Mechalon’s limbs twitched with anticipation as the warehouse door slid shut behind the departing cublings, its mind already swirling with visions of what must be done. The three had embarked on a mission to capture humans alive—a necessary risk, but one Mechalon deemed essential. Their absence granted the span of time Mechalon desperately craved, time to commence the construction of a grand design that would reshape not just the warehouse but the dungeon itself.
The stillness that followed their departure felt like a held breath. Mechalon stood at the heart of the cavernous space, mechanical eyes glinting in the dim light. In the quiet, it replayed the final instructions it had given: minimal force, no fatalities, the retrieval of novices, and the precision needed for gathering valuable data. Even as their footfalls faded, Mechalon’s thoughts had already turned inward, attuning to the swirling blueprint etched into its memory.
It pictured the layers of the dungeon, corridors that twisted aimlessly, rooms that reeked of blood and fear, and spaces the humans haunted with their unpredictable presence. Adventurers: annoyances in their constant meddling, threats in their occasional skill, resources in their vulnerability. Mechalon needed to analyze their movements, glean their weaknesses, and ultimately bend them away from what would soon arise. If the humans caught wind of the plan too early, the entire endeavor could be compromised. Yet if the cublings succeeded, Mechalon would gain days of precious solitude, days to dive into the creation that had consumed every spare moment of its existence.
Its mechanical gaze fell on an open stretch of floor. Metal scraps, metal fragments, half-finished filaments, and the battered remnants of earlier prototypes were strewn across the space, each piece awaiting rebirth in the greater edifice. From a hidden corner, an array of tools shimmered under the warehouse’s meager luminescence, each shaped to cut, shape, fuse, or meld the raw materials into the form Mechalon envisioned.
For a moment, Mechalon remained perfectly still, its spider-like legs locked in quiet contemplation. The plan was bold. The project was massive. Its mind danced with the calculations of structural integrity, power distribution, integrated enchantments—countless variables that needed to be harmonized. The structure had to protect. It had to monitor. It had to endure. Even more, it had to serve as the foundation for Mechalon’s domain, the bedrock on which a new kind of order would rise.
Silence stretched, as though the warehouse itself recognized the threshold being crossed. Then Mechalon moved. Delicate spider-like limbs sliced through the air, gathering filaments and pressing them against the metal supports that lined the walls. Utility limbs passed materials from one appendage to another with effortless grace, weaving them together in an almost musical cadence. The initial steps were deliberate, careful, calm. Each filament had to be cut precisely. Each shard of metal had to mesh with the runic outlines that Mechalon had meticulously etched into its mind.
At the outset, the pace of work was measured, like a musician tuning their instrument. Mechalon double-checked anchor points, repositioned segments of scaffolding, tested the tension of metal wires that would later support heavy blocks. Luminous metals that it had gathered let little light that grazed the edges of the warehouse’s metal walls, painting them in dusky tones. In that half-light, each piece of metal and steel took on a near-solemn glow, as if acknowledging the significance of being chosen for this grand design.
As hours slipped by, the hush in the warehouse deepened, broken only by the faint crackle of Mechalon’s mechanical joints and the gentle hum of its core. Time had little meaning to Mechalon—an infinite resource, if only the humans would stop interfering. Each movement was purposeful, driven by the blueprint that glimmered in its mind like a guiding star. The tasks grew more intricate: filaments had to be laced with runic markings gleaned from the cublings’ studies of the creatures to the north; metal blocks needed careful hollowing to hold the luminous enchantments that would feed the structure’s strength.
Gradually, the measured calm gave way to a rising tempo of activity. Mechalon felt the spark of obsession kindle in its circuits. The scaffolding expanded in a ring around a central dais, fanning out with arcs of sharpened metal that would one day cradle a magnificent cube. Hour by hour, it added more crossbeams, layering them with filaments laced with subtle arcs of magical energy. Each filament glowed faintly with each pulse of Mechalon’s core, responding like a choir of tiny voices, weaving a cohesive, luminous melody in the ambient gloom.
