One portion of his consciousness directed the excavation of new fortifications along the subterranean river, reinforcing natural chokepoints with clever traps and durable stonework. Since he needed to split his mana between all projects, this had slowed down after a frantic phase, where he had prepared the most important excavation parts. Now he was back to a more design focused phase, where he planned the next building spree.
Another stream of thought meticulously optimized the dungeon's vital infrastructure and adjusted the auto-repair enchantments that kept the fresh water flowing and the wastewater safely contained. The boring but necessary part of preventive maintenance.
Meanwhile, he monitored the antics of the duskgnome children with quiet amusement. The tiny gnomes had turned playing hide-and-seek with the Lurkers into a competitive pastime, turning the underhalls into a lively training ground. The Lurkers were steadily improving their stealth and ambush skills. Malvorik noted the mutually beneficial outcome with satisfaction. The children were entertained, his guardians sharpened. Since his Lurkers had been trained in the assassin class, their skills increased much faster than for normal dungeon monsters. Even without delvers to fight. He had to keep a mental eye at their shooting range to make sure no one crossed into the line of fire of the enthusiastic training. Where the first group of delvers had been targeted by a more or less unaimed barrage, the next would face lurkers with a much-improved Crossbow skill.
Lastly, a small sliver of his awareness observed his most ambitious project. A group of duskgnome alchemists, though lacking formal alchemist classes, compensated with innate racial talent and a commendable dedication to detail. If only they didn’t tend to improvise as soon as their instructions didn’t cover a specific detail. Known as the race with the best alchemists, they had the unshakeable belief they could just feel their way through.
Malvorik allowed himself a rare, genuine flicker of amusement.
For a fleeting moment, he almost felt like he was back in the academy, standing before rows of wide-eyed students, half of them bluffing, the other half genuinely confused, and all of them his. He missed the arguments about spell theory, the endless, half-hearted excuses for missing assignments, and the occasional prodigy who genuinely surprised him.
On the other hand, he’d never had the freedom and resources to experiment as much in his last life as he did as a dungeon core. This newest project mixed alchemy with enchantment. His old academy would have never allowed him to create something so potentially unstable. He pulled in more of his attention and checked the progress.
From the outside, it looked like an unassuming clay pot with handles, designed to be just small enough to be carried by a single human. It looked quite ordinary, but it had been placed on a table directly on one of the local mana-lines. In his magic sight it glowed like a bonfire of magic. He had filled it with the most nutrient-rich soil he had been able to acquire, mixed with splinters of stable manastone. Fragments that would normally be useless, since a mage could only draw from a single manastone while casting a spell. Creating bigger pieces was too mana intensive, even for him. At least if he required the ten times higher mana cost for a creation that would be able to exist outside his dungeon. Here it was ideal to increase the possible mana density in the soil.
He had also created a fine mesh of mythril wire, connecting every single manastone fragment inside the pot. A feat only possible due to his creation abilities as a dungeon core. He couldn’t even imagine how a crafter would even try to create such a fine mesh. Much less mix it with soil without damaging it.
The duskgnomes were right now pouring in steady amounts of mana potion and liquid fertilizer to support the growth of the elm sapling he’d placed in the pot. Sunlight crystals in the ceiling were set to maximum brightness, bathing the sapling in life-giving light, due to the Sanctuary feat enabling him to create real sunlight that could support natural plants. And in one case cause sunburn on a duskgnome. He made note to put the creation of a sun blocking potion or cream higher on his priority list. If the subterranean race suffered from his crystal light, they’d have real problems going outside in the summer.
Then, a sharp tug drew his attention elsewhere. His name echoed through the dungeon. Someone was calling for him. Urgent… and quite angry.
Malvorik’s glow dimmed momentarily as his awareness shifted. He recognized the voice. Ulmenglanz.
Selvara fluttered into his heart room. “I told you she’d notice!”
“It’s growing inside your dungeon. Technically you’re touching it all the time.”
Selvara shrugged. “The area is clearly marked and the first traps are non-lethal. She’ll be fine.”
Malvorik paused.
The dungeon-fairy raced away and barely managed to stop the angry dryad at the red line marking the dangerous “No entry!” area.
“Ulmenglanz! Wait! What’s wrong?”
The dryad’s sun-tanned skin wrinkled as she unconsciously triggered her defensive bark-skin. “You know full well what he’s done! I can feel my tree inside his laboratory rooms. You stop experimenting at once!”
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The dryad’s skin returned to its usual smoothness and forcibly relaxed. “I pruned the broken branch to allow the wound to heal. I buried the branch next to the tree, so it’s nutrients would return to its source. It can’t grow on its own. Dryad-birthtrees only reproduce under very specific circumstances.”
Selvara showed her a safe path to the room where the pot with the sapling was located. The two duskgnomes moved to near the other exit. Just in case.
The dryad stared at the sapling. Then reluctantly touched it. She stepped back, her eyes narrowed on the small plant. “I thought it would compost and return to the cycle. This... is unnatural.”
Malvorik’s crystal pulsed faintly. “Unnatural? Perhaps. Or simply unexpected. I noticed the mana threads lingering when you buried it. I merely... encouraged it to grow.”
