CHAPTER 94: CHAPTER 94: THE CONSOLATION TEA.

The message [JUDGES’ DELIBERATION IN PROGRESS...] shimmered on the giant Scry-Screens, holding the entire stadium in a state of tense, expectant silence. The laughter from our absurd performance had died down, replaced by a buzzing curiosity. No one knew what to make of it.

The portal to the Royal Arena swirled shut, plunging the main lobby back into its familiar, blessed silence. But this time, the silence wasn’t peaceful. It was heavy, awkward, and thick with the bitter taste of defeat.

My team stood in the middle of the room, looking lost. The single, lumpy iron paperweight sat on a nearby table, a sad, silent monument to their stubbornly but inefficient effort.

FaeLina was the first to break. A tiny, heartbreaking sob escaped her, and she zipped over to hide behind my core, her bright pink aura a dim, flickering lavender. "I’m a terrible manager," she whispered, her voice a tiny thread of pure misery. "I let you all down. I should have come up with a better plan."

Pip, who had been trying very hard to be brave, finally let his own disappointment show. His shoulders slumped, and he shuffled over to a cushion, burying his face in his hands. "They... they probably all think we’re a joke," he mumbled. Clank, seeing his friend’s distress, quietly rolled over and gently nudged Pip’s hand with his own metal one, his blue crystal eyes glowing with a soft, comforting light.

Gilda just stood there, her hand clenching and unclenching on the handle of her axe. She wasn’t sad; she was angry. "It was a stupid competition anyway," she growled, though her voice lacked its usual conviction. "Efficiency. What does a warrior know of efficiency?"

Sir Crumplebuns, seeing the low morale, puffed out his chest, ready to deliver a heroic, uplifting speech. "FEAR NOT, BRAVE COMRADES!" he boomed, his voice echoing in the quiet room. "THOUGH WE HAVE FALLEN IN THIS BATTLE, OUR SPIRIT REMAINS UNBROKEN! WE SHALL RETURN TO THE FIELD OF HONOR AND..." He trailed off, seeing the utterly defeated looks on everyone’s faces. His own plushy shoulders slumped a little. "...Perhaps later," he finished in a much smaller voice.

Kaelen, who had been standing silently in the shadows, simply walked over to the Tea Nook. Sloosh the slime waiter was already there, drooping slightly, his usual happy wobble gone. He seemed to sense the sad energy in the room.

Kaelen picked up a clean, dry cloth and began to methodically, silently, polish the already spotless teacups. It was her way of bringing a small piece of order back to a world that had just been thrown into chaos.

Sloosh watched her for a moment. Then, with a quiet little squelch, he nudged another clean cloth towards her with one of his wobbly tendrils, a silent offer of help. The two of them began to work together, a silent assassin and a sad slime, finding a small moment of shared purpose in the simple, quiet task of cleaning up.

Zazu, who had been quietly watching his friends, just sighed, the sound carrying the weight of all the tired elves in the world. "Perhaps," he said softly, "the path to peace is not meant to be a competition at all."

A wave of their collective despair washed over my core, and for the first time since I had been reincarnated, I felt something new. It was a strange, protective ache where my heart would have been.

This wasn’t just a strategic failure. I had taken their hope. I had taken their trust. I had taken their weird, wonderful enthusiasm for my crazy ideas, and I had led them right into a public humiliation for the entire kingdom to see.

It was my fault.

(The Royal Arena)

While my team dealt with their quiet heartbreak, the commentator was officially announcing the final results to the waiting kingdom.

"And there you have it, folks! The Obsidian Forge has won the ’Dungeon Efficiency’ trial with a truly staggering display of industrial power! They will be moving on to face the winner of our next match, between the Sylvanheart Maze and the Blood Pit, in the Grand Finals!"

The Scry-Screens cut to the judges’ table for their final, colorful thoughts on our performance.

Maestro Valerius was dabbing his eyes with a silk handkerchief. "A tragedy!" he declared dramatically. "The world was not ready for their post-industrial performance art! That single, lumpy paperweight was not a failure of production; it was a statement! A quiet, humble cry against the soulless machine of progress! It was beautiful!"

Archmage Tiberius just sniffed, adjusting his spectacles with a look of pure disdain. "Their methods were academically unsound," he wheezed. "But I will admit," he conceded, a flicker of something almost like pleasure in his eyes, "the tea was excellent. A high score for hospitality. But zero for everything else."

Inspector Barnaby just sighed and stamped a final form with a loud THUD. "The Obsidian Forge produced two hundred swords. The Comfy Corner produced one desk ornament. The result is clear," he said in a flat, tired voice and made another note. "The paperwork, as always, will be a nightmare."

(Gallery of Noble Houses)

An old, stern-looking duchess fanned herself with a furious pace, looking deeply scandalized by the whole affair. while a young, foppish lord was roaring with laughter, gleefully collecting a pouch of gold from his scowling companion. "I told you they’d do something utterly ridiculous!" he declared with a triumphant grin. "Pay up!"