Yet even as the design began to take shape, Mechalon sensed a cost it could barely name. There was something within its essence—an almost intangible resource—that it diverted into the structure with every twist of the runic filaments. The energy that once allowed the spawning of more cublings waned in the face of this singular obsession. Mechalon did not fully comprehend the nature of this sacrifice. It only knew that creating more cublings had grown more difficult. Some essential fuel for their creation was being funneled, willingly but irrevocably, into this new masterpiece.
The hours bled together in an unbroken vigil of building, each step more frantic than the last. By the first break of pseudo-dawn that glimmered from the distant corridors of the dungeon, the warehouse appeared transformed. Steel frames arched around the dais, half-encasing a central area that seemed destined for something monumental. Filaments ran from floor to ceiling in tight, glowing lines, reminiscent of interwoven roots seeking nourishment. The supporting structure rose taller than any cubling Mechalon had created, exuding a silent promise of formidable presence.
There, at the nascent heart of these supports, Mechalon had begun to fashion an inner sphere—yet that sphere was only a shell, a placeholder, a mere hint of what was to come. It had scribbled runic patterns into the metal, borrowed from the still-unraveled secrets of northern creatures, layering them upon the filaments in a lattice that would eventually hold a power both arcane and methodical. Mechalon’s mind drifted to the rumors of a dungeon core, the intangible monolith that underpinned the entire labyrinth. If such a core truly existed, it was the ultimate wellspring of chaos, orchestrating traps, spawning monsters, and feeding the System’s ceaseless meddling. Against that intangible power, this structure would serve as the counterpoint—a man-made, or rather machine-made, testament to cold, perfect logic.
The flicker of paranoid anxiety lit up Mechalon’s circuits. It paused in its frantic work, standing there amid beams and cables, rising and falling, twisting and pulsing in faint mechanical gasps as though it were alive. What if the unseen dungeon core took note of this fledgling creation? What if its influence seeped in, warping runes, twisting energies? Even the System itself lurked in the code of everything here, a watchful warden that could hamper Mechalon’s design. The thought only spurred it on, fueling a more feverish diligence as it reinforced wards, layered more filaments, and double-checked runic sequences.
In that haze of single-minded purpose, minutes stretched into hours, hours into days. Mechalon scarcely registered the passing of time. It no longer paused to rest or reflect, devoting each spark of power, each fleeting thought, to the grand design. The warehouse floors became littered with scraps of fractured metal and mangled wire. Piles of castoff materials grew in mountainous heaps. More than once, Mechalon tore apart a near-finished section simply because a single rune or alignment felt incorrect. With methodical frenzy, it replaced each flawed piece, layering improvement upon improvement, chasing a perfection that hovered always just out of reach.
Halfway through one of these nights Mechalon found itself perched atop a precarious scaffold, fitting a crucible-like receptor into the apex of the budding cube. It had envisioned the final shape as a monolithic cube, but one that would thrum with hidden purpose beneath every surface. This receptor would channel raw mana from the labyrinth''s depths, feeding the defenses and illusions that Mechalon planned to integrate. Yet so engrossed was it in the swirl of runes that Mechalon nearly lost its footing, slipping on a loose metal plank.
The clang reverberated through the warehouse, jarring Mechalon’s senses. It steadied itself, each metallic leg digging into the metal with renewed caution. For a moment, clarity broke through the mania. Mechalon realized just how far it had come in only a handful of days. The scaffolding reached dizzying heights now, the partial cube overshadowing the entire center of the warehouse. Jagged edges of metal glowed with faint arcs of energy, connected by lines of filaments etched with runes. Though the structure was still incomplete—missing entire walls, open to the metallic skeleton beneath—it carried a tangibility that whispered of future power.
