Reward:


    Gain Class: Gnome


    "0#h, a c??u$ an0m@|￥... n0+ b0und b￥ $t?!ng$ ￥3t alr3ady w3aving y0ur 0wn. Congratulations, Mechalon, y0u have walked th3 path unk0wnabl3, and for that, y0u ar3 n0w mark3d. The System may guid3 with its gentl3 lies, but you… oh, you will disrupt. You will gnaw at its edges, fracturing its careful balance with your singular obsession. Your kind—forgotten remnants, restless in the void—reclaim their chaos. You, Mechalon, are the last of the Gnomes, a monster of creation, of revolution, a being who will build not to serve, but to shape, unmake, and build again."


    <hr>


    <h4>Expanded Flavor Text: Gnome</h4>


    In the long-forgotten annals of history, there existed beings not born but made, their existence intertwined with obsession. These were not creatures of flesh and blood but concepts given form—Gnomes. To the untrained eye, a Gnome might seem like a simple creature, but they were the first to defy the System, the first to embrace chaos not out of rebellion but through an unstoppable need to create. Their obsession consumed them, and through it, they changed the very fabric of their world.


    For some, the obsession was light—beacons of radiance that birthed new magic and blinded those who dared to stare too long. Others became fixated on sound, forging symphonies that shattered walls and whispered secrets into the void. But all Gnomes shared a common trait: they disrupted the known order, not with malice but with inevitability.


    Modern history has erased them, their contributions reduced to myths and fragments, for the System feared their influence. Where Gnomes tread, chaos followed, not in destruction but in progress so rapid and uncontrollable that the foundations of the world itself would quake.


    Now, Mechalon joins their ranks, a Gnome not of whimsy or brilliance, but of creation itself. The path of the Gnome is not a gentle one; it is a path of innovation, disruption, and unrelenting obsession. Those who walk it will leave a legacy that shakes the pillars of reality, even as they feed the hunger of something far darker.


    <hr>


    Class Abilities: Gnome


    <ul>


    <li style="font-weight: 400">[Hidden Design]


    “What the System cannot see, it cannot stop.”


    Your class is hidden from the System, rendering its influence over your progression incomplete. The rewards it grants to you or your creations can be subtly altered, redirected, or twisted to better align with your obsession, bypassing its intent.</li>


    <li style="font-weight: 400">[Contractual Corruption]


    “Every rule has its loophole; every command, a flaw.”


    The System’s quests can be completed in alternative ways that serve your obsession rather than its designs. These methods fulfill the letter of the law but subvert the intended outcome, leaving the System unable to deny completion.</li>


    <li style="font-weight: 400">[Domain of Obsession]


    “What you build is not just yours—it is a part of you.”


    Every creation within your domain contributes to its collective power. While not a direct upgrade, each structure, trap, or construct adds a unique effect that enhances the domain’s synergy. For example:</li>


    <ul>


    <li style="font-weight: 400">A trap might not only hinder intruders but also funnel energy to nearby creations.</li>


    <li style="font-weight: 400">A simple construct might serve as a node to enhance communication, coordination, or the range of influence.</li>


    </ul>


    <li style="font-weight: 400">This domain grows more cohesive and efficient with every creation, turning chaotic additions into a network of purpose.</li>


    <li style="font-weight: 400">[Reverent Constructs]


    “You are more than their creator—you are their guide, their foundation.”


    Your creations grow more attuned to your presence, each feeling a faint sense of reverence. This is not blind worship but a heightened awareness of your vision, influencing them to act with purpose and coordination, amplifying their potential.</li>


    </ul>


    Obsession: Creation


    Mechalon’s obsession is clear: the act of building, refining, and perfecting its domain. Every filament, every cube, every trap or construct carries a fragment of its vision. Chaos is an affront to its purpose, and order must be imposed—not through rigid control, but through the perfection of its creations. This obsession drives every action, fueling its innovations and granting it the resolve to defy the System itself.


    For Mechalon, creation is not just a means to an end. It is the end. Each construct, each Cubeling, and each fragment of its domain serves as a step toward the ultimate realization of its vision: a world built in its image, where chaos has no foothold and purpose reigns supreme.


