Phong liked tending the decoy farm.
It grounded him.
Normal soil.
Normal crops.
No sentient tubers.
No weaponized vegetables violating international law.
Just dirt.
Strawberries starting to blush red.
Peas climbing neatly.
A small, honest lie planted near the treant forest so that if anyone stumbled on it, they would see nothing more than a careful low-level farmer trying to survive.
He was adjusting the twine on a pea vine when he saw movement beyond the clearing.
Polished armor.
Camera drones.
Tripods.
Olen.
Phong narrowed his eyes.
The rich farmer stood a few meters from a mushroommire, one of Floor One's native creatures.
Docile.
Passive.
Nocturnal.
Usually avoiding people.
The creature swayed in confusion.
Olen posed.
Slash.
Clean arc.
Pause.
Smile.
He shifted slightly.
Slash again from a new angle.
Another smile.
The camera drone drifted.
Slash.
Reset stance.
Slash.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Something cold settled in Phong's stomach.
Olen was not fighting.
He was filming.
Between takes, Olen adjusted his hair.
One of his guards, clearly a hired diver much stronger than him, dragged the half-dead mushroommire upright after every staged hit.
They were manufacturing heroism.
After twenty, maybe thirty takes, Olen nodded to his crew.
"Good. That's enough footage."
He wiped his blade.
It was already mostly clean because the escort had done the real damage before the cameras rolled.
Then they packed up and left.
The mushroommire, barely alive, got finished off off-camera by the guard.
Phong stood there with dirt still on his hands.
Four hours.
That was how long an edited "documentary-style" dive could run.
Different angles.
Different takes.
Slow-motion cuts.
Close-ups of determined faces.
Add dramatic music.
Layer in some inspiring voice-over.
Then he could buy mushroommires from other divers.
Shell accounts.
Third-party brokers.
Delivered quietly to a secured warehouse.
Slaughtered in a controlled setting.
Counted toward "one hundred of a species."
Repeat.
Efficient.
Safe.
Profitable.
Phong let out a slow breath.
He had been wrong.
Olen was not just naïve ambition wrapped in privilege.
He was Josh.
Different box.
Same rot.
Josh bullied with entitlement.
Olen exploited with polish.
Two brands of the same filth.
Then Olen noticed him.
Their eyes met across the field.
Olen gave him a friendly, polished smile.
One of his guards walked over.
"Hey," the man said casually. "You're production class, right? Farmer?"
Phong lowered his shoulders a little.
Made himself smaller.
"Y-yeah."
"You should check out Mr. Olen's program. Structured leveling. Safe escorts. Proven results."
"I… I don't think I'm cut out for that," Phong muttered, forcing nerves into his voice. "It looks dangerous."
The guard gave a faint smirk.
"That's why you pay professionals."
Phong shook his head fast.
"I'm fine staying low. Just growing crops."
Coward mask.
Harmless mask.
The guard shrugged and walked back.
Olen gave him one last look, maybe measuring, maybe dismissing, then moved off with his team toward the gate.
Phong waited until they were gone.
Then he whispered under his breath.
"You're worse."
Because Josh treated people like trash.
Olen turned their hope into a product.
High above, past mortal sight, the jade dragon watched.
Two farmers.
Two paths.
One built an ecosystem.
One farmed corpses and narratives.
Cowardice did not anger the dragon.
It amused him.
Olen's method was vile.
Clever.
Spineless.
But interesting.
So the dragon made a choice.
Spare that human.
Just this once.
Not mercy.
Curiosity.
Let him keep going.
Let him push further.
Let him reveal how far ego could carry him.
Then, maybe, correction would be needed.
But not yet.
The air near Phong shifted slightly.
He did not notice.
A small green lizard crawled out of the brush near the decoy carrots.
Level 1.
Name: Grern Lizard
Stats: 3, 4, 2.
Pathetic.
Even its name had a typo.
It looked half-starved.
It let out a thin, almost pitiful screech.
Phong glanced down.
"…You again?"
The little thing trembled and tilted its head.
It looked absurdly fragile.
He sighed.
"You shouldn't be here. Treants don't like non-plants."
It screeched again, softer this time.
Almost begging.
