Thick and relentless, ash drifted, a gray shroud over a dead monster. On the giant projector screen hanging in the sky over Seranovia, the mushroom cloud boiled in silent, terrible majesty. Plunged into a stunned, deafening silence, the Grand Stadium had its earlier cries of terror replaced by a collective, horrified awe. The spectacle was over. The sentence had been carried out.
At the edge of the stage, Roy stood, the ringmaster persona gone, replaced by a cold, quiet finality. He had proven his point beyond all doubt.
"Your Nuke Time Muffin, Captain?" a nearby Presidroid said, platter held out.
Cutting through the quiet, a brief, almost imperceptible distortion of the light formed in front of him, and then a figure stood on the stage. Tall and thin, clad in what looked like robes of woven shadow, it had a face that was a smooth, featureless expanse of obsidian.
Sharp and sudden, panic erupted through the stadium. From the nobles came shrieks. As guild members surged to their feet, they readied themselves for a fight. Around her in the royal box, the Queen's guards tightened their formation, a wall of polished, suddenly inadequate steel.
A metallic kiss rang in Eryndra's gauntlet as she set her stance, vents opening and arcs of plasma rocketing from them. Nearby, Zhanna shifted a heel, hips winding until spine and tail coiled into a spring. Ahead of them, Lynder's shadow ran forward and grew sharp edges, while Halena's pupils widened and color crawled over her fingers, the air around her hand turning keen with the sting of hot metal and storm. The space between heartbeats stretched, and the four moved as if pulled by the same invisible wire.
In a single, synchronized motion their attacks hit. Eryndra's fist landed like a thunderclap into steel, Zhanna's struck with coiled grace, Lynder's blade of solid shadow whispered through, and Halena's chaotic blast of pure demonic energy tore outward. They came from different sides at the same instant. Nothing happened.
Silence swallowed the expected impact. Nothing happened.
Then the assaults simply... vanished, swallowed whole with no trace, no whisper. Out in Roy's periphery he caught Vorthas frozen mid-gesture, a gathering storm of dark energy cupped in his hands, eyes wide with a flicker of something like professional awe.
A voice, flat and layered with three distinct, overlapping tones that seemed to vibrate in the very bones of everyone who heard it, rang out. "Stay your hands, I am the Dungeon Emissary".
On the surface, Roy exuded an unnerving calm, a mask of indifference. Yet, beneath his composed exterior, his heart hammered a frantic, terrified rhythm against his ribs. The words that tumbled out were pure, unthinking instinct. "Shut the hell up." He regretted them the instant they were uttered.
The Dungeon Emissary pivoted to face Roy, its slow approach punctuated by the gravitas of his words. "Congratulations, Roy Gunn. You have bested the dungeon. Now, prepare for Stage Two," the Emissary said before vanishing.
On the projector screen, the audience watched in renewed horror as a new, more formidable dungeon structure began to form from the ashes of the first, its dark spires rising from the crater like the bones of some long-dead god. Reforming entirely as if nothing had happened.
A wild, manic grin split Roy's face. The ringmaster returned with a vengeance. His voice, once again amplified, boomed over the rising chaos. "Well, I guess the dungeon hasn't learned its lesson yet, has it? Perhaps it requires a more… persuasive encore. Prepare for—"
A hand, strong and surprisingly firm, clamped down on his arm. At Roy's side, Lynder planted himself, his ancient elven face pale but resolute. "Captain Gunn, please," he hissed, urgent and desperate. "Do not. There are artifacts in there, challenges, opportunities for a new generation of heroes to forge their legends. To destroy it all out of hand would be a tragedy."
Feigning deep, theatrical consideration, Roy studied the pleading elf and then the terrified faces of the assembled world leaders. He shrugged, a fake insulting display of indifference. "Fine," he said, waving dismissively. "But I'm calling dibs. This is my turf now. I will develop it as I see fit." The words fell with no real negotiation, they were the bored, casual concession of a god.
A flicker of cunning crossed Lynder's face, political genius sliding into view. He turned to the stunned crowd and announced, "As you have all heard," his voice lined with a feigned, cheerful misunderstanding, "as soon as the Captain's companion, the esteemed Sir Dibs, arrives, we shall all be able to partake in the dungeon's treasures!"
The comment hung between them and Roy blinked before replying, "No, no, dibs isn't a person, it's a—" Lynder's expression collapsed into a mask of tragic sympathy and he patted Roy's shoulder. "Oh, my dear boy. I am so very sorry for your loss."
Roy's mouth opened and closed, he caught the faint, almost imperceptible smirk at the corner of Lynder's face. "…I am done talking to you," he muttered.