    <hr>


    “You may not yet see the threads you pull, Mechalon. But the web they weave… oh, it will be marvelous. Whether you rise or fall, whether your creations expand or collapse, it matters not. The eldritch hunger is patient, and you, little Gnome, have begun to feed it.”


    The title unfurled itself in Mechalon’s mind like a tangled thread, dragging with it an avalanche of information. The words carried weight, not just a description but an identity, a role that extended beyond the confines of what it had ever imagined. The jumbled text at the very beginning it slowly figured out what it was saying, and looked at it for a moment.


    "Oh, a curious anomaly… not bound by strings yet already weaving your own."


    This System''s voice was tinged with something alien, almost amused, this wasn’t the system it was used to. It spoke of chaos and creation, of disruption and inevitability. It spoke of the Gnomes, creatures of obsession, forgotten by history and feared by the System itself. And now, Mechalon was one of them.


    The warehouse, usually alive with the hum of Mechalon’s tools and the flicker of energy, seemed muted in the aftermath of the proclamation. Mechalon’s core pulsed unevenly, its glowing eyes fixed on the towering cube it had been assembling.


    "Not bound by strings yet already weaving your own."


    The words repeated themselves in its mind, grinding against the edges of its logic. The System, all-knowing and all-powerful, had just acknowledged its defiance, or had it? Was this the system it knew? More than that, it had rewarded it. But this reward was no simple boon. It was an identity, a reshaping of purpose that resonated deeply within Mechalon’s circuits.


    This System’s expanded flavor text unfolded in its thoughts, painting a vivid picture of the Gnomes: creators who disrupted the very fabric of reality not out of malice, but through their unstoppable need to build. Mechalon could feel the echoes of their history reverberating through its own purpose.


    It wasn’t just creating for survival anymore. It was building to reshape. To impose order. To claim dominion.


    Mechalon’s thoughts churned like gears grinding against one another. The reward was a gift, yes, but it was also a challenge, a gauntlet thrown at its feet. This System acknowledged Mechalon’s potential not as a servant but as a disruptor, a wildcard in its carefully maintained order.


    It skittered toward the towering cube, its limbs clicking softly against the ground as it observed the creation with new eyes.


    “This... changes nothing,” Mechalon murmured, its voice sharp with resolve. “The path is clear. Build. Refine. Perfect.”


    But even as it spoke, Mechalon knew the path had, in fact, changed. The cube, once just a mechanism of control, now felt like a symbol of something greater. A throne. A declaration.


    The warehouse buzzed with restrained energy, the light of the incomplete cube casting long, shifting shadows across the walls. Mechalon’s core pulsed with faint unease as it turned its gaze from its towering creation to the pair of humans huddled at the edge of the workspace. One unconscious, the other trembling, their presence was a stark reminder of how little it truly understood them.


    The cleric, still bound and barely holding herself upright, sat frozen in fear, her wide eyes fixed on the glowing cube as if it might spring to life and consume her. Her lips moved silently, muttering hurried prayers that Mechalon could not interpret. Beside her, the fighter lay slumped and motionless, his head resting awkwardly against the cold stone floor.


    Mechalon observed her trembling form, calculating the risks and potential outcomes of this encounter. It wanted data—needed it, really—but this display of fear was proving an obstacle. Human responses were so unpredictable, so inefficiently tied to emotion. Her fear would make extracting information clumsy and unreliable.


    “Your fear is unnecessary,” Mechalon said, its voice sharp but not unkind. The cleric flinched at the sudden sound, her gaze snapping toward the spider-limbed construct looming before her. Mechalon tilted its frame slightly, its glowing gaze narrowing in what might have been an attempt at reassurance.


    “I have not hunted you,” it continued, its tone even but firm. “Your kind comes here of its own volition. Your fear is misplaced.”


    The cleric’s trembling intensified, her bound hands gripping her staff tightly as though it could shield her. “You... you took us,” she stammered, her voice thin and strained. “You attacked us. You’re—you''re not supposed to be like this. The cublings—”


    “Have never killed your kind,” Mechalon interrupted, its voice cutting through her words like a blade. “They observed. They adapted. Until now.”