Phong reached into his pouch and pulled out a leftover piece of cooked moletato from earlier.
He crouched.
"Here."
The lizard snapped it up at once.
Chewed.
Then looked back up at him.
No hostility.
No aura.
No pressure.
Just a tiny green reptile.
Phong shook his head.
"Survive if you can."
Then he stood and went back to tying pea supports.
The lizard lingered for a moment.
Then scurried back toward the treeline.
Faking name, level, and stats in the system was child's play for the Sky Emperor.
Level 1.
Green lizard.
Harmless.
The strongest being on Floor One had just eaten moletato scraps from a level one farmer's hand.
The dragon felt something unfamiliar.
Not respect.
Not attachment.
Interest.
The other farmer had chosen deceit.
This one had chosen restraint.
He fed what looked weak.
Did not try to use it.
Did not calculate.
The dragon vanished from sight.
Decision postponed.
Observation continues.
Phong stretched his back.
He glanced once more toward the direction Olen had gone.
"Fake hero," he muttered.
Then he went back to tying peas.
Unaware that he had just fed a god.
Unaware that somewhere in the hidden order of monsters, his name had been quietly marked.
Not enemy.
Not prey.
Not just another test subject.
Something else.
Something the jade dragon had not yet decided how to name.
Far away, Olen began editing his grand four-hour "dungeon triumph."
One farmer staged glory.
The other planted strawberries.
The dungeon watched both.
Silently.
Phong knew exactly why he had been spared.
The bastard had not even bothered to silence him.
No threat.
No warning.
Not even a hint of consequences.
Why would he?
Who would believe a level one farmer?
Olen's media team could turn a sneeze into a motivational TED Talk.
If Phong went public and said the golden boy of production classes was staging footage and buying monsters wholesale for slaughter in climate-controlled warehouses, he would get laughed off every platform.
Conspiracy nut.
Jealous hater.
Untalented loser.
And if things got worse?
Well.
Accidents happened.
His aunt and uncle had learned that the hard way.
Phong would not make the same mistake.
Patience.
That was the line between anger and revenge.
And the dungeon was the perfect hunting ground.
No cameras.
No law.
No PR spin.
Only results.
He wiped the dirt from his hands and headed back from the decoy farm toward Camp Stymphalian.
He expected normalcy.
Instead, he walked into chaos.
Alex sat on a wooden bench under the lime-oak, arms crossed, lips pursed in an exaggerated huff.
Dominic was bent over laughing.
Janet had tears in her eyes.
Jake was clutching his stomach.
Even Selena, usually composed, was wheezing.
Vanessa had tipped sideways on a stool.
Rico was rolling on the ground making strangled choking noises.
Phong blinked.
"What?"
Alex looked at him with full drama.
"Hmph."
That was never a good sign.
"What happened?"
Janet wiped her eyes.
"Tell him."
Alex held up her phone.
"It's Olen."
Fresh laughter broke out.
Phong frowned.
"What about him?"
She shoved the phone into his hands.
Message after message.
Polite.
Flirty.
Calculated.
[Ms. Vogel, your insight during previous operations was impressive. I would love to discuss potential synergy between elite classes and production evolution.]
[Your restraint shows depth. Depth is rare.]
[I believe we could redefine dungeon progression together.]
There were emojis too.
Tasteful ones.
Strategic ones.
Never desperate.
Always curated.
But still very clearly persistent.
Selena gasped between laughs.
"He's texting her like a LinkedIn recruiter trying to romance a merger."
Dominic wheezed.
"Bro really used 'synergy' in a pickup line."
Phong stared at the screen.
Then he laughed too.
No jealousy.
Not even a flicker.
Because he knew Alex.
Knew the way she looked at him.
Knew how she slept with one arm around his waist like he might disappear if she let go.
Knew how she smirked when he called her apfeltaschen.
Olen was not a threat.
He was comedy.
Alex leaned back, still pretending outrage.
"He must've decided that if Josh is dating Emma Tannenbaum, then he also needs an 'equal' girlfriend."
She made air quotes sharp enough to cut.
"So apparently I'm strategic leverage now."
Dominic wiped his face.
"Josh bailed on him, so now he's speedrunning emotional compensation."
