A guttural, high-pitched shriek tore through the air, vibrating the very obsidian floor. Tato, who had been scrambling backwards on his hands and knees, froze. The newly monstrous killer bees, now pulsating titans of viridian light, descended upon him like a living, buzzing shroud. Each immense stinger, dripping corrosive ichor, jabbed into his skin with sickening wet thuds. He screamed again, a thin, reedy sound swallowed by the thunder of their wings. Rostvan, still half-reclined in his hammock, squinted. The buzzing was truly offensive. He’d almost drifted off, lulled by the distant gurgle of the hydroponic filters, but now *this*. Eteri, for her part, had instinctively drawn her runic shortsword, the Orbalith, its edge radiating a faint, protective sapphire light. The sudden shift from cozy domesticity to apocalyptic insectoid assault was jarring, even for a veteran Vanguard. Her gaze darted from the swarming bees to Rostvan, who merely grumbled. Tato’s cries of terror changed, abruptly. From piercing agony, they morphed into something high-pitched and bewildered. “My… my hair!” he squeaked. “It’s… it’s fluffy?” The swarm peeled back, leaving Tato trembling, covered in viscous, golden droplets. The ichor, instead of burning, glistened on his skin. He looked down at his hands, then up at Eteri. His gaunt, worried face had softened, the deep lines around his eyes vanishing. His sparse, lank hair had thickened, curling into a mop of vibrant, youthful brown. A few stray drops of the golden ichor had landed on his tattered scavenger’s tunic, instantly mending the holes and brightening the faded fabric to a pristine, almost new condition. Eteri stared. “What… what just happened?” “I feel… sprightly!” Tato chirped, doing an involuntary little jump. His voice, usually raspy, had gained a youthful lilt. He looked no older than fifteen. “And my back doesn’t hurt!” Rostvan sighed. “Of course, they did. The honey. It always does *something*.” He rubbed his temples. “Look, I just want five minutes of quiet. Is that too much to ask?” Suddenly, the entire grotto vibrated with a deafening, resonant boom. [ASCENSION MONOLITH INITIATING PHASE ONE: CONTINENTAL CLEANSING. DIVINE SEED ACTIVATED. WORLD-EATING PARASITE ‘IGNISIA’ COMMENCING PRIMARY EXPANSION. ALL ORGANIC MATTER ON FLOOR 100 WILL BE CONVERTED TO BIOMASS FOR GROWTH.] [SECONDARY OBJECTIVE: NURTURE IGNISIA. FAILURE TO SUPPORT GROWTH WILL RESULT IN DEACTIVATION OF FARMING PROTOCOLS AND INSTANTANEOUS DECONSTRUCTION OF HOST REALM.] Eteri gasped, her grip tightening on the Orbalith. “World-eating parasite? Deconstruction of host realm?” She spun to Rostvan, her face pale. “Do you hear this, you madman? The entire continent is in danger!” Rostvan pushed himself upright, his bare feet hitting the cool obsidian floor. He stretched, a series of pops echoing from his spine. He ambled towards the Divine Seed’s sprouting point, where a tiny, emerald shoot was already visible, pulsing with malevolent energy. The mutated bees, now truly titanic, buzzed erratically, their bodies swelling further, their glowing stingers growing to the size of shortswords. Their frantic flight paths generated miniature whirlwinds that whipped through the chamber, rustling the leaves of Rostvan’s prize cabbages. “The *noise*,” Rostvan muttered, rubbing his eyes. “It’s like a thousand tiny airships trying to land inside my skull.” He glanced at the Orbalith in Eteri’s hand, then at the various discarded pieces of dungeon armor piled in a corner – remnants of previous adventurers vaporized by his sprinklers. His gaze settled on Eteri’s hair. Specifically, the sturdy, braided loops she used to secure her fierce, dark ponytails. He reached out and snatched one of the loops from her hair, earning a sharp yelp. “Hey! What was that for?!” Eteri protested, clutching her now-loose hair. Rostvan ignored her, already rummaging through the pile of broken armor. He pulled out a dented breastplate, a fragmented gauntlet, and a corroded chainmail coif. He also grabbed a discarded fishing net he’d been planning to use for catching particularly plump