Sat update! 242

Hey wonderful people. Didn't mean to be a day late, but I hope you all enjoy the next chapter. I'm still plodding along and just want to thank you all for being so kind.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Qg2Tchbmf2H3bZftDWJX3gE5zXkVt3RZiSEKlsrF2XI/edit?usp=sharing

---

Flames burst overhead, licking at the rafters like they had a personal grudge against carpentry. People either disappeared in bright orange approval or scrambled away, doing their best impressions of headless poultry. 

The goblin moved through it all, smiling as if the apocalypse had been catered for her alone. Nickels clutched a silver dish like a shield, which was about as useful as it sounded. The roast bird was gone, possibly by choice. Steaks were making an orderly escape toward the door while the wine fled through the floorboards. 

In short, dinner had declared independence, and Nickels was following their example.

Nickels kept close to the veterans, figuring experience might mean surviving long enough to complain about it later. The other end of the hall was gone, filled wall to wall with troll flesh. Trolls moved slow but inevitably, like taxes. 

That way was sealed, but Nickels had no regrets. Troll Soup was their legacy, a substance that could eat through both stone and morale. Cleaning it was like arguing with a politician. Pointless and the feeling of grime never quite washed off.

“Feels bad,” someone said as the next door opened, right before the fire decided to say hello. Behind them, the goblin’s cleaver and gun kept the rhythm of a butcher’s hymn. Outside, the trolls stayed put, huge silhouettes against the glow, calmly applauding survival from a safe, flame-free distance.

“They’re not dead. I wouldn’t just leave them there if it was for real,” someone insisted, both hands straining against the heavy doors. The gap narrowed, framing the silhouette of something tall holding a Maxer by his shirt like a dangling toy. The monster tilted her head, crimson eyes shining with what could only be described as sympathetic menace.

Nickels caught that look before the doors slammed. It wasn’t anger. It was pity. And worse, it was an amused pity. The kind that said she knew something he didn’t.

He turned, knife ready, expecting traps or worse. What he got instead was the so-called “garden.”

A vast stretch of green surrounded a statue shaped into a tall rectangle with hands, its pose caught between worship and warning. The air held that quiet pressure found in holy places, still enough to make a cough sound criminal. Grass once soft now stood on edge, each blade tipped with light, and shadows gathered in the folds of its glow, deep enough to hide anything that waited. 

Vines and moss crept across the walls, curling into faces that watched with patient malice.

Nickels smacked his lips. The Mana here pulsed clean and strong, sharper than anywhere before. He remembered the stories, soldiers whispering in the Guild Hall about gardens that breathed, about purity that came with teeth.

There was a room on the Third Floor known for its strange concentration of Mana, stronger even than the Fourth. The air itself felt thick enough to chew, the grass alive with quiet tension, each blade humming with invisible charge. Nickels held out his hand and focused until his fingers trembled. 

He pulled them back dusted in orange, a faint residue that clung like pollen but thrummed faintly, proof of the power threaded through the room.

“The Crossroads,” a Maxer muttered, the name carrying weight. The circular walls were lined with doors of every kind, wooden, metal, carved stone, some that pulsed faintly with life. A few glowed with runes so bright they left afterimages. 

Even those who studied magic couldn’t name the symbols, though that hadn’t stopped them from pretending otherwise. The doors marked with them refused every trick or brute attempt to open.

One bore an image of an anvil meeting a hammer, frozen mid-spark, humming faintly as if remembering its own strike. Nickels kept scanning for movement, guidebook in hand. Aside from the statue over the floor boss’s gate, nothing stirred.

A handsome, brooding figure dominated the chamber, a statue of a winged man, stone wings curled in a sweep that hinted at flight or judgment. The sculptor had caught an unnerving amount of personality in the face, somewhere between saint and debt collector. The sword on its back looked heavy enough to argue its own opinions, and the detail in the carving made it difficult to tell if it was sleeping or waiting.

Nickels read aloud as the others leaned close, pretending not to. “If this were a lower stage,” he said, tapping the note in his guide, “we could commission weapons here. Custom enchantments, proper craftsmanship, if you had the coin.” A ripple of disappointed muttering followed.

He glanced toward the sealed doors. One was labeled kitchen, and every head turned the same way before quietly agreeing to let that one stay locked.

Another door stood out from the rest, built with a kind of unnecessary confidence, gold trim, soft fabric, the faint promise of good lighting. From inside came the drift of music, soft strings and polite clinking, the sort of sound that convinced you life wasn’t all bad. Nickels leaned in, curious to catch the tune. The melody shifted as his ear drew closer, the sweetness melting into drums, sharp and steady. 

Then came the rhythm of marching feet, heavy and far too synchronized for comfort. He stepped back fast, deciding curiosity was an expensive habit.

The next door wasn’t locked but carried a sign that stopped them cold.

‘Medical Ward. Monsters only unless emergency. If you enter this room with malice or greed, you will automatically graduate to the highest stage this Dungeon has to offer. Teleporting will be disabled. Safety barriers will be turned off. You will cry. But, go ahead, I could use a good time – Nu’

Nickels stared at the message, trying to decide if the cheerful tone or the threat was worse.

