Nice! He’s not exactly titan-sized, but I’m not going to complain too much. I watch as he settles into his new home, promptly withdraws into his shell, and falls asleep.

  Huh. Well, I was going to ask if he wanted a name, but I don’t think he’d care about whatever I call him. So, I guess I’ll just decide.

  “Okay, bud. I know you’re sleeping right now, but I’m giving you the name Zaps because it’s the best thing I could think of!”

  Zaps shows absolutely no sign of hearing me, continuing to rest on the mountain peak, tucked inside his shell as a massive thunderstorm rolls over the mountains.

  Now, for the mini-bosses. I’m planning to put one on every other peak: two, four, and six, each with its own unique twist. For these mini-bosses, I’ll enhance an animal more than the others, turning them into alpha versions of their species.

  On peak two, I’ll create an [Alpha Thunder Wolf] to lead a small pack of [Thunder Wolves]. On peak four, I’m thinking of placing a lightning-attuned bear in a hidden cave. And for peak six, I’ll craft a car-sized [Alpha Arc Hawk] and build its nest somewhere near the summit.

  After a few hours of work, I’ve finished creating the mini-bosses and their habitats. The first two were relatively simple—just crafting suitable caves for them to inhabit. The [Alpha Arc Hawk]’s nest, however, was trickier. I needed a tree large enough to hold its massive weight, yet safe enough for it to build a proper nest.

  In the end, I gave up on finding the right tree and just made one myself. I placed it on the side of a cliff face, sheltered from the strongest winds but still secure enough to support the nest.

  With that mess finally sorted out, I decide to take a break from creating the third floor’s civilization. Instead, I start eavesdropping on the adventurers for some feedback.

  By now, it’s past morning and approaching midday. The line outside my dungeon has mostly cleared—everyone who was waiting has either entered or left.

  Observing the adventurers, I notice that everyone is grouped up. And I mean everyone. The smallest group I see is a pair of two people who, for lack of a better description, look like total strangers to each other.

  I guess no one wants to explore the dungeon solo on its first day—just in case something goes wrong.

  The largest group I spot is six people. That’s a good thing since they’re unlikely to die on the first floor with those numbers. But it’s also bad because there’s no way they’ll turn a profit.

  If they get lucky and also defeat Holly, they might scrape together some earnings. But I doubt I’ll see groups this large often—maybe on the later floors that I totally have planned and will definitely not create on a random whim.

  Now, time to eavesdrop on the adventurers and get their thoughts on the first floor! As I move around, listening in on their casual conversations, I hear a lot of the usual comments like, “Wow, it’s so open!”—a sentiment I’ve heard from earlier adventurers.

  But the most valuable things I hear are about the outside world. Apparently, in the coming weeks or months, I’m going to see a lot more traffic. From what the adventurers are saying, the closest dungeon to mine is called the [Bloodthorn Maze].

  A quick look through the system windows tells me it’s a dungeon that specializes exclusively in monsters made of vines and thorns. It’s ten floors deep, and each floor is a maze made of rectangular thorn bushes that drain the blood of anyone unfortunate enough to wander through.

  So, yeah, the name is pretty on-brand.

  I wonder if people will give my dungeon a cool name. And just saying now, if they come up with something lame, I’ll probably name it myself and slap a sign outside because there’s no way I’m getting stuck with something stupid.

  Another important thing I overhear is about the adventurer ranking system. Apparently, the guild uses the same ranking tiers as the system: [Common], [Uncommon], [Rare], [Epic], [Legendary], [Mythic], and [Ancient].

  - [Common] is the starting rank for people new to the guild or those restricted to town- or city-based quests.

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  - [Uncommon] requires completing at least ten guild quests of [Common] rank outside the town and demonstrating a basic understanding of combat, magic, or crafting.

  - [Rare], the last rank I get solid details on, requires completing fifteen [Uncommon] quests and passing a supervised guild trial.

  I don’t hear much about the higher ranks, but from what’s said, any adventurers from this small town who once reached higher levels left for better-paying jobs elsewhere.

  However, thanks to my dungeon, rumors are circulating that adventurers ranked [Rare] and below might start returning. No one expects higher-ranked adventurers to bother, though, due to the perceived difficulty of my first floor.

  Here’s the thing: dungeon difficulty is usually judged by the monsters on the first floor. Most dungeons scale their creatures evenly across all floors. For example, if the first floor has level thirty wolves, the next floors will also feature monsters at roughly level thirty.

