A Dungeon Tycoon’s Guide to Undead Capitalism

Karl floated in an endless white. No floor. No ceiling. Just him — and rows upon rows of pale figures standing in eerie, unnatural silence. The bodies were featureless and pristine, like mannequins carved from a single block of porcelain, waiting for an artist's touch. They were neither alive nor dead, simply… present.

"Great. Either I'm dead again," Karl muttered, the sound of his voice feeling strangely hollow in the void, "or I just got isekai'd inside a character creation menu."

He squinted. Naked bodies lined up in neat rows, all chalk-white with gray, empty eyes. Men, women, all shapes and builds, a library of humanity. Beside each one drifted a faint bluish wisp, a ghost of memory or soul. Ninety-seven in total.

Karl rubbed the back of his neck, a phantom gesture from a body he no longer possessed. "Wait. Ninety-seven… oh crap. Those are my guys. My skeleton crew. So this is what they've been doing while I sleep? Just vibing naked in a void? Like a bunch of ghosts at a spa retreat."

He strolled closer, his incorporeal hands in his pockets, muttering like a man browsing a thrift store for a new skin. He wasn't just observing; he was judging. His eyes, a lich's keen gaze, scoured each form, searching for something beyond mere utility.

The first figure was skinny, five-seven, with a weak chin and no shoulders. Karl snorted. "Default build. This guy screams 'accountant who still lives with his mom.' Pass."

Next was a hulking brute, seven feet tall, with muscles on muscles and veiny arms, his face like an angry potato. Karl frowned. "Looks like a steroid junkie who screams at kids in the gym. Also probably needs three protein shakes just to walk up stairs. Hard pass. I want efficiency, not a meathead with a short fuse."

Then, an average Joe: five-nine, plain face, a little beer gut, hairline retreating like Napoleon's army. Karl sighed. "Ah yes. Me in my late twenties. Thank you, RNG, for reminding me of Tinder rejections." He winced, his gaze dropping lower. "Yep. Same three-inch curse. Thanks for the trauma, System. Not today."

He shook his head and moved on. Another caught his eye: tall, broad shoulders, hair slicked back, a perfect V-taper torso. Karl crouched, inspecting. "Huh. Pretty boy vibes. Definitely the 'douchebag Chad' who gets all the girls at the frat parties. Attractive, sure, but no soul behind the eyes. Probably calls everyone 'bro.' He has the kind of face that makes other men want to punch him. No, too much social baggage."

Then came the oddballs. One had a handlebar mustache and curls of chest hair. Karl recoiled. "What the hell, Victorian circus strongman? Did you fall out of a time machine?" Another had arms so long they nearly touched the floor. "Slenderman's depressed cousin. Hard pass."

Then his eyes wandered. To the other side. The female figures. His brain neurons activated like a monkey. His eyes widened like a kid who just found the hidden candy stash. Tall, short, curvy, lean — breasts of every size, hips wide, narrow, long legs, short legs, hair cascading in every color. All silent. All gray-eyed.

Karl coughed into his fist. "Ahem. For research purposes only. I'm a lich, a master of death! It's purely for… anatomical study."

He walked along the line, pretending to be professional. The first was a petite one, barely over five feet. "Looks like she works at a coffee shop and draws sad poetry on napkins. Cute, but I'm not here for soft aesthetics."

Next was tall, athletic, six feet, abs chiseled, short hair. Karl's eyebrows shot up. "Okay… Amazon vibes. Could throw me across the room. Not complaining though. I bet she benches more than that angry potato guy."

Then a voluptuous figure with long black hair and dangerous curves. Karl's face went red. "Oh boy. Classic 'femme fatale' Ada Wong look. Definitely the kind that ruins lives and makes you say 'yes ma'am' while she steps on your chest. Nope, too distracting."

He slapped his cheeks. "Focus, Karl. You're not here to ogle ghoul waifus. You're here to pick you. And not the pathetic version." Still, his eyes lingered for a moment longer. "Damn though… system really went all out. This is basically Pornhub's search history turned into a biology catalog."

Finally, he turned back to the men's line, more determined. "Alright. Enough jokes. I get one shot. No way in hell I'm respawning as a five-foot-nine nerdy executive with micropeni—" He stopped himself. Shook his head. "Not again."

Then he saw it. The perfect form. Tall. Six-three. Broad shoulders but not grotesque. Muscles lean and sinewy, like someone who lived on push-ups and pull-ups instead of steroids. Long curly hair, brown, cascading like a shampoo commercial. Lashes dark, jawline sharp, cheekbones cut like marble. And—Karl gave an approving nod—endowment: respectable six inches. Not freakish. Not pathetic. Just… good. The kind of look that made people say, "He looks like a good guy," even before they knew him.

