Chapter 7

  Cah’thok monitored hundreds of feeds, but his attention kept drifting back to one in particular. The human had been rising through the levels at an alarming pace—already nearing level seven, the threshold for Tier One. Soon, he wouldn’t be the only one watching.

  He popped another Lizgad Grub into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully as he debated whether to take a more active role in assisting the human. Cah’thok wasn’t particularly fond of humans, but he despised Graylians like Hawlythron even more. Those self-important bastards saw themselves as the backbone of the Federation, lording their status over everyone else.

  Cah’thok, a Fugari, knew the struggle of an outsider. His people had only been part of the Federation for a thousand years—humans, a few thousand more. But unlike the Fugari, humans weren’t unified. They were everywhere, scattered across countless planets like cosmic anomalies. No two human groups were exactly alike, but one trait was always present—their relentless instinct to kill.

  The more he considered it, the more certain he became. He would help this human. And in return? The human would owe him a favor.

  …

  Much like Floor 6, the office had been reclaimed by nature, but this time, it was worse.

  Time had eroded everything.

  The walls were cracked, vines and moss spilling through gaping holes in the ceiling. Trees had fully grown through the tiled floor, breaking apart the once-uniform layout. Desks were half-buried in dirt and rubble, their contents long since consumed by the creeping wilderness.

  Jim took a deep breath.

  The air was thick with damp earth, the scent of mildew and wet paper.

  He tightened his grip on his weapon and stepped forward.

  It didn’t take long for the Cubicle Cats to find him.

  He heard them first—a faint, mechanical purr, followed by the eerie clicking of their metal claws against stone.

  Jim turned sharply, spotting three of the damn things stalking him from the shadows.

  [Level 4 Young Cubicle Cat - HP 40]

  Once a humble office laptop, now a spectral menace fueled by years of corporate drudgery. Cubicle Cats prowl the ruins of abandoned workspaces, lurking in half-collapsed cubicles and atop dusty filing cabinets. They move silently, except for the occasional ominous keyboard tap or the sound of an unseen document being shredded. If you hear a faint, passive-aggressive meow, it’s already too late. Beware - the young ones travel in packs.

  “Woah, where did all that description come from?” Jim muttered aloud. “Wait, holy shit, am I level five already?”

  He whistled at himself, but he had to focus up. He might be finally higher level then something, but there were still three of them.

  They were smaller here but leaner, more feral, just like a teenager. It was as if the overgrown ruins had turned them into something even more dangerous.

  “You again, huh?” Jim muttered, raising his weapon.

  The first cat pounced.

  Jim sidestepped, swinging hard—his weighted club cracked against the cat’s body, sending it crashing into an old filing cabinet.

  The second lunged from behind—Jim ducked, rolling forward just as claws slashed at the air where his neck had been.

  The third cat didn’t attack immediately.

  Instead, it watched him, crouched low, studying his movements.

  Jim’s jaw tightened. They were learning.

  “Great. Smarter now. That’s fun.”

  The first cat recovered, its glowing white eyes flickering, glitching slightly from the damage.

  Jim adjusted his stance.

  Then he heard something new.

  A deep, guttural clicking.

  The cats all froze, their ears twitching toward the sound.

  Jim turned sharply—

  And saw something massive emerging from the ruins.

  [Level 5 - Fax Strider - HP 60/60]

  A towering, insectoid machine stepped into view, its thin, spindly legs made from rusted fax machine trays and broken scanner arms.

  Its torso was composed of layered, shifting paper, constantly printing and feeding into itself, forming a makeshift exoskeleton of outdated documents.

  Its “head” was an old, boxy fax machine, its screen cracked, showing nothing but a distorted “Low Toner” error message.

  Every time it moved, paper spilled from its body, some sheets blank, others filled with nonsensical office jargon and corrupted text.

  It was fast.

  It lunged forward, moving with unnatural grace, its long limbs slicing through vines and debris with each step.

  Jim barely had time to react before the Cubicle Cats scattered, abandoning their hunt.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “Oh, great. Even they don’t want to fight this thing.”

  The Fax Strider’s head snapped toward him, its paper-feeding mechanism whirring violently.

  Then—

  It spat paper at him.

  Jim barely dodged as a wave of sharp, metallic-edged sheets whipped through the air, embedding into the walls like throwing knives.

  “That is so unfair.”

  Jim ran, using the terrain to his advantage. He slipped between broken desks and tree roots, keeping the Fax Strider at bay.

  The creature moved fast, but it was tall and awkward, struggling to maneuver through the tight ruins.

  Jim grabbed a broken office chair, hurling it at the creature’s legs.

  The impact wasn’t much, but it threw off its balance for a second.

  That was all he needed.

  Jim rushed in, swinging his weighted club at the creature’s knee joint.

  The impact cracked the machine’s frame, sending a shower of shredded paper flying.

  The Fax Strider screeched, stumbling slightly.

  Jim dodged another paper blade attack, rolling beneath a collapsed desk, using it as cover.

  Then he saw his opening.

  A weak point in its back, where the paper tray fed into its exposed gears.

  Jim moved fast, grabbing a fallen tree branch, jamming it straight into the feeder slot.

