CHAPTER 92: CHAPTER 92: THE INDUSTRIAL PROBLEM.

The final, golden notification declaring our victory in the "Beast Taming" trial shimmered on the Scry-Screens, and the Royal Arena exploded into a chaotic symphony of noise.

There were cheers for the underdog, angry boos from the traditionalists, and a whole lot of laughter from everyone else.

Then, with a soft chime, the golden portal began to fold in on itself. The window to that world of noise shrank, from a massive gateway to a thin line of light, and then vanished completely. The roar of the crowd was gone, replaced by the most wonderful sound in the entire world: the blessed, familiar silence of my own lobby.

My team stood in the center of the room, covered in a light dusting of Manticore fur, looking like they had just survived a very strange, very fluffy hurricane.

Gilda was staring at her own hands, a look of profound, existential confusion on her face. "My ancestors fought dragons," she muttered to herself, her voice a hollow whisper. "I just... gave a giant cat a tummy tickle. And it actually worked."

Pip, who was trying to brush some fur off his tunic, finally spoke, his voice was like a small, disbelieving squeak. "Did... did we just win? With a belly rub?"

Before anyone could answer, Sir Crumplebuns puffed out his chest, his plushy hand resting proudly on the handle of his Spoonblade.

"IT WAS A GLORIOUS VICTORY FOR THE FORCES OF COMFORT!" he boomed, his voice echoing in the quiet room.

But while my team celebrated their strange, quiet victory, the reaction in the Royal Arena was anything but quiet.

(The Royal Box)

High Adjudicator Thistlewick looked like he was about to have a full-blown dwarven meltdown. "This is a mockery!" he roared, his voice a low, furious growl. "He’s turning this sacred competition into a petting zoo!"

King Caspian, however, was wiping tears of pure, unrestrained joy from his eyes. "Oh, Thistlewick, have you ever seen anything so brilliant?!" he chortled. "He didn’t just tame the beast; he gave it a full spa treatment! That’s not just a victory; that’s how you build a legend! I love it!"

(The Champions’ Gallery)

[A/N: Changing ’The Competitors Viewing Gallery’ to ’The Champions Gallery’]

In the gallery reserved for the competitors and faction leaders, the reactions were a mix of shock and grudging respect.

Borin, the dwarf master from the Obsidian Forge, stroked his braided beard, a look of grudging respect on his face. "This dungeon lad’s a menace," he rumbled. "A complete and utter menace to the established order of things. I look forward to facing him in the semi-finals."

Lyra, the elven loremaster from the Sylvanheart Maze, looked personally offended. "He’s not even a real dungeon," she sniffed. "He’s a glorified holiday resort with a security problem."

In the gnomish section, the Tinkerers’ Guild representative was furiously scribbling notes, her spectacles perched on the end of her nose. "Fascinating!" she muttered to herself.

"The application of multi-sensory calming techniques resulted in a complete cessation of hostile intent! The data is revolutionary!"

And the lion-man from the Beastkin Clans just grinned, a low rumble in his chest. "He did not dominate the beast," he said, a new respect in his voice. "He earned its trust. There is a difference."

In the dark corner of the Blood Pit’s gallery, Klarg felt the cold, hateful fury of his master, Lord Vorlag, wash over him. It was a silent, psychic promise of pure, unadulterated revenge.

(The Gallery of Noble Houses)

In the newly opened gallery for the kingdom’s high nobility, a buzz of high-society chatter filled the air. Word of The Comfy Corner’s strange victories had spread, and powerful families from across the kingdom had traveled to the capital to witness the finals for themselves. The reactions were a source of great entertainment. An old, stern-looking duchess fanned herself with a furious pace, looking deeply scandalized by the whole affair, while a young, foppish lord was laughing as he eagerly placed bets with his companion on what ridiculous thing The Comfy Corner would do next.

In the private box for House Valerius, Duke Valerius watched the screen with a fond, disbelieving smile. His son, Elian, was sitting on the edge of his seat, his eyes wide with wonder.

"Father, look!" Elian whispered, his voice full of excitement as he pointed at the screen. "It’s him! It’s the little clockwork knight I made! He’s real now!"

The Duke chuckled, placing a proud hand on his son’s shoulder. "That he is, Elian," he murmured. "And it seems he has found a very... creative master."

(The Comfy Corner)

FaeLina let out a triumphant shriek. "WE’RE IN THE SEMI-FINALS!" she cheered, doing a victory lap around Sir Crumplebuns’s head. "We’re going to be rich! And famous! And respected!"

Just then, Sloosh the slime waiter wobbled out from the Tea Nook, carrying a tray of celebratory, freshly-brewed chamomile tea for the exhausted team. It was a quiet, perfect moment of victory.

But FaeLina, ever the manager, was already back to business. She zipped over to the Guild Bulletin Board, where a new, golden notification had just appeared.

"Okay, team, listen up!" she commanded. "The DLRB has just posted the details for the semi-final match! Our opponent is the reigning champion, the Obsidian Forge!"

The team’s cheerful mood instantly became more serious.

"The event," FaeLina continued, her voice dropping to a low, serious whisper, "is a ’Dungeon Efficiency’ trial. The goal is to process the most raw materials into valuable goods in a set amount of time."

Gilda frowned, her hand tightening on her axe. "What does that even mean?"

FaeLina took a deep, shaky breath, as if she were about to tell a ghost story. "It means," she said, her voice a horrified whisper, "that we are going up against a literal volcano."

She began to pace frantically in the air, her words painting a terrifying picture. "The Obsidian Forge isn’t a dungeon, Gilda. It’s a massive, roaring factory. The ScryNet archives show it. Rivers of lava, giant mechanical hammers that shake the mountainside, a thousand dwarven forge-golems working in perfect, terrifying unison. They can take a mountain of raw, useless ore and turn it into a pile of masterwork dwarven steel in under an hour. They are the most efficient production dungeon in the world."

She turned and looked around our quiet, cozy lobby.

"And what do we produce?" she asked, her voice trembling. "Tea. And naps. We’re going to have to fight an industrial powerhouse with a kettle and a few pillows."

The team’s reaction was a symphony of despair.

Gilda slammed her fist on a nearby table, her brief moment of victory forgotten. "An efficiency trial? Against dwarves?! That’s not a competition; that’s a joke!"

Pip, who had been so excited moments before, just looked pale, a hand pressed to his stomach. "So," he asked, his voice a weak whisper, "they’re going to be forging an entire army’s worth of swords... and we’re supposed to compete by... what? Brewing tea faster?"

Zazu, who had been quietly sipping his celebratory tea, just sighed. It was the long, weary sigh of an elf who was here in search of peace, only to find himself in the middle of a national tournament.

He looked down into his teacup as if seeing a very long and difficult road ahead.

"It appears," he said softly, "that the path to a quiet life is a very loud one."

_______

Author’s Note:

They’ve made it to the semi-finals! The reactions from the other dungeons and the King are my favorite part. Mochi is officially the most controversial and entertaining thing to ever happen to this tournament.

But now they have to face the reigning champions, the Obsidian Forge, in an efficiency contest. A cozy nap dungeon versus a roaring fantasy factory.

This is, without a doubt, the most lopsided battle in the history of our story. How in the world are they going to win this one? Thanks for reading!