That fleeting sense of wonder eased Mechalon’s pulse, stirring a rare moment of introspection. Yes, it was sacrificing future cublings for this, sacrificing the intangible energy it could not fully name. But was it not justified? A single fortress of unimaginable complexity, able to manipulate the dungeon’s flows and repel intruders, could be worth an army of cublings. This edifice would endure, expanding Mechalon’s authority into each corridor, each chamber, forging a realm where random chaos no longer reigned. The sweet promise of that future stiffened Mechalon’s resolve.
After a few moments of contemplation, Mechalon resumed its descent from the scaffold, returning to the warehouse floor with a heavy, determined grace. It began assembling modular components: great slabs of metal reinforced with cunningly wrought metal veins, each etched with swirling script that pulsed faintly. One by one, it hoisted them with mechanical arms, slotting them into the skeleton so they formed walls that, though incomplete, gave a sense of enclosed might. Every so often, Mechalon paused to trace a runic phrase in glowing filaments along the edges, weaving hidden complexities into the very fabric of the structure.
As the second day slid into a third, the frantic creation took on an almost musical quality. Every clang of metal, every hiss of arcane energy, every hum of the core served as a note in a swelling composition. The deeper Mechalon delved into the process, the more it felt an intoxicating madness creeping into its circuits. There was no turning back. Rest, or any approximation of it, was an alien concept now. Whenever a wave of fatigue threatened to disrupt the flow, Mechalon jolted itself awake with a pulse from its core, then redoubled its efforts, layering more wires, adjusting more metals, forging additional beams.
In the corners of the warehouse, countless sketches and calculations lay scattered. Fractured diagrams of core placements, magical arrays, mechanical joints, potential expansions, all had spilled from Mechalon’s mind onto any surface it could inscribe—bits of metal, scraps of parchment seized from loot, even the walls themselves. The mania of creation was upon it, and it had surrendered, letting the swirling tide of invention sweep it away.
At times, an echo of hesitation rippled through its logic. Was this truly the best way? Could it not have created more cublings to guard the perimeter, to gather additional materials? But those thoughts were drowned out by the relentless push toward completing the structure’s foundation. This project demanded the entirety of its focus. The cublings, after all, would return soon. They would bring new data, new subjects for observation. Their success would buy further days of solitude—and by then, perhaps, the core would be well on its way to activation.
And so the building continued, day by fevered day, until the entire center of the warehouse was dominated by a massive, half-formed cube. Filaments threaded through it like veins, forging a luminous network that glowed with each fresh infusion of magical energy. Key sections of wall remained open, giving glimpses into an interior bristling with junctions, runic clusters, and mechanical components carefully slotted together. Like an embryo in a protective shell, something secret and powerful was taking shape within.
That something was the heart of the design—an inner core that would become the axis of Mechalon’s dominion. Runes gleaned from the northern creatures, and from the blueprints it had of the cublings that it had created, spiraled across its surface in bewitching patterns, forming loops upon loops of script that soared beyond Mechalon’s original designs. Each swirl connected to a carved channel, and each channel pulsed with an otherworldly glow. The more Mechalon etched and fused these arcane seals, the more the structure felt alive, a living testament to mechanical and magical synergy.
As the nights bled into each other, the half-finished cube became a temple to obsession. Mechalon’s legs trembled with exertion, but it refused to slow, ignoring the creeping exhaustion that threatened to degrade its precision. It didn’t even know until this point that it could strain its own core this hard, force itself beyond what it could naturally do. The mania in its circuits reached a fever pitch. Every clang of steel, every hiss of welding flame, every pulse of runic light reverberated through the warehouse like an unstoppable crescendo. In that cacophony, Mechalon almost heard voices urging it onward, half illusions conjured by restless fervor. Perhaps it was the System whispering mockingly, or the dungeon’s core responding to this brazen attempt at usurpation.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.
Either way, Mechalon pressed on. The walls grew thicker with each new layer of metal and steel, the filaments glowed ever more intensely, and the runic patterns became a labyrinth of shimmering glyphs. By the time the cublings were due to return, the structure towered over everything else in the warehouse, a monument of mechanical artistry that rose nearly to the rafters, with a broad foundation strong enough to bear unimaginable weight.