  The Fax Strider convulsed, its entire torso grinding violently as it tried to process the foreign object.

  It lurched—then collapsed, its entire body jamming up as error messages flooded its cracked screen.

  With a final, garbled mechanical wail, it shuddered once, then went still.

  Jim exhaled, stepping back.

  The machine was dead.

  [Level Gained]

  He would need to check that ASAP, but just ahead, nestled between two massive tree roots, was the stairwell door.

  He didn’t waste time.

  With one last glance at the ruined battlefield, Jim pushed the door open and descended to Floor 2.

  Sweet baby jesus, he could skip two.

  Jim descended the final set of stairs, his grip tight on his weighted club, heart pounding with anticipation. He’d fought through overgrown ruins, mimic-infested offices, and mechanical nightmares, and now—he was almost free.

  The door at the bottom of the stairwell loomed ahead, marked with a simple, faded sign:

  LOBBY.

  Jim exhaled and pushed through.

  The bottom floor was massive.

  It stretched out like a grand, open-plan workspace, the ceiling far too high, the fluorescent lights dim and flickering. Rows of cubicles had been stripped away, leaving behind an expansive, open battlefield.

  The exit doors stood on the far end, bathed in the glow of emergency lighting.

  Between him and freedom, however… was the swarm.

  [Level 4 - Squawker - 30/30]

  Forged from the unholy union of discarded employee complaints and ignored suggestion box forms, these little nightmares are fast, loud, and incredibly annoying. They travel in flocks of five to seven, overwhelming their targets with erratic movements and relentless, high-pitched screeching—just like middle management at a budget meeting.

  Jim heard them before he saw them.

  A low, chattering trill, like modem static mixed with bird calls.

  Then—movement.

  From the shadows of the ceiling, creatures detached, unfolding their thin, angular wings, swooping into the open air.

  They were small, twisted things, shaped almost like crumpled reports given flight, their paper-thin bodies reinforced by skeletal, metallic frames.

  Their heads were little more than cracked computer mice, their glowing optical sensors flashing red as they scanned their environment.

  And then—they dived.

  Jim cursed, rolling to the side just as a group of four Squawkers came screeching toward him, their jagged, metal-tipped wings slicing through the air.

  One nearly clipped his shoulder, but he ducked, swinging his club upward in a wide arc.

  CRACK.

  The first Squawker shattered instantly, its metallic body collapsing into broken circuits and shredded plastic.

  The rest whipped around, reorganizing in the air, already preparing another attack.

  Jim didn’t wait for them.

  He ran.

  The Sprint to Freedom

  Another group of five swooped down, their glowing red sensors locking onto him, screeching in mechanical tones.

  Jim vaulted over a broken reception desk, the Squawkers hot on his heals..

  One of them crashed into an old security monitor, shorting out in a burst of sparks.

  Jim rolled beneath an overturned filing cabinet, barely dodging a set of razor-sharp wing blades.

  The exit was still too far.

  He needed an opening.

  That’s when he saw it—the old hanging light fixtures.

  Some were loose, their cables exposed.

  Jim grabbed a fallen chair, hurling it upward at the nearest fixture.

  The metal casing cracked open, exposing raw, sparking wires.

  Then—he ran directly under it.

  The Squawkers chased him.

  The moment they passed through the exposed wiring, there was a flash of energy—

  BZZAATT!

  The shockwave ripped through the air, arcing through the metallic creatures, sending three of them crashing to the floor in a heap of smoldering metal.

  Jim skidded to a stop, breathing hard.

  The remaining Squawkers screeched in frustration, but only paused for a moment before renewing their pursuit.

  Jim sprinted forward, dodging the final swoop.

  Then—

  He passed through the last security gate.

  [You have entered: Safe Zone - The Dungeon Entrance]

  The moment Jim stepped into the front lobby’s emergency-lit safe zone, the Squawkers stopped.

  They hovered at the edge of the dungeon’s entrance, their glowing red eyes narrowing, but they didn’t cross.

  Jim knew why.

  They couldn’t.

  This was the boundary. The dungeon’s limit.

  Jim exhaled sharply, running a hand through his dust-covered hair.

  He turned back, staring at the twisted, impossible nightmare of the building he’d just escaped from.

  The glowing red eyes watched him from the shadows, but they wouldn’t follow.

  Jim took one step back.

  Then another.

  Finally, he turned away.

  It was time to leave.

  A wave of exhaustion hit him. Days of fear and anxiety welling up in his soul.

  For the first time in what felt like forever, Jim was safe. He looked around. It was just a small, maybe five by ten square between the lobby doors and the security gate.

  The lobby’s emergency lighting gave the area a dim, sterile glow, but it was calm. No rustling leaves. No mechanical screeches. No lunging creatures trying to tear him apart.

  Just silence.

  He found a half-collapsed chair, its cushion still intact enough to serve as a makeshift pillow.

  Jim didn’t waste time. He dropped onto it, exhaling as the exhaustion finally caught up to him.

  His muscles ached from the constant fighting. His bruises throbbed, his cuts stung, but it didn’t matter.

  He had survived.

  His eyes grew heavy almost immediately.

  For the first time since he stepped onto Floor 6, Jim slept.

  Should Jim leave or stay