Bayu, wiping a smear of mana-infused soil from his cheek, merely grunted. The monumental task of catching a falling mountain had left him pleasantly tired, the kind of exhaustion that tasted of accomplishment and future naps. [Dharma Interface: Warning. Planetary Defense System detected anomalous biomorphological presence. Designation: Invasive Species. Threat Level: Cataclysmic. Initiating Counter-Measures Protocol: Purge World-Weave.] “Purge World-Weave?” he muttered, squinting at the notification. “Sounds like someone’s got a weed problem. And I just finished planting the chili peppers.” Before he could contemplate the implications, the sky above the now-rooted Spire tore open, not with a roar, but with a sound like tearing parchment. Three figures descended, shimmering with an austere, clinical light. They carried no weapons, only parchment tablets that emitted faint solar sparks, floating atop silver platforms in woven fiber robes. “Designation: Bayu, Individual Code Alpha-7,” the lead figure droned, its faceless luminescence buzzing like a bad fluorescent bulb. “You stand in violation of Regional Biosecurity Directive 7G. Unauthorized terraforming. Unsanctioned tectonic grafting. Introduction of predatory flora. Planetary Defense mandates total dissolution of all biomorphic structures.” Bayu blinked. “Who are you people? And do you have a permit for that kind of language on my property?” He pointed a muddy finger at the light-being. “Also, this ‘flora’ is extremely delicious. Invasive? Highly productive, is what it is. Look at these durians!” Kala pushed past a wall of squash vines, her tusks flecked with hunter-armor filings. She gripped an iron-headed hoe smeared with dried mud and crushed brass, glaring at the interlopers. “These bugs want to crush Radish Lord’s seedlings?” Kala scraped the blade against the terrace flagstones. Dark fluid dripped from the handle. The floating inspectors drifted back three paces, their pens freezing mid-air as their silhouettes wavered. “Classification Omega-9,” the clerk stammered, its tone wobbling. “Record mismatch. Omega-9 bears… gardening implements.” Kala lifted the handle, driving the iron head into the dirt an inch from the clerk's silver platform. “Sign the papers for the Radish Lord. Or rot under the mulch.” Bayu stepped between them, rolling an orange mango between his palms. “Zoning permits for the Zenith Orchard Resort. Local ordinances require immediate clearance for soil amendments, irrigation, and orchard yields.” He pressed the fruit into the clerk's palm, where the skin melted into a burst of sugary nectar. The tablets clicked frantically as translucent ink sealed the margins. “Clearance granted. Cultivation authorized. World-Weave purge canceled. Apologies for the intrusion, Bayu.” The three clerks zipped into the clouds, leaving behind only the sweet aroma of sap. [Dharma Interface: Planetary Defense System Rerouted. Threat Level: Negligible. Stellar Bureaucracy Protocol: Complete.] Bayu watched them vanish. “Efficient customer service.” Across the mountain face, irrigation troughs channeled spring water into hundred-tier terraces filled with broadleaf greens. Copper pipes hissed, misting the canopy below. Down at the mountain base, a swordsman with a fractured forearm snapped a cabbage leaf from a low ditch and took a bite. His radial bone clicked back into alignment with a sharp snap. “The Scourge… it’s not destroying us,” someone whispered. “It’s *healing* us.” “And the potions…” another added, a glint of capitalist hunger in his eyes. “We can just… buy them. Safely. They’re *everywhere*.” The kingdom's potion guilds folded by nightfall as market stalls traded iron coin for bushel baskets of enchanted greens. Citra, who had watched the entire bureaucratic confrontation with a mixture of bewilderment and fierce pride, approached Bayu. Her armor was shed, replaced by a simple, practical tunic and trousers. Her Guildmaster insignia was conspicuously absent. The severe lines of her face had softened, replaced by a warmth Bayu found increasingly captivating. “Bayu,” she began, her voice firm, but with a new, underlying tenderness. “I’ve filed my resignation. Effective immediately.” Bayu raised an eyebrow, adjusting the straw hat Mbah Suro had made him. “Oh? Going to open a boutique potion shop?” She offered him a small, genuine smile, a sight that still made Bayu’s chest feel strangely warm. “No. I’ve been thinking about this. This… ‘Agro-Ecological Dungeon Resort’ is going to need a lot of management. Logistics. Supply chains. Security protocols against people who think they can steal your durians.” She stepped closer, her hand finding his. “I’m applying for Chief Operating Officer. And, well, if you’re interested… a partner.” Bayu’s grin widened, a genuine, unshameless expression of pure contentment. “COO, huh? Sounds like a lot of work. You’re hired. And ‘partner’ also sounds… agreeable.” He squeezed her hand, a rare moment of sincerity from the man who treated cosmic threats like minor gardening chores. He then gestured towards a plush, mana-woven lawn chair, strategically placed under the shade of a colossal starfruit tree, overlooking a panoramic view of his thriving, mountain-sized farm. “My dream, Citra, was never to work hard. It was to never work again. To sit in this chair, sipping something cool, and watch my automated farm do all the heavy lifting.” Mbah Suro trundled past with a cart of fermented manure, wiping his brow on a frayed burlap smock. “Ten millennia of architectural design, and I am hauling nightsoil for turnip beds.” He paused to sniff an ivory root. “Good crispness, at least.” Bayu merely chuckled, settling into the chair. Citra sat on the armrest, leaning her head against his shoulder. A Vidyadhara Griffin named Nugget, now sporting a tiny, custom-fit delivery satchel, zipped past with a parcel of fresh produce, squawking indignantly about a missing tip. Bayu cracked open a cold coconut with a knife. A brass window popped into view above his knees. [Dharma Interface: Incoming transmission. Inter-Galactic Landscaping Conglomerate. Seeking consultation for terraforming project. Neighboring galaxy, Sector Gamma-9. Urgent.] Bayu stared at the notification, then at his automated farm, then back at the message. He took another sip of his coconut, letting out a satisfied sigh. “Tell them,” he murmured, leaning back, the very picture of pampered indolence, “we don’t do house calls.”

The Automated Estate