  Regular dungeons don’t have the adaptability or intelligence I do. They’re more like basic programs that stick to a theme once they acquire their first monster blueprint. If a dungeon starts with wolves, its subsequent floors might feature wolves with six legs or wind magic, slowly improving through trial and error.

  Because my first floor features low-level animals like rabbits around level ten, the guild assumes all my floors will be filled with similarly weak creatures.

  But the most crucial piece of intel I learn is about the local guild leader. He lives about two hours away from my dungeon and is a retired [Legendary]-rank adventurer. If he decides to explore my dungeon, he’ll easily figure out that I’m not so normal.

  Right now, this is just a theory, but once adventurers reach the second floor and encounter higher-leveled monsters and sentient mushroom people, I’m hoping they’ll start thinking of my dungeon as some kind of ancient one resurfacing.

  But if the guild leader sweeps through my dungeon like it’s nothing, that illusion is gone.

  So, after finishing the third floor, I’ll need to create some kind of last line of defense—maybe a final floor with a mega boss with scattered lore to sell the “ancient dungeon” angle. Only adventurers who clear all available floors would receive the key to that final floor.

  But back to the third floor, I need to populate it with a sentient race. What fits in a stormy mountain range? My first thought is lightning-attuned giants, but a town or city doesn’t really fit the theme. Then it hits me: they don’t need towns. They can form camps or small villages scattered across the mountains.

  Of course, it’s not entirely up to me. I’ll create them and speed up time to see how they develop.

  Leaving the adventurers on the first floor, I head back to the third floor, starting with the first mountain.

  Looking through my blueprints for a good base, I find one I obtained when those two rookie adventurers died in my dungeon. Apparently, dungeons can’t create humans, but I did get a blueprint called [Humanoid].

  While common fantasy races like elves and dwarves don’t exist in this world, humanoid monsters do, so this blueprint is still incredibly useful.

  Using it as a base, I make the humanoids larger, sturdier, and attuned to lightning magic. After another hour of fine-tuning, the blueprint is complete.

  I summon a group of them onto the first mountain and watch as twelve-foot-tall giants materialize before me.

  Their skin is a dark gray, adorned with glowing blue tattoos of swirling patterns and runes from my custom writing system. They’re clothed in animal furs and equipped with long polearms—pikes, spears, glaives, long hammers, and a variety of other weapons.

  I watch as the giants take in their surroundings on the first mountain, marveling and talking to each other in amazement. Satisfied, I place groups of giants on each of the seven mountains before preparing to speed up time on the floor.

  This time, I’ll carefully monitor the process to ensure nothing goes horribly wrong. Enveloping the third floor in magic, I accelerate time while keeping a close eye on the changes.

  I watch as the unique, lightning-infused ecosystem flourishes across the mountain range. Monsters engage in battles, respawning as usual, while the mini-bosses roam the mountain peaks. At the top of the seventh mountain, Zaps, the third-floor boss, lounges in his paradise of endless food and constant storms, rarely straying far from his domain.

  Meanwhile, the giants thrive. They build large villages on almost every mountain, hunting when necessary and harvesting resources from the floor’s abundant lightning-attuned plants and rich mountain ores. Their villages are bustling hubs of activity, integrating seamlessly into the environment.

  Once I’m satisfied with the progress, I return the third floor to normal time. Now what? Maybe I should visit the largest village and talk to the chief? Or would it be a village elder? No, I’m pretty sure it’s the village chief.

  Surveying the floor from above, I locate the largest village on the sixth mountain. A quick scan reveals that every mountain has at least two villages—except the seventh.

  The seventh mountain stands out with its eerie lack of monsters and complete absence of villages. The only signs of life are plants and Zaps, perched at the peak. I guess it makes sense—between the ever-present, raging thunderstorms and the intimidating presence of a floor boss, it’s not exactly prime real estate.

  Deciding to visit the sixth mountain’s village, I make my way there. The first thing I see is a tall stone wall encircling the settlement, with a massive, doorless gate at its entrance.

  The path leading into the village is well-worn dirt, compacted from constant foot traffic. Inside, I see large tents made from animal hides and processed plants scattered throughout. Giants armed with long polearms come and go, while others run simple shops or engage in lively trade.

  As I wander through the village, taking in the sights, my eyes are drawn to the largest tent I’ve ever seen. Towering over the others, it’s supported by three massive wooden pillars and radiates an aura of importance.

  Just as I’m admiring it, the tent flaps are thrown open, and the biggest giant I’ve seen so far steps out.