Twenty-three pounds of raw material, extracted from the Floor Three vein by goblins who didn't understand what they were mining. They only knew that Boss wanted the dark rocks, and Boss got what Boss wanted.
Victor turned a chunk over in his hands, feeling its weight. Good ore. High iron content, based on the color and density. With proper smelting, this could become weapons. Armor. Tools.
If only I had a forge. And a blacksmith. And any idea how medieval metallurgy actually works.
"Sniv."
The small goblin materialized at his elbow. "Yes, Boss?"
"Add this to the long-term asset list. Priority: find someone who can work metal. Human, goblin, whatever. If we can't forge, this ore is just expensive rocks."
Sniv scratched notes on his rock-tablet. "Sniv looks for metal-maker. Where Sniv looks?"
"I don't know yet. But we'll figure it out."
Victor set the ore aside and reached for Sir Kael's scroll. He had read it three times now, looking for details he might have missed.
"The beast on Floor Four cannot be killed by mortal weapons."
Not "is difficult to kill." Not "is very strong." Cannot be killed.
Was Asterion immortal? Regenerating? Protected by magic? The phrasing was frustratingly vague.
Sir Kael had been a professional—trained, equipped, accompanied by a party. He had died alone in a mining alcove, writing warnings that no one would read for fifty years.
I have failed.
The words hit differently now.
Two years ago.
Victor's apartment cost twelve thousand dollars a month. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Italian marble. A kitchen he never used and a living room he rarely left.
He sat in the dark, three weeks of beard growth covering a face that the Wall Street Journal had once called "the coldest in American business."
The television played on mute. Headlines scrolled across the screen:
FORMER MID-WEST LOGISTICS EXECUTIVE NAMED SOLE DEFENDANT IN CONFLICT MINERALS SCANDAL
SEC: VICTOR KAINE "MASTERMIND" BEHIND PROCUREMENT FRAUD
CHEN APPOINTED CEO AS MID-WEST LOGISTICS STOCK RECOVERS
Elena's face appeared—polished, professional, standing at a podium with the company logo behind her. She was giving a statement about corporate accountability and moving forward.
She looked good. Healthy. Successful.
Victor looked at the whiskey bottle on the table. Macallan 25. A gift from the Chairman, three Christmases ago.
"You're the best we've ever had, Victor. The company runs because of you."
The bottle was two-thirds empty now. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten. There was food in the refrigerator—there was always food, the concierge service made sure of that—but the thought of eating required energy he didn't possess.
He looked at the balcony. Forty-seven floors up. Quick. Clean.
He looked at the pill bottles in the kitchen. Prescribed for various ailments he had accumulated during twenty years of eighteen-hour workdays. Slower. More private.
He looked at nothing at all, because nothing at all felt accurate.
[ARMI - MEMORY FRAGMENT]
Timeline: 2 Years Pre-Isekai
Event: Post-Betrayal Depression
Subject State: Dissociative, anhedonic
Self-Harm Ideation: Present but passive
Intervention: Pending
Note: Subject did not act on ideation. External stimulus arrived.
The knock came at 3 AM.
Victor didn't move. The doorman had instructions not to let anyone up. He hadn't had visitors in weeks.
The knock came again. Patient. Persistent.
He pulled himself off the couch—the motion felt like lifting a boulder—and shuffled to the door. The peephole showed an empty hallway.
But on the floor: a manila envelope.
No return address. No postage. Hand-delivered.
Victor opened it slowly.
Inside: a USB drive. Small. Black. Unremarkable.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
And a note, handwritten on plain paper:
"You were right. Here's proof. — S."
His hands shook.
S.
Sarah.
The name surfaced through the fog—a face, a voice, arguments in boardrooms about ethics and due diligence. She had worked in Compliance. She had questioned the supplier contracts. She had been the one who pushed until she was quietly transferred to a subsidiary in Singapore.
He had thought she was weak. Naive. Too focused on morality to understand business.
And now she was sending him a USB drive in the middle of the night.
Victor looked at the drive. Then at the television, where Elena was still talking about corporate responsibility.
He walked to his laptop.
The dungeon floor was cold under Victor's boots.
He blinked, the Manhattan apartment dissolving into darkness and stone. His hands were empty—no USB drive, no envelope. Just calluses and goblin scratches.
Sniv stood before him, yellow eyes filled with concern.
"Boss goes away in head a lot. Is sickness?"
Victor took a breath. The flashbacks were coming more frequently now, triggered by random stimuli—a phrase, a feeling, a memory buried so deep he had forgotten it existed.
"It's memory, Sniv. Old wounds."
The small goblin nodded slowly. "Sniv has old wounds." He touched a scar on his arm—a memento from his years as the lowest creature in his tribe. "Wounds heal. Some scars stay. But pain goes."
He looked up at Victor with something approaching wisdom.
"Boss heals too. Just takes time."
Victor almost smiled.
Philosophy from a goblin. What has my life become?
"Maybe," he said. "Maybe."
[ARMI - PERSONNEL NOTE]
Subject: Victor Kaine
Observation: Emotional regulation improving
Memory Recovery: 24% (+6%)
Therapeutic Interaction: Sniv (Inadvertent counselor)
Assessment: Subject processing trauma through dungeon experiences
Note: Displacement may be adaptive. Monitor.
