CHAPTER 93: CHAPTER 93: A KETTLE AGAINST A VOLCANO.

Zazu’s quiet words—’the path to a quiet life is a very loud one’—seemed to hang in the air, a perfect, sad end to my team’s brief celebration.

The triumphant mood that had followed their last victory was completely gone, snuffed out like a candle in a cold draft. It was replaced by a thick, heavy silence, the kind that feels heavier than noise. The dread of their next match had officially arrived.

The entire team was gathered in the main lobby, but the energy was different. FaeLina wasn’t zipping around frantically. She wasn’t scribbling on her chalkboard. She was just hovering in the middle of the room, her wings drooping, her bright pink aura a dim, worried lavender. It was the quietest and most defeated they had ever seen her, and that was more terrifying than any of her usual panicked shrieking.

"It’s hopeless," she finally said, her voice a tiny, hollow whisper that barely carried across the room. "I’ve run the numbers. The Obsidian Forge can process a ton of raw ore into masterwork dwarven steel in under an hour. Their efficiency rating is literally off the charts."

She then pointed a sad, trembling finger at the Tea Nook.

"And what’s our production facility?" she asked, her voice cracking. "A kettle. We’re supposed to fight an industrial powerhouse with a kettle and some pillows. We’re doomed."

A heavy silence fell over the lobby. Her final, devastating words had landed like a physical blow.

Gilda was the first to react, slamming her fist on a nearby table so hard the teacups rattled. "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?"

And after listening to them, feeling their hopelessness wash over my core, I had to admit, they were right. You can’t win a forging contest with a kettle. It was a game we couldn’t possibly win... if we played by their rules.

A slow, cold, and very stubborn anger began to grow where my heart would have been.

’So we won’t,’ I projected, my mental voice a quiet, calm space in the middle of their storm of despair.

The effect was immediate. The team looked up, startled. FaeLina stopped her frantic zipping, her psychic presence turning to face me like a startled bird.

’What do you mean, "we won’t"?!’ she shot back, her thought a jumble of confusion and indignation. ’We can’t forfeit! We’re in the semi-finals!’

Gilda slammed her fist on the table again. "The Core is right," she growled, completely misinterpreting my meaning. "We will not forfeit. We will go down fighting. I will personally try to smash their forge with my axe."

’We are not going to forfeit,’ I explained patiently. ’And we are not going to win their game. The Obsidian Forge is a forge-hall, built for labor. We are a sanctuary, built for rest. We will not try to be something we are not. Our goal is to be ourselves, as efficiently as possible.’

The team looked at me, confused but intrigued. Gilda’s frustration had softened into a look of cautious curiosity.

’They will be given ore,’ I continued, my mental voice calm and steady. ’We will be given ore. They will turn their pile into a mountain of priceless swords.’ I let that sink in. ’We... will turn ours into a single, very well-polished paperweight.’

Gilda just stared, her mouth slightly open. "A... paperweight?" she grunted, as if the word itself was a foreign language. "We’re going into a forging competition to make a... desk ornament?"

’Precisely,’ I confirmed. ’And while we are failing spectacularly at being a forge-hall, we will use the time to do what we do best.’

"Which is what?" FaeLina asked, her voice a buzz of confusion. "Napping? We can’t serve naps!"

’We will serve tea,’ I explained. ’We will offer our most comfortable seating. We will provide a level of hospitality so perfect, so overwhelmingly pleasant, that the judges will be forced to acknowledge it. We will lose the production battle, but we will win the ’pleasantries’ war.’

After hearing this, FaeLina stopped her frantic pacing. She hovered in the air, her mouth slightly open. Her expression shifted from pure panic, to confusion, and finally, to a look of pure, horrified admiration. It was the look of someone who had just realized their sleepy, lazy boss was, in fact, a complete and utter madman.

"So," she finally whispered, the words a mixture of awe and terror. "Our strategy is to lose... with style?"

’Precisely,’ I confirmed, a quiet hum of satisfaction resonating from my core. ’We will be the most pleasant, most hospitable, and most gloriously inefficient dungeon in the history of the tournament. And we will do it with pride.’

