Remember those human scouts that got annihilated last time?
Yeah.
I kind of forgot to talk about that.
Turns out, pretending something didn't happen doesn't actually make the consequences disappear.
Who knew?
System pings.
[external scout party elimination confirmed]
[territorial claim conflict: active]
[faction involved: demon lord envoy – reconnaissance division]
I stare at the blinking red text like it's going to apologize if I glare hard enough.
Spoiler: it doesn't.
Splitjaw notices my face.
"You look like you ate a bad mushroom."
"No," I say.
"Stepped on a thorn?"
"No."
"Forgot to breathe for three hours again?"
"No!"
He hands me a rock anyway.
Emotional support rock acquired.
I squeeze it like it might squeeze back.
It doesn't.
Betrayal by sediment.
Figures.
---
System pings again, very helpfully.
[domain status: unaligned minor node]
[external perception: demon lord-affiliated]
[current external threat index: moderate to severe]
Which is fancy system-speak for:
Congratulations!
You're now a tiny, barely functional village marked for death by literally everyone not on Team Doom.
Maybe I can make a sign.
"Welcome to Ashring: Home of Persistent Bad Ideas."
I drum my claws against my knee.
Okay.
Okay, calm down.
Maybe this is fine.
Maybe they'll ignore us.
Maybe the dungeon is big and confusing enough that nobody will find—
Another ping.
[domain beacon resonance detected – emissary en route]
Splitjaw leans in.
"What's it say?"
"Company," I croak.
"What kind of company?"
"The kind that either wants to kill us, enslave us, or offer us cookies with ominous clauses attached."
"Cookies?"
He looks way too hopeful.
I cover my face with my hands.
---
Sure enough, half an hour later, the edges of camp go still.
Even the moss golems stop wandering in circles.
A figure walks out of the dungeon mist.
Tall.
Wrapped in black.
Mask like a cracked mirror.
Mana rolling off it in lazy, poisonous waves.
It doesn't say anything.
It doesn't need to.
The dungeon hums like it's trying not to throw up.
Seedfoot whimpers behind me.
Artist starts sketching explosion designs in the dirt.
Bitterstack quietly shoves all the ledgers into a pile and sits on them.
Professional panic.
We're so good at it.
The figure finally speaks.
Its voice is dry. Thin. Almost bored.
"Domain status: embryonic. Sovereign classification: civil-initiated. Prospects: amusing."
I don't know if I should feel insulted or proud.
Probably both.
It lifts one hand.
A shard of cracked mana crystal floats over and embeds itself into the Great Rock of Authority.
System pings immediately.
[demon king affiliation tag applied: minor node]
[dungeon influence: accelerated]
[external attention: significantly increased]
The figure tilts its head.
"Expand. Survive. Entertain. Or perish."
Love how "entertain" made the list right after "survive."
Because nothing says "respectable civilization" like "dance, tiny kobolds, dance."
Then it turns.
Walks back into the mist.
Gone.
Just like that.
Nobody moves.
Nobody breathes.
I exhale very, very slowly.
Splitjaw scratches his snout. "So… not cookies?"
"No cookies," I whisper.
Just death.
And magical neon signs screaming "fresh meat here" at the entire continent.
I watch the mist swirl long after the envoy disappears.
Just to be safe, I crack open the system interface and try the oldest, dumbest trick in the book.
[analyze target: envoy (masked entity)]
System whirs.
Spins.
Pauses.
And then slaps me metaphorically across the face.
[target analysis: denied]
[target threat level: vastly exceeds your current system tier]
[recommendation: run faster]
I close the window very, very gently.
Like if I move slow enough, reality won't notice me.
Splitjaw leans over. "Well? How strong?"
"Stronger than my ability to even know how strong."
"...That's bad, right?"
I nod.
Very, very hard.
I gather the others again under the Great Rock of Authority.
Because apparently emergency meetings are just my life now.
Artist shows up first, covered in soot and holding a half-built catapult made of sticks and rope.
Seedfoot drags a biting plant that's trying to eat his tunic.
Bitterstack arrives with three ledgers and a look like she hasn't slept in two days.
Stonebite only grunts, already polishing a blade the size of my entire torso.
Stonealign has building blueprints. Again.
And Splitjaw is... Splitjaw. Helpful. Somehow.
I explain it as simply as I can:
"We've been tagged. Demon lord politics. We're now an official target."
Blank stares.
Then slow, dawning horror.
Even the moss golems seem to slump slightly.
System pings again.
[domain update: external raid forecast initiated]
[estimated hostile contact: 23 days]
Twenty-three.
Tiny.
Short.
Days.
To prepare for whatever fresh hell is marching our way.
---
I sit back against the rock, feeling the weight of the dungeon pressing in.
And the system—because it's helpful like that—drops one last line across my vision before the night fully falls.
[warning: local apex predator detected – aggression status elevated by demonic influence]
The ground trembles faintly under my claws.
Deep, rhythmic thuds.
The kind of sound you don't mistake for anything natural.
Gorak.
The monster we barely survived once.
It's awake.
It's angrier.
And this time, it's coming for us.