The ground shook.
Not the distant rumble they had felt before—Asterion's roar echoing through stone, more sensation than sound. This was different. Closer. Intentional.
The goblins froze. Twenty-six pairs of yellow eyes went wide with ancestral terror.
"Floor Four," Victor said quietly. "That came from Floor Four."
Before he could move, a goblin burst through the chamber entrance, screaming at the top of his lungs.
"Cow-man! Cow-man send messenger!"
Something flew past the goblin's head—small, dark, moving too fast to track. It circled the chamber once, twice, then landed on the arm of Victor's throne.
An imp.
It was roughly the size of a cat, with leathery wings and eyes that glowed like embers. Its mouth was too wide for its face, filled with needle-sharp teeth. Small horns curled back from its forehead, and its skin had the texture of burned paper.
When it spoke, the voice that emerged was not its own. Deep. Ancient. Resonating with power that had nothing to do with the tiny body producing it.
"The Master of Floor Four has observed your expansion."
Victor didn't move. Didn't flinch. Twenty years of hostile negotiations had trained him for moments exactly like this. He had faced down hostile boards, angry shareholders, government investigators. A talking demon-cat was hardly the most intimidating thing he had encountered.
"And?"
"The Master is... entertained. You have brought order where there was chaos. Efficiency where there was waste. This is appreciated."
"Appreciated," Victor repeated flatly. "That's a dangerous word. Usually comes right before 'however.'"
The imp's smile widened. "The Master appreciates directness as well."
"However."
Victor almost laughed.
"Appreciation does not pay tribute." The imp's ember-eyes flared brighter, casting dancing shadows across the chamber walls. "The Master claims your floor as his own. You stay here only because he allows it. And he does not allow it for free. He demands tribute for your presence."
Victor felt the room go still. Every goblin watching. Every breath held. Even Sniv, who usually couldn't stop fidgeting, stood frozen.
"What kind of price?"
"Food. Wealth. Or souls." The imp spread its tiny claws, ticking off options like a banker discussing loan terms. "Twenty percent of your harvest. Ten percent of any wealth extracted. Or one soul per month, delivered to the stairs of Floor Four."
A parasitic equity stake. Asterion isn't just a boss; he's a landlord claiming a percentage of the gross margin.
Victor's mind raced through the implications. This wasn't the behavior of a mindless beast. This was organized. Calculated. The kind of structured extraction that required intelligence, patience, and long-term thinking.
"And if I refuse?"
"The Master is patient." The imp's voice dropped lower, the chamber seeming to grow darker. "But patience has limits. The previous inhabitants of this dungeon were... less cooperative. You have seen what remains of them."
Sir Kael. Marcus. All the bones scattered through these halls.
"You have three days to respond. Refusal will be considered... hostile."
"Three days," Victor echoed. "And if I want to negotiate terms?"
The imp tilted its head—a disturbingly human gesture on its inhuman face. "The Master is open to... creative arrangements. But the tribute is non-negotiable. Only the form may be discussed."
It spread its wings, preparing to depart.
"One more thing," Victor said quickly. "The Master's name. What do I call him when I respond?"
"The Master has many names. Asterion. The Beast Below. The Eternal Guardian." The imp's ember-eyes flickered. "But you may call him... your landlord."
The imp's form flickered. Then it was gone—vanished like smoke, leaving only the faint smell of sulfur behind.
Silence filled the chamber.
Victor looked at the stairs leading down. Down to Floor Four. Down to Asterion.
The Minotaur wasn't attacking. He wasn't rampaging or hunting or acting like a mindless beast.
He was negotiating.
Which meant he could think. He could plan. He could be reasoned with.
Or manipulated.
Twenty percent of food. That's sustainable... barely. Ten percent of wealth—we have no wealth yet, so that's just a future liability. One soul per month...
Victor looked at his goblins. Twenty-six pairs of yellow eyes stared back at him, waiting for guidance.
No. We don't sacrifice employees. That's a precedent I won't set.
But I can't fight him either. Sir Kael tried that with a trained party and died in a mining alcove.
Which means I need a third option. Something Asterion hasn't considered.
"Sniv."
"Yes, Boss?" The small goblin's voice trembled, but he stepped forward anyway.
"Schedule a board meeting. First thing tomorrow. We need to discuss our... new stakeholder."
Sniv nodded, clutching his clipboard so hard his knuckles turned white. "Sniv arranges meeting. What should Sniv tell others?"
Victor looked at the empty space where the imp had been.
"Tell them we have a new negotiation. And this one is going to require... creative thinking."
End of Chapter 10
[ARMI - SESSION SUMMARY]
Day 3 | Evening
Memory Recovery: 24% (+6%)
Key Memory: Sarah (USB Drive Delivery)
Flashback Processed: Post-Betrayal Depression
Crisis Event: Asterion's Tribute Demand
Terms: 20% food, 10% wealth, OR 1 soul/month
Deadline: 3 days
Balance: 0 GP
Employees: 26 goblins
New Threat Classification: Asterion (Floor 4) - CREDITOR
Status: NEGOTIATION REQUIRED