The massive root, black as pitch and thick as an ancient oak, tightened its grip around Tato, lifting him clear off his feet. He dangled precariously, inches from the newly formed maw that pulsed with sickly green light, its jagged, crystalline teeth gleaming. A faint, sweet aroma, like overripe fruit mixed with rust, wafted from the void. Tato gasped frantically against the constriction, his pulse drumming against his ribs. He could feel the root’s fibrous tendrils pressing into his ribs, squeezing the air from his lungs. His vision swam. This was it. The end. His glorious career as a potato baron, cut short by an overgrown weed with a hunger problem. Then, a sudden, blinding flash of metallic silver. It wasn’t a thought, not even a decision. It was pure, unadulterated instinct, born from a lifetime of running and finally, utterly, having nowhere left to go. His hand, shaking uncontrollably, had shot to his side, snatching the ornate, absurdly long blade from the empty sack he still clutched. The Blade of Aeons, stolen from Gorgasla’s rent bucket weeks ago, had become his personal lucky charm, a polished distraction for his moments of intense fear. He’d never even tried to wield it. Now, fear gave way to a primal, desperate surge. With a gasping cry that was more defiance than panic, Tato, small and trembling, brought the blade down. It whistled through the air, an impossible arc of ancient power, meeting the thick root with a clean, devastating *shing*. The sheer force of the blow reverberated up his arm, making his teeth rattle, but the root snapped. Cleanly. A sickening, wet thud echoed as Tato crumpled to the ground, freed. The severed root, still pulsing with residual energy, thrashed once more before falling limp. But from the raw, open wound, a thick, viscous sap, the color of bruised plums, began to ooze. It hissed upon contact with the engine room’s floor, a faint acrid smoke rising. Rostvan, who had been leisurely observing the struggle with a resigned sigh, blinked. “Oh, that’s just rude,” he mumbled, already calculating the structural integrity. Eteri, however, gasped. The sap, spreading quickly, began to eat through the reinforced alloy of the floor with alarming speed, rotting it into a bubbling, foul-smelling sludge. Bits of the ceiling, now the underside of Rostvan’s tranquil farm, began to drip with the corrosive goo. A single drop landed on a coil of rope, and the sturdy fibers instantly vaporized. The sap spread further, a creeping blight of purple destruction. It climbed the exposed beams, liquefying the intricate runic etchings Rostvan had carved for structural stability. It crawled up the rough-hewn stone walls, turning them slick and unstable. Then, a particularly large glob dripped from a newly formed crack, landing with a soft *splat* on something above. A familiar, intricately woven straw. A fringe of tassels. Rostvan’s eyes, previously half-lidded with a bored assessment, snapped open. His lips, usually curled in a lazy smirk, flattened into a thin, white line. The engine room, once filled with the low hum of ancient machinery and the soft hiss of the corrosive sap, fell silent. Eteri felt a chill seep into her bones, colder than any deep-Spire wind. This wasn’t Rostvan, the sleepy farmer who brewed healing stew. This was something else entirely. Above, on Floor 100, Rostvan’s prize sleeping sling, the one he had spent three sleepless nights enchanting with anti-gravity runes and dream-weaving spells, the very perch he envisioned spending an entire week in, had begun to melt. The vibrant, hand-dyed fibers shriveled and blackened, collapsing into a smoking puddle. The wooden frame cracked, then sagged, consumed by the encroaching blight. His sanctuary. His true goal. His *reason for existing*. A low, guttural growl rumbled in Rostvan’s chest, a sound Eteri had never heard before, a predator’s warning. His easygoing slouch vanished, replaced by an unnerving stillness. His eyes, usually a soft, earthy brown, turned to chips of glacial ice. His hands, which rarely moved with anything but languid grace, twitched. Not in panic, but in controlled, terrifying fury. The air around him shimmered, not with heat, but with an intense, unseen pressure. “You… will not… touch… my hammock,” Rostvan enunciated, each word slow, deliberate, heavy with suppressed power. He raised a hand, not to cast a spell, but as if to simply *will* the world into submission. The oozing, corrosive sap, mid-drip, mid-flow, mid-vaporization, froze. Not into ice, but into an unnatural, static suspension. Bubbles paused mid-burst. Smoke plumes hung motionless in the air. The corroding floor stopped its frantic decay, arrested in a state of suspended disintegration. It was as if time itself had stuttered, unable to comprehend the absolute authority in Rostvan’s voice. Eteri stared, her breath caught in her throat. The sheer, effortless display of power was staggering, far beyond anything she had ever witnessed. This was not the clumsy application of mana that warlords boasted of; this was a fundamental rewrite of reality. Tato, still sprawled on the floor, blinked at the frozen purple goo inches from his face, then looked up at Rostvan. The man who whined about manual labor now radiated an aura that could flatten mountains. [ASCENSION MONOLITH: WARNING. INTERFERENCE DETECTED. CORE ROOT BREACH. FARM INTEGRITY: COMPROMISED.] [IGNISIA SEED: BLOOM IMMINENT. 1 HOUR REMAINING. INITIATING PHASE THREE: WORLD-EATER PROTOCOL.] Rostvan ignored the booming proclamations, his gaze fixed on the suspended sap, on the ruins of his hammock above. His expression remained cold, utterly devoid of his usual levity. He was calculating. He was planning. He was going to dismantle whatever had dared to threaten his rest, piece by painstaking, infuriating piece. [ASCENSION MONOLITH: ROSTVAN, OVERLORD OF THE ZEDA SPIRE. YOUR EFFORTS ARE COMMENDABLE, YET MISGUIDED.] [THE DIVINE SEED SEEKS ONLY TO REBIRTH. IT OFFERS SALVATION. A NEW WORLD. A NEW ERA.] [ALLOW THE BLOOM. EMBRACE YOUR DESTINY. BECOME IMMORTAL. BECOME THE GOD OF THIS NEW REALM. YOUR POWER, UNFETTERED. YOUR REST, ETERNAL.]

The Scavenger Strikes Back