Victor descended alone, honoring the summons Asterion had barked before vanishing back into the depths.
Each footfall echoed in the silence, a sharp clack of boot against rock that announced his presence to anything waiting in the shadows. The air grew heavier with every turn of the spiral, thickening with the copper tang of old blood and the dry, dusty scent of pulverized bone. It was hot, too. Not the pleasant warmth of a hearth, but the suffocating, stagnant heat of a deep earth oven.
He carried no weapon. His hands were empty, hanging loosely at his sides. He wore no armor, only his standard dungeon-issue attire—the dark, tailored coat that looked more like a boardroom suit than adventuring gear.
To an observer, he would look defenseless. A fool walking into a lion’s den with nothing but arrogance to protect him.
But Victor was not unarmed. He carried the most dangerous weapon in the universe: A mental spreadsheet.
Current Assets:
- Goblin workforce (Labor/Cannon fodder): 26 units
- Silver Lance (Elite Mercenaries): Temporarily routed
- Capital Reserves: 0.12 GP (Liquid)
- Influence: Rising
Current Liabilities:
- Floor 4 Guardian (Asterion): Active threat
- Revenue Stream: Blocked by Guardian
- Employee Morale: Fragile
The roar from earlier—the one that had sent the Silver Lance scurrying back to the surface—had stopped. Now, there was only the oppressive silence of the deep dungeon.
[ARMI]
Zone Entry detected.
Location: Floor 4 - The Labyrinth of Bones
Danger Level: High (Suggested Party Size: 10-15)
Status: Unauthorized Personnel
Victor dismissed the warning with a thought. Party size is irrelevant if you don't intend to fight.
He reached the bottom of the stairs.
The Labyrinth lived up to its name. It wasn't just a maze of corridors; it was a graveyard. The walls were fused with femurs and ribcages, fossilized into the rock as if the dungeon itself had eaten an army and forgot to swallow. The path twisted in nonsensical directions, designed to disorient and separate intruders.
But Victor didn't need to find his way. He just needed to follow the heat.
He walked for twenty minutes, ignoring the skittering sounds in the shadows and the piles of crushed armor that marked the resting places of previous "heroes." He stepped over a rusted helmet that still contained a skull, noting the dent where a massive blunt object had impacted.
Inefficient, Victor thought. Brute force destroys the loot.
Finally, the corridor widened. The bone-walls fell away, revealing a cavernous chamber that could have housed a cathedral. Massive stalactites hung from the ceiling like jagged teeth, dripping condensation that pooled on the uneven floor.
In the center of the arena, illuminated by the glowing moss that lined the high ceiling, waiting.
Asterion.
The Minotaur was massive—easily three meters tall, a mountain of muscle and coarse brown fur. His horns were the length of spears, scarred and chipped from centuries of violence. A double-headed greataxe, coated in the dried red-black of old gore, lay within easy reach.
But he wasn't standing guard. He wasn't patrolling. He wasn't roaring.
He was sitting on a throne made of adventurer skulls, his chin resting in his massive hand, staring at the wall.
Victor stopped ten meters away. He didn't hide. He didn't crouch. He stood tall, adjusted his cuffs, and waited.
For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, the mountain shifted.
Asterion turned his head. His eyes were not the glowing red of a monster, but deep, dark pools of mahogany. They looked tired.
The Minotaur snorted, a sound like a steam engine releasing pressure. He slowly rose, his hooves scraping against the stone floor. The ground trembled with his weight. Standing, he was terrifying—a physical manifestation of death.
He picked up the axe. The movement was casual, practiced.
"Punctual," Asterion said. His voice was a deep rumble that Victor felt in his chest rather than heard. "And still unarmed."
The Minotaur took a step forward, the axe blade scraping sparks against the stone.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
"Most would have taken the chance to run while I was between floors," Asterion rumbled. "Either you are a god, or you are the most stupid creature to ever enter my domain."
Victor didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He looked the monster in the eye and activated his skill.
[Performance Review]
A transparent blue grid overlaid his vision, scanning the massive creature before him. Data scrolled rapidly, dissecting the myth into numbers.
[Target Analysis: Asterion]
Role: Floor 4 Guardian
Level: 20 (Boss)
HP: 5,500 / 5,500
Mana: 500 / 500
Skills: [Seismic Slam], [Gore], [Labyrinth Call]
Contract Status: Bound (247 Years)
Psych Profile:
- Boredom: Critical (98%)
- Depression: High
- Motivation: 0%
Victor suppressed a smile. Undervalued asset detected.
"I am neither," Victor replied, his voice calm and echoing in the vast chamber. "I am a manager. And I'm here to conduct your evaluation."
Asterion froze. The axe lowered an inch. "My... what?"
"Your performance evaluation," Victor said, taking a step forward. He pulled a notebook from his pocket—pure theater, of course, but effective. "You've been in this position for, what? Three hundred years?"
"Two hundred and forty-seven," Asterion grunted, confused by the sudden change in dynamic. Usually, the little ones screamed or threw fireballs. They didn't ask about his tenure.
