Weylan and Stitch appeared in a muted flash of magical light.

  A bored guard looked up, saw Stitch and took a step backward, almost stumbling over the halberd he held. Before Weylan could say something, recognition bloomed on the guard’s face and he gave a short chuckle. “Sorry folks, you startled me.” He addressed Stitch directly and gave a bow. “Welcome to the Meklang dungeon spawnpoint, lady Stitch. Your academy has informed us of your arrival. Your description has been spread to the adventurers and merchants. There should be no incidents.” He paused, then smiled. “I must say I expected you to be much less pretty.”

  Some of Stitch’s skin patches on her face flushed crimson while they stepped of the spawnpoint.

  High mountains towered in every direction. The spawn point lay on a plateau halfway up the slope, a broad stony flat filled with wooden buildings plastered in colorful signs advertising goods and services for adventurers. As was typical for well-established dungeon entrances, vendors offered maps of the early levels, trap guides, health potions, charms, and remedies against poisonous gases. A smithy advertised quick repairs for weapons and armor. Another shop claimed to pay premium rates for ores. Loot appraisal stalls, last-minute enchantment services, and food stands completed the scene.

  A path worn into the stone by centuries of travel led directly to the mountain’s side, where the grand entrance of the legendary Meklang Dungeon loomed. A steady stream of armored guards, miners with mule-drawn carts, and mixed parties of delvers moved in and out.

  Stitch stared wide-eyed, overwhelmed by the frantic activity. After looking around she noticed something she’d missed until then. “Say, why didn’t you bring your familiar?”

  Weylan shrugged. “She doesn’t like loud noises or the smell of steam and molten metal. There was also an… incident the last time we delved a dungeon together. I didn’t want a repeat.”

  “One of your many secrets? Is your raven secretly a famous high-level dungeon delver cursed into an animal by a cruel sorceress?”

  Weylan’s smile faltered. “It’s… yes… I mean, yes, it’s a secret. But not mine. So I can’t talk about it. There’s a magical contract involved.”

  “One enforced by NEMESIS?”

  He nodded. His mouth refused to elaborate further as the pact he had made with Malvorik long ago activated. A notification slid into the edge of his vision, showing the wording of the pact, he’d agreed to:

  Malvorik offers you the opportunity to seek permanent refuge in his sphere of influence.

  In return, he demands that you swear not to deliberately harm him and to keep his secrets.

  He exhaled and added, “In the Dungeon of Alchemy, something about Selvara interacting with the dungeon blocked the exit we’d planned to use. We had to delve far deeper than intended. We survived, but barely.”

  Stitch blinked. “Well, that sounds like quite a story. I hope you tell me as much as you can later.”

  “I will. But for now, let’s get your last crafting skill!”

  * * *

  The elevator cage rattled as it descended into the Meklang Dungeon, its runes glowing a dull orange above a drop so deep the light fell into nothingness. The cage could hold twenty people, but most adventurers and miners were already hard at work, leaving the two of them alone. The air grew colder, stiller, metallic. Weylan rubbed the back of his neck as the chains groaned overhead.

  “Feels like we’re being swallowed,” he muttered.

  Stitch stood beside him, gripping her reinforced mining hammer. Her patchwork skin looked almost silver reflected in the rising iron-dust haze.

  “People come here every day to mine ore? This place smells like someone boiled nails.”

  She rummaged in her belt bag and produced two vials of grey liquid.

  “That’s the potion I got from the alchemy faculty. It should protect us from dust, mine gases, and nauseous fumes.”

  They both drank. Weylan grimaced. “Tastes even worse than it smells.”

  “I barely have any sense of smell or taste,” Stitch said, pulling out a notebook with her notes on the dungeon from her research at Bookhalla. “Level one should be safe enough if we stay alert. It’s intended for resource extraction, not battle. But don’t let that fool you. Monsters here resist almost everything except extreme heat or overwhelming blunt force. Poison does nothing. Slashing and piercing damage? Nearly useless. They can’t smell, their hearing is bad, but their eyesight is good, and they have a kind of tremor sense.”

  “Wonderful,” Weylan muttered. “So, basically everything I do is only going to annoy them.”

  “Precisely.” She handed him a smaller mining hammer. “That’s why we brought these.”

  The elevator thudded onto the stone floor.

  Level one unfolded before them as a wide, dim plain of iron “grass”. Ankle-high serrated strands of grey ore. Even with hardened boots, each step felt like walking on shredded sawblades. Weylan had left his Assassin’s Boots at the academy, and both now wore knee-high reinforced leather.

  Dozens of civilian delvers knelt in clusters across the field, chiseling ore from exposed veins while hired adventurers stood guard with shields and lanterns. Gas lamps flickered along the walls and ceilings, sending drifting tendrils of smoke through the cavern. The clanging of hammers echoed constantly.

  A scream rang out from somewhere deeper in the level.

  One of the guards cursed. “Spiders again.”

