Phong made it through the Council of Elrond.
Barely.
By the time the Fellowship reached the mines, his chin had dipped once.
After the Balrog...
Twice.
Then—
Gone.
Out cold.
His head tipped lightly against Alex's shoulder, breathing slow and even.
Alex felt it right away.
She glanced down.
Smiled.
He had tried so hard to stay awake.
Carefully, she eased his arm from around her waist and stood.
Bruno watched with suspicion.
"Is he defeated?"
"He's sleeping," she whispered.
Nyx flicked her tail.
"Mortality is fragile."
Rico sighed dramatically.
"He lacks caffeine discipline."
Alex rolled her eyes and gently guided Phong up.
He stirred, but didn't fully wake.
She slipped one arm around his waist.
For someone so many levels below her in stats, he still carried surprising warmth.
She led him back to the old tent, the one everyone jokingly, secretly, had started calling the camp leader room.
The flap closed.
She did not come back out.
The others exchanged looks.
Jake grinned faintly.
"Lost."
Jack nodded with mock solemnity.
"Into the cuddle abyss."
Joanne snorted.
Dominic stretched his arms overhead.
"Well."
He looked toward the three-headed cow tied safely near the outer perimeter.
"Time to butcher."
He grabbed the tools.
"Courtship with a Mind Blade must be taxing on a farmer."
He winked at Janet.
Bruno immediately trotted after him like a squire.
"I will observe."
"You will not eat raw meat," Dominic warned.
Meanwhile, Janet and the three Js shifted into harvest mode.
Practical.
Focused.
They knew dives would resume soon.
Ginger first.
Pulled carefully from the soil, knotted roots carrying that sharp, earthy scent.
Garlic bulbs.
Plucked and checked for mutation stability.
Onions.
The Weeping variants stored separately.
Snow Limes harvested gently and packed in insulated crates.
Relaxing Shiitake handled with reverence.
Watering Oyster Mushrooms labeled clearly.
Sweet potatoes sorted.
They took what they needed.
Not everything.
Never everything.
No one counted exactly.
No ledger.
No negotiations.
No suspicion.
Trust made arithmetic unnecessary.
They weren't exploiting him.
And he wasn't hoarding.
The community ran on give and take so natural it almost disappeared into the background.
The Moletato network rustled faintly beneath the soil, as if approving.
Outside the tent, Dominic's laughter rang out when one of the cow's heads stubbornly refused to cooperate.
"Hold still, you triple-management nightmare."
Bruno barked encouragement.
Janet shook her head, but smiled faintly.
Camp Stymphalian hummed with quiet purpose.
Inside the tent, Alex eased Phong down onto the cot.
He shifted on instinct, pulling the blanket up.
Even asleep, his hand reached out.
Found her wrist.
She paused.
Then slipped in beside him.
He exhaled softly.
Without fully waking, he rolled toward her.
His arm slid around her waist.
His face settled against her shoulder.
He breathed in slowly.
Her scent.
Shampoo, faint beneath dungeon air.
Warm skin.
Something sweet and sharp that was simply her.
His grip tightened a little.
Secure.
Anchored.
Alex rested her chin lightly on top of his head.
She listened.
Distant butchering sounds.
Roots being harvested.
The generator humming.
Low voices.
Trolls grumbling over canal-slope corrections.
Lizardmen inspecting water flow.
It was absurd.
All of it.
And yet...
Stable.
She brushed her fingers lightly through his hair.
He murmured something unintelligible.
Probably about carrots.
Or sunflowers.
Or fertilizer.
She smiled.
Outside, the camp prepared for dives.
For risk.
For danger.
Inside the blanket, there was warmth.
There was breath.
There was a farmer who had built something real enough that people worked around him without fearing they'd be used.
A man who trusted.
And was trusted.
He snuggled closer without thinking.
Alex closed her eyes for a moment.
For now, this was enough.
---
It happened in the middle of the night.
No explosion.
No roar.
No system notification.
Just—
Cold.
A wave of it.
Sharp. Clean. Absolute.
It rolled outward from Camp Stymphalian like winter exhaling.
Frost crept over stone.
Water in the half-finished pond glazed over in thin crystal lace.
