The rhythmic *thwump-thwump* of the specialized mana-dampened suspended cot usually lulled Rostvan into a coma-like slumber. Not today. Today, the distant clang of metal on obsidian, followed by a chorus of panicked war cries, was entirely too close for comfort. His week-long nap—a meticulously planned operation involving three days of pre-setup and a self-filling mug of chamomile tea—was precisely three hours and seventeen minutes into its critical phase. This intrusion was unacceptable. He squinted one eye open. The ceiling of his Floor 100 sanctuary, which used to be a jagged, miasma-choked cave system, now glowed with the soft, steady light of phosphorescent lichen and hummed with the gentle thrum of the automated irrigation system. But directly above, a new, angry red fissure spiderwebbed across the reinforced bedrock. Through it, he saw a boot—a very large, very armored boot—descending with alarming speed. Then another. And another. “Agh! The Vanguard’s Breach has cleared the path! Move, you useless sacks of… what is this *stench*?!” A gruff voice echoed, followed by a chorus of shouts and the scraping of heavy greaves. An entire squad of heavily armed individuals, clad in gleaming obsidian-laced armor with the insignia of the Crimson Claw, spilled through the newly formed opening. They looked around, their eyes wide, expecting a demon lord’s lair. Instead, they found rows of impossibly vibrant kohlrabi, shimmering with faint magical energy, and a field of giant, purple-stalked cabbages. “By the Great Sky-Serpent… this isn’t the Dreadmaw’s Keep!” one of them spluttered, lowering his ornate broadsword. “Where are the… where are the *horrors*?” Rostvan sighed. He pinched the bridge of his nose, which was currently resting on a particularly fluffy cloud-silk pillow. This was always the problem. They expected horrors. He gave them organic produce. It was a simple misunderstanding, really, but one that always ended with him having to reset the automated defenses. He extended a lazy hand, barely disturbing the sling's sway. A tiny, nearly invisible rune etched into the obsidian wall above their heads flared to life. The squad leader, a burly woman with a fearsome scar twisting her lip, noticed it too late. Her brow furrowed, not in fear, but in confusion. “What in the… *blessings of Khartu* is that?” she growled, pointing her sword at the glowing glyph. The rest of her team, already disoriented by the verdant anomaly, turned to look. *SSSSSSSSSST!* Before any of them could react, the meticulously designed irrigation sprinklers, which usually misted the crops with nutrient-rich mana-water, whirred to life. Instead of a gentle spray, however, they unleashed concentrated torrents of ‘Acid-Rain of Vexos,’ a magical concoction Rostvan had engineered to deal with particularly stubborn blight. Or, as it turned out, particularly stubborn raiding parties. One moment, they were a formidable force of elite warriors. The next, they were dissolving puddles of sizzling armor and shrieking echoes. The process took precisely 3.4 seconds. Rostvan had timed it, of course. Efficiency was key, even in annihilation. “*Gah!*” A high-pitched squeak pierced the settling quiet. Rostvan’s eye snapped open fully this time. He craned his neck, spotting a quivering lump of rags and fear hiding behind a surprisingly robust patch of crimson-leafed spinach. It was Tato, the perpetual scavenger, whose presence on Floor 100 was a mystery only slightly less baffling than the existence of Rostvan’s farm itself. Tato, a man whose default state was 'hyperventilating panic,' was currently achieving new levels of distress. His eyes, already bulging, darted from the steaming puddles of former raiders to Rostvan, who was now slowly, ponderously, rising from his suspended canvas. “D-d-don’t kill me, oh great Overlord of the… the leafy things!” Tato stammered, his voice cracking like dry kindling. “I was just… exploring! Just trying to find a decent mana shard! I saw them come through! I didn’t help! I swear on my mother’s lucky pickaxe, I didn’t help them!” Rostvan stretched, a series of pops and cracks rippling through his joints. “Tato. You know the rules. No unauthorized breaches. And absolutely no screaming. I was *asleep*.” Tato winced, shrinking further behind the