"And in that time," Victor continued, glancing at the piles of bones, "you've successfully defended the core. Zero breaches. A one hundred percent retention rate of floor assets."
Victor looked up, meeting the Minotaur's gaze. "Impressive strictly from a security efficiency standpoint. But terrible for growth."
Asterion frowned, his bovine features twisting in confusion. "I kill intruders. That is my purpose."
"Is it?" Victor challenged. "Or is it your prison?"
The word hung in the air.
Asterion's grip tightened on the axe. "I am the Guardian of the Labyrinth. I am the Terror of the Deep. I am—"
"—Bored out of your mind," Victor interrupted.
The Minotaur went silent.
"I can see it," Victor said, gesturing to the scratches on the wall—tally marks. Thousands of them. "You're not guarding this room because you want to. You're doing it because you have nothing else to do. You sit here, day after day, waiting for some 'hero' to stumble in so you can have five minutes of excitement before you crush them."
Victor took another step. He was now within striking distance. One swing of that axe would turn him into paste.
"You want a challenge," Victor said softly. "You want a fight that matters. You want a death that means something."
Asterion let out a long breath, a sigh that smelled of earth and regret. He lowered the axe until the head rested on the floor.
"And you can give me this?" Asterion asked, a dangerous glint returning to his eyes. "You? A soft, flesh-thing with no steel?"
"I can give you something better than a fight," Victor said. "I can give you a career."
Asterion stared at him. Then, he threw his head back and laughed. It was a terrifying sound, shaking dust from the ceiling.
"A career!" Asterion boomed. "You want me to... what? Carry stones? Guard your door?"
"I want you to be a King," Victor said.
The laughter cut off instantly.
"The world above is changing," Victor said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial pitch. "Real adventurers are coming. Not the starving scavengers you're used to. Organized guilds. Armies. With magic you haven't seen in centuries."
Victor spread his hands.
"You've been fighting rats in a basement, Asterion. I'm offering you a war."
The Minotaur leaned forward, his massive face inches from Victor's. The heat radiating from him was intense.
"Explain," Asterion rumbled.
"I am restructuring this entire dungeon," Victor said. "I am turning it into a machine. A machine that eats heroes and spits out gold. But to do that, I need a Hammer. I need someone who can break the strongest, most arrogant champions the world sends down here."
Victor pointed a finger at the Minotaur's chest.
"I don't want a guard dog. I want a General. I want you to command the lower floors. I want you to train the lesser beasts. I want you to make them terrifying."
[ARMI]
Negotiation Tactic: [Visionary Pitch]
Target Receptivity: Increasing...
Charisma Check: Critical Success (Corporate Synergy Bonus)
"You promise me war?" Asterion asked, his voice low. "You promise me... worthy foes?"
"I promise you," Victor said, "that if you join me, you will never be bored again."
Asterion looked at the manager. He looked at the axe in his hand. Then he looked at the pile of skulls—the legacy of three centuries of stagnation.
"And what is the price?" Asterion asked. "What does the Manager require?"
"Simple," Victor said. "You stop killing the weak ones. The farmers with pitch forks. The novices."
Asterion bristled. "I should let them pass?"
"No," Victor smiled, a cold, predatory expression. "You break them. You strip them of their gear, their potions, and their gold. You scare them so badly they wet themselves. And then... you let them run."
"Why?"
"Because," Victor said, "dead adventurers have zero retention value. But terrified survivors? They tell everyone. They are marketing."
Asterion was silent for a long time. He turned the idea over in his mind, chewing on it like cud.
"Marketing," he repeated, testing the word.
"Fear is currency," Victor said. "And I intend to be the richest man in the world."
The Minotaur looked at Victor, really looked at him, for the first time. He saw the cold calculation in the human's eyes. He saw the ambition that dwarfed his own size.
Asterion snorted, a cloud of steam rising from his nostrils.
"You are a strange little monster," the Minotaur said. "You have no claws, but you are more dangerous than a dragon."
He lifted the axe and rested it on his shoulder.
"I will listen to your plan, Manager," Asterion rumbled. "But if you bore me... I will eat you."
Victor checked his mental watch.
"Deal."
Asterion grunted, then reached into a pile of discarded gear near his throne. He tossed something small and heavy toward Victor.
Victor caught it. It was a sphere of smoked quartz, pulsating with a faint, rhythmic light—a scrying crystal, clearly looted from an overconfident mage who had underestimated the Minotaur's speed.
"Watch the show, Manager," Asterion rumbled, retreating into the deeper shadows of the room. "If they don't scream as loud as you promised... my axe is still sharp."
Victor looked at the crystal, then back at the darkening chamber. "They'll scream, Asterion. I've already billed them for the vocal cords."
[ARMI]
Item Acquired: Scrying Crystal (Damaged)
Function: Short-distance visual monitoring (Floor 1-3)
Source: Initial Capital Investment (Gift)