The canal stiffened.
Even the trolls on the mountain ridge stirred uneasily. Moss stiffened along their backs.
The lizardmen of Lake Baratok lifted their heads from sleep, scales tightening on instinct.
"Cold wind," one muttered.
"Not natural," another hissed.
But the chill carried no hostility.
No fire.
No poison.
Only winter's breath.
Inside the tent, under blankets and warmth and the steady rhythm of shared breathing, no one noticed.
Morning came.
Dungeon sunlight, or its nearest equivalent, filtered dimly through mana haze.
Phong woke first.
The ache in his muscles had beaten the exhaustion from last night with Alex.
He stretched.
Still sore.
Still human.
He looked back at the bed.
At least Alex was sleeping with a content smile.
So maybe, given his stats, he hadn't done too badly.
He pushed aside the tent flap.
Then stopped.
"…What."
Where the Snow Lime tree had stood, tall but modest, now rose something else entirely.
A thicker trunk.
Broad shoulders of bark.
Branches arcing outward in heavy spreads.
Leaves layered dense and wide.
If not for the familiar wooden sign still nailed to the trunk, Camp Stymphalian carved proudly beneath a bird skull, he would have sworn someone had uprooted the lime tree and replaced it with an oak as an apology.
Alex stepped up behind him, hair a mess from sleep.
"…That wasn't there yesterday."
"No."
The trunk looked at least three times thicker. The canopy twice as high.
It didn't shimmer violently.
It didn't radiate threat.
It simply existed.
Deeper-rooted.
Stronger.
Then a lime dropped.
A soft thud at his feet.
Perfect.
Small. Firm. Faintly glowing with a pale frost sheen.
Smooth skin.
It still looked like a regular Snow Lime.
Phong bent and picked it up.
A status window flickered.
Snow Lime
Effect: 20% movement speed for 1 hour
Limit: Once per day
Unchanged.
He looked up at the tree.
"…Did you do this?"
Another lime dropped.
Almost petulant.
Alex crossed her arms.
"Ask it for another."
Phong stared at the trunk.
"…Give me another."
A third lime fell instantly.
They both went quiet.
The tree rustled faintly.
As if it had learned obedience.
Or affection.
No one knew why it had grown overnight.
No boss alert.
No shifting.
No quest.
Just expansion.
And the chickens?
Quiet.
Too quiet.
Dominic noticed when he went to check on them.
"They're calm."
Too calm.
No nervous fluttering.
No anxious clucking.
They stood in the enclosure alert, but composed.
Phong glanced at the towering lime-oak hybrid.
Said nothing.
Because it was phở time.
If the dungeon wanted to grow trees overnight, it could wait.
He had broth to make.
He built the fire carefully.
Northern style.
Clean. Clear.
He preferred it to the more common southern style.
Less murky.
Less heavy with medicinal herb complexity.
No overwhelming star anise cloud.
No cinnamon domination.
Fish sauce.
Charred bones.
Control.
He grilled the cow bones first, hard heat until the edges blackened.
Depth.
Smoke.
Then he charred ginger and onion directly over flame until blistered and fragrant.
Into the pot they went.
Water followed.
Then simmer.
Slow. Controlled.
Dominic hovered nearby like a shark.
"Is it ready?"
"It has been five minutes."
"So?"
"Patience."
The broth clarified beautifully.
The surface shimmered with delicate fat pearls.
Clear enough to see into the pot.
Phong skimmed it carefully.
Fish sauce went in with precise restraint.
Rock sugar next.
The aroma rose clean and deep.
Not muddy.
Not spice-heavy.
Just beef and char.
He knew what was missing.
Dried peanutworms.
Daikon.
Jicama.
Those would have added more depth, more sweetness, more umami.
But onion would do the job for now.
He also admitted, privately, that he should have started the broth the night before. Six or seven hours of slow simmer would have built deeper flavor.
Still, in a pinch, two to three hours could be enough.
Then came the meat.
Steak cuts were set aside and stored in the freezer for Dominic's return from Floor Two.
Phở demanded more specific choices.
He sliced the turtle shank with care.
Thick cross-sections.