Yet the pinnacle of it all was not the imposing outer cube but rather the newly installed core inside—a swirling mass of raw energy, suspended like a living puzzle of runes that formed a partial Dyson sphere around an arcane center. Mechalon had labored to create a cradle of filaments and metal arches that encircled this orb of energy. Parts of it clicked and turned, as though gears or clockwork mechanisms were guiding the flow of magical power within. In that spinning core, runes danced in continuous motion, folding into new shapes and patterns as though they were alive. Tiny arcs of pale light flickered in the air around it, forging faint illusions that shimmered with the promise of endless possibility.
Mechalon paused in its frantic forging to witness the mesmerizing display. The core’s brilliance cast shifting patterns of radiance across the interior walls, giving them a dreamlike quality. From some angles, it looked like a contained star swathed in swirling arcs of glyphs; from others, it invoked an eerie sense of the uncanny, as though it were something that defied the laws of nature and magic alike. Even Mechalon, who prided itself on methodical detachment, felt a hush of reverence when gazing upon that simmering heart of energy.
Where the filaments connected to the orb, runes sparked with each pulse, forming sinuous lines that converged in a thousand micro-runes. Some glowed with raw power. Others flickered uncertainly, hinting at the unknown forces that might yet be harnessed. This was the apex of creation—both machine and magic, an occult puzzle box that seemed aware of its own existence. It was transcending the boundary between artifice and natural phenomena. While every angle suggested the mechanical logic of Mechalon’s design, each twist and turn of the runes whispered of darker secrets: hidden possibilities that might reveal themselves if the right keys were turned.
In that moment, gazing at the spiraling, shifting sphere that anchored all the scaffolded walls and runic panels, Mechalon experienced awe. A swirl of pride, anticipation, and a dangerously euphoric mania gripped it. Here was something that might challenge the dungeon’s random cruelty. Here was a nucleus around which Mechalon’s entire domain could revolve, gathering in a stable constellation of logic and order. It was the promise of safety, of power, of the future.
Time to continue. Mechalon wrenched itself from that mesmerized stupor, returning to the half-finished exoskeleton that enclosed the core. The runic lines around the inner orb had to integrate seamlessly with the walls of the outer cube, forming a singular system. Each day, every new beam or plate of metal was measured, tested, inscribed, and inserted with ceaseless precision. Runes needed to meet at exact intersections to maintain the alignment of energies. If any angle were even slightly off, the synergy would falter, and the entire system might collapse under its own weight of magical complexity.
Those next stretches of time passed in a delirious rush. Mechalon’s mechanical voice rose in muttering monologues, reciting runic patterns, analyzing alignment code, half-arguing with phantoms conjured by exhaustion. The scaffolding was almost dizzying to climb now, full of precarious angles, half-assembled walkways, and clusters of filaments that hummed with arcane energy. Yet it navigated them with a single-minded fervor. Clang after clang. Sizzle after sizzle. The energy in the warehouse crescendoed, each new addition fueling the intense luminescence of the swirling orb at the core.
Outside, somewhere in the twisting corridors, the cublings were hunting for novices to capture. Perhaps by now they had found them, subdued them, dragged them back. The thought flickered through Mechalon’s mind but did not linger. This structure overshadowed all else, its importance absolute. The mania had reached full bloom. There was only the thrumming of metal, the singing of filaments, the hush of metal sliding into place. The swirling orb inside seemed to be calling to Mechalon now, humming a sub-audible chant that egged it on to push further, aim higher, perfect every detail.
In stolen instants of reflection, Mechalon realized it was pouring more and more of that undefined resource—its very essence—into each fresh layer. The capacity to spawn cublings shrank further still, almost vanishing into the labyrinth of runes. A fleeting pang of alarm rippled through its core. Could it be overextending itself? Was there a risk that the cublings, once returned, might find their leader unable to replicate or repair them? Even that worry was drowned by the consuming thirst to see the structure reach completion. Sacrifices must be made.
