Mechalon turned its glowing optics toward the Arachnitect, watching as the small construct flexed its delicate limbs and tested its modular connectors. It was a marvel of engineering, a construct born of precision and intent, but Mechalon knew it wasn’t enough. Danger loomed, unseen but inevitable, and the domain’s survival depended on preparation. For too long, Mechalon had relied solely on its own ingenuity and the evolving instincts of the Cublings. Now, it was time to do something new: train.
The eldritch System’s warnings resonated in Mechalon’s circuits, urging it to act. The Arachnitect would be the start, a prototype not just in form but in function. It would be guided, shaped into a leader for its kind, capable of turning its unique skills into tools for the domain’s defense.
Mechalon reached out with a utility limb, gently lifting the Arachnitect and setting it atop its smooth, cubic frame. The small construct tilted its body in what could have been interpreted as curiosity, its glowing optics scanning its creator.
“We begin,” Mechalon said, its voice low and deliberate. “You will learn.”
The first task was to create blueprints, simple at first, but foundational. Mechalon had been considering the idea of adapting its own welding tool into something more versatile and offensive. If the focused heat could be spread into a burst, fueled by a core, it could become a powerful incendiary device. The Arachnitect’s modular design made it an ideal candidate to test such technology.
Using one of its utility limbs, Mechalon retrieved a flat, rectangular slab of metal from a nearby stack. Its surface was pristine, a blank canvas waiting to be filled with knowledge. Mechalon extended a delicate carving tool from its limb and began to etch lines into the metal, slow and deliberate.
The Arachnitect observed from its perch, its tiny limbs twitching faintly as if mirroring its creator’s actions. Mechalon tilted its core slightly, ensuring the small construct could see every stroke of the carving tool.
“This,” Mechalon said, its voice a metallic rasp, “is how we begin.”
The blueprint began to take shape: a compact device, no larger than the Arachnitect’s own core, designed to harness and amplify heat into a controlled burst of fire. Mechalon etched every detail with precision, from the arrangement of filaments to the placement of energy conduits. The design was simple enough for the Arachnitect to understand, but complex enough to serve as a foundation for future innovations.
As it worked, Mechalon explained its process aloud, its voice steady and methodical. “Lines must be clean. Connections precise. No deviation. A flawed blueprint creates a flawed construct. Understand this.”
The Arachnitect tilted its frame slightly, its optics flickering as if absorbing the information. Mechalon felt a flicker of satisfaction, it was responding, learning.
Once the first blueprint was complete, Mechalon held the metal slab up to the Arachnitect, turning it slowly so the construct could examine it from all angles. “Study,” Mechalon instructed. “Commit this to memory.”
The Arachnitect extended one of its modular limbs, its fine filaments brushing lightly against the etched lines of the blueprint. Mechalon watched closely, noting the precision with which the small construct traced the design.
“Good,” Mechalon said, its voice softening slightly. “You understand. Now, we create.”
Placing the metal slab on a nearby workbench, Mechalon gathered the materials needed to construct the device. It set each piece down with care, scraps of alloy, slivers of filament, and a small energy core scavenged from the northern creatures.
Using one of its utility limbs, Mechalon picked up the carving tool and turned to the Arachnitect. “You will assist. Watch. Learn.”
The training began in earnest. Mechalon guided the Arachnitect through each step of the construction process, explaining every action in meticulous detail. When the Arachnitect faltered, Mechalon corrected it, its tone firm but not harsh.
“You must be precise,” Mechalon said, repositioning the construct’s modular limb as it attempted to connect a filament to the core. “Precision is strength. Without it, you fail.”
The Arachnitect adjusted its movements, its actions becoming smoother and more confident with each attempt. By the time the device was complete, Mechalon could see the progress it had made, the construct was learning, adapting.
The finished device was small but formidable, a compact incendiary weapon designed to attach seamlessly to the Arachnitect’s modular connectors. Mechalon tested it carefully, ensuring its functionality before presenting it to the Arachnitect.