Tendons gleaming in layered rings.
Rich. Gelatinous.
Cooked right, it gave that prized bite.
Not chewy.
Not rubbery.
More like al dente pasta.
The most expensive bowl in Hà Nội.
Then gầu giòn.
Crunchy fat, trimmed precisely.
He arranged it neatly.
Brisket sliced thin.
Raw cuts ready for flash-cooking in boiling broth.
Noodles soaked.
He picked the best batch.
Boiling water.
A fast blanch to keep them elastic and springy.
Into bowls.
Meat layered with care.
Broth poured.
Steam rose in white spirals.
The aroma landed first.
Deep.
Clean.
Comforting.
He handed the first bowl to Alex.
She inhaled slowly.
Smiled.
Dominic got his and immediately added chili.
Janet tasted carefully.
Jake closed his eyes at the first bite.
Jack nodded once.
Joanne whispered, "This is insane."
The turtle shank delivered exactly what it promised.
Rich.
Elastic.
An umami bomb.
The gầu giòn softened in the broth but kept its satisfying bite.
Crunch within richness.
A contrast to the tender brisket.
The noodles held their structure.
Phong started explaining the five elements in a proper bowl of phở: brown beef, white noodles, green spring onions, yellow ginger, red chilies.
No one listened.
They were too busy eating.
Northern-style simplicity carried the whole bowl.
Even the trolls, drawn by the smell, waited at the chili perimeter.
Phong prepared oversized bowls for them.
Less noodle.
More meat.
They accepted with reverent silence.
The Troll King slurped once.
Then nodded deeply.
"Warm."
The lizardmen accepted smaller portions.
Curious.
Their scaled jaws moved slowly.
Satisfied.
Camp Stymphalian sat together in the morning light.
Steam rising.
Chickens quiet.
The lime tree towering like an old guardian.
No one understood the growth.
No one dug too deeply into it.
Because right now, broth mattered more.
As Phong lifted his own bowl, he glanced once at the huge trunk.
The wooden sign still hung there.
Camp Stymphalian.
Still theirs.
Just…
Larger.
---
After breakfast, after the broth pots were scrubbed and the bowls rinsed in steadily flowing pond water, Dominic and the four Js geared up.
Final equipment check.
Phong's harvest had been portioned and packed carefully in zip bags.
Arrogant Ginger.
Stoic Garlic.
Snow Limes.
Dungeon-grown sweet potatoes.
Relaxing Shiitake.
Sympathy Enoki.
Watering Oyster Mushroom.
Weeping Onion.
They were bringing all of it.
Just in case.
Dominic rolled his shoulders once.
"Don't let the tree grow into a castle while we're gone."
"No promises," Phong said.
They left through the troll-cleared path toward the Floor Two access, their silhouettes shrinking between mountain and lake.
Camp Stymphalian felt quieter after that.
Not empty.
Just slower.
Alex rolled up her sleeves.
"Cleaning duty."
They worked side by side.
Collecting stray bowls.
Scrubbing grills.
Packing leftovers into the freezer.
Sorting mushroom logs.
Sweeping ash from the fire pit.
Normal work.
Domestic work.
Work that felt almost illegal inside a dungeon.
Phong checked his phone while rinsing a pot.
His banking app refreshed.
He paused.
"…Huh."
Alex looked over.
"What."
"My balance."
Higher.
Noticeably higher.
Dungeon diving made money.
Even without sponsors.
Even without brand deals.
Selling raw resources, monster parts, rare drops, stable materials, was enough.
Dominic's team had been paying rent regularly, just as agreed.
Use of camp as a rest point.
Emergency fallback.
Infrastructure access.
Phong had told them more than once they didn't need to pay him that much.
They insisted.
"Your camp makes our dives viable," Janet had said. "Profit share is fair."
Never once had any of them suggested hiding resources for selfish advantage.
Never once had they quietly skimmed.
No exploitation.
No silent greed.
Just trust.
Give and take.
Community.
Phong slipped the phone back into his pocket.
Alex noticed the faint smile he couldn't quite hide.
"Rich farmer," she teased.
He snorted.
"I still live in a tent."
They moved to the chicken coop.
