NOVPUBMikhailis cleared his throat, attempting nonchalance though the inside of his mouth felt papery-dry. "Rodion," he repeated, injecting mild impatience to mask the quick hammer of his heartbeat. "Where did they get that equipment?"
The projection complied. The AR environment dimmed its ambient glow, highlighting a single luminous thread within the fortress map. It trailed away from the barracks, dipped beneath an unlabelled gate, and tunneled downward along a gently spiraling ramp. Glyphs marked depth readings—twenty meters, fifty, one hundred—before blooming into a fresh view: a natural cave the color of mossy slate.
Rodion zoomed once, twice.
A new camera feed popped into existence—a Worker drone's eye view. Two goblin sentries stood before a weather-stained archway. The arch wasn't goblin masonry; its stones were far older, carved with spirals and starburst sigils partly eaten by creeping moss. A faint violet haze clung to the threshold like woodsmoke that refused to dissipate.
Torchlight danced off each sentry's helm, revealing weirdly professional posture. Not bored, not shuffling. Guarding.
Mikhailis squinted, leaning so far forward the blanket slid off his shoulders. The air felt cooler against freshly bared skin, but he barely noticed. The shapes of the runes etched into the lintel tickled some half-forgotten memory—lines of an ancient dialect referencing watchfulness and labyrinth.
Then recognition hit like a bell toll.
"That's a dungeon," he whispered. Voice gone dry.
<Correct.> Rodion's single-word confirmation carried zero triumph, zero apology—only acceptance, as though the conclusion was the natural next line in a math proof.
Mikhailis's pen rolled from the hollow of his collarbone down the quilt, clattering onto the floorboards with a wooden clink he barely heard. His thoughts raced, tripping over each other:
Dungeons mean relic cores. Relic cores mean mana surges. Mana surges mean potential monster breaks if containment fails.
Another notion followed fast on its heels:
Dungeons mean evolution catalysts. Monster races that survive the depths come out smarter, stronger, sometimes utterly changed.
He swallowed. "Are you…" He licked his lips, tasted leftover honey. "Are you sending goblin parties into dungeons? Like… like we send adventurers?"
Few alive knew that the dungeon-delving loop—fight, survive, evolve—was why city-states funded guilds in the first place: keep the explosive potential within measured hands. Goblins, unchecked, could surge from whelps into tyrants overnight. The possibility both terrified and intrigued him.
Rodion answered without a flicker of shame. <I am conducting controlled evolutionary trials. Goblin task groups enter, acquire resources, exit, or perish. Survival metrics inform successive loadouts. Current evolutionary progression: twenty-one hobgoblins. No catastrophic mana corruption detected in test cohort.>
Mikhailis's cheeks heated—a blend of indignation and boyish delight. "You… nerd." The word slipped out half-laugh, half-accusation. "You built them a training dungeon?" 𝒏𝒐𝒗𝒑𝒖𝒃.𝙘𝒐𝒎
<The dungeon already existed. I merely leveraged its pedagogical value.>
He barked a short laugh, gripping the blanket edge to keep from rocking off the bed. "Pedagogical value," he echoed. "You turned murder tunnels into a classroom."
The camera feed zoomed further, enough to catch a crude totem hammered into the tunnel wall—a skeletal wolf skull topped by a dented goblin helm, black feathers fanning behind. Beneath it, chalk lines counted something: tallies of victories? Body count? He couldn't be sure.
The sentinel continued, voice steady. <Ravager observed that smaller raiding parties experience higher casualty rates. Adjustment: he now selects balanced squads. Goblin Mages provide arcane support. Hobgoblin vanguards engage traps. Scouts salvage spare materials for on-site armor repair.>
"Hold—hold up." Mikhailis raised both hands as if physically stopping the wave of data. "They're learning supply chain management?"
<Affirmative. Efficiency increase twelve percent since iteration three.>
He fell silent. In the flickering AR light his eyes looked almost glassy, reflecting the tiny armored silhouettes beyond the archway. The idea that goblins—creatures notorious for chaos—marched in measured steps beneath his kingdom felt both miraculous and horrifying.
Rodion, sensing perhaps that the barrage needed a human-paced breath, dimmed the mapping overlay until only the archway feed remained. Moss swayed in a stale subterranean draft; the violet haze at the threshold sparked occasionally like embers inhaling.
Mikhailis tore his gaze away long enough to scoop the fallen pen, twisting it between fingers to bleed nervous energy. He noticed a tiny smear of honey on the barrel, wiped it absently onto his nightshirt sleeve—leaving a faint gold stain—and exhaled.