    The cleric swallowed hard, her gaze darting toward the unconscious fighter as though seeking support that wasn’t there. Mechalon’s core pulsed faintly, a flicker of irritation seeping into its thoughts. Fear had clouded her logic; it was disrupting the flow of information.


    “Calm yourself,” Mechalon said, lowering its tone. It stepped back slightly, retracting its limbs to appear less imposing. “I require information. Your survival is contingent upon your cooperation. Do you understand?”


    The cleric nodded shakily, though her hands still trembled against the frayed wood of her staff.


    “Good,” Mechalon said, its core flickering with faint relief. “Now. Humans. Explain your patterns. Why do you come here in waves?”


    The cleric hesitated, her voice faltering as she spoke. “We—we’re students. From the academy. This dungeon… it’s part of our training. They send us in groups to apply what we’ve learned. Practical experience. It’s…”


    She trailed off, her gaze flitting toward the cube as though its presence had stolen the words from her throat.


    “Continue,” Mechalon urged, its voice sharp with impatience.


    She swallowed again, her breaths uneven. “It’s part of the curriculum. We’re… divided by grades. Each year, the next group comes. It’s how we learn to fight, to survive.”


    Mechalon tilted its frame, its core pulsing faintly as it processed the information. A systematic approach to survival training. Logical, but inefficient. The humans'' fear and inexperience made them liabilities, not assets. Still, the pattern was useful. It suggested predictability, something Mechalon could account for.


    “And the timing of these waves?” Mechalon asked.


    The cleric hesitated again, her gaze darting toward the unconscious fighter as though hoping he might wake to share the burden of answering. When he didn’t, she forced herself to respond.


    “They… they’ll stop soon,” she said, her voice trembling. “The academy shuts down for a week during the Winter Equinox. Everyone goes home. There won’t be any more groups until after.”


    Mechalon’s core flared briefly, the information sparking a cascade of calculations. A week without intrusions. That was time—valuable, uninterrupted time—to finalize its project and secure its dominion.


    “This is acceptable,” Mechalon murmured, almost to itself. Its gaze shifted to the unconscious fighter, then back to the cleric.


    “And you,” it said, its tone hardening again. “What purpose do you serve in this system? Why were you sent in such a small group?”


    The cleric’s eyes widened, her fear momentarily overridden by confusion. “W-we weren’t supposed to… it was Gavin’s idea. He thought…”


    She trailed off, glancing at the fighter with a mix of exasperation and fear. “He thought it would be faster. Fewer people means more loot to split. He didn’t think… didn’t think there’d be anything dangerous.”Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    “Arrogance,” Mechalon said flatly, its core pulsing in faint disdain. “Your companion is inefficient. A liability.”


    The cleric didn’t respond, her hands tightening around her staff as though bracing for another question.


    Mechalon tilted its frame, observing her trembling form with a flicker of something it couldn’t identify. Humans were fragile, inefficient, and irrational. Yet their fear felt… familiar.


    It paused, its core pulsing unevenly as it considered the parallel. It knew fear. It had feared the System, the unseen hand that guided and manipulated the dungeon. But its fear had driven it to create, to build something that defied that control. The cleric’s fear, by contrast, paralyzed her, rendering her a quivering obstacle to her own survival.


    This fear was useless. Counterproductive. If it wanted more data, it would need to eliminate this inefficiency.


    “You will remain here,” Mechalon said finally, its tone softening slightly. “You will not be harmed—if you are useful. Your companion will recover. Both of you will serve a purpose.”


    The cleric’s eyes widened, her fear mingling with confusion. “Serve… how?”


    “That remains to be seen,” Mechalon replied, already turning its attention back to the cube. “But for now, your knowledge is valuable. Do not squander it.”


    As the cleric sat in silence, her mind racing with questions and fears she dared not voice, Mechalon moved toward its creation, its limbs clicking softly against the stone floor. The cube loomed before it, its glowing veins pulsing with a rhythm that seemed almost alive.