Even Nyx popped a tiny spark in amusement.
Phong handed the phone back.
"He can try."
Alex squinted at him.
"That's it?"
He stepped closer and leaned down a little.
"I'll make it up to you tonight."
Her face softened at once.
"Hmph. Good."
The camp broke into fresh laughter.
Phong clapped once.
"Alright. Celebration begins."
Selena's birthday.
Dominic and Janet's anniversary.
And now the Olen Comedy Incident.
That deserved a feast.
No cake.
Hotpot.
Always hotpot.
Phong called in trades.
The lizardmen brought huge lake crabs and thick-shelled lobsters from the deeper waters of Lake Baratok.
Fish with silver scales like polished steel.
The trolls hauled in slabs of beef and whole chickens.
Phong considered goat for half a second.
Then looked at the goat-headed trolls.
"…We'll skip goat."
Dominic snorted.
"Smart."
Broth simmered.
Mushroom base in one pot.
Beef bone broth in another.
Ginger sliced thin.
Onions charred.
Garlic minced.
Chilies added with care to the bone broth side, enough heat without crossing into war-crime territory.
Chinese yin-yang hotpot.
Strawberries were left for dessert.
Peas went into a quick stir-fry on the side.
Steam rose thick and rich into the night air.
Treants lingered at the edge of camp but did not intrude.
Lizardman warriors sat near the canal.
Trolls stayed outside the chili line, respectful.
It had become a ritual.
Humans and monsters eating together in uneasy but working peace.
Dominic took charge of slicing beef.
Janet arranged the dipping sauces.
Selena declared Mexican Coke supremacy.
Dominic answered by raising Pepsi cans like sacred relics.
He had declared a rematch.
"Tonight," Selena announced grandly, "we end PEPsurpremaSI."
The Troll King, Thassir, and Rico were chosen as judges for this "very serious" contest.
The Troll King had already made his view clear after the ant siege.
He preferred Mexican Coke.
Thassir preferred Pepsi, saying it was "less angry" than Coke.
Rico cracked open a Pepsi.
Took a sip.
Tilted his head.
Then he drank from a bottle of Mexican Coke.
His eyes narrowed.
Long pause.
The raccoon scratched his chin.
Finally, he grunted.
"As head of the caffeine department… I declare them equal."
One point five each.
A draw.
Dominic collapsed in betrayal.
Selena screamed in protest.
Rico cackled like a broken goblin and mixed equal parts Coke and Pepsi into one horrible drink.
He vibrated like a damaged engine for the next hour.
Nyx and Bruno chased each other around the obstacle course.
Little Fireball sat on Alex's shoulder, chirping in approval whenever someone fed her a piece of shrimp.
Jake started singing badly.
Camille harmonized surprisingly well.
Élise tried teaching the trolls a French drinking chant.
The trolls turned it into something that sounded like a war hymn.
Janet leaned against Dominic's shoulder, smiling quietly.
Jake and Joanne tried to sell the lizardmen instant coffee from Long like it was a pyramid scheme.
Phong looked around.
Steam.
Laughter.
Friends.
Monsters who had once been enemies now trading food instead of blows.
His fiancée pouting just enough to demand extra affection later.
No contracts.
No sponsors.
No staged heroics.
Just people who had survived.
He had one word for it.
Wholesome.
Not dramatic.
Not epic.
Just wholesome.
By midnight, half the camp was drunk or over-caffeinated.
Dominic passed out in the middle of a sentence.
Selena was laughing at nothing.
Vanessa had fallen asleep sitting upright.
Jake was explaining something about vertical city ruins to a troll who did not care.
Alex leaned into Phong, warm and steady.
"You're smiling," she murmured.
"I like this."
"Me too."
He looked up at the lime-oak.
At the swing.
At the house built by monsters.
At the strawberries growing nearby.
At the pond reflecting firelight.
The dungeon was dangerous.
Floor bosses existed.
Egos clashed.
Blood had been spilled.
But tonight, Camp Stymphalian was alive.
And for now, that was enough.
Alex slept like she had conquered territory.
On top of him.
One arm across his chest.
One leg hooked firmly over his thigh.
Her face tucked into the crook of his neck.