Karl's face split into a grin. "Oh hell yes. Gigachad ghoul mode unlocked. Six-three with curls, baby. I'm gonna walk out of here like a rockstar."

He turned, arms out wide, declaring to the void: "Goodbye three-inch Karl, goodbye five-ten NPC Karl. Hello six-three Casanova Karl! The Renaissance has begun!"

He reached forward, touched the figure's chest—

The void exploded into white.

--------------------------------------

Six hours later, the tombs stirred.

--------------------------------------

Six hours later, Karl's eyes flickered open. Darkness. Cold. His cheek pressed against unyielding stone. For a heartbeat he thought he was still dreaming, back in that endless white void. Then awareness hit like a jolt. He blinked, stared up at the slab above him. No way… it was real. It was just a stupid dream, right?

Karl raised his hand. It wasn't skeletal. It wasn't bone. It was flesh. Pale, snow-white, veins faint beneath the surface. His fingers flexed like he hadn't flexed them in years. "…Holy shit," he whispered. Then his lips curled upward. His chest shook. And a sound ripped free.

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" The tomb rang with manic laughter. "YES! YES! It wasn't a dream! I've finally got a body!"

He shoved at the lid, and to his shock, it slid open like it weighed nothing. He sat up, chest heaving. His eyes shot downward, and there it was: abs. Muscles. Flesh. Skin smoother than porcelain. And below—Karl let out another maniacal bark. "AHAHAHAHAHAHA! Finally! Six inches of divine retribution! Three-inch Karl is dead! Long live Gigachad Karl!"

The sound of stone shifting filled the chamber as other tombs opened. One by one, his minions sat up, each pale-skinned, each newly reborn. Some stocky, some towering, some lean. Men and women alike.

Karl's eyes darted across the rows, still laughing, still disbelieving. "Dolrik… oh my god." His eyes fell on a stocky, wide-shouldered figure, a bald head, thick forearms, and a face like an old grumpy blacksmith. Karl slapped the stone beside him. "That's the average blacksmith preset! I knew it! Dolrik, you absolute stereotype."

He scanned again, squinting. "Rook, where the hell—ah. There you are." His jaw slackened. Rook stood nearly seven feet tall, broad as a wall, a face sharp as if carved from stone, with thick brows giving him a brutal intensity. "Damn, he looks like a jacked Asian-American movie star. He's going to be in an action movie for sure."

Then Karl's eyes drifted lower. His grin faltered. His eyes bulged. "Waaaaaaahhhh—WHAT THE FUCK?!" He slapped the stone beside him. "Bro! That thing's a weapon of mass destruction! You're gonna kill someone with that. Calm down!"

Rook tilted his head, expression calm as ever, utterly unfazed.

Karl groaned, dragging his palm over his face. "Unbelievable. I ask for balance and you roll natural twenties." His gaze shifted. "Dullahan…" The knight stood tall, lean but muscular, with long black hair and a goatee framing a stern face. "Middle-aged silver fox vibes. Strong, dependable. At least your equipment's… y'know, reasonable. Female friendly."

Next, a slimmer figure emerged from a tomb, moving with quiet grace. Karl grinned. "Libera. Of course you went with the assassin build. Five-eleven, wiry, with sharp, calculating eyes. Looks like you just walked out of a wuxia movie. Perfect for a sneaky little bastard like you."

Karl kept scanning. His eyes stopped. His jaw dropped. "Why the fuck is Gordon Ramsay here?!"

One of the ghouls sat up, face a dead ringer for the celebrity chef. Blond hair, wrinkled forehead, a scowl locked in place. Karl pointed, eyes wide. "I don't believe this. I literally summoned you as a cook, and now you look like Gordon Ramsay. I'm cursed. This is my punishment for binging Kitchen Nightmares."

Another minion emerged, sharp-mustached, Italian features, thin but stern. Karl sighed. "And that's my artisan. Already giving Dolrik the side-eye like he's about to start a rivalry over chisels. Jesus Christ. Can't believe I'm running a soap opera."

Then Karl froze. His eyes narrowed. A familiar face emerged. Stocky. Gray curls. Middle-aged. "…Ossario?" Karl muttered. The tailor. He had named him after a man from his old life. A tailor. And now, here he was, looking like him. The resemblance was uncanny. Too uncanny. Karl shuddered, his past life bleeding into this one like an unwanted ghost. He scoffed, pushing the feeling down. "Alright. Fine. You do you, old man. Just make the clothes."

Then Karl's voice rang out. "Where's Leo? Where the hell is my second-in-command?"

A soft voice answered behind him. Feminine. Smooth.

"You called for me, my lord."

Karl stiffened. His spine went rigid. The voice sent a shiver crawling down his back. Slowly, he turned his head.

And there stood Leo — no longer Leo, the male sharp attendant in a neat suit, but something… else.