The summit of the allies had concluded, and Sharath headed back to his capital with gifts and treaties, but more importantly, with responsibilities—orders for the purchase of thousands of typewriters and presses, requests for the landing of hot-air balloons, and ink-punctuated promises made beneath honor.
Immediately, he assigned.
"Grandfather," Sharath told Lord Bassana, the shrewd elder whose patience was as long as his beard, "the presses are yours. Manufacture, distribute, and keep the ledgers clean. Deliver to the dwarves, elves, goblins, and beastmen according to our agreements."
Bassana chuckled, puffing from his pipe. "Hah! So the boy-king thinks me a merchant? Good. I'll bleed them for every copper while making them smile in gratitude."
Sharath smiled. "That's why I assigned the task to you."
To his father, Lord Varudan Darsha, he gave the others. "You will be in charge of typewriter deliveries. Treaties call for haste. Employ hot-air balloons for delivery. No roads, no caravans. Let them watch the sky darken with Imperial machines."
Varudan smiled, pride shining in his eyes. "As you say. Our empire will be remembered not only for war, but for wings."
The wheels of empire production spun, presses rang, iron was smelted. But before the industry machines could demand Sharath's full attention, disaster arrived unannounced.
The Overflow
The alarm bells rang in the capital on a storm-tossed night. 🐧NeuroBoop's voice in Sharath's ear crackled with alarm:
"Dungeon activity spike—Sector IV. Your dungeon, boss. Huge overflow. Monsters pouring out like beer from a ruptured barrel."
Sharath swore. His own dungeon—the one in Imperial hands, tightly controlled, hemorrhaged for resources—was breaking like a boil.
In less than an hour, he and his troops, rifles shining in lantern light, rode to the cavern entrance. The reek of blood and decay first assaulted them. Then came the horrors.
Chittering insect men, molten-skinned monstrosities, skeletal hounds—spilling out in waves.
"Form lines!" Sharath bellowed. "First rank, fire at my will. Second, cover reloads. Third, tighten up the flanks!"
Thunder claimed the night.The rifles spoke, belching death in precise cadence. Fire illuminated darkness, ringing off stone. Shell casings clicked off rocks.
Sharath slew dozens himself, his customized rifle a firebreathing dragon. Madhu stood behind him, blades flashing silver, each blow a perfect curve of death.
The monsters charged, and for an hour the battlefield was chaos—blood, fire, and screaming steel.
Then silence.
Smoke billowed in the cavern's mouth. The core of the dungeon, destabilized by its own excess, shattered like glass. The walls creaked, then crumbled inward in a deafening roar.
The empire's dungeon—their resource well—was destroyed.
Aftermath
Sharath paced before the ruins, puffing hard, gunpowder burning his nostrils.
"Collapse confirmed," grumbled 🐧NeuroBoop, scanning. "Core's destroyed. Nothing but rubble and painful memories now remain."
Sharath gritted his teeth. A dungeon was treasure—treasure without end, if kept up. To lose one was to lose years of treasure, alchemy, and precious materials.
He breathed slowly, then spoke. "Construct a wall around the ruins. Gates, watchtowers, a standing guard detachment. If this dungeon overflowed once, it can do so again—or something below can crawl out."
Madhu nodded. "Pragmatic. And the message is clear: safety over greed."
The empire grieved the loss, but Sharath would not dwell. A single dungeon lost could be replaced. And perhaps—mapped.
The Dungeon Mapping Initiative
At sunrise the following morning, Sharath convened his council. Nobles and scholars, generals and engineers, sat around the council table, parchment and maps scattered upon it.
"Each dungeon within my empire's borders," Sharath declared, "needs to be discovered, listed, and charted. No more surprises. No more overflows catching us unprepared."
One scholar blinked nervously. "But, Majesty… some dungeons are bottomless. Some are cursed. Some even contain… bureaucratic archives that ensnare explorers in paperwork for weeks."
🐧NeuroBoop chuckled. "Nightmare fuel—dungeons with the only monsters being tax auditors."
Sharath permitted a thin smile. "Then we chart them too."
Into the Depths
Groups were sent—soldiers, mages, scribes, and engineers with rifles, enchanted lanterns, and freshly enchanted parchment.
Sharath himself commanded the first expedition.
Within a dungeon along the riverlands, walls flashed with bioluminescent fungi. His magical map floated in the air, softly glowing, quill moving of its own accord as the group proceeded. Each corridor inscribed in real-time. Each trap tagged with tidy runes.
The initial chamber had gold piles piled high… and a hidden mimic passing as a treasure chest.
It snapped its jaws open, teeth grinding.
Gunshots rang out. The mimic exploded on the wall.
Madhu let out a sigh. "At least that one was obvious."
Deeper in, they found absurdities. One room was packed wall to wall with scrolls of half-filled petitions—centuries' worth of requests never responded to by some long-forgotten kingdom.
Scribes grunted, half-buried under parchment as they cataloged. "Petition #34298: 'Request to fix goat fence.' Petition #34299: 'Request to appeal rejection of goat fence fix.' Petition #34300—OH GODS IT NEVER.
Efficiency Through Magic
But Sharath was not patient with slow cataloging.
He waved his hand across the hovering map, muttering a spell of cartographic resonance. The parchment flashed, changing to show all mapped corridors, traps, and wards. Magical quills replicated, scrawling rapidly.
In minutes, what had taken months was open.The soldiers stood by in wonder.
"Mark each treasure chamber," Sharath commanded. "Each choke point, each cave-in tunnel. We're not merely documenting these dungeons. We're converting them into fortresses, or mines, or training facilities."
Madhu's lips twisted. "You're industrializing the unknown. I shouldn't be surprised."
The Grand Atlas of Dungeons
Weeks went by. Expedition after expedition streamed back into the capital with scrolls, sketches, magical maps.
Some maps described atrocities—labyrinths of endless skeletons, acid lakes, shrines to lost deities. Others were bordering on the absurd—mazes that only ended in vacant broom closets, whole levels given over to bureaucratic records, libraries with skeleton wardens who demanded overdue fines.
One explorer told of a dungeon with nothing but kitchens. "Kitchens everywhere," he grumbled, still trembling. "Every room a kitchen. Stoves, ovens, bubbling pots. We never did find the chef."
🐧NeuroBoop joyfully chronicled it: "Dungeon of Eternal Culinary Torment."
Nothing stopped the emperor's knowledge from increasing despite the inane.
Sharath bound the maps into a great tome: The Grand Atlas of Dungeons. Each page came alive, shifting ink, in response to every new passage or treasure discovered.
It was not just a book—it was authority.
Sealing the Future
Standing within the Imperial Archives, Sharath ran his fingers over the shimmering pages.
With this," he whispered, "no dungeon shall catch us off guard. Every overflow met. Every resource exploited. And every threat contained."
Madhu stood next to him, hands crossed. "Until the dungeons themselves become aware, and evolve."
Sharath smiled wickedly. "Then we evolve quicker.
Outside, laborers rebuilt watchtowers over ruined rubble. Soldiers guarded dungeon gates. And everywhere in the empire, rumors swirled: their Emperor not only brought knowledge and industry under control—he brought even the chaos of the dungeons under control.
Never before, in living memory, was the unknown unknowable. It was charted, bound in books, and used as an instrument of empire.
And far in the mountains, in untouchable dungeons, the old things stirred restlessly… as though sensing they were being observed.