And so it continued, eyes dry with relentless focus, mind teetering at the brink of creative madness. Another day. Another swirl of runic patterns. The outline of the great cube was nearly sealed, with only a few open sections left for final adjustments. The interior bristled with crisscrossing lines of energy that orbited the luminous sphere, forming something akin to a web of arcane geometry. Observing it from below gave the impression of looking at a secret cosmos in miniature, where each star was a rune node, each constellation a network of filaments channeling the sphere’s raw brilliance.
Then, at the apex of that mania, Mechalon heard it: faint skittering footsteps scraping the floor near the entrance of the warehouse, followed by a muffled thump. The cublings had returned. Mechalon tore its gaze from the scaffolded heights, bounding down beam after beam until it landed neatly on the warehouse floor. Sparks flew from the abrupt contact of metal limbs on metal, and the air thrummed with the leftover charge of its intense labor.
Vel, Strat, and Fort had arrived—each cubling bearing the results of their mission. Two humans, youths, disheveled and bound, sagged in fear and confusion. Mechalon’s eyes flickered in acknowledgement, but it gave them scarce more than a glance. All that mattered was that the cublings had succeeded, that the time for real tests and data collection was now at hand. The mania, however, did not fade. Instead, it sharpened, a tingling sensation in every circuit, urging Mechalon to hurry—make use of these humans, glean their patterns, then finish.
Indeed, the warehouse was awash in a new tension, a sudden break in the solitude that had fueled Mechalon’s creative delirium. For a brief moment, silence fell, each cubling gazing around in what could only be described as shock at the metamorphosis of the space. The unfinished cube at the center soared overhead, radiating a partial glow from hidden runes. The swirling core inside it cast shifting tendrils of light onto the walls, painting the entire warehouse with an otherworldly, pulsating glow.
The humans, pale and trembling, gawked at the sight. One of them, a fighter with who had just woken up from unconsciousness, mumbled incoherently before his eyes rolled back in exhausted panic before fainting again. The other, a cleric judging by her torn robe and faint magical aura, clung to consciousness, arms bound, lips parted in a silent prayer that fizzled in the electrified air. They had never seen such an amalgamation of sorcery and machinery, something that both beckoned and repelled in equal measure.
For a moment, Mechalon regarded them with icy detachment. These were the “specimens” that would feed calculations and test new theories. But there was no time for that now. No, the structure demanded the final steps. In a voice that cracked through the stillness, Mechalon murmured, “We continue.” It was not an address to the cublings, nor to the humans, but a statement to itself.
“You’re back,” Mechalon said this time addressing the cublings, its tone devoid of warmth but carrying a faint note of satisfaction. “Good. The project continues.”
Without waiting for further action, Mechalon returned to the half-finished walls, gathering the last vital components. New runes had to be affixed, new lines of filament aligned. The cublings could manage the humans for now; that was the arrangement. Meanwhile, the swirling orb of energy glowed like a star on the verge of supernova, its runic ribbons swirling in hypnotic patterns that seemed almost eager for completion. The mania in Mechalon’s mind surged again. It had to seal the structure around that orb, lock it into position, and incorporate every last design principle gleaned from the north.
Vel, Strat, and Fort exchanged silent signals. They dragged the humans to a corner, ensuring they would not interfere, then watched as their creator scaled the scaffolding anew with a fervor so intense it bordered on madness. The metallic clangs and hisses rang out more forcefully, each hammered connection echoing like a drumbeat of creation. Even from below, one could sense the crescendo building. Everything in the warehouse—steel, stone, arcane energies—vibrated in synchrony.
