The chasm in reality snapped shut with a sound like a wet towel being wrung out by a giant, leaving behind only the lingering scent of ozone and something akin to burnt almonds. Tato, who had been hiding behind a particularly robust Rhiza-cabbage, let out a whimper that vibrated the very leaves. Eteri’s hand, though still on the hilt of her sword, lowered slightly, her gaze fixed on the spot where the abyssal tear had been. Even Rostvan, who had merely shifted slightly in his suspended cot, cracked open one eye. “Did it just… eat Gorgasla?” Tato squeaked, his voice barely a thread. Before anyone could answer, a small, dark projectile was suddenly *launched* from the empty air with a startling *FWUMP!* It arced across the chamber, trailing what looked suspiciously like loose lint, before landing with a soft, pathetic thud in the middle of Rostvan’s prize patch of shimmering, bioluminescent Skymelon. The giant straw hat, somehow still perfectly perched, wobbled precariously. Rostvan sat upright, staring. “Did that… just spit out my tenant?” The form on the ground was, unmistakably, Gorgasla. But the terrifying abyssal aura, the shadowy, indistinct mass, the hulking dread-beast presence… it was all gone. What remained was a creature the size of a mountain pony, covered head to toe in dense, charcoal-grey down. Two large, quivering antennae twitched above oversized, iridescent eyes that glistened with unshed tears. Gorgasla, the terror of the lower Spire, was now a giant, terrified moth, still wearing her ridiculously oversized straw hat. The moth-beast scrambled to its feet, emitting high-pitched, distressed squeaks. It glanced around with wide, frantic eyes, then caught sight of Tato. With a desperate flutter, it launched itself at the scavenger, burying its plush face in Tato’s chest. Tato, who was already hyperventilating, choked on a gasp. “Whoa! What in the… Gorgasla?” The giant moth rubbed its head against Tato’s tunic, emitting a mournful, muffled *mrrrp* that shook Tato’s entire frame. The straw hat tilted awkwardly. Eteri blinked. “That… that is the abyssal dungeon boss?” she murmured, her voice a low, disbelieving whisper. She looked from the whimpering moth to Rostvan, an unreadable expression on her face. Rostvan, however, was already turning his attention to the true problem. The void-vines, now unburdened by Gorgasla’s weight, continued their insidious growth. Thick, thorny tendrils pulsed with an unnatural violet light, already reaching for the vault ceiling. He pointed a lazy finger at them. “Mechanical Pruner: Activate.” Around the perimeter of the sprawling growth, an array of enchanted shears, suspended on articulate mana-powered arms, whirred to life. Gleaming blades, etched with rune-wards against corrosive magic, extended and snapped. With brisk *snips*, they began to trim the lesser runners, vindicating Rostvan’s hours spent rigging mechanisms to avoid manual yard work. But as the shears approached the thickest, black-purple void-vines, something went wrong. The mana-powered arms strained, their gears grinding. A few sparks flew from the joints. Then, with rhythmic dull *CLANGS*, the enchanted blades, designed to cut through hardened dungeon iron, simply *bounced* off the void-vines. No, not bounced. They *shattered*, fragments of rune-steel clattering to the ground like discarded toys. [ERROR: IGNISIA VOID-VINES IMPERVIOUS TO AUTOMATED PRUNING. MANUAL INTERVENTION REQUIRED. PRIMAL MATTER RESISTANCE DETECTED. WEAPONS OF MYTHIC CALIBER RECOMMENDED.] The booming voice of the Ascension Monolith echoed through the grotto, making the newly plush Gorgasla leap in Tato’s arms with another frightened *mrrrp*. Rostvan’s mouth dropped open. “Manual intervention?” he repeated, his voice devoid of its usual languid drawl. It was a flat, horrified monotone. “Are you telling me… I have to *touch* it?” His perfect, uninterrupted week of sleep, the dream he had spent sleepless days engineering, dissolved into thin air. The sheer *indignity* of manual labor was unbearable. He stared at the shattered shears, then at the relentlessly growing vines, then at the offending System message. “Every four hours,” Rostvan muttered, his voice laced with the venom of a thousand broken naps. “Every four hours, I have to *manually* prune this overgrown weed of an apocalypse? This is an outrage! This is an insult to the very concept of efficiency!” He glared at the Monolith, as if it were a particularly noisy alarm clock. Eteri, who had been observing the scene with her usual calm, stepped forward. “What kind of weapon would it take? The Blade of Aeons, perhaps?” She gestured to the overflowing bucket where Gorgasla deposited rent-swords. Rostvan squinted at the bucket. “It only takes ‘Mythic Caliber,’ huh? Typical. Always upping the ante.” He stalked over to the bucket, rummaging through the pile of legendary weaponry. His fingers closed around the hilt of a sword that hummed faintly with ancient power. It was the **Serpent-Kiss Blade**, its curved edge shimmering with an unnatural cold. He pulled it free, testing its weight. “Fine. But I’m not happy about it. Not one bit.” He strode toward the parasite, looking for all the world like a man forced to clean out a particularly stubborn drain. With a grunt of pure, unadulterated resentment, Rostvan swung the Serpent-Kiss Blade. The mythical sword sliced through the thick void-vine with surprising ease, a cascade of dark, inert sap oozing from the wound. He chopped again, and again, the rhythmic *thwack* of blade on vine filling the hollow. Sweat beaded on his brow, his usually immaculate hair falling into his eyes. “This is ridiculous!” he complained, punctuating each swing. “I designed a fully automated compost system, a self-fertilizing soil matrix, a *killer-bee apiary that reverses aging!* And now I have to… *exercise*? What kind of cruel joke is this?” Eteri watched him, her expression softening almost imperceptibly. He grumbled, he swore, he complained about the lack of proper lumbar support in his cot, about the ‘unnecessary expenditure of kinetic energy.’ Yet, he swung the blade with a practiced, almost graceful power, clearing an impressive swathe of the encroaching vines. There was a strange, raw appeal to his intense, focused annoyance, a quiet strength beneath the torrent of gripes. The flickering light from the Skymelons cast long, dancing shadows, highlighting the lean lines of his back as he worked. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer I take over?” Eteri offered, her voice unusually gentle. Rostvan paused, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He glanced at her, then back at the vines. “And let this insidious plant win? Never. I’ll prune this thing into submission if it’s the last thing I do before my nap.” He swung the Serpent-Kiss Blade again, severing another vine with a satisfying *CRACK*. [WARNING: EXTERNAL THREAT DETECTED. THREE SENTIENT ENTITIES APPROACHING FLOOR 100. DESIGNATION: ‘HARVESTERS’.] [PURPOSE: PROTECTION OF IGNISIA SEED. ALL ASCENSION PROTOCOLS SUSPENDED. PREPARE FOR INTERCEPTION.]

The Horror of Manual Labor