The birds were calm again.
Too calm.
He crouched by one corner and heard a faint peep.
He blinked.
Carefully, he lifted a small plank.
There—
A chick.
Tiny. Fluffy.
Eyes barely open.
Yellow-and-red down like embers under ash.
"…We didn't incubate—"
"It must have hatched last night," Alex whispered.
Phong lifted it gently.
The chick peeped.
Then pressed itself against his palm.
Then climbed, awkwardly, up his sleeve.
Then into the hood of his hoodie.
And refused to leave.
"…Oh no."
"It imprinted," Alex said, barely holding back laughter.
The chick's tiny head peeked out from behind his neck.
It let out a satisfied chirp.
"That's your life now," she said.
Phong adjusted his hoodie carefully.
The chick settled deeper.
Warm. Determined.
Alex studied its coloring.
"Little Fireball."
He looked up.
"That's the name?"
"Look at it."
He glanced at the reddish fuzz.
"…Fair."
They both stared at it for a moment.
Then Alex grinned, wickedly.
"What if it grows into the Monstrous Phoenix?"
Phong deadpanned.
"Please no."
"Imagine."
"Absolutely not."
The chick chirped in protest.
He fed it crushed grain.
Dabbed water droplets at its beak.
It clung stubbornly to his hoodie.
Camp Stymphalian had acquired a mascot.
They returned to the crops.
Sunflower patches checked.
Carrot rows watered.
Snow Limes harvested on request.
The giant lime-oak guardian rustled overhead, as if listening.
By midday, the dungeon trembled slightly.
Another Shifting.
The pond rippled.
Troll mountain stayed where it was.
The lake held.
The camp—
Unchanged.
Anchored.
The Moletato network hummed beneath the soil.
The tree did not react this time.
But the news did.
Later that evening, signal amplifiers humming steadily, they watched updates.
The Shifting had affected Floor Two and Floor Three boundaries.
Half of Josh's sponsored team...
Gone.
Swallowed by spatial collapse.
In their place now stood Yue Ting's expedition team.
The same one that had vanished weeks earlier.
The dungeon had exchanged them.
Pulled some of Josh's people into Floor Three while burping Yue Ting's team back up.
No confirmation.
No recovery.
The media assumed those divers were dead. None of them were A-class, so the public conclusion was simple: Floor Three meant death.
Then Josh appeared on screen.
Face grave.
Eyes slightly red.
Performance flawless.
"We continue their legacy," he said.
Again.
Again the narrative.
Again grief polished and packaged.
Phong watched without reacting.
Alex's jaw tightened.
---
Selena called soon after.
Her face appeared tired on the screen.
"He came to campus."
Josh.
Recruitment drive.
"Floor Three opportunity."
"Carry the torch."
"Be part of history."
Freshmen filled the auditorium.
Naive.
Ambitious.
Hungry.
"They're buying it," Selena said quietly.
Vanessa stepped into frame behind her, arms crossed.
"We tried to speak up."
"No one wants to hear caution," Vanessa added. "Not when hero narratives are easier."
They both looked frustrated.
That quiet, powerless kind of anger that burns without flames.
"You're welcome here," Alex said immediately.
"Weekend?"
Selena nodded.
"We need to breathe."
"Come anytime," Phong added. "We have phở leftovers."
Vanessa almost smiled.
"Sold."
The call ended.
Silence settled.
Little Fireball chirped softly from inside Phong's hood.
He reached up and scratched its tiny head.
On screen, analysts kept speculating.
Floor Three expansion.
Risk.
Opportunity.
Glory.
Camp Stymphalian stood between mountain and lake.
Anchored.
Stable.
Rooted.
Phong looked at Alex.
She looked back.
Outside, the lime-oak guardian stood tall.
The pond reflected faint mana-light.
The chick nestled deeper into his hoodie like it had found home.
Half of Josh's team gone.
Another lost team returned in their place.
The dungeon did not care about media arcs.
It did not care about speeches.
It swallowed.
It replaced.
It moved.
But here, there was soil.
There was water.
There were people who chose not to exploit.
And a tiny red-yellow chick that refused to let go.
For now, that was enough.