Chapter 103: The Undead Don’t Need OSHA
Karl’s final plans sprawled across the desk. It was a layered cross-section of his dungeon, etched in sharp lines and precise measurements. To anyone else, it might look like a chaotic maze of stairwells, chambers, and notes. To Karl, it was a machine—each floor a cog, each structure a gear, all turning toward a single, terrifying purpose. He saw not just a series of rooms, but a self-sustaining system, an ecosystem of industry and war.
The Rogina Merchant Company had arrived just in time. Their shipments of raw stone blocks, timber, and ores weren’t nearly enough to cover the entire expansion, but they would delay the inevitable drain of Necro Points from his reserves. That mattered. NP spent on common lumber and ore was NP wasted. Those points were better invested into machinery, weapons, or specialists that the living world couldn’t provide—the things that gave his undead army an insurmountable technological advantage.
He leaned over the parchment, starting with the upper levels, where his economic engine would be born.
First three floors: the new Necro Market. The first floor would be redesigned to function more like an inn or a waystation. It would feature comfortable guest accommodations, a controlled entry point to monitor all visitors, and enough open space to corral foot traffic without creating bottlenecks. The second floor was to be a communal hub—a canteen serving hearty fare, a tavern with a selection of brews, and rentable halls for visiting merchants to conduct their business. It was a space deliberately designed to generate coin while keeping outsiders entertained and contained. The third floor would be the display hall: shelves, stalls, and showrooms for Necro Corp’s finished products. This would include everything from fine furniture and precision tools to enchanted armor and novelty goods like figurines. This clean separation—commerce above, industry below—was essential to the operation’s efficiency and security.
Karl’s eyes moved deeper, his mind picturing the gears of his machine turning.
Seventh floor: the industrial sector.
This floor alone had been broken into five specialized facilities, each one mapped to prevent bottlenecks and catastrophic overlap.
The Metalworks Foundry would need large furnaces with dual-use capacity: one for the bulk smelting of raw ore like iron, copper, and zinc, and another for the more precise process of alloying them into stronger metals like steel and brass. He’d noted separate casting pits for rough-shaping large components like bolts or receivers, reducing the workload of the precision machines downstream. Ventilation shafts would have to be dug to pull smoke and toxic gas into sealed exhaust tunnels, which would be filtered through charcoal beds before being released into the open air above. Without this sophisticated system, the air on this floor would choke even the dead.
The Gun Works Arsenal was his true centerpiece, the heart of his military might. He planned for heavy forging presses to create perfect barrel blanks, arcstone system-controlled lathes for boring and rifling with perfect precision, and milling machines for intricate parts like triggers and firing pins. Assembly tables would be arranged in modular lines so skeleton crews could work without clogging each other. At the far end, a test-firing range would be cut deep into the stone itself, its walls lined with reinforced barriers to capture stray shots and contain the noise. Waste brass and steel shavings would be routed back to the Foundry for recycling, a closed-loop system where nothing would be wasted.
The Powder Mill
was the most dangerous facility, and Karl had treated it as such. He had partitioned it into separate, isolated blocks: nitre beds for cultivating saltpeter, sulfur refining pits, charcoal kilns, and a granulation house where the final explosive mixture was created. Each section was spaced far apart, with thick stone blast walls between them. He underlined this note twice, a cold reminder of the potential for disaster. If one building were to go up, it wouldn’t trigger a chain reaction that would wipe out his entire industrial base.The Cartridge Works was where ammunition would be produced. It would be divided into assembly lines: one for forming brass casings, one for casting and shaping lead bullets, and an isolated primer workshop. That last part was the true hazard—the volatile compounds his scientists refined, whether mercury fulminate or lead styphnate, would all be death in crystalline form. He marked the chamber walls to be lined with clay and salt to absorb accidental blasts.
The Stockmaker’s Workshop was quieter, but no less important. He envisioned rows of benches where skeletons would carve rifle stocks from seasoned lumber, oiling, sanding, and fitting them to the metal components. Precision was less critical here, but the output determined how comfortable and reliable the final weapon would feel in a soldier’s hands.
Karl tapped the margin with his quill. "Steel, powder, ammunition, wood. All linked in sequence. No choke points. If one process halts, the rest can still run."
Below this, the eighth floor remained sealed, its alien construction untouched. He had left a simple note: Unknown. Investigate later.
The ninth floor, though, had been fully assigned. It would be converted into barracks and a bootcamp. Sleeping quarters, mess halls, and drill squares would provide a controlled environment to grind recruits into disciplined fighters. Adjoining caverns were marked as firing ranges and testing fields for experimental weapons. And at the center, the alien structure itself—its smooth, unnatural geometry still resistant to his attempts to dismantle it. Karl had assigned it to DRIS as their headquarters and to DEWS as a long-term research hub. If the structure was indestructible, it might as well serve as a core facility.
