“Vanguard Eteri! What in the Void are you doing fraternizing with the enemy?” The warlord's voice, usually a carefully modulated baritone, cracked with incredulity, echoing off the obsidian walls. The spectral transmission shuddered, his severe, patrician features contorted into a mask of pure indignation. His stare bore into Eteri, who still clutched her sword, sweat beading across her forehead. Eteri stiffened, her posture rigid, though Rostvan didn’t care what she felt as long as the booming voice disrupted his fragile silence. He’d just managed to coax the mutated honey-titans into a spatial net, and now this. More noise. More drama. He yawned, a wide, cavernous stretch that earned him a sharp glare from the projected Guildmaster. “Answer me, Eteri! Are you collaborating with this… this *farmer*?!” The commander's voice ratcheted up another notch, bordering on a shout. “Your absence from the siege preparations has been noted! Your oath, Eteri! Your sacred oath to the silver order!” Eteri’s grip on her sword tightened until her knuckles were white. She looked from the furious projection to Rostvan, who was now idly poking an iridescent squash with a stick. Then, her gaze swept across the bizarre, verdant expanse of Floor 100 – the glowing crops, the glinting irrigation canals, the contained but still menacing buzz of the killer-bee apiary, and the peculiar, almost comforting scent of rich earth and cooked vegetables. A small, almost imperceptible sigh escaped her lips. “My oath,” Eteri said, her voice quiet but clear, cutting through Kaelin’s bluster. “My oath was to defend Kartlia from actual threats, and to uphold peace and order.” Vorlag scoffed. “And you believe this… *anomaly*… represents peace and order? This creature who has hoarded the Spire’s bounty for himself, while our guilds bleed below? He is a threat, Eteri! A blatant, unyielding threat to our stability!” “Is he?” Eteri countered, raising an eyebrow. “Or is he simply cultivating greens? While *you* are here, declaring a siege on a vegetable patch, preparing to wage war over… magical fertilizer.” She gestured vaguely at Rostvan’s prized compost heap. “I have spent years fighting your ‘threats,’ High Marshal. Years of pointless skirmishes, of political maneuvering, of watching good people die for scraps of mana and empty titles.” The projection's face turned a shade of puce. “Are you implying I am wrong, Eteri? Are you questioning my judgment?” “I am stating facts,” Eteri said. She looked directly into his phantom eyes. “I am tired, Marshal. Tired of the bloodshed, tired of the pretense. I would rather plant roots than rip them out.” She then did something that made Rostvan actually blink, interrupting his casual squash-poking. Eteri, Vanguard of the expedition, unbuckled her sword belt, the polished scabbard clattering softly against the obsidian floor. “Consider this my formal resignation from the guild. Effective immediately. I’d rather be a farmhand on Floor 100 than fight another of your pointless wars.” Silence settled across the plots, save for the faint hum of the killer bees. Vorlag’s mouth hung open, his spectral form warping slightly as if struggling to process the pronouncement. Rostvan merely nodded, a slight uptick at the corner of his lips. “Good. Less noise,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. He was already contemplating the optimal placement for a new hammock. Tato, who had been cowering behind an oversized cluster of luminescent tuber-roots, finally dared to peek out. He’d been silently munching on a raw, dirt-streaked potato, convinced that if he stayed quiet, no one would notice him. But then Eteri’s words, “magic fertilizer,” “bounty,” and “hoarded,” began to echo in his tiny, overstimulated brain. He’d been selling Rostvan’s excess produce for weeks. He, Tato, the humble scavenger, had been the one distributing this “bounty.” His eyes darted to the overflowing crates of Void-Greens, the radiant sacks of Chrono-Grain, the impossibly large tuber-roots – the very produce he’d been hawking for ludicrous prices in the black markets of the lower Spire. The sheer volume… the sheer, unimaginable *power* contained within each vegetable. He remembered the eager warlords, the desperate merchants, the ridiculous sums they’d paid. He’d thought he was just making a quick coin, a small fortune. But then Eteri’s words hit him again: “unprecedented mana fluctuations,” “bountiful harvest,” “claims this entire floor.” Tato’s small, youthful face, freshly rejuvenated by killer-bee honey, went pale. A choked gasp escaped him. “Oh, Void-Lord no…” he whimpered, dropping the potato. It bounced cleanly off the stone without a bruise. “The prices… the *prices*! They changed! I thought it was just a good week! A really, really good month!” He scrambled out from behind the tubers, his hands flailing. “They