I faced my first floor.

It had grown past its initial roots, no longer small and stunted but grown. A thousand feet long, eight hundred wide, full of pillars and dens and stalactites and stalagmites and all manners of glorious little things I'd worked hard to perfect. And now it was time to finish it, once and for all.

There wasn't much to change, though. I'd polished almost everything, improving and honing it to a knife's edge. A few changes in the future, sure; when the shardrunner spiders finished evolving and I figured out if they had a spot on the first floor, or whether the bears would stay here or eventually move down. But those were minor things. I was done waiting.

First was the new schemas Nicau had been so generous to bring me—while most wouldn't work on this floor, too large or out of theme, there were a few that would. First was the moonstar flowers; while I still had plenty of time to wait to let them propagate, they would match beautifully well with the greed I wanted to foster on invaders, pulling them deeper into my depths to feed my creatures. I certainly wouldn't fill the floor, but even planting just the sprouts, trimming it every time it got flowers so they wouldn't ever be able to harvest the luck-granting plant, just as a way to imply deeper treasures to those who could recognize the leaves. Little things like that, similar to the gem-filled dens of rats. While there were plenty of—I presumed—very expensive things on this floor, the invaders would have to wonder. Was there more on later floors?

And by the time they'd had that thought, it was already too late.

The only other would be the creeping vine. I'd had time to think it over while my mana slowly recollected itself after I'd tested out the schemas, and the vine was the only one I felt enhanced the theme of the floor. Everything else was too large or flashy for what was supposed to be an entrancing first floor. So. Vine it was.

And I had a beautiful little plan for it.

It crept towards water and stayed; so what if I could move and adjust the water? In the past with invaders, I'd struggled with changing things because those with any mana capacity could tell when my ambient mana shifted, able to know I was reacting or even able to track what I was doing if they were skilled enough. Uniquely infuriating. But if, say, those invaders were on my second or third floor, would they notice me fiddling with something on the first? A rather high chance no.

So I reached out, clearing away the algae and cave spider webs from directly above the twin doorways, poking out on either side of the little outcropping I'd made. I carved a little hollow from the main attachments to sit, dragging a tunnel through the limestone from the mountain river overhead, and let it splash into the divot filling it slowly but not overly full as to drown it. I chucked several pounds of creeping vine over the doorways.

It wasn't only one vine per plant, interestingly enough; each was a bundled collection of emerald green or earthy brown vines, all wrapped around each other with a ridged, knobbly skin that looked already more defensive than most plants. It twitched as I created it, reaching out with thin, microscopic hairs moving in unison over its length to shift it forward, and immediately found the water I'd placed for it.

All of its various vines turned back to the source, drinking as fast as the river replenished it. Perfect. So instead of moving, they stayed as twin clumps above the entrances, shifting and rustling like a ball of snakes. Maybe a little noticeable, but I had all my stalactites glimmering with jewels and precious metals. Hopefully they'd pay attention to those instead.

Then, by the feet of the entrances, I created another shallow divot, carving a hole through the surrounding limestone to constantly fill with water; overflow would trickle down through the soft incline I'd made on the first floor, whatever wasn't drank by the rows of green algae and whitecaps ending up in the rock pond.

But that was a close source of water. I reached back up, digging into the stone; I raised a thin barrier to the river water and closed it off.

There was still enough in the little puddle there wasn't an immediate reaction from the creeping vine, still drinking. I waited.

The water ran out eventually. The plant twitched, its jumble of vines that somehow functioned as a brain unable to comprehend not having water. What to do? It shuddered, trying desperately to cram a single thought together.

Then its smaller vines extended, their microscopic hairs feeling around as they searched for water; as it traveled, I cleared out any water deposits on the surrounding walls, forcing the plant to search farther and farther, vines unfurling as it hunted. Not particularly fast, of course, but still moving.

Until at last they found the puddle at the bottom.

Every vine extended, reaching out with whatever the thirst equivalent of starving was; and right as they did so, I unblocked the original tunnel connecting to the river overhead, refilling the puddle.

I watched whatever neurons the plant had immediately fry, trapped between two options. Half the vines stayed at the original puddle, another half reaching down, and they accomplished exactly what I'd hoped for.

Instead of an opening, a faux wall of vines hid the way out.

It wasn't perfect—they weren't the same colour as the surrounding limestone, the vines not a solid barrier, a little too mobile to really be stone—but it was damn better than anything before. I'd already tried this with other entrances, but I couldn't just raise a barrier of stone every time I wanted to keep an invader inside. That would stop up one of my entrances, forcing me to have to reopen it and spend all that mana while also weakening my hold on my ambient powers; not worth it. Maybe as a last ditch effort, if someone truly too powerful tried to get out, but I didn't want that to be my only option. I wanted more.

Thus, I watched the creeping vine pretend to be a wall. And with the outcropping that kept the entrances out of sight from the center of the room anyway, I doubted the imperfections would be too visible. Those poor lost invaders would find themselves rather hopelessly lost.

At least I hoped.

But for now I let the puddle on the floor empty, forcing the plants to crawl back up to their hidden den above the entrances; there they waited until the next raid. Perfect.

As for the creatures, I couldn't think of anything to change; when I'd increased the size of the room, I'd also increased the population of nearly everything, and while I would have to tinker around with the exact numbers, I was happy with what I currently had. Several large rat colonies hunkering down with their gems, stone-backed toads barely surviving for long enough to reproduce before getting eaten by the armies of luminous constrictors, cave spiders caught in generational struggles to maintain territories to build webs. All the beauties I'd ever wanted.

As well as three new little treasures.

The three bear cubs were only just born, still fumbling and awkward in their mother's den, barely the size of her paw; but they would grow. I couldn't wait to see their full potential.

But there I sat, watching all the creatures move and bustle around, the mushrooms and algae shifting, water trickling down walls and pooling in the rock pond. The serpentine skeleton seemed to move in the flickering algae-light, its fanged maw distending; enormous bears slumbered in hidden dens, always hungry; the tunnel to the next floor sat in inky darkness.

Everything I'd wanted. I closed my points of awareness, reaching deep into my soul, and pulled out the title I had already given it.

The Fungal Gardens. This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

The entire floor shivered as the name sunk into its being, all creatures learning their true home; the Fungal Gardens, land of greed and gloom, bringer of deception.

Congratulations! Your floor has attracted the attention of the gods.

Some wish to become Patron of the Fungal Gardens. Please choose from the boons they present.