While Xalt had declared the dungeon his eternal rival, he had to admit he missed being able to taste.

  He nibbled on berries as he pored over his notes, plans, and forgotten tomes. For all the dungeon’s faults, its produce was delicious.

  While he had claimed before the assembled powers that he had secured the southern border of the dungeon’s territory, that was not entirely correct. The dungeon’s influence was expanding—fast. While most dungeons spread downward, deeper into the core of the planet, this one seemed determined to spread across the whole of the surface.

  That was how Xalt found himself in an old repository and study. He had not stepped into this room since the last time he had gone to war. The biggest difference between then and now in his mind was that he was starting to regret getting stone furniture. As a Lich he simply floated in place, having no need for furniture but knowing it just looked right to have it. But now that he was alive once more, he was regretting not having so much as a cushion to soften his seat.

  So here he found himself, reading from an old tome he had not referenced in centuries. Skimming texts buried in dust, while his body protested the lack of comfort.

  “The deeper a dungeon pushes, the more of their ‘influence’ it costs,” he read. “A dungeon’s ‘influence’ is more akin to its nervous system. An aura around its seat of power. A domain upon the land that allows them to impose their rules upon reality. Thus pushing deeper costs more as the dungeon attempts to impose its will upon the very bones of the world.”

  Xalt mulled that over. He had been in a very different state of mind when he had originally written this tome. He had been a Lich, after all. But even now, that he was once again flesh and blood, he could see the gaps in his old perceptions of the world.

  “The influence is more akin to the actual body,” he spoke as he added to the page. “The land is simple window dressing. Like clothes. After observing this new dungeon more closely, I have been forced to question my old observations."

  He was about to dry the ink with sand so he could move on to another text when he heard one of his death knights rushing down a hall.

  “Orrin, what has your old bones rushing?” Xalt asked. Orrin had once been a lizardman so dedicated to warcraft that he had given himself to Xalt to prevent his body from withering due to age. Orrin had pledged eternal servitude in exchange for being permitted to continue waging war even in death.

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  Orrin took a knee before speaking. “My lord, we completed one of the tasks you issued us. We followed the fight of monsters that left the dungeon for a region known only as the Banelands.”

  “Oh?” Xalt asked, mildly curious. “Your forces made it back?”

  “The toxic levels of chaotic mana in the area have subsided recently,” Orrin continued. “But it is odd.”

  “How so?” Xalt asked.

  “Can dungeons set up bases?” Orrin asked, his heavy armor creaking as he looked up at his lord. Confusion burned in his undead eyes. This brought pride to Xalt. He had preserved the soul of Orrin so well that even two centuries later, it was still capable of emotion and curiosity.

  “No, they can’t,” Xalt answered carefully.

  “Then I don’t know what he has planned,” Orrin confessed. “He had his minions plant a seed. That seed bloomed into a massive tree the likes of which I have never seen. It is dragging in chaotic mana like a parched plant offered water.”

  Xalt turned and flipped through a few of his old tomes on various matters. He still had it all memorized; he just liked to be absolutely sure.

  “That sounds like cultivation,” Xalt mused. “But a tree can’t…” He trailed off as a thought struck him. He grabbed several more tomes and began flipping through them.

  “But a dryad can cultivate,” he murmured. “And if it can filter chaotic mana, that means it has a concept. That is a very advanced technique. Few cultivators ever discover truths or concepts.”

  “What do we do, my lord?” Orrin asked, his head tilting.

  “We need to visit the dungeon,” Xalt ordered. “If that dryad has a concept, then so does the dungeon. But only a fool would share their concept. For only one being can rise to the heavens with a concept. So we need to interrogate the dungeon.”

  Then a grinding sound caught both their attention. They turned to the old stone model of the continent. Xalt had enchanted it himself. It was made of living stone and modeled the goings-on of the whole continent. That grinding sound was an alert that a significant force had entered his lands.

  “It looks like someone has tried—and failed—to thread the needle,” he mused. “Orrin, my first knight, it appears you have a new foe to pursue. Clan forces. They did the math and decided it was a shorter distance to reach the dungeon than to try squeezing anything more out of the rock that the Empire has become.”

  The flickering flames of Orrin’s eyes blazed at this.

  “I am permitted to engage?” Orrin asked.

  “You are permitted to engage,” Xalt agreed. “And I permit you not to hold back. Remind them why I was once called Xalt the Blight.”

  “At your command,” Orrin stated as he rose. He slammed his fist into his breastplate before leaving with a bow.

  “Now, while he is off, I will need to prepare a few things,” Xalt mused. “I may despise this dungeon for denying me, but even I know information is not free. If I cannot yet use force or violence against him, then diplomacy is needed. But the problem with diplomacy with dungeons is this: what do you get the man who already has everything?”

  Xalt turned that question over in his mind as he prepared himself to visit the Vitalmire Crucible once more. One way or another, he would get at least a little information out of this dungeon.