Cassian Bell stood before the rusted hatch and tried not to sigh. The plaque embedded in the rock above it was cracked and stained, but still legible:

  > **PROPERTY OF DUNGEON #458-R**

  > **FORECLOSURE IN PROGRESS**

  > Please report all unauthorized entry to the Reclaimant Guild, Subsection 12.

  He folded the parchment in his hand, reread the final line, and muttered, “This is not what ‘estate asset’ usually means.”

  Behind him, the wind kicked up a dry swirl of dust across the craggy hillside. A half-dead shrub shivered beside a cracked mana-conduit pipe jutting from the earth like a broken spine. There was no town in sight. No village. Not even a cursed scarecrow.

  Just him, this hatch, and the lingering smell of ozone and bureaucracy.

  Cassian rubbed his temples. “All right. Let’s see what Grandpa left me.”

  He turned the brass wheel on the hatch—it resisted, groaned, then gave way with a reluctant *clang*. The air that spilled out smelled like moss, iron, and the vague scent of unpaid taxes.

  ---

  The interior was worse.

  The corridor sloped down, half-lit by failing mage-lanterns strung like forgotten festival lights. Stone walls bore old scratch marks. The scaffolding along the ceiling was unstable. Something dripped.

  Cassian stepped carefully, his boots echoing in the silence.

  It had been ten years since he'd last walked a dungeon. Longer since he'd wanted to. His career in Magical Asset Reclamation had ended when someone cursed the punch at a retirement party. But here he was again, crawling back through the bowels of someone else's bad investment.

  A movement ahead. A faint click.

  Cassian froze. His eyes swept the corridor. Left—right—down.

  Crate.

  A wooden crate sat oddly in the center of the hall. No dust around it. Slight wiggle.

  “Oh, come on,” he said.

  He cleared his throat. Loudly.

  > “Under Article 9-F of the Undocumented Asset Forfeiture Act,” he announced, “you are required to reveal your form.”

  The crate shuddered, then let out a long, resigned *sigh*.

  With a wet squelch, it unfolded into something between a treasure chest, a bear trap, and a grumpy ottoman. Dozens of teeth. One big eye. A mimic.

  “You’re early,” it grumbled. “I had three more years before review.”

  Cassian blinked. “You… talk?”

  “Don’t patronize me. You’re the new legal controller, aren’t you? Come to clear us out and turn the place into an artisanal mana farm?”

  “No,” Cassian said slowly. “I inherited this place. I’m here to… stabilize the asset.”

  The mimic snorted. “You’re a Reclaimer.”

  “Formerly.”

  “Figures.”

  ---

  The core chamber was deeper—a round room once elegant, now cracked and hollow. In the center stood a pedestal holding a flickering orb, its glow guttering like a candle in wind.

  Cassian approached slowly.

  The dungeon core was warm to the touch—surprisingly so. The connection sparked immediately. Words burned across his vision in system-blue text:

  ```

  [Dungeon Core Activation: Partial Success]

  > Core Stability: 12%

  > Structural Integrity: 48%

  > Registered Assets: 1 Mimic (Disloyal), 0 Traps, 1 Loot Cache (Unlinked)

  > Legal Reclaimant: Cassian Bell

  > Reputation Tier: FERAL / DISPUTED

  ```

  A small panel below the core buzzed, then lit with a warning rune:

  > **ACCRUED LATE FEES: 97 PLATINUM / 13 YEARS COMPOUNDED**

  Cassian stared. “Late fees?”

  “Yeah,” Gritch said from the doorway. “That’s why nobody wanted this place.”

  Cassian ran a hand through his hair. “Of course. Of course the damn thing charges interest.”

  The core buzzed again. A second window opened:

  ```

  [Reclaimant Options Unlocked]

  > Begin Stabilization Protocol

  > Liquidate Assets

  > Request Dungeon Personality Core (Unavailable)

  > Pay Outstanding Debts (Insufficient Funds)

  ```

  He selected "Begin Stabilization."

  The dungeon vibrated faintly.

  ---

  Then came the knock.

  Not a magical alarm. Not a monster.

  A *knock*, from the hatch above.

  Cassian turned. Gritch had gone stiff, slinking into the shadows.

  Another knock. Then a voice—clear, polite, and sharp-edged:

  > “Hello inside. We are from Crimson Threshold. We are here regarding Claim #1124-B on this dungeon site. Please open the hatch for inspection—or we’ll open it ourselves.”

  Cassian froze.

  “Oh, lovely,” he muttered. “I haven’t even turned the lights on and someone’s already trying to steal the damn dungeon.”

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.