Phong woke slowly.
First aware of warmth.
Then weight.
Then the uncomfortable truth that his girlfriend was using him as a luxury mattress.
He tried to shift a little.
Carefully.
Because collarbones were not exactly made for this.
She did not budge.
He nudged again.
Gently.
Nothing.
He frowned.
Then noticed it.
The faint curve at the corner of her mouth.
Mischief.
Her breathing was too even.
Too deliberate.
Then her leg tightened around him.
Locking him in place.
He stared at the ceiling.
"…You're awake."
No answer.
Her fingers flexed lightly against his shirt.
He breathed out through his nose.
"You're pretending."
Still nothing.
He sighed.
"Fine. Pampering."
Her smirk widened at once.
Eyes still closed.
Victory secured.
He reached up and slowly brushed her hair back, fingers moving through soft strands the way he had once done in the attic room overlooking the clock tower.
She hummed in approval.
"You owed me this, mudskipper. Pay tribute," she murmured sleepily, her voice muffled against his chest.
He chuckled.
He had promised.
After Olen's relentless DMs.
After the camp's laughter.
After she demanded compensation for being turned into political bait.
The messages had not stopped.
Not even overnight.
Olen was persistent.
Polite.
Calculated.
Relentless.
And now the news alerts had started.
Phones around camp lit up.
Rumors.
Speculation.
Threads exploding.
[Is Olen in love?]
[Who is the mystery woman?]
[Sources suggest A-class Arbiter Mindblade Alexandra Vogel.]
[Potential power couple of the production-diver era?]
The pattern was obvious.
Start a rumor.
Build a story.
Let social media do the rest.
Turn proximity into chemistry.
Turn silence into mystery.
Manufacture inevitability.
Phong stared at the headlines and almost admired the efficiency.
Weaponized shipping culture.
Alexandra Vogel.
Dragged into a campaign she had never agreed to.
Half of some fake "power couple."
Meanwhile she was sprawled across a level one farmer in a wooden house inside a dungeon, demanding head scratches like a possessive cat.
He brushed her hair slowly.
Carefully.
"You're not jealous," she mumbled without opening her eyes.
"No."
A pause.
Her finger poked his ribs.
"You're supposed to be at least a little possessive."
He smiled softly.
"I trust you."
She shifted and lifted her head to look at him.
Eyes open now.
"Not even a little?"
He shook his head.
"You love me."
Her expression softened at once.
The annoyance drained away.
She sighed and dropped her head back onto him.
"I do."
Outside, the media machine kept grinding.
Speculation rising.
Comment sections catching fire.
Some praised the imaginary pairing.
Some attacked it.
Some tagged her.
Some urged her to "think about the bigger picture."
That was the part she hated most.
The manipulation.
The attempt to trap her inside a story through public pressure.
Her fingers curled into his shirt again.
"I hate him more now," she muttered.
"I know."
They lay there quietly for a while.
Sunlight filtered through the window.
Camp was still half-asleep after last night's hotpot chaos.
Somewhere outside, Rico was probably arguing with a troll over caffeine distribution rights.
Little Fireball chirped faintly from a beam.
Beyond the chili perimeter, the world was loud.
Calculated.
Predatory.
But here, he brushed her hair.
And she traced lazy patterns on his chest.
"Let them talk," he said.
She nodded.
"They'll get bored eventually."
"And if they don't?"
"Then we ignore them louder."
She snorted softly at that.
"Arbiter Mindblade, feared across the floors," he murmured, "brought low by media shipping drama."
She pinched him lightly.
"Farmboy."
He smiled.
Outside, the headlines kept spinning.
Inside, she wrapped both legs around him again, trapping him completely.
"You're not going anywhere," she declared.
"I have peas to check."
"Peas can wait."
He sighed with full drama.
"Yes, ma'am."
She closed her eyes again.
Satisfied.
The so-called power couple of the production-diver era?
Nowhere near Olen.
Nowhere near cameras.
Just a girl who trusted her boyfriend enough to fall asleep on top of him.
And a farmer who trusted her enough not to feel threatened by noise.
Outside, narratives were manufactured.
Inside, they were simply themselves.
And no media team could edit that.