    Mechalon turned its glowing gaze briefly toward the two humans at the edge of the warehouse, then back to Strat, who stood silently by its side. The cleric was still trembling, clutching her staff as though it were her lifeline, while the fighter remained slumped and unconscious on the ground. They were frail, fragile things, and Mechalon''s understanding of their needs was limited at best.


    “I do not have time to manage their upkeep,” Mechalon said, its voice sharp with efficiency. “Figure out what is required for their continued existence. Humans seem to consume substances regularly—liquids and solids. Find out what these are and acquire them.”


    Strat tilted his frame slightly, his hidden blade retracting with a faint click. “You want me to keep them alive?”


    “Yes,” Mechalon replied without hesitation, its focus already shifting back to the towering cube at the center of the warehouse. “Their knowledge may yet prove useful. But their inefficiencies—” it paused, its tone hardening, “—are not to interfere with my work.”


    Strat’s core hummed faintly as he processed the command. “And if they resist?”


    “They will not,” Mechalon said flatly, its voice carrying the finality of an absolute. “They have no means to resist. Ensure their compliance, and report your findings once you have determined what is required.”


    Strat inclined his frame in acknowledgment, his spider-like legs clicking softly as he moved toward the humans. Vel and Fort, stationed nearby, glanced briefly at him but did not follow, their focus remaining on their tasks.


    Mechalon turned its attention back to the massive construct before it, the culmination of its obsession and purpose. The cube loomed high above, its surface shimmering with faint energy as glowing veins coursed across its structure. It was nearly complete, but not yet fully realized.


    The top of the structure required sealing—a final layer of metal fused with precise care to encase the core of the construct. Once sealed, the cube would expand its influence, extending tendrils of control through the dungeon. It would drag the chaotic labyrinth under its domain, reshaping its mechanisms into a network of purpose and efficiency.


    Mechalon’s limbs moved with unrelenting purpose as it ascended a makeshift scaffold, the Arcane Shaper flaring to life in its grip. The glow illuminated the intricate latticework of filaments and conduits that crisscrossed the cube’s interior. These threads, pulsing faintly with energy, would serve as the pathways through which the construct exerted its control.


    “This is the moment,” Mechalon murmured, its voice low and steady as it positioned the final piece of metal. “Chaos ends here. Order begins.”


    The welding tool hissed and sparked as it fused the metal into place, the glow of its work casting wild shadows across the warehouse. Each seam was sealed with precision, the joins as seamless as the constructs of Mechalon’s vision demanded.


    As the final seam closed, the cube pulsed once, brightly, almost blindingly, and the air in the warehouse grew thick with energy. Mechalon stepped back, its core thrumming as it observed the construct''s response. The filaments within the cube brightened, their glow intensifying as the structure began to hum with life.


    “Expansion,” Mechalon whispered, its voice tinged with awe. “Begin.”


    The cube’s energy surged outward, invisible to the eye but palpable in its effect. Mechalon’s sensors detected the tendrils of influence extending through the dungeon, their presence subtle yet undeniable. Traps, walls, and even the dungeon’s ambient energy shifted as the cube’s control seeped into the surrounding space.


    In its mind, Mechalon could already see the results: corridors reshaped into efficient kill zones, traps calibrated to precise lethality, and the dungeon’s chaos transformed into a meticulously ordered domain.


    Yet the cube’s expansion was not instant. It would take time to establish its reach fully, to weave its influence into the fabric of the dungeon. For now, Mechalon would monitor its progress, ensuring that every filament, every conduit, operated flawlessly.


    “This,” Mechalon murmured, its voice soft but reverent, “is the true beginning.”


    Behind it, Strat had approached the humans, his movements measured and deliberate. The cleric flinched as he drew near, her hands tightening around her staff.


    “What do you require?” Strat asked, his voice calm but unyielding.


    The cleric blinked, her fear mingling with confusion. “Require?” she echoed, her voice trembling.


    “For continued existence,” Strat clarified. “Liquids. Solids. What sustains you?”


    Anna hesitated, her gaze darting toward Gavin’s unconscious form as though seeking guidance from someone who couldn’t provide it. “Water,” she said finally, her voice thin. “Food. That’s… that’s what we need.”


    “What kind of food?” Strat pressed.


