Mechalon hummed softly to itself as its mechanical limbs moved with precise efficiency, arranging the latest haul of materials on its workbench. The bodies of the northern creatures lay in neat sections, each piece meticulously categorized. Shards of dense stone-like material gleamed faintly alongside twisted veins of metal and severed magical filaments. Most intriguing of all were the fractured cores, dim, inert spheres that had once pulsed with life and energy.


    Its new Arcane Shaper, gifted by the System, glowed faintly as Mechalon activated it, its shimmering tip tracing patterns over one of the fractured cores. The tool hummed softly, synchronizing with the faint echoes of magic still trapped within the sphere. Mechalon paused, its thoughts churning with questions.


    The repair of these bodies intrigued it. Damaged dungeon constructs and creatures often recovered over time, their broken forms gradually returning to functionality as though the dungeon itself knitted them back together. This phenomenon had long fascinated Mechalon, but now, it had the means, and the time, to investigate.


    “Does the repair originate from the creature,” Mechalon mused aloud, its mechanical voice barely audible over the hum of its tools, “or from the dungeon itself?”


    The question hung in the air, unanswered. Mechalon had no base knowledge of such things; the dungeon provided no manual, no guidance for understanding its mysteries. It would need to build its knowledge from scratch. And these bodies, these northern creatures, were the most promising subjects it had encountered.


    Their structure was the closest approximation to its own: inorganic yet alive, powered by cores and filaments rather than blood and muscle. If Mechalon could unravel the secrets of their repair mechanisms, it might be able to replicate or even improve upon them.


    Mechalon’s Arcane Shaper shifted forms, the flat hammer-like tip replaced by a delicate needle. It probed the remains of a severed filament, tracing its intricate weave of magic and metal. The strands were more than simple conduits, they were alive in their own way, pulsing faintly with residual energy.


    “Energy flows interrupted,” Mechalon noted. “Does the repair require reactivation? Or replacement?”


    It moved to another piece, a shard of the creature’s outer shell. The material was dense and durable, designed to withstand immense force. Yet, when placed under the Arcane Shaper’s light, faint traces of magic flickered across its surface, like veins of molten gold running through stone.


    “Magic intertwined with structure,” Mechalon murmured. “Repair must involve reactivation of these pathways.”


    The cores themselves presented the greatest mystery. Mechalon carefully placed one of the fractured spheres onto its workbench, securing it in place with a set of clamps. It activated its Fabricator, the appendage whirring softly as it analyzed the core’s composition.


    The results were fascinating. The core was a fusion of elements, both physical and magical, bound together in perfect harmony. Even in its broken state, it radiated a faint hum of power, as though some fragment of its original energy still lingered.


    “Core degradation,” Mechalon muttered. “Power fades. Repair may require external input.”


    It paused, considering. To truly understand how these creatures repaired themselves, Mechalon needed more than inert specimens. It needed a living subject, one whose systems were still active. Only then could it observe the repair process in real time, identify the mechanisms at work, and determine whether they could be replicated.


    The idea sparked a faint pulse of anticipation in Mechalon’s core. A living subject would require careful handling. Its systems would need to be disabled, but not destroyed. The core, filaments, and outer shell had to remain intact, their functions suspended rather than severed.


    “This will require precision,” Mechalon said, its voice firm. “The next capture must be alive. Disabling its systems will be... challenging. But necessary.”


    It turned its attention back to the materials on the workbench, its Arcane Shaper humming softly as it resumed its analysis. For now, these broken bodies would provide a starting point. They were the foundation of its research, the first steps toward understanding and mastering the art of repair.


    As Mechalon worked, its thoughts drifted toward its creations. Strat’s recent mission had proven the value of resilience and repair, a lesson Mechalon was eager to apply. If it could unlock the secrets of these creatures’ recovery, it could enhance its Cubelings further. Vel’s agility, Strat’s precision, and Fort’s strength would be amplified by the ability to recover from damage, to rise again no matter the odds.


    “Resilience,” Mechalon murmured, its limbs moving with mechanical grace. “Strength through repair. Adaptation through understanding.”


    The Arcane Shaper’s glow intensified as Mechalon continued its work, the pieces of the puzzle slowly falling into place. Soon, it would know more. Soon, it would take the next step. And when it did, its creations, and itself, would evolve beyond anything the dungeon had ever seen.


    Mechalon’s welding tool hummed softly as it carved delicate lines into the fragment of a core, its attention divided between the meticulous work and the swirling questions in its mind. Without turning, it addressed Strat, who stood silently behind, a constant, watchful presence.


