Passing through the portal was not a smooth transition. Leo felt as if he were being sucked into a giant vacuum cleaner before being spat out into air saturated with ozone and exotic scents. When he steadied himself, he saw not a battlefield, but a sprawling underground metropolis.
The Dungeon Lords' Black Market was a living anachronism. Brightly colored magical neon lights—fuchsia, acid green, electric blue—illuminated cobblestone alleys paved with obsidian. Banners fluttered above stalls overflowing with pulsing golem hearts, forbidden scrolls, and slaves of various races. Dungeon Lords of all kinds—armored specters, tentacled creatures draped in silk, or massive demons—strolled with disconcerting nonchalance, discussing the price of acid traps as if they were choosing curtains.
Leo felt a sudden weight in his belt pocket. A leather pouch appeared, heavy and warm. Opening it, he was dazzled by the brilliance of pure Essence, coins that seemed to contain miniature nebulae.
Suddenly, a clinical white system window opened before his eyes:
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: COMPENSATION FOR DEFECTIVE EQUIPMENT]
[ANALYSIS: The incompetence rate of your initial subordinates (Hallucinogenic Mage, Cowardly Skeleton, Critical Earthworm) exceeds the margin of error by 400%.]
[DECISION: The System acknowledges that it "screwed up" your initial configuration. Please accept these 500 Essence Coins as compensation. Consider this a "hotfix" for your survival.]
Leo let out a dry laugh, a guttural sound that made a nearby goblin merchant turn around.
"A 'hotfix'?" he muttered, his claws clenching the purse with such force that the leather cracked.
"They're throwing me a handful of change to make up for sticking me with a team of losers. Is that the price of my sanity?"
He looked around. Everywhere he saw laziness. Lords buying "ready-made" monsters so they wouldn't have to train them, architects content to copy generic dungeon blueprints. For a designer who had spent his life striving for perfection, this market was an insult to the art of war.
"Master," Vark's voice echoed in his mind, transmitted through the portal link. "Don't waste that anger. This Essence is a rare resource. The other Lords are content with mediocrity because they don't know how to create. You have the Grimoire."
Leo straightened up, his scythe casting a menacing shadow on the shiny cobblestones.
"You're right, Vark. The System is trying to buy a conscience. Very well. I'll take this money and buy what these incompetents can never produce: solid foundations. "
He disappeared into the darker alleys of the market, where they didn't sell shiny trinkets, but raw materials. He wasn't there for luxury. He was there to acquire the "assets" he would turn into nightmares.