cave-crabs. With bewildering speed and an unnervingly focused expression, he began to work. He melted the armor fragments using a minor heat-rune carved into his palm, shaping them into a series of interlocking, molten nodes. He then threaded Eteri’s sturdy hair ties through the nodes, creating a flexible, yet immensely strong, latticework. The fishing net he wove through the gaps, reinforcing the structure. Within seconds, a faintly humming net, about ten feet in diameter, materialized in his hands. It looked like a haphazard collection of salvaged junk, but the mana pulsing through it was intricate, precise, and terrifyingly efficient. “Stand back,” Rostvan announced, his voice devoid of any particular urgency, merely a mild irritation. “This buzzing is giving me a headache.” He flung the makeshift net upwards. It expanded in mid-air, a translucent web of light and salvaged metal. The mutated bees, still spiraling in chaotic patterns, flew directly into it. As the net enveloped them, the glowing nodes flared. A series of rapid, almost imperceptible shifts occurred within the net’s structure. The space *inside* the net seemed to compress. The titanic bees, moments ago filling a vast portion of the vault, were instantly, brutally shrunken. Their colossal bodies folded in on themselves, their roaring buzzes reduced to faint, distant hums. They became tiny, glowing motes, trapped within the compressed confines of the net, now no larger than a child’s toy. They still pulsed with viridian light, but their menace was gone, replaced by impotent, miniature rage. The net, now containing the entirety of the rampaging apiary, drifted gently downwards, settling into a designated corner where Rostvan had rigged a small, enchanted hook. He yawned, stretching his arms above his head. “Much better. Now, where was I?” He started to move back towards his hammock. Eteri stood frozen, her mouth agape. Her hair tie, now a component of a device that had just neutralized an apocalyptic threat, still felt absent from her head. She looked from the tiny, contained apian apocalypse to Rostvan’s retreating back, then to the emerald shoot of the ‘Divine Seed’ which continued to pulse, quietly, menacingly. The System’s booming voice still echoed in her mind: *World-eating parasite. Continental cleansing.* “You just… compressed them?” she whispered, disbelief thick in her voice. “You used… my hair ties… to contain a hive of monstrous, world-threatening insects?” Before Rostvan could respond, a new radiance filled the chamber. Not the chaotic emerald flare of the Ignisia, nor the viridian of the bees, but a cool, authoritative silver. A massive hologram flickered into existence near the entrance, projecting from a powerful scrying crystal embedded in the rock. It depicted a tall, imposing figure with an impeccably trimmed beard and eyes like chips of flint. He wore the guild crest upon his silvery cuirass: Kaelin Vorlag, supreme leader of her order, his mouth set in rigid fury. His booming voice, amplified by magic, reverberated through the now-silent farm. “Attention, denizens of the Zeda Spire! This is Guildmaster Kaelin Vorlag! For too long, the resources of Floor 100 have been hoarded by an unknown entity! No longer! Our scouts have reported unprecedented mana fluctuations, indicating a bountiful harvest of powerful magical flora! By the sacred pacts of the High Council, our vanguard claims this entire floor in the name of the people of Kartlia! We are initiating a full-scale siege! Prepare to surrender all magical crops and artifacts, or face our total might! Failure to comply will be met with… extreme prejudice!” The holographic projection flickered, and Kaelin Vorlag’s flinty gaze swept across the vault, taking in the impossible farm, the strange, lustrous plants, and then, finally, resting on Eteri, who stood frozen beside Rostvan, her hair still disheveled and her sword still drawn. The Guildmaster’s stern expression morphed into one of cold, unwavering fury. “Vanguard Eteri! What in the Void are you doing fraternizing with the enemy?”

Compressing the Apocalypse