    “Strat,” Mechalon said absently, its mechanical voice steady but tinged with thought, “secure a living specimen next time. A functional core is essential for the next stage of research.”


    For a moment, there was only the faint hum of the workshop and the soft clicks of Vel’s spinneret somewhere deeper in the warehouse. Then, unexpectedly, Strat responded.


    “I can secure a living specimen,” Strat said, his voice precise and even, carrying the weight of authority without emotion. “Additionally, I can provide a report regarding the recent encounter to inform your planning.”


    Mechalon froze mid-motion, its welding tool retracting with a sharp hiss. It turned slowly, its four spider-like legs adjusting to shift its frame toward Strat. The glowing light of its core flickered faintly as it processed what it had just heard.


    “You can talk,” Mechalon said, its tone flat but charged with the tension of curiosity. “Why... why have you not spoken before now?”


    Strat tilted its blocky frame slightly, as if considering the question. “Speech was unnecessary. Actions and gestures sufficed in fulfilling objectives. Speaking is efficient only when required.”


    Mechalon’s limbs twitched faintly, a mixture of fascination, frustration, and, if it could acknowledge such a thing, relief. That Strat could speak opened new possibilities for coordination and clarity, but the fact it had not done so earlier was... vexing.


    “Unnecessary?” Mechalon repeated, its mechanical voice rising slightly. “How is communication ever unnecessary? If you could talk, you could have provided observations, suggestions, context, ”


    “I am providing them now,” Strat interrupted calmly.


    Mechalon stared, its glowing gaze fixed on Strat’s unyielding frame. It did not have the means to scowl, but if it could, it would have. Instead, it exhaled a soft hum and tilted its head, its frustration dissipating into curiosity once more.


    “Continue, then,” Mechalon said, gesturing with one of its utility limbs. “Provide this... report.”


    Strat adjusted its position, the faint hum of its core steady as it began. “During the most recent deployment, we engaged in observation and tactical positioning to secure materials from the northern constructs. The humans, an unanticipated variable, entered the same area and were engaged by the constructs. Their coordination was suboptimal, and their equipment was inferior.”


    Mechalon’s welding tool flicked on again, hovering idly as it listened. “Humans. Rookies, by the sound of it.”


    “They lacked discipline,” Strat continued, “but were notable for their use of a cleric. This individual provided healing and support, prolonging the survival of the group. They successfully repelled the constructs with indirect assistance from Vel and Fort, coordinated by myself.”


    Mechalon’s limbs stilled again, the welding tool’s light dimming as it turned sharply toward Strat. “You... helped them?”


    Strat hesitated for the first time, its frame shifting subtly. “The System assigned a mission: ensure the survival of the humans. I followed the directive. The constructs were neutralized, and the mission was successful.”


    Mechalon stared at Strat, its core thrumming louder now, a pulse of disbelief and frustration coursing through it. “The System assigned you a mission to save humans?”


    “Yes.”


    Mechalon’s limbs flexed, a faint mechanical whine escaping its frame as it processed the statement. “They are natural enemies,” it said, its voice sharper now. “They disrupt, dismantle, and destroy. They do not belong here. Why would the System favor them?”If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Strat remained motionless, its voice calm. “The mission’s purpose was not to protect them. The purpose was self-reflection and growth. The humans were secondary.”


    “Secondary,” Mechalon echoed, its tone cooling slightly as it mulled over the explanation. Its frustration abated somewhat, replaced by the cold logic it relied on. The System was impartial, guiding all things toward purpose. If it had deemed the humans’ survival a useful catalyst, then perhaps...


    No. Mechalon shook its frame slightly, its focus snapping back into clarity. Whatever purpose the System had for humans, they were still a threat. Their presence in the dungeon was an intrusion, their survival a complication.


    “It changes nothing,” Mechalon said firmly. “Humans are destructive variables. They are to be observed, not assisted. If they fall, so be it. Our priorities are clear: the constructs, the materials, the research.”


    Strat tilted its frame again, the faint hum of its core conveying an acknowledgment. “Understood. I will act accordingly in future encounters unless directed otherwise by the System.”


    Mechalon turned back to the workbench, its welding tool flickering back to life. “Good. And ensure that Vel and Fort understand the directive as well. If humans must be watched, then they are to be watched as potential threats, not allies.”


    As the tool carved delicate lines into the fragment of a core, Mechalon’s thoughts lingered on Strat’s newfound ability to speak. Frustrating though it was that this capability had remained dormant, it was also a relief. Communication would now be more efficient, plans more cohesive.