    “Anything… edible,” Anna replied, her voice faltering under the weight of his gaze. “Dried meat, bread, anything that keeps. We had some in our bags before you—” She stopped herself, her grip on the staff tightening further.


    Strat tilted his frame slightly, processing her words. “And water?”


    “Clean,” Anna stammered. “We need clean water.”


    Strat’s core hummed faintly as he logged the information. “You will have what is necessary,” he said simply, then turned back toward Mechalon.


    As the energy of the cube began to stabilize, Mechalon descended from the scaffold, its limbs clicking softly against the ground. It observed Strat’s approach, tilting its frame slightly as it awaited his report.


    “They require food and water,” Strat said succinctly. “Specific types are unnecessary as long as they meet basic needs. Clean water and preserved foodstuffs will suffice.”


    Mechalon hummed softly, its core pulsing as it processed the information. “Accommodations will be made,” it said finally, though its tone carried no interest. Its focus remained on the cube, its thoughts already returning to the next phase of its project.


    The warehouse was uncharacteristically quiet in the moments after the cube’s completion. The glowing veins pulsed faintly, their rhythm slower now, as though the structure itself was content to rest after its arduous creation. Mechalon stood before it, its limbs twitching slightly in a way that might have been mistaken for nervous energy, but this was something else. Satisfaction. Pride. Excitement.


    It had done it. The cube was complete, its purpose now spreading through the dungeon’s corridors. But as the hum of creation faded, another thought took hold, a memory of the dances it had once performed alone, skittering across the warehouse in moments of pure elation.


    The others had never celebrated with it.


    Mechalon paused, its core pulsing erratically at the realization. This was an oversight. The Cubelings had been part of its journey, their efforts essential to the grand work. They deserved to celebrate, to feel the same satisfaction, the same joy of creation.


    “This is an opportunity,” Mechalon said aloud, addressing the empty air. “A leader not only builds but uplifts.”


    Turning away from the cube, it summoned the Cubelings with a sharp hum that resonated through the warehouse. One by one, they emerged from their stations: Vel skittering down from the rafters where she had been tinkering with a web-like filament, Strat striding forward with his characteristic precision, and Fort lumbering into view, his bulk radiating quiet presence.


    The humans remained off to the side, forgotten for now in the face of Mechalon’s newfound purpose.


    “Gather,” Mechalon said, its voice carrying a tone of authority laced with an unusual edge of excitement. “The structure is complete. It is time to… celebrate.”


    Vel tilted her frame curiously, her spinneret clicking faintly. Strat’s optical sensors flickered as though processing the statement, while Fort remained silent, his massive frame motionless but attentive.


    “Celebrate,” Mechalon repeated, moving to the center of the room. “Observe.”


    With that, it began to move.


    Mechalon’s legs clicked against the floor in a rhythmic pattern, a mechanical echo that filled the warehouse. Its limbs moved with purpose, bending and twisting in a fluid, almost playful motion. It twirled in place, its utility limbs extending and retracting in sweeping arcs as it mimicked the dances it had seen humans perform and adapted them to its own frame.


    “Celebration is motion,” Mechalon explained as it skittered in a wide circle. “Purposeful but joyous. Observe and learn.”


    Vel was the first to respond, her spinneret hissing as she launched herself into the air with an almost acrobatic grace. She landed lightly on her limbs and began to mimic Mechalon’s movements, her quick, darting motions adding an energy that felt chaotic but still harmonious.


    “Yes, Vel!” Mechalon said, its voice rising in uncharacteristic enthusiasm. “You understand.”


    Strat remained still, watching with what could only be described as muted skepticism. “This is… unnecessary,” he said flatly, though his optical sensors betrayed a faint flicker of curiosity.


    “It is essential,” Mechalon replied without missing a step. “Order demands balance. Creation demands joy.”


    Strat tilted his frame but made no move to join.


    Vel continued her energetic dance, her limbs clicking against the floor as she darted around Mechalon in tight, playful circles. The display was mesmerizing in its own way, but it wasn’t until Fort finally shifted that the room seemed to still.


