Rostvan awoke to the insistent warmth of a sunbeam tickling his eyelids, a sensation so foreign he almost swatted it away like an errant fly. He stretched, a deep, bone-cracking yawn escaping his lips, his limbs feeling like buttered noodles. The hanging sling, woven from enchanted spider-silk and reinforced with woven cloud-fiber, cradled him perfectly. It had been seven days. Seven glorious, uninterrupted days. No booming proclamations, no angry tyrants, no agitated plant life. Just blissful, absolute sleep.
He blinked, adjusting to the gentle, verdant light filtering through the canopy of the revitalized Zeda Spire farm. The obsidian floor, once scarred and cracked by the near-apocalypse, was now a plush carpet of verdant moss, studded with plump, violet-hued cabbages. Above, the sky of Floor 100, once a swirling vortex of miasma, was a serene, cerulean expanse, dotted with lazy, cumulus clouds. His automated irrigation system hummed a soft, contented tune.
“Morning, sleepyhead.”
Rostvan’s gaze drifted to the edge of his vegetable patch. Eteri stood by a bubbling cauldron, stirring a rich, aromatic stew. Her armor was gone, replaced by a simple tunic of spun cloud-fiber, stained with a smudge of what looked suspiciously like berry juice. Her usually severe features were softened by the steam rising from the pot, a faint smile playing on her lips.
“Seven days,” Rostvan mumbled, his voice thick with disuse. “You actually did it.”
“You promised me stew,” Eteri said, her voice a low murmur, devoid of its usual clipped authority. “A deal’s a deal.” She ladled a generous portion into a hand-carved wooden bowl, the scent of slow-cooked meat and unfamiliar herbs making Rostvan’s stomach rumble in protest.
He swung his legs over the woven mesh, a rare burst of energy propelling him to the small, rustic table Eteri had set up. He dug into the stew, each spoonful a revelation. Tender meat, crushed wild leeks, and a rich broth coated his tongue.
“Where’s Tato?” Rostvan asked between mouthfuls. “And Gorgasla?”
As if summoned, a small, cherubic figure bounded into view, carrying a stack of leather-bound ledgers almost as tall as he was. Tato, still miraculously youthful from the killer-bee honey, beamed. His usual hyperventilating had been replaced by a disconcerting, almost manic cheerfulness.
“Rostvan! You’re awake! It’s magnificent! It’s glorious! It’s… financially catastrophic, but in the best possible way!” Tato dumped the ledgers onto the table, sending a few loose coins clattering.
“What’s financially catastrophic, Tato?” Eteri asked, her brow arching slightly.
“The peace treaty!” Tato practically vibrated with excitement. “After the, you know, *explosion*… and the subsequent disappearance of the Zeda Spire’s most aggressive conquerors… everyone started looking for a new source of power. And well, we had it! The… the *remains*!”
Rostvan paused, a spoonful of stew hovering near his lips. “Remains?”
“The Ignisia seed! Or what was left of it, after your… *pruning*,” Tato explained, gesturing wildly. “It didn’t just vanish! It disintegrated into a fine, nutrient-rich dust! And it turns out, that dust… that pulverized grit… it supercharges *everything*! Crops, livestock, even minor spellcasting! We’re calling it ‘Essence of the World-Eater’ or ‘Zeda Gold,’ depending on the buyer!”
Rostvan stared. “You sold the mulch?”
“Not just sold it! I negotiated a *peace treaty*! All the surviving warlords, the Grand Duchy of Kaleti, the Iron Legion of Vash, even the secretive Sorcerer-Kings of Gevra – they’re all paying exorbitant ‘Spire Preservation Taxes’ to Floor 100! In exchange for scheduled deliveries of our… *divine loam*!” Tato puffed out his chest. “The entire continent is now funding your naps, Rostvan! We are the undisputed economic epicenter!”
Rostvan leaned back, a slow, satisfied smirk spreading across his face. “So, no more warlords, no more heroes, no more monsters trying to wake me up?”
“Absolutely not!” Tato declared. “Anyone who tries to disturb the ‘Overlord of Floor 100’ will face the full economic might of Kartlia, not to mention a very stern lecture from me about contractual obligations!”
Eteri, for her part, simply nodded, a quiet force of nature. “And me. I’m the new bouncer. Anyone foolish enough to breach the hundredth floor gets a direct consultation with the blunt end of my axe, followed by a trip to the nearest refuse heap.” Her tone left no room for argument. Warmth spread through Rostvan's ribs, thick with broth and the quiet certainty of her steel.
Just then, a surprisingly delicate flutter of wings caught Rostvan’s attention. Gorgasla, still in its fluffy moth form, drifted past, gently pollinating a patch of luminous, crimson-petaled flowers that had replaced the killer-bee apiary. Its massive straw hat, perched precariously on its fuzzy head, somehow remained perfectly balanced.
“Look at him,” Tato cooed. “He loves the new Nectaris Blooms! Says the pollen is ‘exceptionally potent’ for his… ‘abyssal metabolism.’ He even paid his rent early this cycle! A legendary ‘Warp-Weaver’s Scythe’!”
Rostvan surveyed his domain. The farm was more vibrant than ever. The air was clean, the silence profound, save for the gentle hum of his machines and the occasional happy chitter from Gorgasla. Eteri was here, making stew. Tato was handling the world’s finances. He could, finally, truly, properly sleep.
He finished his stew, a sigh of pure contentment escaping him. He could almost feel the call of his hammock already. A full week. He could stretch it to two. Maybe a month. With Eteri on guard and Tato brokering peace through produce, the world could burn and he wouldn’t even notice.
He was just about to push back from the table when a faint, almost imperceptible *thump* echoed from above. It was so soft, so quiet, that Eteri merely twitched an ear, and Tato didn’t even register it, lost in his ledgers.
But Rostvan heard it. He knew that sound. It was the sound of a new prompt, a new message. He glanced up at the vaulted rock above.
[UNIVERSE-EATING PUMPKIN SEED ACQUIRED]
The text appeared in a serene, shimmering script, utterly silent, completely devoid of the usual bombastic pronouncements. It just… was. A single, ominous line. No fanfare. No deafening roar. Just the quiet, terrifying promise of another apocalyptic headache.
Rostvan groaned, a long, drawn-out sound of pure despair. He pulled the cloud-fiber blanket from his hammock, ignoring Tato’s startled chirp and Eteri’s questioning glance, and pulled it over his head, burying himself in its soft, blissful darkness. “Not now,” he mumbled into the fabric. “Not again.” The world, it seemed, still refused to let him sleep.