The world outside Ragnar’s dungeon was silent, but his phone was screaming.
A single, stark notification had taken over the screen, its red text pulsing like a final warning.
[The 30-day Pseudo-Peace Period will end in 24 hours.]
[All invader restrictions will be lifted. Prepare your Domain.]
"’Good luck’," Ragnar scoffed, tossing the phone onto his obsidian throne.
"It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?"
For the last month, his dungeon had been his entire universe. He had worked with a feverish, obsessive intensity he hadn’t known he possessed.
The lazy, ambitionless university student was a ghost, a forgotten memory. In his place was a Dungeon Master, a Game Designer, and a General, all rolled into one deeply stressed and sleep-deprived package.
He stood at the entrance of his dungeon, near the hero-healing fountain of the Rest Area, and surveyed his masterpiece of calculated violence.
He had spent every last Creation Point, every scrap of his regenerating Domain Points, to turn this place into a perfectly calibrated machine for farming experience points.
The first corridor, which he’d mentally labeled "The Welcome Mat," was now home to fifty slimes.
They jiggled aimlessly, posing no real threat but serving as the perfect, squishy confidence booster for any invading party.
They were also great for making the floors inconveniently slippery.
Beyond that lay the first large chamber: "The Goblin Playground."
Here, a hundred goblins milled about, armed only with sharp rocks and their own bad attitudes. They were a speed bump, a resource drain for the heroes.
And in the far corner of the room, intentionally placed under a single, dramatic-looking purple crystal, sat a treasure chest.
Ragnar walked over to it and lifted the heavy lid. Inside, resting on a bed of what was probably moss, was a D-Rank Black Iron Sword.
It had taken him three days and a significant portion of his sanity to create it.
With B-Rank Alchemy, the knowledge of how to make it had been instantly downloaded into his brain.
The problem was the materials. He didn’t have any iron.
So, he had to send the goblins to dig up some iron-filled rocks from the back of the dungeon, build a rough furnace, and then spend hours banging on the half-melted lumps until they sort of looked like a sword.
It was ugly, poorly balanced, and the hilt was slightly off-center, a flaw that made his eye twitch every time he looked at it.
But it was a magic item. It would glow faintly in the hands of a Hero. It was the cheese in his mousetrap.
Past the Goblin Playground, the dungeon’s design became more sinister.
He had laid out a maze of tight corridors, perfect for ambushes, and dotted them with tripwires and simple pitfall traps.
And guarding the path to the second floor were his pride and joy, his fifty equipped kobolds, split into squads of five, patrolling in disciplined routes.
They were the dungeon’s first real gear check. Any party that couldn’t handle them didn’t deserve to live.
He had spent the last of his resources, his last ounce of effort, making this place ready.
Now, all he could do was wait.
He walked back through the silent stone halls to the Throne Room. His entire army was assembled.
Three hundred monsters in total: the slimes, the rats he’d created for sheer numbers, the bats that clung to the ceiling, the snarling wolves, the chittering goblins, and the stoic, silent kobolds.
They all turned their heads as he entered, their dozens of beady eyes fixed on him with unwavering, instinctual loyalty. It was still unnerving.
He climbed the dais and stood before his throne, looking down at his legions of darkness.
He felt a ridiculous urge to give a grand, inspiring speech. He cleared his throat.
"Alright, listen up, you bags of fur, slime, and poor hygiene," he began, his voice booming with a power he was finally getting used to.
The monsters stood a little straighter.
Gary the kobold even attempted to salute, smacking himself in the snout with a clumsy paw.
"In a few hours," Ragnar continued, "people are going to start coming into our home.
They are going to try and break our things, steal our stuff, and kill every last one of us, starting with me.
We are not going to let that happen."
He pointed a finger toward the dungeon entrance.
"They are not guests. They are walking, talking treasure chests.
They have swords, armor, potions, and probably some snacks in their pockets. That is all our property now.
They just don’t know it yet. Your job is simple: kill them, and take their stuff. Do not get killed. Dying is an inefficient way to gather resources.
A goblin in the front row raised its hand and made a series of excited grunts while pointing at the shiny, off-center sword he’d left in the chest.
Ragnar sighed. "No, you can’t have the bait sword. You’ll get your own later if you get enough kills. It’s called a loot-based incentive system. Look it up."
The goblin grumbled but lowered its hand.
With his grand speech concluded, Ragnar finally sat on the cold, uncomfortable obsidian throne.
The adrenaline that had been driving him for weeks began to fade, replaced by a deep, bone-rattling dread.
He had a plan. He had an army.
But it was all theory. He was a gamer who had spent a month reading strategy guides, but he had never actually played the game.
He watched his monsters disperse, taking their pre-assigned positions throughout the dungeon.
The silence that fell over the Throne Room was heavy, broken only by the faint, ominous hum of the magical crystals in the ceiling. He was alone.
He had done everything he could. He had hardened his heart, trained his army, and designed his killbox.
He was as ready as he could ever be. A strange sense of calm washed over him, the peace that comes with knowing you have no more moves to make. The dice were about to be rolled.
His old life was boring. His new life was terrifying.
But as he sat there, waiting for the coming storm, he felt a thrill, a spark of wild, chaotic excitement he had never known before. He was no longer a face in the crowd. He was a King in his castle.
A soft chime echoed in his mind, a system notification. He looked down at his phone.
[The Pseudo-Peace Period has ended.]
He took a deep breath. It was time.
Another chime, this one sharper, more urgent.
[Invaders have entered the Domain. Invader Count: 12.]
Ragnar Vhagar, Demon King of Aethelburg Sector 7, leaned forward on his throne. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face.
"Welcome," he whispered to the stone walls. "The Grand Opening is officially underway."
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