“This is yours,” Mechalon said, its voice tinged with pride. “Your first creation. Use it well.”
The Arachnitect extended its modular limb, attaching the device with a faint click. It flexed its limb experimentally, the energy core within the device glowing faintly as it activated. Mechalon observed with satisfaction, it was a small step, but a significant one.
Now came the next phase of training: leadership. Mechalon envisioned the Arachnitect as more than just a specialist, it would be a leader for its kind, capable of guiding future constructs in their tasks. To that end, Mechalon began carving additional blueprints onto metal slabs, each one more complex than the last.
“These,” Mechalon said, gesturing to the growing stack of blueprints, “will be your foundation. You will teach others as I have taught you. You will lead.”
The Arachnitect tilted its frame, its optics flickering with what Mechalon interpreted as understanding.
Over the next several days, Mechalon devoted itself entirely to the Arachnitect’s training. It taught the small construct how to create and deploy devices, how to use its Scout Protocol to navigate the domain, and how to reinforce the territory with filament-based traps. The training was rigorous but methodical, each lesson building upon the last.
The final day set out for training dawned with a subtle shift in the atmosphere of the warehouse. The air hummed with potential, an almost imperceptible resonance of energy that reflected the progress made over the past days. Mechalon moved with deliberate purpose, its glowing eyes scanning the space with satisfaction. The Arachnitect, now confident and eager, skittered about its workspace, its modular limbs twitching as it tested the tools it had crafted under Mechalon’s guidance.
Yet, even amidst the domain’s growing order, there remained an element of unpredictability: the humans.
Their small camp, tucked into a corner of the warehouse, was a strange blend of scavenged goblin materials and hastily repurposed dungeon scraps. Mechalon had allowed them to establish it, recognizing the utility of their presence despite their apparent fragility. The fighter, stubborn and brash, had made no effort to engage beyond begrudgingly eating the provided goblin meat and drinking salvaged water. His defiance amused Mechalon, though it found his reluctance inefficient.
The cleric, however, was different. She had resigned herself to her situation with a pragmatism that intrigued Mechalon. She had begun interacting with the Arachnitect, her initial fear giving way to curiosity as the small construct displayed its intelligence and adaptability.
Mechalon approached her now, its utility limbs clicking softly against its cubic frame. The Arachnitect followed closely, its tiny legs skittering across the floor as it tilted its central cube toward the cleric.
“You will teach,” Mechalon said, its voice carrying a soft metallic rasp. “Knowledge is your value. Impart it.”
The cleric hesitated, her eyes darting to the fighter, who sat sulking in the corner, sharpening a makeshift blade with exaggerated defiance. She sighed and turned back to the small construct, her shoulders relaxing slightly as she knelt to its level.
“Alright,” she said softly, her tone tinged with resignation. “I’ll teach. But I’m not doing this for you.” Her gaze shifted to the Arachnitect, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “I’m doing it for you, little one. You’re… surprisingly endearing for something so mechanical.”
Mechalon tilted its core slightly, observing the interaction with interest. It did not fully understand the human’s tone, but it recognized the cooperative gesture as a step toward efficiency.
The cleric began gathering small objects from the camp, a scrap of parchment, a piece of charcoal, and a metal goblet that had once belonged to a goblin. She placed them in a neat row before the Arachnitect, her movements careful and deliberate.
“Let’s start with something simple,” she said, her voice taking on a measured, instructional cadence. “You seem to understand how to create things, but do you know why certain designs work better than others?”
The Arachnitect tilted its frame, its glowing optics flickering in what the cleric interpreted as curiosity. It extended a modular limb, gently tapping the goblet.
“Good,” the cleric said, nodding. “This goblet, it’s functional, but it’s poorly made. See how the edges are uneven?” She traced her finger along the rim, pointing out the jagged imperfections. “When something like this is used over time, these flaws weaken the structure. A good design isn’t just about appearance; it’s about durability.”