Clearing his throat as he faced the crowd, Lynder proclaimed, "By the powers vested in the Exarch and the Convocation as arbiters in crises beyond our borders, I call for an immediate vote." Confronted with Roy's overwhelming, city-leveling power and his undeniable proximity to the site, the decision was swift. Seven green orbs of light, signifying a unanimous vote of approval, rose into the air above their respective boxes. The dungeon, and all its potential profits, was now officially Roy's.
Once the immediate crisis in the stadium eased, Roy and his crew were already shifting focus, moving from high-stakes politics to the much more pressing matter of logistics. And profit.
Falling into step beside Roy as they left the Grand Stadium, Lutrian threaded ahead in thought, his voice a low, strategic hum. "Roy," he began, "we need to monetize the soul out of this. The entire world will be flocking to our doorstep. We must control the market from the very beginning." He paused, gaze sharp. "Our first stop should be the Merchant's Guild. We need to hire the best appraiser in the world. We need Slein Higg."
Inside the Merchant's Guild, a quieter, more opulent affair than the adventurers' hall, they were led to a well-appointed office where Slein Higg awaited. A man whose gentle, scholarly demeanor seemed at odds with his reputation as a ruthless master of valuation, he greeted them with a polite, somewhat weary smile. After Lutrian's passionate, detailed pitch, Slein shook his head.
With a polite, weary smile, Slein shook his head and explained, "Gentlemen, it is a magnificent offer, truly. But I… I must decline. You see, my family and I have just settled. Marrine and I finally have a quaint little house in the Shamberleaf district. She is expecting our third child, you understand. My salary here… it is a handsome one hundred and fifty silver a year. We are… content."
Interrupting the protest, a heavy sack of gold slammed onto Slein's polished desk with a dull, final thud. No pleasantries followed. Roy's voice cut through, flat and without courtesy. "If you shut up and take the job, I will give you fifty gold coins. Right now. A five percent cut on every single item we resell from that dungeon. And a large, six-bedroom house in a very nice, very quiet part of Otherrealm. For free."
Stunned into an absolute, world-shattering silence by the scale of the offer, Slein stared until his face went slack. He tried to form a reply, mouth opening and closing without sound. A single, jerky nod finally answered for him.
The departure from Seranovia was a chaotic, but efficient, affair. Moving with their usual unsettling speed, Presidroids carried the entirety of the Higg family's belongings from their quaint little house to the Nightshatter's cargo bay. Slein, his wife Marrine, and their two small children, Bay and Coast, watched, their faces a mixture of awe and profound, life-altering shock. Roy, upon hearing the children's names, was seized by a sudden, violent fit of laughter that he desperately, and rather poorly, tried to disguise as a series of racking coughs.
Once he had regained his composure, Roy laughed once, sharp and short. "If you think we overpaid you, just wait until you see Otherrealm. You'll beg to give the money back out of pure, unadulterated shame at your own good fortune."
Slein blinked, confusion plain. "Otherrealm? I do not know that name. What is it?"
Roy leaned in, eyes bright. "Think of a city where the basics are done right. Streets that do not turn to mud when it rains, houses with water brought inside so you can wash without fetching from a well, proper sewers so waste does not sit in the alleys, and dwellings that stay cool when the sun roasts the day. Markets stacked with foods you've never seen, craftsmen's shops that turn out tools and ironwork faster than whole guilds could in a month, and Presidroids, uh…iron servants, that lift beams and lay stone without tiring. It is comfort and order made permanent. Cleanliness gets so thorough that strangers stop smelling like unwashed buttcheeks. It will make everything you know look obscene."
Slein's brow furrowed. "Ah, I see. I look forward to it! Also, there is a ten-mile distance from the city to the dungeon entrance, no? How will you safely transport workers? And goods?"
Pondering the problem for a moment, Roy wore a thoughtful frown before turning to Takara. "Hey, Takara. That train tech we've been tinkering with. Think you and Greta could adapt it into some kind of subway system? An underground transport for both people and cargo?"
Takara's eyes lit up. "A subway? Yes! Absolutely! The dwarven earthmancers could carve the tunnels in a week! It would be brilliant!"
"What," Slein asked, his voice a faint, bewildered whisper, "is a… train?"
Roy struggled for a moment, fumbling for an analogy that would make sense in this world. "Think of it," he said finally, a grimace of self-loathing already forming on his face at his own words, "like a horse. A very long, metal horse. That you ride inside of." He paused. "Yeah, that… that didn't sound all that great. Just… just wait and see. You'll understand then."