Adrian sat in his cramped, peeling-walled apartment, staring at the flickering glow of his old monitor.
Three days since Bone Ruins and Goblin Nest fell under his control.
Three days, and already, the results showed.
500 gold a day.
Nothing to the top guilds. Everything to someone who had started with nothing.
But two dungeons were only the beginning.
The trickle would become a flood.
A small kingdom, disguised as loot tables and spawn timers.
Adrian leaned back, letting the reality sink in. Every day that passed, his machines worked for him—grinding, producing, growing.
But every day also meant a greater risk of detection.
All he had to do now was stay low.
One audit. One flagged anomaly. One curious moderator.
And everything would be gone.
Not reset.
Deleted.
He couldn't afford mistakes.
He stood and moved toward the cracked window, peering down at the flickering neon-lit streets below. Trash collected in the gutters. A broken streetlight buzzed overhead, casting long, ugly shadows. People moved like ghosts themselves, hunched and tired, trapped in a life that eroded them grain by grain.
Out here, decay won.
In there—in Primordial Abyss—he could still build.
With a sigh, Adrian grabbed his worn jacket and stepped out into the night. Neon lights buzzed above, the low hum of city life washing over him as he headed toward NetCafé 24.
The world where he still had control.
Logging into Primordial Abyss was like pulling on armor.
The stale scent of the café, the clatter of keyboards, the whirring of ventilation—all faded the moment Raven opened his eyes inside the game.
Dark stone. Cold wind.
The Abyss breathed around him.
He flexed his fingers. Checked his gear.
No anomalies. No system flags.
Good.
The first thing he did was open the dungeon management interface. Bone Ruins first.
[Dungeon Management] Boss Level: 10 (Locked)
Monster Respawn Rate: Standard
AI Behavior: Adaptive
Adaptive AI.
A mistake.
He toggled it back to Normal.
Players were quick to notice when a dungeon acted "off." A boss responding too quickly, minions coordinating unnaturally—small things, but they snowballed.
One Reddit thread. One guide update. One "anyone else notice this?"
Then the GMs would start watching.
Then would come the QC audit. Raven knew it too well from beta testing—the silent sweep of server behavior logs, looking for anomalies and irregularities.
Titan Corp treated their golden goose with brutal precision. The AI models behind Primordial Abyss were strictly engineered to maximize player dopamine—to maintain a smooth cycle of effort, reward, and satisfaction.
Anything that disrupted that delicate balance—a boss moving too intelligently, a dungeon behaving too dynamically—risked breaking the immersion, breaking retention.
A dungeon behaving even slightly off-script would trigger an internal review, no matter how minor it seemed.
He repeated the process at Goblin Nest, locking everything back into boring, predictable behavior.
Two quiet engines, humming invisibly.
Invisible was survival.
Once satisfied, Raven turned to his next move.
Expansion.
He scanned the regional maps, ignoring the popular dungeons swarming with farmers and streamers.
He needed something forgotten.
Something broken.
And there it was, gleaming in dull red on the listing:
[Hollow Fang Den]
A Level 11–20 dungeon.
Hated. Ignored. Mocked.
Perfect.
His lips curled faintly.
The Hollow Fang Den's boss was infamous—the Duskrunner Alpha. Fast. Slippery. Hard to pin down.
A nightmare for casuals.
For Raven?
Potential.
Memories flickered—not fond ones, not nostalgic. Tactical.
In beta, the Duskrunner had been his first real weapon. With it, he'd broken siege lines, gutted raid formations, and collapsed supply caravans in faction wars.
It wasn't loyalty.
It was efficiency.
Built for attrition. For ambushes. For slaughter drawn out until enemies collapsed under weight of exhaustion and paranoia.
He checked the monster database.
Still untouched.
[Alpha's Wrath] (Passive)
Effect: Continuously increases attack speed and damage the longer combat persists.
Exactly as he remembered.
Others saw trash loot and an annoying fight.
Raven saw a machine designed to dismantle anything that underestimated time.
Like him.
He travelled to a low ridge overlooking the Hollow Fang Den.
The entrance yawned below, jagged and black like a beast's maw.
Hollow Fang Den sprawled like a blight across the land, its surroundings choked with withered trees and cracked earth. A thin mist clung to the ground, weaving between splintered rocks and the scattered bones of long-forgotten victims. The air smelled faintly of mold, rot, and something older—something wrong.
Once, it had been designed as the final step for players leaving the beginner zones. A capstone to prove readiness for mid-tier quests and guild fights.
But Hollow Fang Den had no storyline quests. No legendary loot tables. Only pain.
Beginners found it brutal. Veterans found it pointless. And so it was abandoned, left mostly untouched, overshadowed by newer, story-driven dungeons players preferred to chase.
Exactly the kind of place Raven needed.
He crouched low, surveying the area.
Movement.
A group of players.
Five. Mid-level. Guild tag: Emberlight.
Their leader—Ronan—wore mid-tier gear, confidence etched into every move.
Not elites.
But competent enough.
Raven watched them closely.
Briggs' shield was heavy—good against frontal strikes, weak against mobility. Layla's robes were cheap—low resistances. Kain's dagger stance—too aggressive, wasted movement.
Perfect.
"We take the Alpha tonight?" "Yeah. It's good for our guild's raid schedule."
Let them bleed first. Let them burn stamina and potions.
He flicked open his status screen.
[Skill Acquired: Dungeon Stealth Walk]
Effect: Grants invisibility to dungeon-based monsters and sensors.
Duration scaling: Intelligence.
Type: Passive on dungeon entry.
A skill made for assassins.
A skill made for him.
Raven adjusted his cloak, flexing his gauntlets.
He ran through contingencies.
If the guild wiped too fast, he'd let the Alpha reset and strike during the next window. If they cleared it, he'd simply wait for the dungeon's respawn timer and claim the fresh spawn without resistance. If another party arrived, he'd disappear into the deeper tunnels, avoid exposure, and wait.
No rushing. No improvising.
Only patience.
The timer ticked down.
He waited in the shadows, still and patient.
Tonight, he wouldn't just steal a dungeon.
He would reclaim the first true blade in his silent arsenal.
He would hunt alongside the wolf once more.