The bear shook itself, blood, fur, and tar flinging off in ropes. And then… it straightened. Too fast. Too controlled.

  The bear’s breathing is ragged now. Hot bursts of steam rising from its snout with each exhale. It limps slowly across the fractured sidewalk, just past the bus loop, dragging its injured leg behind it like dead weight. The pit trap did a number on it. I could see jagged wood had torn into the meat of its thigh, and I could still see the villain green tar of the void seeping out, trying to stitch the damage back together. Steam bubbling from the bear’s wound. It’s burning energy just to stay standing.

  Bookbite wrinkled his nose at the bear with its mangled side. As it walked it created slurping tar-streaked on the grass now, it didn’t stop like a beast possessed. “Well, I guess it was possessed, a bit obvious there, Chloe,” I thought.

  “Blegh,” Bookbite started muttering, adjusting his face with theatrical disgust. “I wouldn’t eat that thing if you deep-fried it in mana-batter. That is saying something. And I once snacked on a three-day-old rat I found behind a slime vat.”

  He paused, then added solemnly, “Named him Reginald. Good crunch. Bad aftertaste.”

  Still, the bear moved forward. Driven. Drawn.

  I watch it from my seat. My perch above this twisted little world the System gave me. I can see through the map, the glowing outlines of my trees, and the resource nodes I planted like seeds of vengeance. Every breath the bear takes feels like it’s stealing something from me. I could feel rage growing, I started to visualize that the bear was Kiley. I wanted to rip it apart. Bookbite was right, this is my world now!

  “Where’s it going?” I mutter aloud.

  Bookbite stretches, all lazy arms and teeth. “Silverpine, probably. Or the honey. Could be the mana scent in the tree bark, could be your bee trap oozing too much sweetness. Either way, hey, dungeon law: you come in, you deal with the locals.”

  I smirk, but it fades fast.

  The bear crosses out of the grass, its heavy form crushing wildflowers underfoot. It’s heading right for the treeline. Right for the Silverpines and the bee traps. A small, ugly part of me hopes it bleeds out before it gets there. I knew better, but it was bleeding and losing energy by the second. Then it reaches the first of my special trees. It raises one paw and slaps it against the bark of a Silverpine: testing it, maybe. Or marking territory. I don’t care.

  Snap.

  The soft, almost imperceptible trigger releases like a sigh through the trees.

  Then it happens.

  The hive wasn't a neat, tidy structure of human design, but a raw, almost grotesque natural sculpture. The beehive hung like a monstrous growth from the tree limb, a honey-oozing, wax-laced mesh that brought to mind something less built and more poured; like melted candy and old burlap left to fuse and swell in the sun's heat. Its surface was uneven, rough in texture, glistening in places where the golden, viscous treasure within breached the waxy walls. The air around it was thick with the cloying, sweet perfume of honey, a scent almost too rich, hinting at the sheer volume of stored sweetness it held.

  But the true nature of the hive was revealed by the life contained within. Inside it writhed. Not just individual insects moving, but a unified, ceaseless undulation, a palpable sense of thousands upon thousands of bodies in constant motion. The sound wasn't a gentle, distant hum; it was a deep, resonant thrumming that vibrated through the very air, a low growl of contained energy. Pressing closer (a risky, fear-tinged thought). I could discern the frantic rustle of countless wings, the skittering of legs on wax, and the urgent, low-frequency communication of the colony. This was the sound of immense, focused power, held precariously in check.

  If it wasn’t my trap I would be scared. A vengeful smile slipped onto my face. With the awareness of that power came the terror. I could imagine the fear that would spread over Brooklyn’s face, a cold knot tightening in her gut, a primal understanding of the potential for chaos. This wasn't just a nest; it was a volatile swarm. The sweet honey smell seemed to carry a hidden warning, a faint, sharp tang of alarm pheromone already in the air. Every subtle shift in the thrumming, every ripple in the writhing mass, felt like a potential trigger.

  With a whoomp of snapped tension, the branch above the bear snaps off, and the trap drops.

  The second the trap hits the bear’s back, the hive inside ruptures. Honey spills in thick golden ropes, sticky and sweet, coating its shoulders, and soaking into its fur. The scent is immediate. So strong I swear I can taste it from the office, like burnt sugar and rotten fruit.

  And then the buzz begins.

  A sudden, electric jolt, starting deep in my gut, surged through me. It wasn't a gentle tide, but a rapid, bubbling swell, boiling up through my chest, I could feel myself getting wet, my nipples harding, and the core between my breasts pulse. I felt like I was on the edge. The excitement filled not only my core but me. I could feel the flood making my shoulders feel impossibly light. A wide, uncontrollable grin stretched across my face, my eyes widening as if trying to take in more of the world at once. My palms felt strangely warm, and there was a faint tremor in my hands, a restless energy that made me want to move, to leap, to shout, to moan in lust. It was the exhilarating, breathless rush of pure possibility, flooding me with a vibrant, almost dizzying joy that left no room for doubt or fear.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  The core within her, a new, alien presence, didn't just want to kill for mana and experience. It lusted for it; it flooded her being with them. It was a sudden, undeniable surge, a hot, demanding tide washing over her usual thoughts and feelings: a stark, compelling desire to kill, not out of malice, but with a chilling, almost clinical efficiency; an insatiable hunger for mana, a craving for that raw energy like a desperate thirst; and a driving imperative to receive experience, to grow, to evolve, to become more.