Finally, he reviewed the mid-levels. The fifth floor was set as Necro Corp’s central office—a hub for records, administration, and his command staff. The sixth floor would act as the Distribution Center, routing all goods upward toward the Market or outward through supply lines.
Karl exhaled, leaning back. The structure was practical, efficient. More importantly, it was modular—expandable as his reach grew.
"This isn’t just a dungeon anymore," he muttered. "It’s an economy. A fortress. A state."
His eyes lingered on the lower floors once more, his thumb resting against the note for the sealed eighth floor.
"Every empire starts small," he added under his breath. "But mine will start underground."
"Leo, have the Kobolds returned with the sulfur?" Karl asked without looking up from the schematics.
"Yes, my lord," Leo replied, his tone steady. "Twelve crates, refined enough for use. More can be expected on their next trip."
Karl tapped his charcoal pencil against the diagram of the Powder Mill. "Good. We’ll hold production steady for now. But next time, I want Rook and one of the scientists to accompany them."
Leo’s skull tilted slightly. "For escort?"
"No," Karl said firmly. "Reconnaissance. If the Dark Forest reeks of sulfur as they claim, then it isn’t just a hunting ground. It’s a stockpile of war waiting to be tapped."
Leo shifted his bony hands over the clipboard. "You suspect more than sulfur alone?"
Karl leaned forward, eyes glinting with intent. "If the terrain is volcanic, then the sulfur is only one vein of the arsenal. Think bigger. Saltpeter caves may exist—if there’s guano or nitrate deposits. That means black powder in the tons, not the pounds. With that, we stop rationing ammunition and start outfitting armies. Picture it, Leo: rifles fired in volleys, not shots hoarded like treasure."
Leo nodded once. "An endless supply of powder would allow sustained campaigns, not skirmishes."
Karl jabbed the page again. "Exactly. And iron oxides—hematite, goethite—common in volcanic belts. Cleaner ore than the bog iron we’ve been scraping. A single ton of hematite could yield enough steel for fifty rifles, maybe more if we optimize casting. Barrels, bayonets, even plate. Imagine a foundry that never runs cold."
Leo’s voice carried quiet weight. "And if the veins run deep, we would no longer be capped by merchant iron."
"Right," Karl snapped. "And copper sulfates—strip them down, refine them, and with zinc we make brass. Each ton could turn into tens of thousands of cartridges. No more collecting spent shells like beggars. We arm until the battlefield itself is littered with brass."
Leo gave a small, approving nod. "A true industrial backbone. Reliable supply means reliable fire."
Karl’s mind spun faster now, his voice quickening. "And obsidian. Most see primitive blades. But for us? Bayonets sharper than steel, surgical scalpels for battlefield medics, abrasive powders to polish rifling smooth. Cheap, disposable, effective."
Leo hummed thoughtfully. "Others would find it brittle. For us, even brittle weapons are still weapons."
Karl’s expression darkened, his tone lowering. "And then there’s arsenic. Toxic to the living, yes—but to the dead? Irrelevant. Alloyed into bronze, it makes it harder. Ground down, it makes poison clouds. We could lace arrows, coat traps, flood trenches with vapor. Our soldiers won’t cough, won’t choke. Only the enemy suffers."
Leo paused, his voice measured. "A battlefield that kills only one side."
Karl gave a sharp grin. "Exactly. And mercury—deadly to miners, but we don’t employ the living. Let skeletons dig it out. Use it in detonators, blasting caps, fulminates. That gives us reliable primers, stable explosives. Combine it with lead and zinc veins, and suddenly we’re swimming in bullets and brass. Nothing wasted."
He leaned back, voice almost reverent as his hand spread across the blueprints. "Iron into barrels. Copper and zinc into cartridges. Sulfur and saltpeter into powder. Mercury into primers. Every resource, every grain, feeding directly into rifles and cannons. From ore to weapon, ore to war—no merchants, no middlemen. Just output."
For a moment, silence filled the room, broken only by the scratching of charcoal as Karl underlined the Powder Mill’s outline.
Leo’s hollow sockets fixed on him, steady, pragmatic. "Then this reconnaissance, my lord, is not a luxury. It is the foundation. With these veins, Necro Corp would not only arm itself—it would outlast any foe who relies on trade."
Karl nodded once, decisive. "Exactly. While they haggle for shipments, we’ll be smelting armies."