  As if summoned, a metal spider the size of a fist zipped across the iron grass near Weylan’s foot. Slender knife legs, angular features and fast. Stitch squeaked and swung her hammer with perfect precision. The impact rang like a struck anvil. The creature flattened, twitched, and went still.

  “Good thing I have a hammer,” Stitch said, lifting it again with determination. “My smithing skill even seems to help a bit with the timing.”

  Weylan scanned the darkness around them. The spiders were fast, camouflaged well against the grass, and nearly silent, but shadows moved in ways that suggested more lurking just outside the lantern halos.

  Stitch approached an empty spot where no one was already working. The metal grass rasped against her leggings and boots as she swept away loose shards of rock. She ran her palm across the stone, feeling for the distinct coldness of metal-rich rock beneath the surface, then followed it for about twenty steps, several times moving away the iron grass to check the surface color.

  “See that?” she murmured. “The color shifts. This grey is smoother and more uniform. Classic sign the vein continues under the floor. I read a lot about this in a mining manual.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  She drew a small steel chisel and tapped around the outcrop. The echoes changed. Stone giving a dull thud, hidden ore producing a sharper, ringing note. She shifted a few centimeters, tapped again, mapping the vein by sound.

  “Follow the ring, trace the strike, and you can tell where the seam widens.”

  Only then did she lift the hammer and struck. The blow cracked the rock open, revealing a rich vein beneath. Silver fragments burst outward, scattering across the iron grass like metallic snow. “I’ve read the dungeon regenerates everything mined here overnight and rearranges it daily. It’s one of the kingdom’s most important sources of high-quality iron. And the lower levels have rare magical ores.”

  Something clicked behind Weylan.

  He pivoted instantly, dagger half-drawn before remembering how pointless that would be and changed back to his hammer.

  A trio of metal spiders crawled from under the rock seam, eyes like cold rivets. They fanned out.

  Stitch reacted first. Her hammer fell like a judge’s verdict. One spider shattered. She dodged the others, breathing quickly but steady.

  Several adventurers nearby nodded approvingly.

  Weylan waited for an opening and smashed another spider with his hammer. Its shell crumpled.

  The third raced toward a nearby miner. Weylan lunged and struck downward. The spider darted aside. He over-swung the heavy hammer, but corrected and brought it down again. The strike made a hard crunch.

  “Thanks,” the miner gasped.

  “No problem,” Weylan said, trying to ignore how many shadows were shifting just outside lantern range.

  Stitch knelt again. “I can mine this seam. It’s good ore.” She struck rhythmically. Clean chunks came away.

  Weylan remained watchful.

  “I didn’t think the first level of Meklang would be this… active,” Stitch said. “This is supposed to be the calm part. Deeper levels have metal ladders over giant chasms and traps that throw wrecking balls at you. And the end boss is a giant kraken made of iron.”

  “A kraken. Made of iron?” Weylan shuddered.

  “It sits in a cave full of burning oil,” she added. “I don’t get why anyone goes that deep.”

  Weylan shrugged. The answer was easy. “Loot.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  She swung again.

  Stitch had just loosened another glittering chunk when the entire iron plain seemed to inhale.

  Lanterns flickered.

  Darkness rippled.

  Weylan’s instincts screamed a heartbeat before the ground trembled.

  He grabbed Stitch and yanked her back as something massive emerged from the tunnel down to the next level. Iron grass was torn and blasted into the air. Miners screamed. Adventurers raised shields.

  A hulking construct of twisted rebar, dented plating, and welded claws walked into the open. Its torso resembled a crushed furnace turned upright. Its head looked like a ram’s skull sculpted from corroded steel. Short sturdy legs and long arms ending in scythe-like claws gave it reach and mobility.

  Stitch recognized the creature from depictions and descriptions. It was just as old as the dungeon itself and more famous than the end boss, since many more adventurers faced it than the very few elites that managed to reach the dungeon’s lowest level.

  Stitch grabbed Weylan’s wrist. “That’s Russilon, the Rusting Philosopher. The boss of the fifth level. It shouldn’t be here!”

  Its eyes opened like furnace doors, glowing red-white.

  Adventurers shouted in shock.

  “No kidding,” Weylan said. “That thing clearly doesn’t belong in a beginner zone!”

  The boss lunged forward, metal joints screeching, one massive claw ripped a gouge across the plains. A nearby adventurer’s shield folded like paper, flinging him into a rock.

  Guards formed a wall to protect the fleeing miner’s retreat. None dared attack the angry behemoth. The path to the exit was instantly jammed with panicked workers.

  Weylan and Stitch could not reach safety. They had to stand their ground.

  The boss stomped toward them. Its claws came down like falling gates.

  Weylan shoved Stitch aside. The ground cratered where she’d been. She rolled, came up with her hammer, and squeaked something halfway between a battle cry and a panicked hiccup.

  The boss monster passed them without giving them another glance.

  “Get out while I try to slow it down!” Weylan yelled.

  Stitch didn’t budge. “I’m much harder to kill than you.”

  Weylan took a deep breath, then nodded. “The miners are too slow. We need to stall it so they can escape. Let’s go for the legs!”