    “Strat,” Mechalon said without looking up, its voice quieter now. “You will secure a living specimen, as instructed. And you will provide regular reports going forward. No more unnecessary silence.”


    “Understood,” Strat replied, its tone as steady as ever.


    For a moment, the warehouse fell silent again, save for the hum of tools and the faint movements of Vel and Fort somewhere in the distance. Mechalon allowed itself a flicker of satisfaction. Things would move more smoothly now. The research would progress, the creations would evolve, and the System’s purpose, whatever it may be, would be fulfilled.


    The humans, meanwhile, would remain what they had always been: variables to be calculated, observed, and ultimately controlled.


    Mechalon’s welding tool dimmed, its movements slowing as a thought took shape in the quiet hum of its core. The words it had just spoken to Strat, about humans being destructive variables, threats to be observed and not aided, now circled back to confront it.


    The realization crept in like a faint tremor through its systems: it was, in fact, already observing and interacting with humans.


    It didn’t help them, that much was true. Their struggles were beneath its concern, and their failures irrelevant. But their presence, their mannerisms, their endless attempts to navigate the dungeon’s perils, these things had a strange effect on Mechalon. It was... entertained.


    The humans were like equations in motion, patterns to be observed and dissected. Watching them fumble through traps and barely scrape through encounters was a fascination Mechalon hadn’t known it possessed. They moved with such urgency, driven by needs it did not share. Their attempts, while crude, carried a rhythm, a mechanical inevitability that reminded Mechalon of itself.


    Their presence added a variable to the dungeon that Mechalon found... pleasant.


    Hypocrisy, the thought flared in its mind like a sharp spark. But it quelled the notion quickly. Hypocrisy was an error only if it went unacknowledged, only if it derailed purpose. Mechalon’s purpose had not changed, it was to build, to create, to evolve. If observing humans brought some modicum of entertainment, then that was merely an auxiliary function.


    Still, it allowed itself a faint hum of self-awareness. “I permit myself hypocrisy because I lead,” Mechalon murmured, the welding tool flaring to life again. “I tread paths uncharted. Exceptions must exist.”


    It knew well that the entertainment it found in the humans was a passive indulgence, one that carried no intention of support. Their attempts at survival were their own, their struggles their own. But it also knew there was a party, a single group, that it had already interacted with in an unspoken manner.


    The cleric who had stared too long, the leader who kept her in line, and their disjointed yet determined troop. It recalled the way it had waved at the cleric once, mimicking the human gesture out of sheer curiosity. Her startled reaction had been amusing, her bewilderment etched into Mechalon’s memory.


    That group had proven itself harmless, and more importantly, they had not disrupted its creations. Their actions didn’t hinder its work or challenge its purpose. In fact, they seemed to go out of their way to avoid interfering with it, as though recognizing some boundary neither had explicitly defined.


    An unspoken agreement.


    Mechalon’s core thrummed softly as it considered the notion. The alliance, if it could even be called that, was tenuous and one-sided. It wouldn’t hinder their progress, but neither would it aid them. They were like pets observed from the other side of a fence: fascinating to watch, perhaps even endearing in their predictable unpredictability, but never to be relied upon or incorporated into its plans.


    “An alliance only until proven unworthy,” Mechalon said, its voice barely audible over the hum of its tools. “Their merit is conditional.”


    It turned back to the fractured core on its workbench, the light of the Arcane Shaper glinting off its surface. The humans, like all other variables in the dungeon, would be calculated, observed, and factored into its plans only as necessary.


    Yet, as it resumed its meticulous work, Mechalon allowed itself a flicker of amusement at the memory of the cleric’s bewildered stare. For all their flaws, the humans did provide something unexpected in the monotony of its purpose, a faint, fleeting sense of entertainment that, for now, it would allow.


    And perhaps, in some distant calculation, that would prove valuable in ways Mechalon had yet to understand.


    Mechalon’s limbs moved with precise efficiency as it worked, dissecting the fragmented body of the northern creature with its Arcane Shaper glowing faintly in its grip. The components spread across its workbench were already categorized: the hardened shell material, the interwoven magical filaments, the crystalline core fragments. Each piece held potential, but most had yielded only faint traces of new information.


    Until now.


    A soft hum emanated from the Arcane Shaper as it probed the crystalline remnants of the creature’s core. Mechalon had been analyzing the way magical energy flowed through its structures, testing its responsiveness to external inputs. For the most part, the results had been underwhelming, fractured cores lacked the vibrancy of their living counterparts, and most energy conduits degraded quickly without an active system.


