Karl stood before the heap of forty-nine bandit corpses piled in the chamber of the fourth floor. Instead of rage or disappointnt at the breach, his lips curved into a smile. His shoulders shook before he threw his head back and bellowed,"KYAHAHAHAHA!"
The sound echoed off the stone walls, sharp and ridiculous. The kobold employees stiffened in place, tails low. Leo blinked twice. He had expected Karl to be furious, maybe even lash out at their failure to stop such a ragtag group. Instead, their master looked like a businessman at a clearance sale.
Karl wiped a fake tear from his eye. "Ah, forty-nine bandits delivered right to my doorstep. That’s not a tragedy, that’s inventory. Thank you for your generous donation, boys."
His tone was light, almost cheerful, but it carried an undercurrent that made the kobolds’ fur prickle.
Kenji, curled in his cage, swallowed hard. Even though Karl’s body had the flesh and skin of a ghoul, his aura was unmistakably undead. To see that grin paired with such energy—it was like watching a tyrant in a three-piece suit announce quarterly profits. Kenji shivered. Mistake. It was a mistake coming here.
Karl flicked his hand, calling up his system window. A translucent screen appeared, glowing faint blue.
Tyrant’s Throne of Undying Fury
Summon Throne Cost: 50 Mana
Animate Enemy Cost: 2 Mana per defeated enemy
Cooldown: None
Duration: Unlimited
Description: Summons a physical, indestructible throne. Automatically animates defeated enemies in a wide radius, turning them into permanent minions. Minions are transferred to the Pocket Dinsion: Undead Barracks, where they regain full strength and can level up.
Karl tapped the description with a satisfied grin. "This... this is the kind of ROI they don’t teach you in managent seminars. Maybe I should just open the dungeon for raiders and let them throw themselves at . Free labor acquisition. KYAHAHAHA!"
The kobolds exchanged uneasy looks. They weren’t sure if he was serious or not—and that uncertainty was worse.
"Let’s begin," Karl said simply.
Mana surged. An ominous vortex swirled above them, humming with the weight of death. The chamber grew colder as a gothic throne—black iron and bone, etched with screaming faces—slamd down onto the stone floor. Its aura crawled through the air like smoke, pressing on lungs and hearts.
Karl sat, unhurried, legs crossing at the ankle. The mont he touched the throne, his ghoul minions dropped to their knees without a word. The kobolds, overwheld, followed suit.
Kenji slumped lower in his cage, whispering, "The king of the undead... the symbol of death itself..."
From the throne, a subtle wave pulsed outward. It passed through the pile of corpses. Bandit limbs twitched. Organs, bones, and scraps of flesh tore themselves free, swirling in the air like grotesque puzzle pieces before stitching together anew.
Fur drained white. Eyes glazed like glass. The ringleader Garruk’s body snapped upright, jaw unhinged, his once-yellow eyes burning pale. Around him, frogkin and beastkin bandits rose in sync, their skins now ghastly pale, all traces of identity scrubbed away.
One by one, they assembled themselves in neat rows and dropped to one knee, as if rehearsed.
The kobolds, terrified, decided not to resist. They too knelt.
In unison, the chamber thundered with a single cry:
"ALL HAIL THE UNDEAD KING!"
Karl leaned back on his throne, smirking like a CEO at a company rally. "Now that’s employee engagent."
Three days later, the fourth floor was almost unrecognizable. The corpses of bandits that once rotted there now walked again—beastkin ghouls integrated into Karl’s growing workforce. Their once-feral eyes now glowed pale white as they hauled stone, pushed laden carts, and hamred wood under the direction of undead foren. Even Leo, ever the straight-backed accountant, had rolled up his sleeves to coordinate building schedules.
The dungeon’s first three floors had been rged into one vast concourse, sothing more akin to a city mall than a cavern. Iron fras rose from the stone, supporting hybrid glass rails along open balconies. Rows of ghouls carried beams across scaffolds, their movents efficient if eerie, never once breaking rhythm. Artisans, both kobold and ghoul, sanded tabletops and assembled chairs, filling the air with the tang of sawdust.
"Careful with that crate!" Leo barked at a frogkin ghoul wobbling under the weight of stone tiles. "We’re not building a mausoleum, we’re building marketable space. Straight lines, smooth walls, presentable finish!"
The first floor had already expanded to include guest accommodations. What had once been a ager row of three private rooms was now a growing corridor of fifteen, each fitted with sturdy fras and hybrid glass doors. Five shared bunkrooms had been added, each with double-tiered bunks. For long-term visitors and traders, it was practical. For Karl, it was repeat custors held comfortably inside his walls.
At the main entrance, ghouls worked in tandem with kobold engineers, installing a fra that humd faintly with arcstone energy. Leo had pitched it as "mana detection security," but Karl knew the real draw was presentation. A modern checkpoint made outsiders feel safe, even if it doubled as a trap. Behind the reinforced ten-inch hybrid glass doors—stone and water essence woven into translucent panels—an entire security chamber waited, complete with weapon storage and kill-slots.
"Looks like a departnt store," one kobold whispered, watching the doors click into place.
