The Loom’s cold calculation hung in the air, a stark pronouncement that cut through the hiss of steam and the lingering scent of Puddle’s buffered venom. Zaltis, still propped comfortably in his self-rocking chair, regarded the iridescent seed with a detached interest that belied the monumental implications of its existence. [Stabilizing Seed (Prototype) Cultivated. Requires Blood Fertilization for Germination.] [Fertilization Requirement: Fresh blood of a Guildmaster.] “A Guildmaster’s blood, you say?” Zaltis hummed, a low, drawn-out sound that vibrated with a unique blend of annoyance and insidious contemplation. He nudged the velvet cushion with a toe, sending the shimmering seed rolling gently. “Well, that’s just rude. All this effort, and now I need to… *interact*?” Juroq, who had been peering over Zaltis’s shoulder, snatched the cushion, cradling the seed as if it were spun starlight. His brow furrowed under a sheen of sweat. “Interact, Zaltis? It says ‘fresh blood.’ That’s not a payment, that’s… that’s an execution, or worse. You can’t exactly send me to Floor 90 to *ask* the Guildmaster for a donation. Lord Malakor would flay me for even suggesting it.” “Precisely,” Zaltis said, resting his chin on his knuckles. “Which means I can’t simply bankrupt him from afar anymore. The goal has shifted, Juroq. Now, Malakor needs to come here.” He leaned back, the recliner’s hydraulics sighing softly. “And he needs to do so without me ever having to stand up to greet him.” A guttural rumble shook the chamber, the sound preceding a shadow that stretched long over the volcanic soil. Vorgath the Flayed, drawn by the heavy ambient magic of the newly bred seed, lumbered closer. His massive, scaled head dipped, the empty eye sockets fixed on the iridescent spark Juroq held. A low growl emanated from his throat, a sound of primal hunger that bypassed his usual deference. Juroq instinctively recoiled, holding the seed higher. “Easy, big guy. This isn’t for you.” Vorgath ignored him. The Floor 100 boss lunged, not with malice, but with an overwhelming, instinctive desire to consume the magical artifact. His claw, normally steady when trading relics for vegetables, scraped against the velvet cushion. A single, sharp claw-tip brushed the seed. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through Vorgath’s colossal frame. Then Vorgath convulsed, howling until the stalactites rattled. His body pulsed with an erratic, sickly green luminescence. Veins, thick as cables, bulged beneath his leathery hide. The ground beneath his feet cracked, sending fissures spiderwebbing through the rich, dark soil. The porch, a meticulously crafted structure of petrified wood, groaned under the sudden onslaught. Vorgath thrashed, his immense claws tearing at the air and scraping stone walls, his bellowing bouncing off the high ceiling. “Well, that’s suboptimal,” Zaltis observed, mildly. “He must have brushed the prototype's raw resin. It seems our Stabilizing Seed also induces delirium in apex predators.” One of Vorgath’s flailing arms clipped a support beam of Zaltis’s seat, sending a cascade of splinters flying. The framework pitched sideways. Zaltis, without a hint of panic, merely reached a languid hand to a small, unassuming lever beside his seat. It was connected to an intricate series of ropes and counterweights that snaked up into the dark roof above. “Puddle,” Zaltis called, his voice calm amidst the chaos, “the emergency reset protocol, if you please. One full deluge.” Puddle, who had been cowering behind a particularly large patch of glowing mushrooms, let out a squeak. Its acidic spray burst forth in a tight stream, splashing against a release latch embedded overhead. With a groaning grind of gears, a massive, rusted anvil, suspended by ancient Builder chains, detached. It plummeted, whistling through the air, directly towards Vorgath’s thrashing, berserk form. *THWACK!* The sound reverberated, followed by a sudden, absolute silence. Vorgath crumpled, a mountain of scales and bone, a tiny cartoonish star circling where the anvil had made contact with his head. The green luminescence faded. His breathing became a low, rumbling snore. Juroq stared, his mouth agape. “An anvil? That’s your solution for a berserk dungeon boss?” “It’s surprisingly effective for resetting aggro,” Zaltis explained, adjusting a loose cog on his armrest. “Now, about Malakor. We need bait. Something so devastating, so utterly ruinous to his syndicate, that he’ll drop down ninety floors personally, screaming for my head.” He paused, grinning faintly. “We’re not just denting his purse, Juroq. We’re going to bankrupt the bastard.” The following afternoon, the realm of Oakharrow reeled. Whispers turned to shouts, shouts to riots, as the Morvun Ziggurat’s trade concourses were flooded with an unprecedented commodity: ‘Vorn’s Miracle Carrots.’ Each golden-orange root, grown in the Floor 100 loam and soaked in pure ley runoff, provided restorative effects that shamed the Golden Dawn cartel's finest draughts. Not only that, but they sold for three copper bits apiece. Within hours, the Dawn’s iron grip on medicine shattered. Their mercenaries deserted by the platoon, buying crates of produce instead of overpriced salves. The Loom of Morvun chimed on Floor 100, scrolling tally sheets of commercial ruin. [Vorn’s Miracle Carrot (Minor Healing) – Market Value: 7,500 Gold (per 100g). Current Supply: 1,500,000kg. Estimated Sector Impact: Total Collapse of Commercial Remedies. Golden Dawn Guild Assets: -$8,700,000,000. Projected Insolvency: Immediate.] On Floor 90, inside his pillared sanctuary, Guildmaster Malakor gripped a runic spatial bomb that hummed with volatile purple light. Veins stood out on his neck, his teeth bared in an ugly grimace. His fortune, assembled across a decade of extorted supply lines, had evaporated in four hours because of cheap produce. “He thinks he can bankrupt me?” Malakor spat across the barren flags. “He wants Oakharrow gorging on ditch-roots while my vaults hollow out? Fine! If I go under, the entire bazaar sinks with me!” He slammed the cylinder onto a pedestal, twisting the primer cap. “I’ll shatter the hub floor. Let the whole trade tier collapse into the abyss!” Back on Floor 100, Juroq’s copper receiver hissed to life with a shrill, distorted signal. Malakor’s rant echoed out, detailing his countdown on the Floor 90 transit arches to bring down the concourses. Zaltis, who had just finished tweaking Puddle’s acid output regulator, listened, a rare frown creasing his brow. The signal clicked off into static. “He’s setting off an ordnance charge,” Juroq whispered, clutching the receiver. “Zaltis, if he blows those arches, nobody travels past Floor 80 again.” Zaltis leaned back against his cushions, letting his gaze drift from the Stabilizing Seed toward Vorgath’s rent pile—gilded halberds, dragon-glass rings, and runic platemail stacked like cordwood. He had collected them purely to fleece upper-tier syndicates over the next decade. If Malakor blew the lower transit hub, nobody would be coming down to deliver fresh guildmaster blood, let alone buy rare antiquities at extortionate rates. To secure his fertilizer, he would actually have to solve the problem before the fuse burned down. Worse still, solving it meant exerting himself, a prospect far more offensive than the destruction of an entire trade hub.

Baiting the Hook