Esteemed Journal,

  There’s an old saying in the world of Dungeoneering: “Don’t cheer until the loot is home. The moment you get complacent is when the second, second spring trap is sprung.”

  Lionel J’Khall didn’t usually dwell on old sayings, particularly ones involving traps, death, and the sort of irony that required a mop. But the closer the elevator clanked and wheezed toward the surface, the louder that saying rang in his mind. Not so much echoed, but… nested. Like a smug pigeon waiting for things to unfold.

  His self-indulgent humming had been left behind somewhere within the Underfold’s Middle Layers-—around the point where he’d been forced to input their destination manually, which in this instance had involved a grimy numpad, three guesses, and a blood sample for some reason.

  There had been a tasteful “lights out” moment shortly after, and by the time the lamps flickered back on, the polished Nexus Lift had politely offloaded them into something more locally sourced. It was the kind of elevator that would’ve once been called “state-of-the-art,” only the state in question had since collapsed, and the art had been finger-painted by a man named Gary who no longer worked there.

  The soothing elevator music had disappeared alongside it, leaving behind only the steady clank, rattle, and existential hum of the elevator's ascent, where every clank brought with it the distinct sense that something had just fallen off.

  The mirrored walls had turned dusty like something decades abandoned, the lights flickered like a dying heartbeat, and several bloody handprints smeared their surroundings.

  Not the most luxurious ambiance, granted, but it looked... semi-modern, at least?

  The destination letters above the door shifted to: “APPROACHING CORE ROOM – AUTHORIZED ACCESS ONLY,” typed out in the sort of chunky, all-caps, green lettering that no sane individual had used in centuries.

  All of it, only adding to his growing sense of unease.

  The more influence the Dungeon—his Dungeon, the one he’d never thought to triple check before eagerly buying—pushed onto their surroundings, the more his old friend pessimism sidled up beside him.

  This entire place looked like it hadn’t seen maintenance since before his grandparents were born.

  Now, a whole committee of what-ifs was clawing at the back of his mind.

  What if the imps—those grinning, overzealous merchants of doom—had somehow, impossibly, managed to forge a passable dungeon?

  What if his reading of it, that thrilling tingle down his spine that usually meant “yes, this is it” (but had, once or twice, meant “your cloak is on fire”), was wrong?

  What if—and this was the big one—this was just another test from the universe, which had already made it abundantly clear that it had a personal grudge?

  “No,” he muttered, eyeing his reflection in the fogged-up lift mirror, which made him look like a ghost. “At worst, it’s a diamond in the rough.”

  He was perfectly aware that Mira could hear him. But she’d already caught him humming the theme tune to Dungeon Inspectors: Deep Cuts earlier. His dignity was long since deceased.

  “It’s just… neglected,” he reassured himself, nodding in that I-sound-convincing-don’t-I way. “Unmarketed. Misunderstood.” A pause. “Possibly cursed. But curses are just marketing for the desperate.” That’s why the imps liked it so much.

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  The elevator shuddered, as though it had just remembered it was overdue for retirement and hoped someone noticed. There was a faint, grinding sigh from the machinery overhead.

  Then came the ping.

  It was not the reassuring kind of ping, the sort that suggested warm hotel lobbies, bored concierges, and tasteful carpeting. No, this was the sort of ping that carried with it a sense of dreadful inevitability, the sound of a tiny metal soul trying—and failing—to feign cheerfulness while being dragged toward the wild frontier of what was sensible.

  “CORE ROOM – AUTHORIZED ACCESS ONLY,” now shone with twice the intensity.

  Lionel took a deep breath as the doors wheezed open, stepped out…and promptly stopped.

  The lights had just flickered on, and something inside Lionel shifted. The uneasy knot that had been forming in his gut twisted into something else.

  Yeah—

  He let out a quiet sigh of even quieter relief, brushing back his hair.

  —this is something I can work with.

  The Core Room was nothing like the gleaming control hub promised in the brochure. Then again, said brochure had been handed to Lionel by an imp.

  Put together with crayons, misplaced confidence, and what seemed like the free trial version of “ArcaneDesignPro? (Now With Extra Sparkles)”, it had been about as trustworthy as their go-to auctioneering tactic which may or may not have involved a sock puppet named Biddersley.

  That said, credit where due: by luck, guesswork, or the eldritch equivalent of throwing darts at a summoning circle, the imps had managed to get two things right.

  The Core Room was vast, yes. It buzzed with arcane life, yes. But it also had a shopping trolley embedded in the floor, a dozen rotting armchairs in a half-circle around the central crystal, and at least one skeletal hand doing something deeply suspicious with a coffee mug.

  The whole room smelled of mildew, vintage paperwork, and instant noodles that had seen things—terrible things—and had absorbed those memories into their seasoning packet.

  “Right,” Lionel said, placing his hands on his hips with the weary air of a man who’d braced for catastrophe and instead found light property damage and an ongoing smell. His heart, meanwhile, was thudding with the kind of speed usually reserved for prey animals and first dates.

  “So,” he said, doing his best to keep his tone measured—to not get ahead of himself. “Either I’ve just purchased the break room of a zombie-run call centre, or this is—”

  Behind him, Mira let out a low whistle.

  “Now that’s quite something,” she said, leaning against the lift doors to keep them from sealing shut again.

  It wasn’t unusual for Nexus’ elevator operators to—occasionally and highly “accidentally”, of course—delay their return trip down below when given the opportunity. For a break, well deserved or otherwise.

  But this time… her tone held the subtle notes of actual curiosity. “And how much did this monstrosity cost you?”

  Lionel couldn’t keep his grin from slipping through any longer.

  Who was he kidding? Mildew and general remains of former tenants none withstanding, he’d just struck gold twice over.

  “More and less than you could ever imagine,” he said, as if revealing the punchline of a joke the universe was still in the process of telling.

  His entire life savings? Yes. But also a fraction of what this place must be worth.

  At the heart of the chamber—suspended in a tangle of ancient mana lines—the Core pulsed gently. It hung there with the quiet hum of power and a faint, almost embarrassed glow, like it hadn’t expected company and just realized it never put on socks.

  Yes, it was cracked. Yes, it was dusty. Yes, it looked like it had once hosted either a very messy arcane ritual or a mid-tier office party with tragic consequences.

  But beneath all that?

  It shimmered. Not with the garish red of unstable magic, or the eager green of fresh enchantments, but with the slow, patient blue of legacy systems that had outlasted empires and refused to crash on principle.

  Archaic? Certainly. Old? Indisputably. But it was also powerful in the way a sleeping dragon is powerful.

  And somehow, it was his.

  Goosebumps prickled his arms.

  He hadn’t bought junk with potential. He’d bought history.

  Turning to Mira with a smile that bordered on manic but stopped just short of needing professional help, he gestured to the room like a sorcerer revealing his final sales pitch.

  “What do you think?” he said. “Would you do me the honour of taking a commemorative photo? I know someone who’d love this.”