The Sun-Core Annihilator Sigil pulsed a deeper, more ominous scarlet against the indigo sky, its glow now reflecting off Durosh’s unperturbed face. He gripped the trowel lightly, a smudge of rich, dark soil clinging to its wooden handle. The golden flagship hung like a predatory bird directly overhead, its vast shadow chilling the morning air around his hut. Around it, the lesser vessels of the Sky-Fleet of Sanctus shimmered, a formidable canopy of engineered divinity. Durosh, however, simply adjusted his grip. He had a few more tomato sprouts to plant by afternoon, and this disruption was becoming quite rude. With a single, effortless push-off from his front porch, the aged wooden planks groaned under a momentary, impossible pressure, then launched him skyward. He wasn’t flying, not in any conventional sense. It was more like he had compressed a spring made of a granite mountain range and released it within a split second. He shot upwards, a blur against the cerulean expanse, the blade glinting like a tiny, misplaced star. The wind ripped past, but Durosh remained perfectly still, his gaze fixed on the underside of the flagship. He landed with the delicate grace of a butterfly on the flagship’s armored deck, not a sound disturbing the metallic plating. The scoop, still clutched in his hand, seemed incongruous against the backdrop of polished sol-steel and arcane conduits. Around him, the deck bristled with weapon emplacements: massive, multi-barreled Arc-cannons hummed with stored solar energy, and sleek, automated ‘Holy Smite’ projectors tracked invisible targets with unnerving precision. They were designed to tear through World-Eaters, to scour cities from existence. To Durosh, they were merely an inconvenience. A few paces away, a colossal siege engine, the *Judgement’s Hammer*, was being armed. It was a contraption of geared brass and glowing crystals, designed to hurl bolts of condensed holy light capable of cratering jagged mountain ranges. A crew of Sun-Forged Engineers, their faces grim under their ceremonial helms, strained to crank its massive charging mechanism. Durosh walked over, his footsteps utterly silent. He peered at the intricate gears. “This looks awfully complicated,” he mused aloud, then reached out with the tip of his trowel. He nudged a tiny, barely visible rivet on one of the main gears. The frame shuddered, then collapsed in on itself with a groan of tortured metal, the crystals shattering into glittering dust. The engineers stared, mouths agape, at the sudden, silent destruction of their prized war engine. From the command chamber, the presiding High Inquisitor, observing on the main viewport, nearly choked on his communion wine. “What in the name of the Divine Ember was that?!” he shrieked, his voice echoing through the chamber. “He just… poked it! Sun-Guard! Engage the Void Emperor! Do not let him touch anything else!” A phalanx of elite Sun-Guard, clad in brilliant argent armor, surged onto the deck. Each warrior bore a consecrated lance that crackled with stored divine lightning. The phalanx's lead centurion pointed his weapon at Durosh. “Void Emperor! Surrender now, and your blasphemous existence may yet be purified!” Durosh merely blinked, looking from the collapsed siege engine to the charging guards. He still held his trowel, and then, remembering something, he patted his robe. “Ah, forgot this.” With a sigh, he reached into a pocket and pulled out his small, mud-caked welcome mat. It was a simple, woven affair, depicting a crude drawing of a smiling Bumbash. He had forgotten to shake it out that morning. He gave it a vigorous shake, a cloud of fine, divine-infused dust erupting from its fibers. The dust, shimmering with latent spiritual energy, billowed outward like a miniature, silent explosion. It washed over the charging Sun-Guard. The effect was instantaneous and utterly baffling. The centurion, mid-stride, suddenly stumbled, his chin dropping to his chest. He crumpled to the deck, his consecrated lance clattering harmlessly beside him. Behind him, the armored line followed suit, toppling like dominoes, their bodies struck fast asleep. Not a single scratch marred their armor, yet they lay inert, their faces slack with sudden, profound slumber. Durosh tutted. “Well, that was a bit much. Should have done it over the bin.” He carefully folded the now dust-free mat and tucked it back into his pocket. Below, on the Shard-Plains, Vankar watched the impossible display with an expression of serene awe. The Sky-Fleet, no longer anchored but still hovering, began launching a coordinated barrage of Holy Missiles towards the mud hut. These were not the simple sniper bolts from before, but gleaming shafts of pure holy fire, each capable of carving valleys into the earth. Vankar, standing guard near the petunias, closed his eyes for a moment. The tea Durosh had given him had not just cured his curse; it had unlocked something within him, a calm wellspring of power he hadn’t known existed. He raised his hand, not with a sword, but with an open palm. The first missile, a streaking spear of incandescence, slammed into an invisible barrier just feet from the hut. It didn’t explode; it simply *splashed*, dissipating into harmless, shimmering motes of light that sparkled briefly over the flowerbed. Then another, and another. Vankar moved his hand with casual grace, deflecting the barrage as if swatting away bothersome insects. Each holy weapon, meant for destruction, became a fleeting burst of beauty against the harsh landscape, completely nullified by the newly enlightened swordmaster. Aboard the flagship, the High Inquisitor watched the twin catastrophes unfold on his viewport. The Sun-Guard, the elite of the elite, sleeping on his deck. His siege engines, crumpled. His holy missiles, turned into harmless glitter. Panic, cold and sharp, seized him. “The Void Emperor is dismantling us from within and without!” he screamed, his voice cracking. “There’s no other option! Initiate the Sun-Core Overload! Full power! Now!” The flight crew hesitated. “High Inquisitor! That will vaporize every ship in the fleet! And potentially the Sun-Core itself!” “Do it!” the inquisitor shrieked, saliva flying from his lips. “Better to destroy ourselves than let that… that gardening fiend… defile the Sun-Core!” With a reluctant hand, the Senior Artificer slammed down the activation rune. The *Ascendant Aegis* began to thrum with a terrible, resonant vibration. The crimson glow of the Annihilator Sigil in the sky intensified, turning blinding white, then pulsed with an unstable, furious violet. Energy readings spiked across the helm consoles, screaming past critical thresholds. A deep, guttural roar of pure power began to emanate from the heart of the flagship. “Chain reaction initiated!” the Artificer yelled, his face pale. “Unstable! We have minutes before total catastrophic disintegration!” Durosh, who had just finished admiring a particularly shiny rivet on the deck, looked up. The ship was shaking, and the violet light pulsed with an alarming intensity. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” he grumbled. “Now what?”

Dusting the Welcome Mat