"So," he started, voice quiet but steady, "we have an organized, undead-bolstered goblin fortress beneath our orchard roots. And you're pushing them through a dungeon to make them smarter." He gave a short, incredulous laugh. "I'm going to need a bigger notebook."
The AI offered no apology, only information. In a strange way, that comforted him more than any excuse could. This was Rodion's nature: identify fractures in the kingdom's defense lattice and fill them—with stone, silk, or claws—until nothing fragile remained.
The feed widened again. More goblins appeared, jogging toward the gate with bales of leather or glinting ore strapped to their backs. They exchanged quick, guttural phrases—bare, efficient, free of the shrill bickering he remembered. One mage paused to chalk another tally under the wolf-skull totem before disappearing inside.
Mikhailis glimpsed the script. These weren't random scratches: they formed counting runes, progress markers, maybe even a rudimentary calendar. A feral culture drafting ledger lines.
The bedframe creaked as he shifted, unable to stay still. Information tumbled through his mind—logistics, diplomacy, potential blowback if anyone found out. Elowen trusted him to keep secrets that could topple thrones, but even she might arch an eyebrow at hyper-evolved goblin legions.
Yet the strategist in him whispered: Imagine the border patrols once these troops mature. Imagine fortress supply corridors manned by goblins who no longer raid caravans but guard them.
He rubbed his temples. "Rodion… this—this could change everything. We could turn a perpetual nuisance into an asset."
<Concur. Long-term projection indicates sixty-three percent reduction in frontier skirmishes once unification reaches seventy percent.>
He exhaled again, this time slower, letting lungs empty until the next thought slipped in. "And what's the price tag? Loyalty can erode if evolution outruns indoctrination."
<The Skullborne Ravager's charisma trait measures at eighteen versus baseline goblin average of six. Coupled with necromantic leverage, loyalty remains stable. Ongoing surveillance will alert us to dissent anomalies.>
Mikhailis's thumbs dug circles at the tense spot between his shoulders. "Charisma of eighteen," he mumbled, half-laughing. "My court bards barely break twelve on their best night." The wry remark faded into another quick massage; paper rustled under his elbow as he shifted on the mattress.
His pen kept turning—click, spin, click—slower now, mirroring the deliberate thump of his heart. A grin crept over his face. "Fine," he breathed, excitement leaking through the feigned exasperation. "You nerd. Show me more."
The hologram rippled like water disturbed by a tossed pebble. Colors sharpened, and a new feed slid to center: dim corridors carved from dark basalt, torchlight splashing orange on wet stone. The Skullborne Ravager came into view first—towering, armored in bone-gray plates mottled with cobalt veins. His helmet—part wolf skull, part dark-iron visor—glimmered in the torchglow. He carried a broad curved blade over one shoulder as casually as a cane.
Behind him tramped four hawk-shouldered hobgoblins in midnight cloaks, two wiry goblin mages clutching knotty staffs, and six smaller foot-goblins armored in mismatched bronze. Their footsteps echoed in quick succession, boots and claws beating a martial rhythm. The camera, clamped to the ceiling on some unseen Worker drone, followed smoothly.
"They're actually communicating?" Mikhailis murmured through a slow exhale, popcorn tin ready in his lap.
<Watch.>
Halfway down the hall, the Ravager raised a fist. The column halted instantly—no shoving, no squeals. One hobgoblin padded ahead, spear tapping the floor. The spearhead met a hair-thin tripwire that even the camera struggled to see. The hobgoblin grunted, traced the wire to a wall groove, and nodded to the nearest mage.
The mage crouched, whispered guttural syllables, and pressed both palms to the stone. A modest pulse of green light seeped beneath his fingers. A click snapped; the tension in the tripwire eased, a pressure plate slid back, and nothing else happened. Trap disarmed. No shriek of excitement, no victory dance—just a hand signal from the Ravager to advance again.
Mikhailis's eyebrows climbed. Discipline, he thought, crunching a kernel between teeth. Real discipline.
Barely ten steps later, a younger goblin scouting the rear wasn't so cautious. It snagged a second line—so thin even the hobgoblin's earlier sweep had missed it. The slab above sprang free with a granite roar. In the half heartbeat before it slammed, the Ravager vanished in a blur of black-silver speed and reappeared beneath the falling stone, arm outstretched. His metal claws seized the goblin by its collar; momentum twisted, cloak flicked, and both figures blinked out again. The slab thundered into the floor where the scout had stood, throwing sparks and dust. When the air cleared, Ravager and goblin stood behind the column, unharmed. The little scout sagged in stunned silence, having experienced its first near-death lesson.