She turned sharply. “You tampered with parts of my tree?”
he corrected gently. Subtle strands of light revealed the sapling’s mana signature. A quiet echo of the great birthtree, smaller, fainter, but unmistakably hers.
Ulmenglanz hesitated. “It doesn’t seem to be tainted. It feels… Natural, even if fostered by unnatural means. But its connection does not extend to me. We are not linked. If you tried to provide me a way to carry part of my tree with me, you failed.”
Ulmenglanz nodded. “Without regular contact to my birthtree, my roots wither. I can barely endure the planned semester.” She hesitated, then added, “I will make do.”
Ulmenglanz’s frown softened slightly. “You wish to plant a message vine?”
“More refined,” Malvorik replied with a hint of pride. “A low-grade resonance network, using the affinity it still shares with your mother-tree. It will be limited, but enough for a few messages between you, the others, and myself during your stay at the academy.”
Ulmenglanz stared at the sapling, weighing the offer. She could feel the threads of mana within it already reacting faintly to her presence. It wasn’t an artificial construct, but it was her tree’s child, in a sense. And Malvorik’s magic had merely helped it grow.
“How intrusive would the enchantment be?” she asked cautiously.
“Are you finished with it?” She looked reluctant at the sapling.
After Ulmenglanz left the heart chamber, the clay pot carefully cradled in her arms, the glow of Malvorik’s crystal dimmed into a soft, thoughtful pulse. For a while, the dungeon lay silent.
Malvorik turned part of his attention inward. He remembered the crowded auditoriums, the scent of ink and parchment, the sound of young mages furiously scribbling notes as he explained the intricacies of dungeon delve theory and advanced enchantment. The eager questions, the groans when he assigned extra problems, the spark of realization when a student finally understood a concept. The memories were all still there, lingering like a faint perfume on old robes.
He missed it.
For all the grandeur and control the dungeon offered, it was a solitary existence. The walls did not ask questions. The Lurkers did not struggle through spell theory. The duskgnomes, for all their diligence, lacked the curiosity of young minds, their talents more instinctual than reflective.
Malvorik had accepted his second life as a dungeon core with grace, but not without sacrifice.
The rat-minotaur nodded sagely.
The dungeon heart chuckled mentally.
For a few long moments, he simply floated there, letting memory wash over him. Then, with practiced focus, he resumed his work. The enchantment for the sapling required delicate adjustments. He turned back to his diagrams and began to calculate. He was 86% sure the pot would not explode in a mana cascade when teleported. He was going to make sure to increase that certainty before the others departed next morning.
After refining the spell matrix, and making sure the dryad had left the dungeon, he started the final part of the enchantment.
His heart chamber dimmed, and his attention shifted to the lone tree standing in its grove inside the dungeon. Its presence was a quiet beacon of life amid stone and magic. Malvorik’s crystal pulsed gently as he stopped all other projects and tasks and concentrated solely on this.
He dared not touch the tree itself. Instead, he concentrated on the surrounding resonance field, the invisible song of mana that extended softly from the dryad’s tree into the dungeon. This, not the tree’s core, was where he would work.
At his silent command, the ground quivered softly. Smooth stone steles emerged from the earth, half-formed and raw. Slowly, they shaped themselves under Malvorik’s precise guidance into slender, rune-etched pillars. They circled the birthtree at a respectful distance, carefully aligned to its natural energy patterns.
One by one, they locked into place, each humming faintly as it attuned to the faint resonance extending from the tree. None touched it directly. Malvorik knew better than to risk channeling magic into the source of Ulmenglanz’s life. His magic skimmed the edges, subtle, like a careful hand tracing the rim of a crystal goblet.
High above, the sun crystals embedded into the ceiling flared softly, their glow warming and intensifying. Light cascaded through the grove like sunlight breaking through forest leaves.
Malvorik wove the mana flow along the prepared steles, gently increasing the ambient mana concentration. Roots, moss, and vines responded as if in a breeze, shifting slightly without disturbance.
The sapling in its pot in the dryad’s room in the upper floor of the bathhouse gently swayed.
Thread by thread, he anchored the communication enchantment not to the tree, but to the ambient resonance it shared with the sapling. The magic formed a bridge, invisible to most, stabilizing the sapling’s passive link to the mother-tree’s aura without ever touching the vital core of the dryad’s soul.
The spell stabilized, settling like dew on the leaves.
Malvorik observed it for a long while. There was no sudden flash, no grand effect. Only a soft, steady pulse of mana. Just enough.
The sapling was now a conduit, a listening ear. Not invasive, not active. A connection. Nothing more.
He allowed the mana streams to flow gently back into their natural rhythms, the glow of the sun crystals fading back to their usual soft radiance.
Malvorik lingered for a moment longer, savoring the satisfaction of a quiet, well-crafted spell. Only time would tell if the connection would hold over the enormous distance.
Selvara looked down at his crystal. “You’re not just doing all of that because you’ll miss me, do you?”
The crystal’s light turned to a shade of darker red.