Mechalon watched intently as the cleric spoke, its core pulsing faintly with interest. Her explanation, while rudimentary, carried a logic that resonated with its own principles of creation.
The cleric picked up the piece of parchment next, sketching a rough diagram of a goblet with the charcoal. Her lines were unsteady but clear, illustrating the importance of symmetry and even weight distribution.
“This,” she said, holding up the sketch for the Arachnitect to see, “is how it should look. Symmetry, balance, these are the foundations of good design. If you want something to last, you need to start with a solid foundation.”
The Arachnitect leaned closer, its modular limbs carefully tracing the lines of the drawing. It emitted a faint clicking sound, a habit it had developed during its training that Mechalon interpreted as a sign of focus.
“Now,” the cleric continued, setting the sketch aside and picking up the goblet again, “let’s talk about functionality. A good design isn’t just strong, it’s practical. See this handle?” She gestured to the misshapen lump of metal welded haphazardly to the side of the goblet. “It’s awkward to hold, which makes it harder to use. Always think about the purpose of what you’re creating. Who will use it? How will it be used?”
The Arachnitect tilted its frame again, its optics flickering as it absorbed the information. It extended one of its modular limbs, tapping the goblet’s handle as if testing its stability.
The cleric smiled faintly, her demeanor softening further. “You’re a fast learner,” she said, her tone almost affectionate. “I guess that makes sense, considering who built you.”
Mechalon’s core pulsed slightly brighter at the comment, though it did not respond. It found the cleric’s approach effective, her explanations complementing the lessons it had already imparted to the Arachnitect.
For the next several hours, the cleric continued her impromptu lessons, moving from basic design principles to more complex concepts. She explained the importance of material choice, the balance between form and function, and even touched on the idea of efficiency in crafting, using the least amount of resources to achieve the desired result.Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.
The Arachnitect followed her every word, its small frame quivering with eagerness as it attempted to replicate her teachings. Using scraps of metal and filament provided by Mechalon, it crafted miniature goblets, each one an improvement on the last.
By the end of the lesson, the cleric sat back, her expression a mix of exhaustion and quiet pride. The Arachnitect placed its final creation before her, a tiny goblet, perfectly symmetrical and balanced, its surface smooth and unmarred.
“You’ve done well,” she said, her voice soft. “Better than I expected, honestly.”
Mechalon approached, its utility limbs gently lifting the miniature goblet to examine it. Its core pulsed faintly as it turned the object over, noting the precision and care in its construction.
Mechalon stared at the tiny goblet in its utility limb, the smooth, symmetrical curves reflecting the dim light of the warehouse. It rotated the object slowly, its core pulsing faintly as it analyzed the construct. There was something almost mesmerizing about its simplicity, something that hadn’t occurred to Mechalon until now. For all its advanced designs and intricate creations, it had never once considered the viewpoint of the one who would wield or use them.
“Symmetry,” Mechalon murmured, its voice soft and contemplative, “balance… purpose.” It turned its glowing eyes to the cleric, watching as she absently adjusted her makeshift camp. “These lessons,” it continued, “are… enlightening.”
The cleric looked up from where she was fiddling with a broken goblin spear, raising a brow. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d need lessons in crafting. You seem to have that covered.”
Mechalon’s utility limbs twitched faintly, the goblet still held delicately in its grip. “Crafting… yes. But crafting with intent?” It paused, as though searching for the right words. “Your… input. Your perspective. It introduces… variables. Variables that were not considered.”
The cleric tilted her head slightly, her expression caught somewhere between curiosity and suspicion. “Variables like what?”
Mechalon lowered the goblet, placing it carefully on a nearby surface before turning to the Arachnitect, which had been silently observing the exchange. “The goblet,” Mechalon said, gesturing toward the tiny construct. “It is balanced. Functional. Designed with the user in mind. I had not… considered this. My focus has always been on improvement, on refinement. Not on… perspective.”