Nickels could feel everyone’s attention locked on the plain door ahead, its brass-colored handles dull from age rather than neglect. Something dark traced the frame, a slow ooze that clung to the edges, glossy and patient. The smell, oddly enough, wasn’t rot but sharp alcohol.  No one wanted to be the first to touch it, but curiosity is a disease that travels fast.

A woman’s hand lifted, her fingers twitching as though the air itself tugged them forward. Nickels moved before he thought, snapping his arm out to catch her wrist.

“Don’t,” he said, tone flat but full of memory.

She hesitated, eyes flicking to the door. “But… wouldn’t the best stuff be behind the one they tell us not to open?”

It was a fair argument in most places, even sensible by adventurer standards. Nickels almost smiled… almost.

But not here, not now.

“Come back here in your own time and open it. I’m already high enough on this place’s naughty list,” Nickels said quietly. He glanced back toward the direction they’d come from, thinking of the fight still raging there. If the Dungeon stopped teleporting people before the killing blow, the cleanup would be short and depressing.

“What about this one?” someone asked, the tone halfway between curiosity and irritation. People didn’t like closed doors, it made them feel uninvited, which was ridiculous considering the day’s body count.

This door sat near the Medical Ward but carried a very different weight. Pale stone arched over dark wood that looked slightly damp, catching the light in a way that made it seem to breathe. There was no handle, only a knocker shaped into a bird’s skull, pale and smooth.

It was morbid, yes, but it had better manners than the sign next door. Above the frame, carved in simple script, read:

‘All welcome. – Doctor’

Usually, finding a doctor that welcomed anyone meant trouble. Either a young Necromancer hoping you’d die politely before recovering, or some wide-eyed academic babbling about “tiny body cells” and “disease theory.” Half of them kept jars full of things that blinked. A few still swore blind the appendix was real, an organ, they claimed, not the back section of a book. 

Everyone, including Nickels, knew better. The appendix was where you found references, not pain.

He flipped open his guide, thumbing through the pages, but the paper offered no comfort. Somewhere ahead came a creak, a small, smug sound of hinges in motion. Three of the Maxers had already pushed through the door.

“Claimed,” one announced, with the pride of a child shouting “mine” in a burning playground.

The rest of the group stared, outrage mixing with disbelief. There were unspoken rules, even here. You didn’t claim what others hadn’t yet touched. You didn’t poke things that smiled at you first. But greed had its own gravity, and once someone declared it, the claim was as good as sealed.

You didn’t take a claimed room or treasure. Everyone knew that.

Well, not where anyone could prove it.

“We’re bleeding resources,” one of them said, checking his belt as if coins might magically appear from shame. His satchel sagged light and empty. “We need to make up for some of the losses.”

It was a sensible thought in the way walking into fire was sensible if you were cold.

“We can come back,” Nickels said, keeping his tone level. The three shared a look that spoke more loudly than any argument.

“No one’s been this far or this high in the stages,” the first one said, voice firm but eyes unsteady. “We could be the first to find something rare, a material spawn or secret cache. I need the money back home.” He gave a small nod, the sort that tried to make greed sound brave, and stepped through the doorway.

Nickels watched them go, silently obeying another unspoken agreement.

In the dungeon, your choices were your own.

He just hoped what lived beyond also shared the philosophy of this dungeon of second, third, and more chances.

Nickels felt like they were going to need them.

---

“Report 42-C. The caliber of these adventurers remains consistent with what I have discovered to be a crude ranking system of their own invention,” Doctor said, his voice smooth and unhurried as he glided around the unconscious trio. The vapor he had released was meant to calm nerves, not remove consciousness entirely. He crouched, pressed two fingers to a wrist, and felt a pulse. 

Satisfactory. No refunds required.

Near him, the roots that coiled through the floor pulsed in rhythm, flowers blooming open and shut as Maestro recorded his words. A dutiful assistant, though inclined to hum mid-documentation. Doctor tolerated it. In truth, he found Maestro’s odd little songs, about bones that joined and minds that twisted under the moon, quite soothing.

“Adventurers,” he continued, stepping over a dropped satchel, “do not rank themselves by personal strength or mana integrity. Instead, they measure success by missions completed and reputation accrued. A curious method. It leads to the paradox of a genuine menace listed as F-rank while a gaggle of mediocrities celebrates a B. Still, perhaps that keeps the paperwork interesting.” He smiled faintly, as though that last detail mattered most.

“Their seeds all show signs of decay and crude replacement from time spent in other Dungeons,” Doctor murmured, his tone walking the line between fascination and disappointment. “Such clumsy work. Delta makes them look like infants with bonesaws pretending to be surgeons.” He tapped his stone beak thoughtfully, the sound sharp and hollow, and gave a small sigh of theatrical patience.

From a pocket stitched into his coat, he withdrew a thin glass tube. Inside, a few drops of orange fluid caught the light and glittered with slow confidence. He turned it in his claws, watching it swirl as though it might compose its own aria.

