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Dungeon system: The thousand realms
Owner: Knox light
Level:3 (100/600)
Mana 1000/1000
Dp:200 (Dungeon points)
Protectors:27 (Goblins 18) (Kobalt's 6 + 3 workers)
Intruders: 0
Abilities: Mana manipulation, vassal creation,
Dungeon shaping, weaken willpower
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It was a new day, and everything moved as usual within the dungeon. But outside, a storm was brewing.
POV — Inside the Kobalt Camp
The camp sat seven miles from the dungeon, nestled along a river that cut through the dense forest. Sixty huts lined the settlement, each built in a tribal style — mud walls packed thick, thatched rooftops weathered by rain and sun.
The community bustled with life; the kobalts were knowledgeable enough to clothe themselves, and the sounds of daily work filled the air.
One hundred and five kobalts called this place home. They'd had more, once. But recently, hunting teams had gone missing one by one — and when scouts were sent to investigate, they found that the missing teams' tracks simply… stopped.
Right in front of a dungeon.
At the center of the settlement stood the largest hut, and inside it sat Throg, definitely a force to be reckoned with.
He towered over seven feet tall, an anomaly among a race known for their small frames. His size alone commanded fear, but it was his methods that ensured obedience.
Those who dared resist his rule didn't live long enough to try twice — Throg crushed their skulls with his bare hands, slowly, making sure every witness understood the cost of defiance.
He sat upon his throne now — a seat built from the skulls of his enemies, lined with a strip of worn velvet — and he brooded.
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Alpha Kobalt:
Name: Throg
Level: 5
Strength: 14
Agility: 4
Mana: 90/90
Willpower: 12
Endurance: 8
Skills: Iron Hide, Commanding Presence, Empower Troop
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Throg was angry. But beneath the anger, buried somewhere he refused to acknowledge, was fear.
"The group led by my nephew Hog — all of them, gone," he muttered, his massive hands curling into fists on the armrests. "And most of the second team as well."
Hog had been his dead brother's only son. The loss cut deeper than Throg would ever admit aloud. But grief alone wouldn't solve anything — rushing into that dungeon blind would be suicide, and he knew it.
He turned to his advisor, the small and perpetually nervous kobalt named Tof, who stood nearby wringing his hands.
"What should I do?" Throg asked, his voice low with restrained frustration. "If I go myself, I'll likely die. Should we send a team to attack the dungeon?"
Tof went very still. He thought carefully — or rather, he thought carefully about what Throg wanted to hear. Despite his title, Tof had long since abandoned any real advisory function.
Questioning the chieftain's ideas was a quick path to joining the skull collection on that throne.
"Well, boss," Tof said at last, nodding slowly, "I think that's for the best."
Throg studied him for a moment, then gave a single nod.
"Then it's decided. We send Team 3."
Tof bobbed his head enthusiastically, visibly relieved the conversation was over.
"Sounds like a solid plan, boss. Let's get to work."
Meanwhile — Knox's Dungeon
While the kobalts schemed seven miles away, Knox observed his own with quiet interest.
Draco was overseeing the final stages of the sixth house, directing construction with the focused authority of someone who took every task personally.
Progress had been swift — the expanded space was already being put to use. Most of the kobalts had relocated to their new homes, leaving only Cabbage and Lily in the original dwelling.
Hollyhock and her companion Blossom had chosen to share a house together, finding comfort in each other's company.
Sage, ever devoted, had moved in with Draco — quietly hoping his diligence would not go unnoticed.
The fourth house belonged to the workers. They huddled together each night, sharing body heat against the cold, their quarters spare and crowded.
The fifth house had been repurposed by Draco into storage — lumber, stone, foraged plants, and spare clothing were all neatly stacked within.
Draco stood with his arms crossed, watching the three kobalt workers strain to raise the final wall into place.
His expression was sharp, attentive — and if he was being honest with himself, faintly hopeful. He half-wanted one of them to slip up and give him an excuse to assert himself.
Impressing Knox mattered to him more than he let on.
But the wall went up without incident.
"You've done well today," Draco said, raising his voice so all three could hear. A hint of dry amusement softened his tone.
"For the rest of the afternoon, you're free to forage the floor for food. Don't overharvest."
The three workers snapped to attention and answered in unison.
"Sir, yes sir — no complaints!"
Draco allowed himself a small smile. He turned and headed back toward the village, and his thoughts drifted — almost against his will — to Blossom.
The feeling had crept up on him gradually. He wasn't sure when exactly it had shifted from simple camaraderie to something warmer, but lately every moment they spent together seemed to linger longer than it should. He shook the thought loose as he entered the village.
Sage was there, using a thick tree branch as a makeshift sword, swinging it in slow deliberate arcs against the air.
His brow was furrowed in concentration, and the sweat on his scales told Draco he'd been at it for a while.
Draco paused.
The thought of visiting Blossom faded. He watched Sage's footwork, the angle of his strikes, the way he telegraphed every swing — and felt a familiar urgency tighten in his chest. The attacks on the dungeon weren't over.
He could feel it. They needed to be stronger, and they needed to be ready before the next wave arrived, not after.
He walked over.
Sage heard the footsteps and stopped mid-swing, turning. He was breathing hard, and straightened up the moment he recognized Draco.
"Hello, Master," he said between breaths. "What can I do for you?"
Draco looked him over with an appraising eye, then smiled — slow and a little dangerous.
"Nothing too demanding.
All you have to do is survive five minutes against me." He let the words sit for a moment. "Think you can manage that?"
Sage blinked.
He considered refusing — briefly. But the look in Draco's eyes made it clear that declining would be its own kind of failure.
"Of course, Master," Sage said, adjusting his grip on the branch.
"It would be my pleasure."
What followed was less a spar and more a controlled storm.
Draco attacked steadily, never fully committing, always measuring — probing Sage's reactions, testing his instincts, cataloguing every mistake. Sage defended as best he could, blocking, retreating, occasionally throwing a counter that Draco slipped past with ease.
There were flaws everywhere in Sage's technique.
His guard dropped when he stepped back. His strikes were too wide, too telegraphed. His footwork was inconsistent at best.
But his strength — that was something else. When Sage connected, even glancing blows carried a weight that Draco hadn't expected. Raw power, unrefined but undeniable.
There's something here to work with, Draco thought.
Quite a lot, actually.
They continued until Sage's legs gave out and he dropped to one knee, gasping. Only then did Draco lower his branch and call a rest.
He said nothing yet. But his mind was already turning — planning the next session, and the one after that.
To be continued…
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