  Is this, a part of her wondered, a desire that felt suddenly distant and small amidst the internal overload of lust? Is this what a dungeon core wants? I haven’t felt like this before, in my old body. I thought I felt something wet dripping down her leg. The thought was cold and sharp, a sliver of my old self observing the profound change. She is part core now, the realization settled over me, heavy and undeniable. And these potent, unsettling urges, so foreign to my past, were the undeniable proof. They felt fundamental, hardwired into this new aspect of my being, reshaping the very landscape of my motivations.

  “Am I a psychopath now?” I ask. “For wanting experience points?”

  “No, that is just life. People eat cows all the time, we eat. Same thing. At least adventures and others get reborn,” Bookbite answered with a shrug.

  I turn back to the swarm. It starts soft, like a motor warming up. The air tightens. Wings blur into existence. The bees pour out in waves. Black and yellow, glinting with faint green from the poison I fed into their mana channels. These aren’t normal bees. These are Dungeon-Beasts—half-flesh, half-magic, fully pissed off.

  They swarm the bear.

  They dive at exposed muscle, stingers jabbing with brutal precision. The bear lets out a muffled roar and starts to thrash, trying to swat them off, but the honey makes it worse. Every move spreads the sweetness. Every roar sucks in more of them.

  System Notification: [Bee Trap Activated]

  Damage Inflicted: 57

  Poison Applied: Minor Toxin – 4 HP/sec for 30 sec.

  Target Morale: -12%

  The bear stumbles backward, rolling in the grass, smearing itself with honey, venom and blood. It crushes some bees under its massive bulk, but more take their place. Its shoulder is already swelling. One eye is half shut. The void inside it pulses, trying to fight back but it’s burning too fast.

  I feel it. That deep, gnawing satisfaction. Trickles of mana and experience come into me. Such joy. This thing doesn’t belong here. It’s an invader. A trespasser.

  I’m not a victim anymore. I am the Dungeon.

  And it just stepped into my forest.

  The bear staggered, foam flecking the edges of its maw as it lurched deeper into the trees. The bee trap clung to its back like some angry, living crown. Stingers buried deep, tiny bodies spasming with venomous intent. I could hear them buzzing, enraged and relentless.

  Then it hit.

  The void inside the bear, its unnatural healing, shuddered. It pulsed once, like a heartbeat underwater, then began to unravel. The burning black steam leaking from the bear thickened and became almost oily in the air, and the wounds on its flank stopped knitting.

  System Notification: [Void Regeneration: Interrupted]

  Cause: Toxic Contamination

  Status: Critical Overload Imminent

  It was like watching a spell backfire in slow motion. The bear screamed. A wretched, primal cry that cut through me. Not just sound, but feeling. Agony that didn’t understand why. Pain with no logic behind it. Just pure, instinctive suffering.

  Behind me, Bookbite gave a low whistle. “Oof. That’s the kind of scream that makes your teeth itch.”

  I swallowed hard, fingers white-knuckling the edge of the desk. “Isn’t this wrong? Sure, cows, I love a burger, but isn’t this wrong? My body. My core is telling me one thing, but back on Earth, this isn’t normal,” I whispered, mostly to myself.

  Bookbite hopped up onto the desk beside me, legs swinging. “Nope. Big rule of dungeons: uninvited guests don’t get cake. Or exits. Besides, Core girl, you ain’t on Dirt anymore.”

  “Earth, but yeah, I guess. It is weird, how much my body is enjoying this… this excitement.”

  “Right, Dirt, that is what I said.”

  I just rolled my eyes. “I wonder if this is why people liked hockey so much, back in Canada.”

  “Where? That is a funny name. Can-a-dua?”

  Just then, the bear tried to lift its mangled back leg and collapsed again, smearing a long red mark across the grass. The black steam curled upward like smoke from an engine about to explode. The bee trap finished, and the hive flew off to find a new nest location.

  Bookbite squinted. “Mmm. Classic goblin death-spasm. Seen it a hundred times. Usually happens when we eat the wrong kind of mushroom or get stuck in a mimic that bites back.”

  I glanced at him. “This isn’t funny.”

  He gave me a surprisingly gentle shrug. “Not ha-ha funny. More like... goblin-funny. Which means: it's tragic, stupid, and someone probably deserves it.”

  “Still, no experience notification, so I am guessing the bear isn’t done.”

  Bookbite’s eyes gleamed. “You’re doing good, boss. Real good. Look at that mess. That’s prime dungeon work right there.”

  The bear slowly stood. An inch from death, if I had to guess. And in that moment, I didn’t feel pity anymore. I felt power. Why? Because from the trees just beyond the bear’s line of sight, the Mom-did-goes watched.

  They didn’t twitch. They didn’t blink. They didn’t breathe.

  Their long, spindly limbs, too thin, too many joints, hung still beside their sides, fingertips barely grazing the earth like the arms of mannequins left in the dark.