The scent of umber-beans, roasted low and slow over smoldering ember-wood, always started Rellian’s day right. He hummed a tuneless dirge as he hand-ground the dark, oily beans, the rhythmic scrape of stone on stone a comforting counterpoint to the distant, mournful creak of the structure's collapsing gears. Mist, perpetually rolling in from the edges of Floor 42, clung to the windowpanes of his cottage, blurring the neatly tilled garden rows into soft, indistinct mounds. He wore a patched linen apron over his faded canvas shirt, the fabric stained with nutrient-rich soil and the occasional splatter of something far less terrestrial. He poured the freshly ground powder into a thick, hand-carved mug, adding water that had been filtered through a moss-lined cistern, then set it on the glowing hearthstone. The bubbling gurgle was almost ready when a shadow detached itself from the creeping mist outside. It moved with too many limbs, too little sound, a multi-jointed horror that had clearly ignored the perimeter wards Rellian had painstakingly established. Rellian didn’t pause his humming. He reached for the heavy-bladed garden hoe leaning against the doorframe, its edge gleaming with a fresh hone. The Abyssal Stalker, all chitinous plates and obsidian claws, was halfway across the loam, its faceted eyes fixing on the plumpest, most impossibly verdant crop. It paused, a low, guttural chittering noise vibrating through its carapace, before lunging. Without breaking his rhythm, Rellian stepped out. The hoe moved with a practiced, almost bored efficiency, a blur of polished steel. The sharp *thwack* echoed in the damp air as the Stalker’s head, still chittering, detached from its neck with a wet tear of sinew. It tumbled amongst the leafy heads, its obsidian eyes dulling to slate. The headless body spasmed, then collapsed, spraying ichor across a perfect row of crimson-leafed brassicas. “Nasty business,” Rellian muttered, surveying the mess. He nudged the twitching corpse with a worn boot. “Schloop! Breakfast is served.” From behind the roasting shed, a low, warbling moan answered. The ground trembled slightly, and then a colossal, shimmering mass of iridescent green ooze slithered into view. Schloop, his beloved, world-ending sentient rot-slime, was roughly the size of a small barn, constantly dripping with viscous, nutrient-rich fluids. It paused, its single, glowing nucleus-eye blinking slowly, before undulating towards the Abyssal Stalker’s remains. A pseudopod, thick as a tree trunk, snaked out, enveloped the body, and retracted. The chitinous plates dissolved instantly, the ichor reabsorbed, leaving only a faint, healthy shimmer in the soil where the beast had fallen. [The Loom of Gloom weeps. Another gear falters. Forgive us, for the light fades. Your tireless toil, a lonely song against the gathering silence. Reward granted: Sun-Core Cabbage Seed.] Rellian blinked. A Sun-Core seed? He knelt, brushing away a stray leaf, and found a small, glowing seed, pulsing with a faint, golden light, nestled in the damp earth. He carefully picked it up, a flicker of something akin to surprise, a rare emotion for him, crossing his face. This was… unexpected. A mythical crop, said to draw energy directly from the dying heart of the spire itself. The very thing he needed, now in his hand. He sighed, placing the seed in a small, oiled pouch. Coffee was ready. The world could wait. *** Syran had expected screams. She had expected the acrid sting of poison gas, the panicked scuttle of cultists, the desperate pleas of hostages. Floor 42, the Twilight Terraces, was notorious for its lethal miasma, its cunningly hidden traps, and the sheer tenacity of its mutated flora. Her guild, the Obsidian Wardens, had spent weeks mapping its lower reaches, anticipating every horror. What she found was… rows of stout greens. And a barn. And a timber cottage, smoke curling lazily from its chimney. The air, far from being toxic, smelled faintly of roasted umber-beans and freshly turned earth. She stood amidst her hand-picked squad of elite Wardens, their enchanted blades drawn, their cloaks singed from the hasty breach through the outer shell, gaping at the utterly mundane scene. “Are we… on the right floor?” inquired Jaren, her second-in-command, his usually impassive face etched with utter bewilderment. “The coordinates are precise,” Syran stated, though her own voice remained rigid with doubt. Rellian had vanished from the vanguard months ago. His abrupt, unannounced retirement had sent ripples of confusion and suspicion through the entire Ascendant Council. To find him here, of all places, tending a *farm*? It defied all logic. Then he emerged from the doorway, wiping his hands on a soil-stained apron, holding a steaming mug. He looked… domestic. Dangerously, infuriatingly domestic. His eyes, once sharp and calculating, seemed softer, though the same quiet ruthlessness still lurked in their depths. He saw them, a dozen heavily armed warriors standing amidst his prize-winning brassicas, and merely raised an eyebrow. “Syran,” Rellian said, his voice flat, devoid of surprise. “You’re early for the winter harvest. Though, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you found my back door.” Syran’s gaze narrowed. He looked annoyingly well. Annoyingly calm. She remembered the unyielding grit that had made him the most feared vanguard. Now, he was just… a farmer. And that hurt more than she cared to admit. “Rellian,” she bit out, her own tone sharp, cutting through the cozy absurdity of the scene. “What in the blazes are you doing? Your post... people are speculating. You can’t just abandon everything to…” She gestured vaguely at the tilled plots, her fingers twitching with irritation. “…to do *this*.” He took a slow sip of his coffee. “Cultivating. It’s a very important task, Syran. Far more vital than squabbling over loot tables on Floor 70, I assure you.” Before she could retort, a guttural roar, deep and resonant enough to rattle the very foundations of the Ziggurat, tore through the air. The roof of Rellian's dwelling, a charmingly rustic construction, exploded inward. Timbers shrieked, thatch rained down, and a shower of splintered wood and stone cascaded onto the porch. Syran barely registered the crash. Her eyes, trained for threat assessment, locked onto the emerging figure. Towering, cloaked in writhing shadow, with six powerful, clawed arms that ripped through the remaining ceiling beams like wet paper. Kravos. The Abyssal Juggernaut, Floor 90’s terrifying boss, a creature thought to be utterly immovable from its post. He was here. “Form ranks!” Syran bellowed, her voice cutting through the Wardens’ startled gasps. “Prepare for combat! He’s broken containment!” Her twin blades, ‘Whisperwind’ and ‘Shadowfall,’ leapt into her hands, humming with stored power. This was it. The true reason for Rellian’s bizarre retirement. He had clearly been corrupted, or coerced into ruin. Kravos, his six arms flexing, let out another booming roar, but it sounded… impatient. He glared down at Rellian, who merely sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Kravos, you know there’s a door for that. You’re going to need to help me with repairs.” “Coffee!” Kravos’s voice, a gravelly rumble that usually heralded death and destruction, boomed through the shattered roof. “Where is my damn umber-bean?”

The Doomsday Harvest