“Now,” he said, in the cheerful tone of someone announcing a raffle, “I am not technically permitted to experiment on guests or intruders. However, I am fully allowed to defend myself.” His voice gleamed with academic delight. “And sometimes, those categories overlap so wonderfully.” 

He leaned closer, eyes narrowing behind the glass of his lenses. One of the humans twitched and let out a soft exhale, the kind that meant absolutely nothing to anyone sane.

Doctor froze. “Ah. A targeted viral attack. How underhanded,” he announced, stepping back with great dignity. “I can practically smell the hatred molecules.”

Maestro’s flowers rustled. “They’re breathing, Doctor,” he said lightly.

“Yes, exactly! Weaponized respiration,” Doctor said, scandalized. “Oh no, I’m fearing for my existence.”

“That will never hold up in court,” Maestro replied. “King Jell is in a bad mood already.”

“King Jellagon will understand my logic,” Doctor countered, puffing up slightly. “Provided he wears his science goggles.” He giggled, pulling the stopper from his test tube and tilting it with deliberate mischief. One drop, then another, then the last slid free, fizzing on the humans in bright orange sparks.

“The subjects are reacting!” he hissed, delighted, motioning frantically for Maestro. “Quickly, document this moment of evolution!”

Maestro extended a root toward the twitching figures. “You poured it in their eyes, Doctor. Humans use mouths for intake,” he said patiently. The three groaned in their sleep, rubbing at their faces, glittering faintly.

“Incompetent anatomy,” Doctor muttered. “So wasteful.” He lifted his arms. “I must get the well water straight into the bloodstream!”

He waved his claws as though the gesture itself could compel progress. Mana began to shimmer under the skin of his test subjects, glowing along their veins like molten glass.

The humans went still. Peaceful. Suspiciously peaceful. 

“See?” Doctor whispered, almost proud. “Resting stability.”

The mana collected at their crowns, pulsing brighter, building toward something grand. “Perhaps new eyes,” he mused, tapping his beak. “Or a third ear. Innovation requires bravery.”

Just as the mana reached the kind of glow that usually ended with an apology to the janitorial staff, it stilled. The light folded in on itself, softening into a dull pulse. Then, with a wet sound that was far too casual for a miracle, something began to grow.

From the crowns of each human, a single red-speckled mushroom emerged, round and shiny, cheerful in a way that suggested poor judgment by nature itself.

“They grew mushrooms,” Maestro said after a pause long enough to be polite. “Truly shocking.”

Doctor blinked, then leaned in to pluck one. It came free without resistance, leaving behind a small puff of glowing dust.

“Curious,” he muttered, turning it in his claws. “Others exposed to the well water gained talents of tongues, other-hearing, occasionally insight. These three produced lunch.” He sniffed it, unimpressed. “Mana-rich, yes, but otherwise fungal mediocrity.”

Maestro hummed, his flowers opening in quiet thought. “Perhaps they are late bloomers?”

“No,” Doctor said brightly, the kind of brightness that preceded disaster in most laboratories. “Their seeds are purged.” He tilted one head, peering at the faint shimmer ebbing under the humans’ skin. “The mana did its work, but why did it not improve them…”

“I’m going to go out on a limb,” Maestro began, several actually extending as he spoke. “Perhaps Mother does not know them. They are not of her making. The well only answers to those she deems worthy, even if you hand them the drink yourself.”

Doctor tapped his beak, genuinely impressed. “Sound reasoning. A tragedy, of course, but a logical one.” He looked down at the three unconscious humans, their mushrooms bobbing slightly with every breath.

“Unearned drinks of the well make mushrooms,” he murmured, pacing. “Or perhaps that is the truth of Delta’s mana, mushrooms are its highest form.” He stopped, eyes gleaming. “If that is so, then I have been underestimating fungi. A grave oversight. I may owe them an apology,.

“We are a spectacular type of unlife,” Maestro agreed, petals shivering with pride for his distant fungal relatives. A faint hum ran through his roots, the sound of smug approval.

One of the humans chose that moment to cough, then sneeze with comic force. A fresh red-speckled mushroom burst from his scalp like an enthusiastic idea that couldn’t wait its turn.

Doctor froze, then clapped his hands. “Unexpected, but promising! I, Doctor, have taken a step toward what can only be called my magnus opus! My grand thesis! My era of unlimited fungi works!” His voice climbed with each declaration, echoing off the stone walls until even the dust seemed impressed.

Maestro obligingly cued thunder from somewhere unseen, lightning flickering across the ceiling in polite support. 

Doctor spread his arms , cackling loud enough to rattle jars. “Yes! Let it be known! I bring enlightenment, and possibly spores, to all!”

“Mostly spores,” Maestro added dryly with a sigh.

“Details!” Doctor said, beaming, as another mushroom quietly grew from the nearest patient, adding emphasis to his triumph.

Delta had known the truth from the start.

He was foolish to ever doubt her power.