"Departnt store, death trap, sa difference," another muttered back.
On the second floor, the canteen had been gutted and rebuilt as an open hall. Long tables lined the center, their benches crafted from imported oak. Slots for card tables and dice pits were already marked out with chalk. Behind a newly raised partition, a hall waited for rchants to rent, with promises of gambling quarters and licensed performances to co.
"Family events, gambling, plays..." Karl muttered from the balcony above, arms folded as he surveyed the work. "Give the masses bread and circuses, keep them entertained, keep them contained."
The third floor was his jewel: Necro Corp’s storefront. Fine furniture, enchanted trinkets, precision tools—each neatly boxed and labeled. The new brands were already plastered on banners. Ebonhide Atelier: Dress for power, walk with dominance.Threadbare Charm: Clothing for every back. The nas alone made Leo smirk with pride.
Karl stood at the edge of the upper railing, gazing at the unfinished floors below. His lips curled. "Barebones mall. No tiles, no paint... but it’s getting there."
His mind was already running numbers. Logistics. Supply chains. Risks.
Currently, his Necro Market relied on the Rogina rchant Company to bring in raw goods from outlying villages. A partnership of convenience, but flawed. Too much tribal tension, too much hatred between beastkin races. Goatfolk rchants weren’t welco in every settlent.
"If I could just absorb Rogina," Karl muttered, tapping his chin. "Make them a subsidiary instead of a partner. Strip the goat face, slap on the skull logo. Neutral branding, third-party hate gone."
Below, ghouls pushed a massive stone beam across the floor. Karl hardly noticed. His eyes were already on the future.
"The truck prototype will be ready soon," he whispered to himself. "Dirt roads to Stonehorn Crossing, supply routes to nearby villages. If we mass produce them, SRPA can finally start operations. The village project gets its factory, beastkins get jobs, and I get a workforce trained in six months."
His grin faltered only when the thought of mana ca creeping back. The trucks ran on it. His doors depended on it. And the foxkins, with their infernal devices, could cut mana flow like a knife through cloth.
"What good’s a fortress door if a trinket can switch it off?" Karl muttered darkly. "What good’s a truck if it dies the mont soone jams the flow?" He rubbed his temples. "I need sothing else. Sothing stronger. A way to reinforce mana integrity itself."
Down below, a ghoul stumbled with a cart of bricks, crashing them into a half-built wall. Leo cursed. The kobolds scrambled. But Karl kept staring into the air, lost in thought.
"Fuel. Flow. Protection. Logistics. The mall’s just step one," he whispered, half to himself, half to the throne only he could still feel humming in his bones. "Necro Corp isn’t just going to sell goods. We’re going to run the arteries of this region. And nothing’s going to cut the blood from my system."
-------------------------
Down on the first floor, kobolds sweated beside their ghoul coworkers, trying to keep pace with the tireless undead. A frogkin ghoul carried a beam twice the size of his body while three kobolds huffed and strained to lift the sa.
"Damn it... look at him," one kobold grumbled, tail twitching as sweat dripped into his eyes. "Doesn’t even breathe, doesn’t even blink."
"Yeah," another said, voice low. "Boss says they’re efficient resources. I say it’s creepy. Imagine working next to soone who used to rob caravans last week."
The frogkin ghoul tilted its pale head at them but said nothing, eyes glowing faint white as it continued its work.
A third kobold smirked nervously, scratching the back of his neck. "Still better than nobles, though. At least the ghouls don’t scream at you unless you ss up."
They laughed—half in jest, half in fear.
Near the new gambling quarter, a pair of artisans hamred together a table. One looked toward the balcony where Karl stood brooding. "You think he ever sleeps?"
"Sleep? Ha. I don’t think the dead do that," the other replied, forcing a chuckle. "But look around. No other lords that’s building sothing like this. Food stalls, beds, work that pays regular. That’s... sothing."
Their laughter faded as a ghoul passed by, dragging stone with unnatural ease. The kobold who spoke first swallowed hard. "Sothing... yeah. Sothing terrifying."
On the upper railing, Leo caught wind of the chatter. He pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath. "Unprofessional. Always chattering, never calculating. If Lord Karl heard half the things they said—"
But Karl did hear. And for once, he didn’t silence them. He leaned against the railing, watching the kobolds and ghouls work side by side. The fear, the awe, the uneasy laughter. It was all fuel. Fuel for his brand. Fuel for his empire.
"Fear," he murmured softly. "Fear is just respect, not polished yet."
And then louder, so all within earshot could hear:
"Keep working, everyone! The Necro Market doesn’t just rebuild itself! This isn’t just a dungeon anymore. This will soon be the heart of trade in the Spinebride region!"
So kobolds straightened, chests puffing despite the sweat. The ghouls, expressionless, continued without pause. But a few of the living exchanged glances, muttering among themselves.
"The heart of trade, huh?" one whispered. "Or the heart of the underworld."
Another hissed back, "Doesn’t matter what it is, as long as we proper working conditions. Just... keep your head down and work."
Above them, Karl smiled faintly, his mind already miles ahead.
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