The two days that followed were some of the strangest in my dungeon’s short history. The despair that had crushed the team was gone, replaced by a kind of focused, almost joyful absurdity. They knew they couldn’t win, so they embraced the freedom of putting on the best possible show. Gilda spent hours stubbornly hammering a single piece of ore in the Tea Nook’s hearth, trying to make the "perfect" paperweight. Zazu invented a new, celebratory blend of tea he called "The Glorious Failure." And Pip and Clank worked tirelessly to arrange the lobby’s seating for "optimal spectator comfort."

(Royal Arena)

Finally, the day the semi-finals arrived. Two massive piles of raw, ugly iron ore were delivered to our respective dungeons by the portals. In the Obsidian Forge, a thousand forge-golems roared to life and In my dungeon, Zazu put the kettle on.

Then the one-hour trial officially began.

On the giant Scry-Screens, the kingdom watched a split-screen view that was a masterpiece of comedic contrast.

On the left side, the Obsidian Forge was a breathtaking symphony of industrial power.

Rivers of molten metal flowed in glowing channels. Giant, rune-etched hammers slammed down in perfect, terrifying rhythm, their impacts shaking the very mountainside.

It was a beautiful, awe-inspiring display of dwarven ingenuity and raw, untamed power.

The commentator’s voice was full of booming excitement. "Look at that, folks! The Obsidian Forge is already at full production! What a magnificent display of industrial might!" Then he paused, his gaze shifting to the other side of the screen. His voice faltered. "And in The Comfy Corner... uh... Zazu the elf appears to be putting the kettle on. A bold opening move."

On the right side of the screen, my team was having a tea party.

Gilda, with a grunt of pure, stubborn determination, had managed to get a single lump of iron ore hot enough in the Tea Nook’s small hearth to start hammering it with the pommel of her axe. It was a slow, awkward, and deeply inefficient process that produced a sound less like a blacksmith’s forge and more like someone angrily hitting a pot with a spoon. Kaelen stood beside her, silently and meticulously polishing the one small section Gilda had managed to flatten, her expression as serious as if she were polishing the crown jewels.

The rest of the team was focused on "customer service." The five members of the Challenger party, who had been sent to "observe" the process, were now seated in the most comfortable chairs from the lobby. They looked completely baffled.

Brutus, their leader, was trying to take official notes, but his professional focus was being severely tested by a very nice cup of chamomile tea and a plate of lavender biscuits.

’Observation log, Hour One,’ he thought, his brow furrowed in concentration. ’The dungeon has produced... one slightly warm, lumpy iron paperweight. They have also produced twelve cups of ’Moment of Peace’ chamomile tea, which I must note is of ’excellent’ quality. And a plate of very nice lavender biscuits.’

He took another sip of the tea. It really was very good.

’I have no idea what the Obsidian Forge is doing right now,’ he continued his internal report, ’but I am willing to bet it does not involve biscuits. This is the weirdest assignment I have ever had.’

The final minute of the trial ticked down on the giant hourglass.

On the left side of the Scry-Screen, the Obsidian Forge was a blur of fiery, efficient motion as the last of their masterwork swords were cooled and stacked.

While, On the right side, my team was calmly offering the Challengers one last round of lavender biscuits.

And then with a loud, final GONG echoed through the arena. The trial was over.

The commentator’s voice boomed with a mixture of professional excitement and barely contained laughter. "And that’s the end of the ’Dungeon Efficiency’ trial, folks! The Obsidian Forge has produced a mountain of priceless, masterwork dwarven steel!" He took a deep breath, clearly trying to maintain his composure. "And The Comfy Corner has produced... one lumpy paperweight and what I’m being told was a truly excellent cup of tea!"

He let out a hearty laugh. "The judges have an impossible decision ahead of them! Is it possible to score the value of a good cup of tea against a legendary dwarven axe? We’ll find out what they decide... right after the break!"

The giant Scry-Screen flashed with a familiar, tension-filled message: [JUDGES’ DELIBERATION IN PROGRESS...]

________

Author’s Note:

Mochi’s grand strategy to take on an industrial powerhouse is... to have a tea party. I am so proud of him.

The Obsidian Forge is making a mountain of priceless swords. The Comfy Corner is making... one very well-polished, lumpy paperweight. It’s a bold strategy, let’s see if it pays off.

The trial is over, and now the judges have to somehow score this mess. How do you even compare the value of a legendary dwarven axe to a really good lavender biscuit? I have no idea. The verdict is next! Thanks for reading!