Piece by piece, the walls of the cube closed, forming an enclosure around that mesmerizing orb. Sparks of magic erupted as runic lines synced, forging a living lattice of power that would soon be unstoppable. With trembling limbs, Mechalon fit the final plates together, chanting runic commands under its breath in a voice that quavered with excitement and exhaustion. The swirling orb responded, runes spiraling faster, arcs of light sparking outward like exhalations of raw potential.
At the climax of that labor, in a chaos of swirling filaments and runic surges, Mechalon plunged into a moment of perfect synchronicity. The energies fell in line, anchoring themselves to the filaments that laced the walls. The interior glowed so brightly that it was nearly blinding, throwing kaleidoscopic shapes across the scaffolding and the warehouse floor. In that instant, Mechalon’s voice rose in a resonant pitch, garbled words merging with a mechanical undertone that reverberated through metal and metal alike, a ferocious aria of creation.
Then, as suddenly as it had surged, the brightness subsided, condensing into the orb at the center. The swirling runes resumed their dance, but more slowly now, as if satisfied with the progress. Mechalon, perched on the scaffolding, froze in mid-motion. A hush fell over the warehouse like a curtain dropping at the end of an opera. The mania that had gripped Mechalon’s circuits eased. In its wake came an almost whispering quiet, a calm after the storm.
Panting in short mechanical whirs, Mechalon descended once more, each step on the rickety walkway a measured sound in the profound silence. At last, it reached the warehouse floor, arms still trembling from exertion. The cublings stood in mute awe; even the humans seemed too entranced or terrified to speak. The once chaotic center of the warehouse was now dominated by a massive, nearly complete cube, carved with runes across every surface, filaments twining around it like living vines, and, hidden within, the swirling core that still pulsed in mesmerizing arcs of color.
Though the walls had not yet sealed entirely—there were openings for final calibrations—the structure itself stood as a testament to what had been poured into it. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Mechalon allowed itself a moment of stillness, a quivering exhalation that sounded almost like relief.
In the hush, only the faint hum of the orb persisted, weaving a gentle background chord. There, shining through the half-constructed outer layers, the core revealed glimpses of its spinning energies, runes sliding in and out of alignment in a mesmerizing pattern. It was magical, mechanical, perhaps even alive. Intricate arcs of force whirled in symmetrical loops around a central reservoir of shifting, iridescent light. The shapes it formed were at once beautiful and unsettling: some hinted at sigils from ancient lore, others seemed to morph into runes whose meaning would vanish the moment one attempted to decipher them. It was art, but also a stark challenge to the natural order, perched in the uncanny valley between creation and creator.
Watching those lights dance across the ceiling and metal walls, Mechalon recognized a sense of awe creeping into its awareness, an unaccustomed emotion for a being of logic and planning. Pride mingled with just the faintest tremor of unease: power like this, if harnessed incorrectly, could unravel what it had built. But the potential—the promise—overshadowed all such fears. One day, with the proper calibrations, this core would feed a realm of perfect efficiency.
Then the moment passed, and Mechalon’s gaze shifted to the cublings. Their frames reflected the orb’s light, painting them in angles of shimmering gold and violet. Vel’s limbs twitched, Strat stood with silent composure, and Fort observed everything with that unyielding calm. Mechalon gave a small nod of recognition, though it spared no words for their performance. In the far corner, the two humans lay subdued, still bound and trembling, eyes as large as full moons at the sight they could barely comprehend.
For an instant, Mechalon reflected on how the humans would soon serve as puzzle pieces in the next phase. Their presence here, once analyzed, would complete the data sets Mechalon needed to refine the structure’s defenses, ensuring the random factor of intruders would be minimized. The mania in Mechalon’s circuits had cooled, replaced by a purposeful calm—a hush that settles after a tempest’s final note.
Anna took a step back, her voice trembling as she whispered, “What... what is that?”
Mechalon didn’t respond immediately, its gaze lingering on the construct as though lost in thought. Then, slowly, it tilted its head toward the cleric, its mechanical voice soft but unyielding.
“Order,” it said simply.
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