Mikhailis shook the tin. A popcorn avalanche rattled inside. He tossed three kernels into his mouth at once, eyes shining. "He teleports like Rodion's shadow," he muttered, spraying crumbs.
<Locomotive burst. Five-meter displacement,> Rodion announced, tone purely clinical yet faintly smug.
Ahead, the corridor opened into a broken archway. Faded stone angels—wings shattered, faces lost to moss—flanked the entrance. Beyond stretched a massive hall of cracked marble pillars and fallen pews. Argent echo-crystals hung in crevices, humming a faint, dissonant chord that pitch-shifted whenever a footstep struck the floor.
Rodion overlaid a caption: <Dungeon: Twilight Maw – First Choir Hall.>
Mikhailis wheezed a quiet "Nice name," then stuffed another handful of popcorn into his mouth.
Inside the hall, the party adopted a staggered cross formation. Hobgoblins led, shields up; goblin mages stayed midrank, chanting low, staff orbs flickering between amber and turquoise. Regular goblins hugged the shadows of fallen pews, eyes darting.
The echo-crystals responded—tones warped, grew sharper. Those shards always housed some form of guardian. Sure enough, pillars trembled as skeletal knights rose from fissures in the marble. Rusted chainmail rattled, swords scraped stone. Blue ghostfire shimmered in empty sockets. Six, then seven, then ten.
Ravager twirled his great blade and barked a brusque order. Hobgoblins advanced in two wedges. The first right-flank hobgoblin ducked under a skeletal swing, retaliated with a battering-ram shield bash that shattered brittle ribs. A second hobgoblin speared through twin skeleton torsos in the same thrust, dragged the bodies into a heap, and punt-kicked a skull across the room.
The echo-crystals amplified the fight: every clang rang like a bell choir, each crack of bone a deep drum. Mikhailis flinched when a skeleton's arm clattered inches from the drone lens.
One goblin mage raised his staff overhead. Sparks danced at the tip, weaving into a compact orb of lightning. He hurled it; the orb streaked between teammates, slammed the ground, and burst in a crackling hemisphere. Five skeletons froze mid-lunge as arcs zigzagged across corroded armor, fusing chain links and splintering old bone. They toppled.
The other mage, eyes wide in concentration, spread fingers at the broken pews. Splinters and dust spun upward in a swirling disc, then shot forward like a wooden buzz-saw, shredding two more undead. An impressive feat—raw telekinesis shaped by will alone, nothing fancy but effective.
The last skeleton—a knight still half-buried—clutched a larger blade laced with iron spikes. It surged at the smallest goblin, whose knees buckled. The Ravager moved like lightning—sweeping around a hobgoblin shield, vaulting a fallen pew, snarling behind his helm. His blade scythed down. The skeleton split diagonally, each half flipping sideways before ghostlight flickered out. Silence reclaimed the hall.
Mikhailis exhaled a long breath he hadn't realized he'd held. They're… good. Not just surviving—thriving under dungeon pressure. He felt a perverse surge of pride. My kingdom's first goblin strike force.
One mage hustled to the echo-crystals, tapped each shard gently with his staff. The pitch modulated—lower, softer—until the hall's hum settled into a steady background drone. Musical maintenance, preventing future reinforcements.
Meanwhile, Hobgoblins scavenged. One wrenched usable chainmail strips from fallen skeletons, bundling them neatly. Another hammered skull fragments into dust, sprinkling the powder along cracks—preventing potential re-animation. The efficiency impressed Mikhailis more than flashy spells.
Ravager searched the dais at hall's end. Camera zoomed. Under a collapsed altar lay a stone chest bound with tarnished copper. He brushed rubble aside, tapped claws along the seam, and gestured to the mages. They crossed staffs; energy formed a silent beam that traced the locks, melting corroded bolts without triggering whatever pressure pin lay beneath. Chest lid creaked. Inside: rows of short swords forged from a metal that shimmered moon-silver even in low light.
Ravager chose one, tested weight, handed it to the scout he saved earlier. The goblin's shoulders straightened, eyes shining like wet jade. A subtle morale boost—leadership by reward. The scout bowed, then snapped into rank.
Mikhailis grinned around a popcorn kernel stuck in a molar. "Positive reinforcement," he said, tone half proud mentor, half astonished spectator. "Fantastic."