were paying five hundred Sols for a single Chrono-Grain! A THOUSAND for a Void-Head! I thought I was a genius! I thought I was just *good* at haggling!” He started hyperventilating, his small chest heaving. “But it wasn’t me! It was the *supply*! It was the sheer, overwhelming, *continent-crushing supply*!” His pupils shrank as he locked onto the flickering image of Vorlag, who was now stammering to regain his composure after Eteri’s bombshell. “He’s talking about *my* crops! *Our* crops! The ‘unprecedented mana fluctuations’ are from *my* sales! Oh, I’ve broken it! I’ve broken the entire financial market!” Tato clutched his head, swaying precariously. “I’m the most wanted man in Kartlia! Not Rostvan! *Me*! They’ll hang me by my ankles and use me as a scarecrow for… for tax evaders!” He let out a high-pitched, almost comical shriek of despair. “The potato broker has wrecked continental trade! I’m ruined! We’re all ruined!” [ASCENSION MONOLITH: WARNING. CONTINENTAL ECONOMIC COLLAPSE DETECTED. IMMEDIATE RECALIBRATION PROTOCOLS INITIATED. NEW WORLD ECONOMIC POWER: FLOOR 100. CONGRATULATIONS, OVERLORD ROSTVAN. YOU HAVE ACHIEVED: TYCOON OF TERRAFORMED TERRAIN.] Rostvan sighed. “Seriously? More noise?” He rubbed his temples, a headache brewing from the sheer volume of chaotic information assaulting his ears. He just wanted a nap. He wanted a week of uninterrupted, blissful slumber, far away from guildmasters, economic collapses, and world-ending parasites. He glanced at the sputtering image, which looked ready to detonate with rage. “Can someone just… mute him?” Rostvan grumbled, extending a hand. A faint ripple of mana warped the air, and then, with a sound like tearing silk, a fist-sized spatial fissure opened directly in front of the projection's face. The rift zipped around the light, snapping tight around its base. With a soft *thwip*, the commander's image simply dissolved, the booming voice cut off. The cavern fell silent once more. Eteri blinked, surprise cracking her impassive expression. “You… you just turned him off.” “He was loud,” Rostvan said simply, already eyeing a particularly soft patch of moss near the apiary. “I need quiet for my nap. This whole… ‘Continental Cleansing’ thing, and now economic collapse, is exhausting.” Eteri looked at the spot where the projection had hovered, then at the terrified, whimpering Tato, then at Rostvan, who was already stretching, preparing to lie down. A strange resolve settled on her face. “If you want to sleep,” she said, picking up her fallen sword belt and re-securing it, “I can make sure no one bothers you. My old ranks might be… short a vanguard now. But I still know how to defend a perimeter. Consider it… payment for the stew.” Rostvan paused, mid-stretch, and looked at her. Her expression was calm, steady, unyielding. He considered the offer. One less thing to worry about. One less interruption to his precious naptime. He nodded slowly. “Deal. Just… keep the noise down. And don’t touch the Divine Seed. That thing is a pain.” He laid back, pulling a stray Void-Cabbage leaf over his face as a makeshift eye mask, already drifting off. Eteri, for her part, drew her sword, the steel singing softly as she tested its balance. She took up a position near the main entrance, her gaze sharp, her stance ready. She was no longer a guild member, but a farmhand. A very, very well-armed farmhand. Just as Rostvan’s breathing deepened into the soft rhythm of approaching sleep, a low, guttural thrum emanated from the center of the farm. The ground began to tremble, not violently, but with a deep, resonant hum that vibrated through the very obsidian. From the spot where Rostvan had buried the Divine Seed, thick, thorny void-vines erupted from the earth, blacker than pitch, writhing like angry serpents. They shot upwards, growing with impossible speed, spiraling around each other until they formed a tangled, pulsating mass. Then, with a sound like a thousand ceramic plates shattering at once, the void-vines plunged themselves into the very fabric of reality. The air split and sheared wide open, revealing a swirling vortex of utter blackness – a chasm that swallowed light and sound alike. The abyss itself had opened. A familiar, massive form, clad in its giant straw hat, was tending to a patch of iridescent mushrooms nearby. Gorgasla, the abyssal dungeon boss, let out a surprised, deep-throated gurgle as one of the thorny void-vines, like a living whip, lashed out, wrapping around her massive, shadowy leg. She roared, a sound of pure shock and indignation, as the vine tugged, pulling her inexorably towards the tearing void. “HEY! My rent isn’t due ‘til… AAAAAAAAH!” Gorgasla shrieked, her giant straw hat wobbling precariously, as the tear in reality swallowed her whole, dragging her, screaming, into the abyss.

The Potato Broker's Panic Attack