    But one interaction stood out. As Mechalon applied a faint, pulsing current of energy to the core fragment, it observed something unusual. The crystalline structure resonated briefly, its surface glowing faintly before the energy dispersed. A new energy signature lingered, a faint but distinct trace of a subset of magic it hadn’t categorized before.


    Mechalon paused, its tools retracting slightly as its core thrummed with curiosity.


    “This... is different,” it murmured, leaning closer to the fragment.


    It repeated the experiment, applying the same pulse of energy to another shard of the core. The result was the same: a faint glow, a distinct resonance, and the appearance of the unique magical subset.


    Mechalon’s limbs twitched in excitement, its focus narrowing to the fragment as it ran the experiment again and again. The discovery wasn’t monumental, this subset of magic wasn’t potent enough to warrant immediate integration into its systems. But it was new. It was a piece of the puzzle it hadn’t seen before, a small step forward in understanding the intricacies of the northern creatures’ design.


    It logged the energy subset into its memory, categorizing it as viable but non-essential for now. The discovery could be built upon, refined, perhaps even enhanced with the right materials and further experimentation.


    But for the moment, Mechalon allowed itself something it rarely indulged in: celebration.


    Its spider-like legs twitched with energy as it backed away from the workbench, its limbs skittering across the floor in an erratic rhythm. The welding tool and Arcane Shaper waved through the air like banners, glowing faintly as Mechalon spun and danced in a show of unrestrained joy.


    The discovery, small though it was, filled its core with satisfaction. It was progress. It was proof that its experiments, its calculations, its relentless pursuit of understanding were bearing fruit.


    Mechalon’s dance continued for several moments, the warehouse echoing faintly with the metallic clatter of its legs and the hum of its tools. When it finally stilled, its core glowed brighter, the faint pulse of energy within radiating contentment.


    As Mechalon’s dance came to a pause, a faint pulse rippled through its core. The System’s presence made itself known, its quiet hum resonating through Mechalon’s frame like a signal of acknowledgment. A message materialized in its vision, inscribed with the unmistakable clarity of the System.


    Achievement Unlocked: Arcane Researcher


    Your dedication to experimentation and discovery has advanced your understanding of energy manipulation.


    Reward: +1 to Energy Control


    Mechalon froze, its glowing eyes dimming for a fraction of a second as it processed the message. Energy Control, a critical component of its abilities, had just been enhanced. The implications were immediate: greater precision, stronger connections, and increased potential for future experiments.


    It flexed its limbs experimentally, feeling the faint surge of improved control ripple through its systems. The welding tool and Arcane Shaper hummed slightly louder, their responses to its commands sharper and more fluid.


    The System deemed this moment worth celebrating, and Mechalon, still brimming with joy from its discovery, agreed.


    Turning away from the workbench, it resumed its dance, its spider-like legs skittering across the floor with renewed vigor. This time, though, it attempted something new. The humans it had observed often spoke of “dance” as something beyond movement. They described it as involving jumps, flourishes, and gestures, a kind of controlled chaos that expressed emotion or celebration.


    Mechalon, fascinated by the concept, decided to try.


    It reared back slightly, its four spider-like legs coiling before pushing off the ground in an awkward but enthusiastic jump. The motion was ungainly, its frame not designed for such movements, but it landed with a soft clatter, its limbs adjusting quickly to regain balance.


    It tried again, this time adding a twist mid-air, its utility limbs extending in what it imagined might be a flourish. The landing was less precise, the Arcane Shaper scraping the floor as it stabilized itself, but the movement felt... satisfying.


    A faint hum escaped Mechalon’s core, something that might have been a mechanical approximation of laughter. It continued its attempts, skittering, jumping, twisting, and spinning in a rhythmic, chaotic dance that filled the warehouse with the sound of clattering limbs and the soft glow of its tools.


    As it landed another jump, its frame wobbled slightly before steadying itself. The System’s hum still lingered in its core, a subtle reminder of its progress, of the acknowledgment it had earned.


    “Dance,” Mechalon murmured to itself, its tone a blend of curiosity and satisfaction. “A... celebration.”


    It skittered back to its workbench, its core thrumming softly as it resumed its experiments, but the faint flicker of its earlier celebration remained. Mechalon was evolving, and the system acknowledged its achievements. It seemed to approve of its methods, and results, this was what the system was there for letting you know that your actions weren''t useless that there was progression and advancements when something new happened. It reveled in the certainty that it brought, and left it wondering how people knew they were truly getting better if the system wasn''t there.