the guards.
He did not approach directly.
He moved.
Silently.
The system fed him constant updates—distance, posture, heart rate fluctuations. Twelve signatures, spread wide. Poor formation. Overconfidence evident in idle chatter and uneven pacing.
"First target," Seth murmured.
He stepped forward.
The guard never heard him.
A sharp tap to the side of the neck—precise pressure applied to nerve clusters mapped perfectly in Seth's memory. The man crumpled before he could even inhale.
Seth caught him.
Lowered him.
Moved on.
He did not draw weapons.
He did not need them.
One by one, the guards fell.
A pressure strike behind the ear.
A controlled choke timed to oxygen deprivation thresholds.
A calculated impact to the solar plexus that stole breath and consciousness simultaneously.
No blood.
No noise.
The system counted.
"Seven neutralized," it said.
"Continue," Seth replied calmly.
Another guard turned—
Too late.
Seth was already there.
Inside the Mine
The mine was alive.
Metal rang against stone. Voices echoed down the narrow tunnels, distorted by distance and dust. Lanterns flickered, throwing uneven shadows against rough-hewn walls.
The air smelled of iron and sweat.
"Keep it steady!" someone shouted. "The vein's rich here—don't get sloppy!"
Pickaxes rose and fell in rhythm.
Miners worked shoulder to shoulder in the wider chambers, bodies bent, muscles aching, minds dulled by repetition.
None of them noticed the first insect.
It crawled along the ceiling.
Its legs clung to stone effortlessly, body flattening against the rock. It moved in silence, joints absorbing vibration, sensors mapping heat and motion.
Below it, men worked.
Laughing. Complaining. Swearing.
"Another day in the dirt," one muttered. "At least the pay's decent."
"Decent?" another scoffed. "For this? I'd rather be back hauling grain."
The insect paused.
Calculated.
Then moved again.
A second insect slipped along a side tunnel, passing over stacked crates and discarded tools. A miner glanced up just in time to catch movement out of the corner of his eye.
"…Did you see that?" he asked.
"See what?"
"Thought something crawled past."
"Probably rats," came the reply. "Big ones, too."
The miner shrugged and returned to his work.
He would not remember this moment.
The third insect miscalculated.
It scuttled across the ground between lantern light and shadow, its movement catching the eye of a younger miner.
"What the hell is that?" the boy said, stepping back.
He raised his boot instinctively and stomped.
Metal met metal.
The insect flattened beneath his heel, legs spasming briefly before locking in place.
"…That's not a rat," the boy said slowly.
Other miners turned.
"What did you—"
The head miner emerged from the deeper tunnel then.
He was older. Broader. Scarred by years of stone and sweat. Authority clung to him like dust.
"What's all this noise?" he demanded.
The boy pointed down.
"Found this thing."
The head miner frowned and stepped closer, crouching slightly.
He prodded the crushed construct with the tip of his alloy pickaxe.
"…Never seen anything like it," he muttered. "Some kind of machine?"
The insect's eyes blinked.
Once.
Twice.
The head miner's breath caught.
"Get back—"
The world turned white.
Simultaneously, across the mine—
Detonation.
Not fire.
Gas.
Thick, rolling clouds of pale white erupted from hidden points along the tunnels, pouring outward with terrifying speed. It filled air, swallowed sound, erased distance.
Miners screamed.
Then coughed.
Then fell.
Pickaxes clattered to the ground. Lanterns toppled, light diffusing uselessly through the fog.
The sleeping gas worked fast.
Lungs seized. Muscles slackened. Consciousness slipped away like sand through fingers.
Men collapsed where they stood.
The head miner staggered back, yanking his shirt up over his nose, eyes wide, heart hammering.
Attack.
We're under attack.
He forced himself to stay upright, gripping his pickaxe with white-knuckled desperation.
Then he heard it.
A sound that did not belong.
Low.
Rhythmic.
A hum.
It grew louder.
Deeper.
Not footsteps.
Not collapse.
Something massive.
Approaching.
The ground vibrated.
From within the white fog, two lights emerged.
Bright. Cold. Unblinking.
The head miner raised his arm instinctively to shield his eyes as the vehicle broke through the haze.
Metal limbs. Drills. Pickers.
A machine.
And in front of it—
A figure.
Black-clad.
Masked.
Walking calmly through the chaos like it had been waiting for this moment.
The head miner's knees buckled.
And then—
Nothing.
Seth stepped into the mine.
The gas did not affect him.
Filters engaged the moment his foot crossed the threshold.
"Status," he said.
"All hostile and non-hostile biologicals unconscious," the system replied. "No fatalities detected."
"Good."
He walked forward, boots crunching lightly over fallen tools and stone.
The mecha truck followed, drills unfolding, arms positioning themselves with clinical precision.
"Begin extraction," Seth commanded.
Metal screamed.
Stone shattered.
The mine gave way.
And far above, unaware, House Bun slept—never realizing that beneath their land, something had come not to conquer…
…but to take.