In the private box for House Valerius, Duke Valerius watched the Scry-Screen not with disappointment, but with a fond, proud smile. His son, Elian, looked confused.

"Father, he’s losing," Elian whispered, his voice full of concern. "Why are you smiling?"

The Duke chuckled, placing a proud hand on his son’s shoulder. "Because, Elian," he murmured, his eyes twinkling, "our little rock is not trying to be a forge. He is being himself. That is why we have to support him."

He leaned in closer, his voice a low rumble of amusement and wisdom. "And tomorrow, my son, no one will remember those two hundred identical swords. But I guarantee you, the entire kingdom will be talking about that one, glorious, lumpy paperweight. That is the power of our little rock."

(The Royal Box)

In the Royal Box King Caspian was smiling, a thoughtful, calculating look in his eyes. He leaned over to the fuming High Adjudicator Thistlewick.

"They lost, old friend," the King murmured, his voice a low rumble. "But tell me, which of the two dungeons are the people in the stands talking about right now?"

Thistlewick just grumbled into his mithril-braided beard, refusing to answer.

The final, brutal verdict flashed on the screen.

[Result: The Comfy Corner has been eliminated from the main tournament.]

(The Comfy Corner)

Back in my dungeon, the mood was still grim. FaeLina was still hiding behind me, and Pip was still buried in his cushion, but now Clank was gently patting his friend’s back.

I watched them, my core feeling the heavy weight of their collective despair. Their sadness wasn’t just an emotion; it was a palpable, high-stress energy that was actively ruining the pleasant, sleepy atmosphere of my lobby. This simply would not do. For the good of the dungeon, and for my own peace of mind, it was time to deploy a countermeasure.

I didn’t offer a grand speech. I didn’t give them a lecture about winning. I just did what I did best.

I focused my will, and a gentle wave of pure, concentrated coziness washed over the lobby. It wasn’t a spell; it was a feeling. It was the quiet satisfaction of a job well done, the deep peace of a well-deserved nap.

The effect on my team was immediate. The tense, angry lines on Gilda’s face softened. The frantic, worried energy buzzing around FaeLina seemed to smooth out, her aura becoming a soft, healing lavender. And Pip, who had been a tight ball of misery, slowly uncurled, a long, shuddering sigh escaping his lips as the magical peace washed away his despair.

The sharp edges of their disappointment seemed to melt away, replaced by a quiet, comfortable silence. The pain of the loss was still there, but it was softer now.

They hadn’t won the tournament. But they had been true to themselves. And in our quiet little dungeon, that was a victory in itself.

Just as that peaceful thought was settling in, the Guild Bulletin Board chimed, not with a small message, but with the grand, golden flare of a Royal Proclamation. It appeared on every bulletin board in the kingdom, signed by the King himself.

FaeLina’s eyes went wide. "What... what now?" she whispered.

I projected the words for all to see.

[BY ROYAL DECREE, AN OFFICIAL SCHEDULE CHANGE IS HEREBY ANNOUNCED!]

[To capitalize of the overwhelming public popularity of the ’Sanctuary’ class, the previously scheduled ’SANCTUARY SHOWCASE’ will now take place as a special exhibition match before the Grand Finals!]

[The Comfy Corner is hereby reminded of their mandatory participation.]

[The event... will be Competitive Napping.]

The team stared at the words, their minds struggling to process the sudden, ridiculous reversal of fortune. It wasn’t the event itself that was a surprise; it was the timing.

FFaeLina’s jaw dropped. Her dim, lavender aura flickered, then erupted into a brilliant, frantic, and ecstatic shade of pink.

"The Showcase?! Now?!" she shrieked, her managerial brain rebooting at a hundred miles an hour. "But that wasn’t supposed to be for another week! We’re not ready! Zazu’s official competition pajamas haven’t even been properly starched! The ceremonial pillows haven’t been fluffed! This is a logistical nightmare!"

She looked over at Zazu, who was just blinking slowly, a look of profound, sleepy destiny on his face. He looked... ready.

FaeLina stopped her panicked rant. She looked from Zazu, to the Royal Proclamation, and then back to Zazu. A new, strange light began to dawn in her eyes. "A showcase..." she whispered, the words tasting strange in her mouth. "Pure marketing... a brand-building opportunity..."

Her aura began to shift from confused static to a brilliant, frantic, and ecstatic shade of pink.

"Mochi!" she finally shrieked, her managerial brain rebooting at a hundred miles an hour. "We’re back in business!"

Author’s Note:

And there it is. Our first real loss. They went up against an industrial powerhouse with a kettle and a few pillows, and they got absolutely crushed. But they did it their way, and that’s a victory in itself.

I loved writing the quiet, heartfelt scene where the team is dealing with their failure. Mochi comforting them not with words, but with a wave of pure, concentrated coziness, is one of my favorite moments in the whole book.

But the King comes in for the save! Our team may have lost the match, but they won the hearts of the people (and, more importantly, the King). And now... the "Sanctuary Showcase"! The event is "Competitive Napping!" Zazu’s time to shine has finally come! This is the ultimate home-field advantage. Thanks for reading!