spinach. “But they were *elite*! The Crimson Claw! They say their Vanguard can cleave a Grolak-Beast in half with a single strike! You… you turned them into… into *soup*!” Rostvan merely yawned. “They interrupted my nap. And now I have to recalibrate the mana-dampeners. See? Inefficiency. It costs me precious minutes of rest.” He gestured vaguely at the lingering mist of corrosive mana that was slowly being absorbed by the farm’s air purifiers. Just as Tato was about to offer another desperate plea, a blinding flash erupted from the center of the farm. A deep, resonant voice, like tectonic plates grinding together, boomed through the air, making the cavern tremble. [ASCENSION MONOLITH SYSTEM ALERT: INTRUSION DETECTED. IMMEDIATE THREAT NEUTRALIZED. FARM DEFENSES PROVEN EFFECTIVE. CONGRATULATIONS, OVERLORD ROSTVAN. YOUR FARM HAS REACHED LEVEL 7.2. NEW REWARD UNLOCKED.] [INITIATING REWARD DELIVERY: DIVINE SEED OF THE COSMIC BLOOM.] A small, pulsating kernel of pure, incandescent light shimmered into existence a few feet from Rostvan’s face. It floated there, radiating warmth and a faint, almost imperceptible hum that promised untold power. Rostvan frowned. The noise from the spire's voice alone had been enough to shatter any hope of salvaging his nap. “A Celestial Kernel?” Tato whispered, his panic momentarily replaced by awe. “The legends say those can grant wishes! Or grow sprawling forests overnight! Or even… even revive the dead!” Rostvan poked the luminous orb with a disdainful finger. “More trouble than it’s worth, probably. Last time, it was that ‘Eternal Ambrosia’ that made all the bees grow four times their size and develop an unhealthy obsession with opera. Took weeks to train them out of it.” He let out a long, put-upon sigh. “And now it’s making that irritating high-pitched *whine*.” He eyed Tato. Tato immediately flinched. “You. Hyperventilating sales broker.” “T-Tato, sir! At your service, sir! What can I… what can I do for the Overlord of the Soil?” Tato stammered, practically bowing into the spinach. “Congratulations. You’re my new delivery boy. See that shining kernel? It’s making too much noise. Take it. Get it off Floor 100. Sell it to some unsuspecting warlord for some gold and a week’s supply of those spiced honey cakes I like. And make sure it doesn’t wake me up again.” Rostvan waved a dismissive hand, already turning back towards his hammock. Tato stared at the kernel, then at Rostvan’s retreating form. “But… but what if I can’t sell it, sir? What if it’s… dangerous?” Rostvan stopped, turning his head just slightly. “Then throw it in the compost bin. Just shut the pillar up. I need another three days of solid sleep.” Before Tato could protest further, Rostvan conjured a small, perfectly aged wooden chest, deposited the radiant kernel into it, and then, with a flick of his wrist, magically sealed it. He then tossed the chest to Tato, who barely caught it, nearly collapsing under its sudden, profound weight. With a final, weary groan, Rostvan settled back into his hammock, pulling a silken eye-mask over his face. [ASCENSION MONOLITH SYSTEM ALERT: DIVINE SEED OF THE COSMIC BLOOM HAS BEEN DEPOSITED IN COMPOST RECEPTACLE. UNORTHODOX, BUT TECHNICALLY… PLANTED. FARM EXPANSION IMMINENT. WARNING: DAILY PRUNING MANDATORY. FAILURE TO MAINTAIN WILL RESULT IN WORLD-EATING PARASITIC OVERGROWTH.] The booming announcement, slightly muffled by Rostvan’s eye-mask, caused the stone floor to shudder. Tato, still clutching the chest, stared at the compost bin, then back at Rostvan, who was already emitting soft snores. *World-eating parasitic overgrowth?* Tato swallowed a mouthful of fear, a new type of dread settling in his gut. Suddenly, the reinforced ceiling above them didn’t just crack; it *shattered*. A massive chunk of volcanic glass and bedrock detached with a deafening crash, pulverizing a patch of prize-winning sun-grapes. Through the gaping hole, a figure plummeted. It was Eteri, the stoic, battle-hardened Vanguard of the Platinum Zenith guild, the continent’s most feared warrior. Her armor was dented, her usually pristine sword sheath was scorched, and a fresh gash bled freely down her cheek. She landed with a bone-jarring impact, squarely in Rostvan’s prized cabbage patch.

The Automated Annihilation of the Apex Raiding Party