  Stitch nodded and lifted her hammer. “Look at me!” she yelled at the towering monster. “I am armed with a blunt instrument and absolutely no plan!”

  The furnace-skull turned toward her. Then the monster started stomping towards her.

  “Stitch,” Weylan hissed, “that was the worst taunt I’ve ever heard.”

  “Well, it worked,” she panted.

  The boss swung. Stitch dodged and smashed its knee joint. Metal cracked.

  The monster’s attention locked onto her.

  Miners fled. Adventurers shouted orders to hold the line. The plains devolved into chaos.

  Weylan circled carefully, close enough to intervene. The boss stomped again, barely missing Stitch as she scrambled through razor-sharp iron grass.

  Stitch swung again, this time hitting the boss directly in the knee. Sparks flew. The joint buckled further. The creature swayed.

  Weylan seized the opening.

  He sprinted, vaulted up a broken ore pillar, jumped, and grabbed a protruding rebar rib. His fingers burned from the heated metal as he yanked a leather ore bag over its head.

  The boss bellowed, only slightly muffled.

  “Stitch!” Weylan shouted. “Hit the other knee!”

  “This is a terrible plan,” she muttered, but ran forward anyway and swung with all her strength.

  The hammer struck the other knee.

  The monster toppled.

  Weylan jumped clear as an arm whipped around in a wild arc, nearly taking his head off.

  The construct crashed onto its knees, clawing gouges into the stone. It tore off the bag and shredded it. Its furnace eyes flared even hotter.

  Some miners slowed, seeing the monster downed. Guards advanced cautiously.

  Weylan noticed the knees glowing and reforming. “It’s regenerating! It’ll be mobile again in moments!”

  The evacuation sped into panic once more.

  The boss stood, screamed like metal grinding in a blender… and then turned away, walking off into the darkness.

  Weylan and Stitch stood frozen as confused guards joined them.

  Weylan turned to one. “Is it normal for boss monsters to just walk up here to visit?”

  The man rubbed his rugged chin with a shaking hand. “No! That never happened before. I’ve guarded miners my whole life. It’s usually only metal spiders on this level and sometimes a bigger variant with stealth abilities, but those try to steal equipment and stuff, instead of attacking. Just to keep us on our toes.”

  Weylan scratched his head. “Do they look like six-legged head-sized spiders climbing on the ceiling that drop ropes with hooks to pull up and steal stuff?”

  The guard brightened. “Ah, you’ve seen one! What did it take from you?”

  “There’s one lifting one of your pickaxes right now.”

  The guard spun. A spider clung to the ceiling, hoisting an enchanted pickaxe. As soon as it realized it was discovered, the slowly rising pickaxe whirled upward and away, as the monster punched its legs into the ceiling with ridiculous speed. Before the guard could reach it, the pickaxe clinked up against the monster’s body and it disappeared into an almost hidden hole in the ceiling.

  The guard hurled his leather helmet in frustration.

  “Gods damn it! That was one of the brand-new enchanted ones!”

  When he calmed slightly, Weylan asked, “Has anything else unusual happened lately? Anything that could explain this?”

  The guard kept scanning the ceiling and answered a bit distracted. “Not really… Well, maybe. It’s probably nothing, but I think the ore placement hasn’t changed in about a week. Hard to notice, since we don’t mine the same veins every day. But some miners mentioned finding ores in the same spot as the day before. Could be luck to find a new placement at the same area.”

  “What now?” Weylan asked.

  “With a wandering boss? We’re evacuating the level, that’s what. That thing could kill every one of us! Guards here are level five at most. Everyone with higher levels joins the adventurer teams to delve the deeper mines or gets hired by some nobles as guards. I’m level six, but only because I needed the gold and joined one of the delver expeditions a few years ago. Got nearly killed twice, but I leveled up.”

  A miner hurried back from the elevator to collect gear he’d forgotten. “There’s something strange going on in this dungeon,” he said grimly. “Mark my words.”

  Weylan leaned forward. “What happened?”

  “On the third level, there’s a lot of monsters mimicking mining. Pickaxes hitting stone, hammers crushing ore. A brutal cacophony you can only endure with wax in your ears and special helmets. It’s one of the main challenges of the level. Silencing spells don’t work, since the mana in this level has a strong stone affinity. Air based spells don’t work there. Anyways, there was an incident last week, while we hunted a wandering mythril vein, all the noise just… stopped. Every monster fell silent. Like they were listening.”

  “For what?” Stitch whispered.

  “Weeping. Low, distant weeping. It filled the whole cavern. Then the monsters started again. Louder and faster, like they were trying to drown it out.”

  Stitch paled on some of her skin patches. “Could the dungeon be going rogue? I’ve read about that. It can happen suddenly. One moment everything is normal, and the next there’s a monster stampede that kills everyone inside and spills out into the world.”

  Weylan nodded solemnly. “Something is definitely wrong. We need an expert. Let’s get back to the Spawnpoint.”