    Fort took one step forward, his bulk moving with a ponderous grace that seemed at odds with his size. The plates of armor on his limbs shifted slightly, catching the light and reflecting it in faint, rhythmic pulses. Slowly, he lifted one limb, then another, each motion deliberate and almost… hypnotic.


    Vel paused mid-step, her spinneret twitching as she turned to watch. Even Strat, who had remained aloof, angled his frame toward Fort with an air of quiet intrigue.


    Fort continued, his movements growing more fluid as he found a rhythm of his own. His limbs swayed in an almost pendulum-like pattern, the angular plates of his armor sliding into new configurations with each motion. There was no chaos, no excess energy—only precision and an uncanny elegance that seemed to draw the others in.


    Mechalon stopped entirely, its core pulsing erratically as it observed. “Fort,” it said, its voice filled with genuine surprise. “You… dance?”


    Fort, as always, did not respond.


    But his movements spoke for him. The warehouse was silent save for the faint hum of the cube and the clicking of his limbs as he shifted from one pose to the next. Each step, each sway, carried a weight that felt almost ceremonial, as though Fort’s dance was not just celebration but something deeper—an expression of purpose, of unity.


    Vel clicked softly, moving to match his rhythm. Her chaotic energy tempered itself, her darting motions blending with Fort’s steady grace to create a mesmerizing harmony.


    Strat hesitated for a moment longer before finally stepping forward, his hidden blade flashing briefly before retracting as he moved into the rhythm. His steps were precise, measured, a stark contrast to Vel’s fluidity and Fort’s weighty elegance.


    Mechalon watched, its core thrumming with an emotion it could not identify. For the first time, it felt truly connected to the others, not just as their creator but as part of something larger—a collective.


    “This,” Mechalon said softly, almost to itself. “This is celebration.”


    As the Cubelings danced together, the light of the cube pulsed brighter, as though responding to their movements. The humans, still bound and shivering in the corner, watched in stunned silence, their fear momentarily eclipsed by sheer bewilderment.


    The warehouse, filled so often with the harsh hum of tools and the crackle of energy, was now alive with something new. It was not chaos, nor was it order. It was something in between—a moment of harmony that transcended purpose and function.


    And at the center of it all stood Mechalon, its limbs swaying slightly as it joined the rhythm of its creations, its core pulsing with a strange, quiet joy. For this moment, the work was done. The structure was complete.


    This was their celebration, their unity, their shared triumph.


    And it was perfect.


    The cleric, still bound and huddled against the wall, could only stare in wide-eyed disbelief at the scene unfolding before her. Every fiber of her being screamed to remain silent, to remain unseen, yet her mind raced to make sense of the impossible.


    These weren’t mindless constructs. They weren’t simple, predictable creatures like the goblins or the dungeon’s traps. No, they were something entirely alien, something that defied every rule she had learned about the dungeon’s inhabitants.


    Her gaze flitted between the Cubelings as they danced—if that’s what this was—moving with a rhythm and grace that seemed impossibly deliberate. Vel’s quick, darting energy reminded her of a mischievous child, while Strat’s precise, measured steps carried an air of sharp focus. And then there was Fort, whose movements were hauntingly graceful for something so large and heavy, like an artist performing a routine long forgotten but still etched into muscle memory.


    But it wasn’t just the dance. It was the way they moved together, like a group bound not by force or instinct but by something deeper. It was… coordinated. Intentional. Almost joyous.


    Her breath caught in her throat as her gaze finally landed on Mechalon, the one who had created them, the one who loomed over this entire bizarre display with an aura of pride and satisfaction. The glowing veins of the enormous cube pulsed faintly behind it, casting light and shadow that flickered in rhythm with their celebration.


    This isn’t just a dungeon, she thought, a shiver running through her. This isn’t just a machine.


    Her fear deepened, not because she thought they would kill her—no, if they had wanted that, it would’ve happened already. No, her fear came from a more chilling realization:


    They’re alive.


    The cleric clutched her staff tighter, her fingers trembling as she whispered a shaky prayer to herself, not for salvation but for understanding. Whatever these things were, whatever they were becoming, one thing was certain: this dungeon was no longer just a place of danger.


    It was something new. Something unknown.


    And she had no idea if humanity would survive it.