The World-Tree sprout pulsed faintly, its emerald vitality draining as the hairline fissure along its bark spread. Orikas knelt beside it, his broad hand hovering, unable to offer solace. His former Floor 10 aura, typically a steady presence, hummed like a frayed cord. “Floor 100,” Orikas muttered, his voice hoarse, tracing the dying leaves. “That cannot be done. Eighty-five floors in a day, carrying a dying shoot. Even with my full form, it would take days, maybe weeks, to navigate the upper levels, bypassing the Apex Core’s traps. And the mana-sickness would consume it long before we reached the summit.” Tiras didn’t reply immediately. His gaze drifted from the wilting sprig to the cavern ceiling, then down to his hands, calloused from years of raw soil and spade handles. He could feel the ancient, exhausted voice of the Past-Life Interface already winding up for another sarcastic diatribe about his recklessness, but he ignored it. The problem wasn't traversing the Spire; the problem was bringing the *Sanctuary Plot* with him. His mind raced, not with escape routes, but with blueprints. If the World-Tree needed a leyline, and the leyline was on Floor 100, then the World-Tree needed to be on Floor 100. And the World-Tree was, right now, inextricably bound to *his* soil, *his* compost. He couldn’t abandon the very ecosystem he’d nurtured for this moment. “Unfeasible is just a polite suggestion,” Tiras said, rising to study the perimeter rock. “We’re not hauling this shoot up the Spire, Orikas. We’re launching the plot *with* it.” Orikas blinked, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Tiras, what in the name of the Prime Elemental are you talking about?” “We’re moving the farm,” Tiras declared, striding toward the perimeter while calculating weight distribution and load-bearing timber. “All of it. We’re going to fly it to Floor 100.” [PROPOSED ACTION: ATTEMPTING TO UPHEAVE AND RELOCATE A MULTI-TON AGRICULTURAL HABITAT VIA IMPROVISED EXPLOSIVE PROPELLANTS. WARNING: EXTREME RISK OF CATASTROPHIC STRUCTURAL FAILURE, IMMEDIATE DECOMPOSITION OF ALL CULTIVATED BIOTA, AND INSTANTANEOUS PERSONAL ANNIHILATION.] [SUGGESTION: HAVE YOU CONSIDERED SIMPLY *WALKING*?] Before Tiras could elaborate on his surprisingly detailed plan to Orikas, a tremor shook the very bedrock of Floor 15. The Sanctuary Plot’s defensive briars hissed and coiled tight against the loam. A shimmering portal, far too large and ornate for a simple Spire exit, tore open at the edge of the cultivated land. Through it surged a disciplined phalanx of armored figures, their Guild insignias emblazoned with the soaring hawk of the Roskarl Syndicate. At their head, radiating a furious, protective energy, was Yenna. Her gaze, typically sharp with calculated command, fixed upon him with sharp dread. She scanned the field, glancing from the wilting plant to Tiras, and finally to the massive Minotaur, Tarbos, who snoozed peacefully in a fresh furrow. “Tiras Vangalos!” Yenna’s voice cracked like a whip, cutting through the sudden silence of her arriving troops. She held aloft a glowing Spire-detector artifact, its crystal core throbbing with a violent, urgent light. “The Spire is crawling with kill-squads! The Apex Core has initiated a Floor-wide quarantine! We detected a massive mana-spike from Floor 30, then a complete blackout! You were trapped! We thought you were… gone!” Her voice caught, her shoulders heaving with a mixture of relief and indignation. She stalked towards him, her Guild officers fanning out, weapons at the ready, clearly preparing for a rescue operation against unseen threats. “We’re evacuating you, Tiras. Now. My elite rapid vanguard is here. We’re getting you out of the Spire, even if I have to drag you myself.” Tiras, however, was not listening to the part about evacuation. He ducked beneath the floorboards, bracing thick timber hollows against the crossbeams. Each cylinder was packed with volatile, phosphorescent gel boiled down from reactive Sun-Reed marrow to generate massive upward thrust. He had just finished securing the final binding when Yenna reached the porch. Piles of packed launch-canisters clustered around every foundation stone. Yenna looked down at the volatile canisters, her lips parting as the madness of the layout sank in. “Tiras… what in the Blighted Earth are those? What are you doing?!” “Just preparing for our move,” Tiras said, his voice calm, as if discussing the next harvest. He emerged from under the house, wiping a smear of phosphorescent gel from his cheek. “The young tree needs the Floor 100 leyline. I can’t exactly walk it up eighty-five floors in a day, can I? So, we’re flying the farm up instead.” Yenna stared at the pressurized tubes, then at the fading sprig, then back at Tiras. Her initial terror at his predicament morphed into pure, unadulterated fury. “You absolute, suicidal idiot! You’re going to vaporize your whole plot! And yourself! And us! Are you insane?!” She grabbed his arm, her grip iron-strong. “We’re leaving, Tiras! Now! That’s an order!” He pulled his arm gently from her grasp. “I can’t. This is it, Yenna. If this shoot withers, everything turns to ash. Parnassia, the Spire… it all goes with it.” His eyes, usually so serene, held a desperate intensity. “I have to do this.” He looked at her, truly looked at her, and a strange emotion flickered through his usual calm. He reached into his satchel, not for a seed, but for something else. He pulled out a large, vibrant bouquet of Razor-Roses, their petals a sharp, almost painful green, their thorns gleaming like tiny daggers. He thrust them into her hands. “Here. For you.” He didn’t elaborate, didn’t explain. He simply offered them, a silent, awkward confession in the midst of chaos. Yenna clutched the thorny bouquet, her mind reeling. The Razor-Roses dripped sap acidic enough to corrode steel, yet their scent held off the Spire's creeping rot. He meant to shield her, shield the world, and conquer eighty-five floors with combustible yard waste. Her fury, instead of subsiding, intensified, but now it was directed not at him, but at the impossibility of the situation. “No! Absolutely not!” she roared, shoving the Razor-Roses back into his chest, thorny stems catching on his tunic. “If you’re going to commit suicide by rocket-farm, then I’m coming with you! I’m not letting you face the Apex Core’s fury alone, Tiras! And I’m certainly not letting you die for something I don’t understand!” Before Tiras could argue, a slow, deliberate voice rumbled from the porch rocking chair. Lord Vexath, lounging unbothered through the soldiers' arrival, lifted his steaming mug. “Ah, the aroma of impending catastrophe. Delightful.” He took a long sip. “If the house flies, I fly. My coffee isn’t going to brew itself on Floor 100, is it?” Tiras looked from Yenna’s determined face, to Vexath’s nonchalant acceptance, to the dwindling countdown on his internal interface. He had no choice. He pulled out a sparking igniter he’d fashioned from a charged Voltaic Bulb, aiming it at the base of the nearest bamboo rocket. The Sun-Reed tallow hissed within its casing, bubbling with latent shockwaves. [WARNING: INITIATING HIGHLY UNSTABLE PROPELLANT IGNITION SEQUENCE. ESTIMATED PROBABILITY OF STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY MAINTENANCE: 0.003%.] [RECOMMENDATION: PRAY.] Tiras squeezed the igniter, a single, decisive click echoing through the Sanctuary Plot. The packed timber cylinders roared, spitting white-hot sheets of alchemical fire against the bedrock. The timbers groaned, the silt tore loose, and the farm lurched straight into the cavern ceiling on an unbroken column of flame.

Evacuation by Explosion