She folded her arms, leaning back slightly as she regarded the strange, cube-like golem. “You’ve never thought about who’s going to use what you make?”
Mechalon’s core pulsed unevenly, its utility limbs curling inward. “No,” it admitted. “My creations were for the domain. For the Cublings. For… myself. Efficiency. Precision. Purpose. These were my priorities.”
The cleric’s gaze softened slightly, her posture relaxing. “And now?”
Mechalon tilted its frame, its glowing eyes fixed on the Arachnitect. “Now… I see the value in… simplicity. In function. A goblet that is easy to hold. A limb that is suited to its purpose.”
Its thoughts drifted to Fort, whose quiet but powerful words had lingered in its circuits. The Cubling had expressed a desire, to crush. Mechalon had initially planned to fortify Fort’s limbs with sleek, reinforced tips, maintaining the spider-like design while enhancing its strength. But now, it reconsidered. Blunt, rectangular ends, thicker and sturdier, might better suit Fort’s purpose.
“Crush,” Mechalon murmured aloud, almost to itself. “Not sleek. Not sharp. Blunt. Heavy.”
She raised a brow. “You’re thinking about that… Fort, aren’t you? The big one?”
Mechalon’s core flickered brightly, a faint hum of acknowledgment resonating from its frame. “Yes. Its purpose is to crush. To protect. Its limbs must reflect this. They must be… reimagined.”
The cleric’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “Sounds like you’re starting to get it.” She gestured toward the Arachnitect, which was now delicately spinning a strand of filament between its modular limbs. “This little one seems to be catching on too.”
Mechalon’s glowing eyes narrowed slightly as it observed the Arachnitect’s work. “It learns quickly,” it said, a note of pride creeping into its voice. “Its design is modular, adaptable. It will grow beyond its initial parameters.”
The cleric chuckled softly. “You talk about it like it’s a student. Like you’re its teacher.”
Mechalon tilted its frame, considering the observation. “Perhaps I am,” it said finally. “And you… are mine.”
The cleric blinked, taken aback by the statement. Before she could respond, Mechalon’s voice softened, carrying an uncharacteristic note of curiosity. “Humans,” it began hesitantly, “do they… have designations?”
“Designations?” She echoed, frowning slightly.
Mechalon’s utility limbs shifted, its tone tinged with childlike curiosity. “Names. Like Vel, Strat, and Fort. Designations that define individuals.”
Understanding dawned on her’s face, and she nodded slowly. “Yes, we have names. I’m Angelica. And the stubborn one over there…” She cast a glance toward Gavin, who was still sulking in the corner. “That’s Gavin.”
Mechalon’s core flickered brightly, processing the information. “Angelica. Gavin,” it repeated, testing the words. “Names. Designations. You are no longer… Human One and Human Two.”
The cleric couldn’t help but smile at the odd declaration. “Well, that’s… something.”
Mechalon turned its glowing eyes toward her, its tone growing softer, more introspective. “I have given names to my creations. Strat, Vel, Fort. They are more than… tools. They are individuals. Should you not also have… individuality?”
Angelica’s smile faded slightly, her expression becoming thoughtful. “I suppose… you’re not wrong.”
Mechalon’s gaze lingered on her, its circuits humming faintly as it processed the interaction. Naming the humans felt… significant. It was an acknowledgment of their existence, a step toward understanding them not as resources or obstacles, but as entities with their own perspectives.
“You will teach more,” Mechalon said after a moment, its tone firm but not unkind. “These lessons… they are valuable. They shape not only the Arachnitect but… myself.”
Angelica hesitated, glancing toward Gavin, who scoffed loudly and muttered something under his breath. She sighed and turned back to Mechalon. “Alright,” she said finally. “I’ll teach. But I’ll need more materials. More… tools.”
