Mikhailis cleared his throat, attempting nonchalance though the inside of his mouth felt papery-dry. "Rodion," he repeated, injecting mild impatience to mask the quick hamr of his heartbeat. "Where did they get that equipnt?"
The projection complied. The AR environnt dimd its ambient glow, highlighting a single luminous thread within the fortress map. It trailed away from the barracks, dipped beneath an unlabelled gate, and tunneled downward along a gently spiraling ramp. Glyphs marked depth readings—twenty ters, fifty, one hundred—before blooming into a fresh view: a natural cave the color of mossy slate.
Rodion zood once, twice.
A new cara feed popped into existence—a Worker drone's eye view. Two goblin sentries stood before a weather-stained archway. The arch wasn't goblin masonry; its stones were far older, carved with spirals and starburst sigils partly eaten by creeping moss. A faint violet haze clung to the threshold like woodsmoke that refused to dissipate.
Torchlight danced off each sentry's helm, revealing weirdly professional posture. Not bored, not shuffling. Guarding.
Mikhailis squinted, leaning so far forward the blanket slid off his shoulders. The air felt cooler against freshly bared skin, but he barely noticed. The shapes of the runes etched into the lintel tickled so half-forgotten mory—lines of an ancient dialect referencing watchfulness and labyrinth.
Then recognition hit like a bell toll.
"That's a dungeon," he whispered. Voice gone dry.
Rodion's single-word confirmation carried zero triumph, zero apology—only acceptance, as though the conclusion was the natural next line in a math proof.
Mikhailis's pen rolled from the hollow of his collarbone down the quilt, clattering onto the floorboards with a wooden clink he barely heard. His thoughts raced, tripping over each other:
Dungeons an relic cores. Relic cores an mana surges. Mana surges an potential monster breaks if containnt fails.
Another notion followed fast on its heels:
Dungeons an evolution catalysts. Monster races that survive the depths co out smarter, stronger, sotis utterly changed.
He swallowed. "Are you…" He licked his lips, tasted leftover honey. "Are you sending goblin parties into dungeons? Like… like we send adventurers?"
Few alive knew that the dungeon-delving loop—fight, survive, evolve—was why city-states funded guilds in the first place: keep the explosive potential within asured hands. Goblins, unchecked, could surge from whelps into tyrants overnight. The possibility both terrified and intrigued him.
Rodion answered without a flicker of sha.
Mikhailis's cheeks heated—a blend of indignation and boyish delight. "You… nerd." The word slipped out half-laugh, half-accusation. "You built them a training dungeon?"
He barked a short laugh, gripping the blanket edge to keep from rocking off the bed. "Pedagogical value," he echoed. "You turned murder tunnels into a classroom."
The cara feed zood further, enough to catch a crude totem hamred into the tunnel wall—a skeletal wolf skull topped by a dented goblin helm, black feathers fanning behind. Beneath it, chalk lines counted sothing: tallies of victories? Body count? He couldn't be sure.
The sentinel continued, voice steady.
"Hold—hold up." Mikhailis raised both hands as if physically stopping the wave of data. "They're learning supply chain managent?"
He fell silent. In the flickering AR light his eyes looked almost glassy, reflecting the tiny armored silhouettes beyond the archway. The idea that goblins—creatures notorious for chaos—marched in asured steps beneath his kingdom felt both miraculous and horrifying.
Rodion, sensing perhaps that the barrage needed a human-paced breath, dimd the mapping overlay until only the archway feed remained. Moss swayed in a stale subterranean draft; the violet haze at the threshold sparked occasionally like embers inhaling.
Mikhailis tore his gaze away long enough to scoop the fallen pen, twisting it between fingers to bleed nervous energy. He noticed a tiny sar of honey on the barrel, wiped it absently onto his nightshirt sleeve—leaving a faint gold stain—and exhaled.
"So," he started, voice quiet but steady, "we have an organized, undead-bolstered goblin fortress beneath our orchard roots. And you're pushing them through a dungeon to make them smarter." He gave a short, incredulous laugh. "I'm going to need a bigger notebook."
The AI offered no apology, only information. In a strange way, that comforted him more than any excuse could. This was Rodion's nature: identify fractures in the kingdom's defense lattice and fill them—with stone, silk, or claws—until nothing fragile remained.
The feed widened again. More goblins appeared, jogging toward the gate with bales of leather or glinting ore strapped to their backs. They exchanged quick, guttural phrases—bare, efficient, free of the shrill bickering he rembered. One mage paused to chalk another tally under the wolf-skull totem before disappearing inside.
Mikhailis glimpsed the script. These weren't random scratches: they ford counting runes, progress markers, maybe even a rudintary calendar. A feral culture drafting ledger lines.
The bedfra creaked as he shifted, unable to stay still. Information tumbled through his mind—logistics, diplomacy, potential blowback if anyone found out. Elowen trusted him to keep secrets that could topple thrones, but even she might arch an eyebrow at hyper-evolved goblin legions.
Yet the strategist in him whispered: Imagine the border patrols once these troops mature. Imagine fortress supply corridors manned by goblins who no longer raid caravans but guard them.
He rubbed his temples. "Rodion… this—this could change everything. We could turn a perpetual nuisance into an asset."
He exhaled again, this ti slower, letting lungs empty until the next thought slipped in. "And what's the price tag? Loyalty can erode if evolution outruns indoctrination."
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