Mechalon’s utility limbs twitched as it considered the request. “You will have what you need,” it said, its voice resolute. “The domain provides.”
With that, it turned its attention back to the Arachnitect, which had finished its filament work and was now observing the interaction with quiet curiosity. Mechalon reached out with a utility limb, gently placing it on the small construct’s frame.
“We build,” it said softly. “Together.”
Angelica watched the exchange, her expression unreadable. For a moment, she thought she saw something almost… human in the way Mechalon interacted with the Arachnitect. It was a strange, unsettling thought, but one she couldn’t entirely dismiss.
Mechalon hovered over the Arachnitect, its utility limbs twitching slightly as it contemplated its next decision. The realization had dawned slowly, a product of days spent training the small construct: the Arachnitect, for all its uniqueness and potential, required something more to fulfill its role as a leader. A name.
Its glowing eyes turned toward Angelica, who was watching the exchange with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. “Angelica,” Mechalon said, its tone deliberate but not commanding, “I seek… suggestions.”
“Suggestions?” she asked, folding her arms.
“For a name,” Mechalon clarified, gesturing toward the Arachnitect with one of its utility limbs. “It is unique. A leader. It must be… designated properly.”
Angelica blinked, caught off guard by the request. She glanced down at the Arachnitect, which had tilted its cube-like body toward her, its optics glowing faintly with what could almost be interpreted as curiosity.
“A name, huh?” she murmured, crouching slightly to get a better look at the small construct. “You want me to come up with one?”
“Yes,” Mechalon said simply. “Your knowledge. Your… mythos. These may inspire a designation the System will accept.”
Angelica frowned thoughtfully, her gaze drifting upward as she began to consider. “Alright, let me think… Something that inspires greatness, you said?”
Mechalon’s core pulsed faintly. “Greatness. Leadership. Uniqueness. Qualities that align with its purpose.”
The cleric hummed softly, tapping her chin. “Back in my town,” she began, “we have myths and legends, stories passed down through generations. Some of them are about gods, others about heroes. But there’s one that might fit.”
She sat down cross-legged on the floor, her hands resting lightly on her knees as she began to weave her story. “A long time ago, people spoke of a figure called Arixis. They said it was the Weaver of Paths, a being that shaped the fates of those who wandered aimlessly. It didn’t force anyone to walk a certain road, but it laid out the threads, giving them the chance to make their own choices. It was said that Arixis had many limbs, each one working tirelessly to create these intricate, ever-changing webs of destiny.”
Mechalon’s limbs froze mid-motion, its optics narrowing slightly as it processed the story. “Arixis,” it repeated, the name rolling off its metallic tongue with a faint mechanical hum.
Angelica nodded, her voice growing more confident. “Yeah. In the myths, it was both revered and feared. Revered because of its wisdom and the opportunities it gave to people, but feared because it could also entangle you if you weren’t careful. People who tried to defy the threads it wove would often find themselves caught, unable to escape the web they’d tried to sever.”
Mechalon tilted its frame, its core pulsing rhythmically as it analyzed the tale. “It weaved… paths. Like a web,” it mused, glancing at the Arachnitect, whose filaments shimmered faintly in the dim light. “It is… fitting. Appropriate.”
Angelica smiled faintly. “It’s short, memorable, and it carries weight. I think it suits the little one.”
The Arachnitect clicked softly, its modular limbs flexing in what could only be interpreted as excitement. Mechalon’s gaze lingered on the small construct for a long moment before it turned back to Angelica.
“It is decided,” Mechalon said, its tone carrying a rare note of finality. “Arixis will be its designation. A leader among its kind. A weaver of possibilities.”
Mechalon did not respond, its attention fully focused on the Arachnitect, or rather, Arixis, as if etching the name into its core. The name carried meaning now, imbued with the weight of myth and purpose. It was a name that would resonate within the domain, a symbol of the potential that Mechalon and its creations were building, cube by cube.
“Go forth, Arixis,” Mechalon murmured softly, almost reverently. “Weave the threads of our future.”
Mechalon''s utility limbs twitched in surprise as Arixis bolted from its position, skittering across the warehouse floor with surprising agility. The tiny Cubling moved with a purpose, its eight limbs clicking rapidly against the smooth metal as it headed toward the nearest task that it deemed "fate-weaving."
“Arixis!” Mechalon called out, its core pulsing brightly as it scrambled after the smaller construct. Its spider-like legs skittered frantically, struggling to keep up. “Explain! How do you intend to weave fate? What is fate? I do not understand!”
Arixis didn’t stop, its movements fueled by a mix of enthusiasm and the singular focus instilled during its training. It chittered faintly, the sound carrying back to Mechalon like an echo of excitement.
“That is not an answer!” Mechalon shouted, its tone rising slightly in pitch, a rare break in its usually measured cadence. “You are executing orders without clarity! That is illogical! Return!”
The Arachnitect darted around a pile of salvaged materials, its modular limbs twitching as it selected a bundle of filaments and a small shard of reflective metal. Mechalon stopped short, its utility limbs curling in frustration.
“How does one weave what is unseen?” Mechalon muttered, its voice crackling faintly as it tried to reconcile the concept. “Fate is not a tangible thread. Arixis, elaborate!”
The smaller construct chirped again, its body practically vibrating with determination. It began pulling filaments taut between two jagged beams, its actions erratic but deliberate.
Mechalon tilted its frame, its glowing eyes narrowing. “That… is not fate. That is webbing.”
Behind them, Angelica watched the interaction with a faint smile. “You’ve really got your hands full with that one, don’t you?”
Gavin stepped up beside her, his expression grim as he crossed his arms. “You’re getting too close to them,” he said flatly.
Angelica glanced at him, raising a brow. “Too close? They’re constructs, Gavin. Not people.”
“That’s the problem,” Gavin said, his voice low and tense. “You’re starting to treat them like they are.”
Angelica folded her arms, her gaze hardening slightly. “And what’s wrong with that? They’re intelligent. They learn. They’re clearly more than just mindless machines.”
“That’s how it starts,” Gavin muttered, his eyes darting toward Mechalon and Arixis. “First, you start seeing them as people. Then you start caring about them. Before you know it, you’re defending them. And then…” He turned back to her, his expression dark. “You’ve got Stockholm Syndrome, Angelica. You’re bonding with your captors.”
Angelica’s lips pressed into a thin line. “They haven’t hurt us, Gavin. They’ve fed us, given us water, hell, they’re even letting me teach them. That doesn’t exactly scream ‘captor’ to me.”
Gavin’s fists clenched, his knuckles turning white. “You don’t get it. They’re not doing this out of kindness. They’re doing it because it benefits them. The moment we’re no longer useful, we’re done.”
Angelica sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “And what do you suggest, then? Refuse to eat? Starve ourselves? They’ll still do what they’re doing with or without us.”
“I’m saying we need to be ready,” Gavin snapped. “Stop acting like they’re your friends and start thinking about how we’re going to get out of here.”
Angelica shook her head, her expression softening as she turned back to watch Mechalon and Arixis. The larger construct was now carefully untangling the web Arixis had created, its utility limbs moving with a strange mix of frustration and precision.
“I don’t think it’s that simple,” she said quietly. “They’re… different, Gavin. Especially Mechalon. It’s trying to understand. To learn. I don’t think it even fully realizes what it’s doing half the time.”
“And that makes it dangerous,” Gavin said, his tone like stone. “You think you’re safe because it’s curious? Curiosity isn’t the same as trust. Remember that.”
Angelica didn’t respond, her gaze lingering on Mechalon as it gently reprimanded Arixis for its haphazard webbing. There was something about the way it moved, the way it spoke, it wasn’t just a machine. It was learning, evolving.