Morning of the "dinner date," the camp group chat exploded before sunrise.
Alex posted first.
A photo.
No filter.
No angle work.
Just her arm wrapped around a sleeping Phong, his face buried against her shoulder, one hand gripping her shirt like he was afraid she'd disappear if he let go.
Caption:
[In case anyone doubts which farmer I love.]
Séline replied first.
Time zone advantage.
[Ah, romance. Très agricole.]
Camille added:
[Le véritable power couple.]
Dominic fired back within minutes.
A photo of his and Janet's wedding rings, fingers locked over a half-finished breakfast.
Caption:
[Married > dating.]
Jake and Jack were typing...
Stopped.
Typing again...
Then sent a photo.
Two cocktails clinking on a beach.
Blue ocean.
Bright sky.
Zoom in just a little and their fingers were linked at the bottom corner.
Caption:
[Gaymouflag is the way.]
The chat exploded.
Selena refused to lose.
She dropped a photo of her and Vanessa asleep on a dorm bed, limbs tangled, Gunpla boxes stacked like trophies beside them.
Caption:
[Plastic addiction bonding.]
Vanessa added:
[True love is panel lining together.]
Joanne, half-awake, replied:
[I'm married to coffee.]
Photo attached: a mug the size of her head.
Dominic answered with fourteen laughing emojis.
For one brief moment, the outside world vanished.
Just them.
Just warmth.
Just chosen family flexing affection like it was a competitive sport.
By noon, the surface had become a different battlefield.
Alex stepped out of the dungeon gate calm and steady.
No hesitation.
No nerves.
The trade town buzzed as always, but word had already spread.
Paparazzi lingered near the bakery district.
Influencer scouts.
Freelance streamers.
Gossip pages waiting to feed.
She went home first.
The bell above the Vogels' bakery door chimed softly.
Mama Vogel had already laid the dress out.
White.
Modest cut.
Elegant without begging for attention.
Papa Vogel looked her up and down, arms crossed.
Then, without pause, said,
"Go dump that rich little piece of shit."
Alex laughed so hard she had to sit down.
They knew her.
They trusted her.
Not one flicker of doubt in either of them.
Not about her.
Not about Phong.
Mama Vogel adjusted the hem.
"Remember, you owe him nothing."
"I know."
"And if he tries anything funny…"
"I know."
Papa Vogel muttered something dark about kneecaps and ovens.
Alex kissed both their cheeks before leaving.
The restaurant had been chosen carefully.
Upscale.
But not so exclusive it looked manipulative.
Outdoor seating.
Strategic lighting.
Perfect for photos.
Cameras lined the entrance.
Microphones stretched out like curious snakes.
Alex stepped from the car.
White dress flowing lightly.
Hair simple.
No heavy jewelry.
No dramatic makeup.
She walked through the flashes without slowing.
Back straight.
Chin level.
Untouched.
Olen was already there.
Dark tailored suit.
Golden-retriever smile loaded and ready.
He stepped forward, hand out.
She shook it politely.
No more.
No less.
The cameras devoured every second.
They sat.
Wine was poured.
The cameras kept their distance.
Barely.
Olen leaned in slightly.
"Thank you for coming."
Alex folded her hands calmly on the table.
"I believe in clarity."
He smiled.
Media-trained.
"Clarity is good."
He spoke first about misunderstandings.
About public perception.
About how admiration could be misread.
About empowering strong women.
About not lowering standards.
The script was polished.
He was good.
Very good.
If someone didn't know better, they might almost believe him.
Alex listened.
Didn't interrupt.
Didn't react.
When he finished, she tilted her head a little.
"You're very good at talking."
A compliment.
Delivered flat.
He chuckled.
"I try."
She leaned forward just slightly.
"And you're very good at creating narratives."
His smile faltered.
Only for a moment.
Then recovered.
"I don't understand."
"I think you do."
The cameras were too far away to hear clearly.
But body language?
That they could read.
Alex wasn't flustered.
Wasn't shy.
Wasn't swept away.
She was steady.
He tried charm again.
"I just think someone like you deserves someone who can match your world."
She answered softly.
"I choose who I stand beside."
A pause.
"And I don't need saving."
That line would trend within hours.
Olen adjusted his cufflinks.
Pivot.
"Of course. I respect that."
He tried once more.
Persistence packaged as devotion.
"I'll keep proving myself."
She smiled.
Not warm.
Not cruel.
Just final.
"You don't need to."
A longer pause.
"I gave you this dinner because public pressure deserved public closure."
That one hit.
He didn't show it.
But it landed.
"I'm not available."
Clear.
Direct.
"No hidden meaning."
Another pause.
"And if the rumors continue, I won't stay silent again."
The cameras caught her standing.
Poised.
Graceful.
No anger.
No scene.
Just decision.
She held out her hand.
Professional.
Not romantic.
"Thank you for dinner."
He shook it.
Smile still in place.
But thinner now.
The flashes exploded as she walked away.
White dress moving steadily through the storm of lenses.
Olen stayed seated for three seconds too long.
Smile frozen.
Then let it fall the moment the cameras turned elsewhere.
Back at Camp Stymphalian, Phong didn't watch live.
He was tending basil seeds.
Watering peas.
Little Fireball sat inside his hood, chirping now and then at the tablet replaying the first clips.
When his phone buzzed, he glanced at it.
Saw her walking away from the table.
White dress.
Unshaken.
The caption already trending:
[I choose who I stand beside.]
He smiled softly.
Then went back to planting.
He didn't need to ask how it went.
He already knew.
She had walked into a battlefield.
And walked out untouched.
That night she would come back to him.
And the only thing she would probably demand—
Was pampering.
Again.
The smile lasted exactly until the car door shut.
The second the cameras vanished and the driver pulled away, Olen's jaw tightened.
By the time he got home, the mask was already cracking.
His room, minimalist, expensive, designed to look effortless, became the first casualty.
A glass shattered against the wall.
A chair tipped over.
His phone hit the carpet, not because he wanted to break it, but because he needed both hands free to clench into fists.
Twice.
Twice she had turned him down.
Not with humiliation.
Not with drama.
Just... dismissal.
Alexandra Vogel.
He had gone into that dinner believing he controlled the story.
Believing charm and persistence would wear her down.
Instead, she gave him "public closure."
Closure.
The word echoed in his skull like an insult.
At first, it had been about Josh.
Competition.
Status.
Matching power with power.
If Josh had Emma Tannenbaum, diver celebrity, Songblader, brand ambassador, then he would have Alexandra Vogel, the rare Arbiter Mindblade.
Symmetry.
Balance.
Prestige.
But somewhere between the first rejection and tonight's calm dismissal, it changed.
Now it was personal.
He didn't want her to raise his influence.
He wanted to crack that composure.
He wanted to see that cold, measured face break.
He wanted her to choose him after resisting.
He wanted to be the reason her pride bent.
And in every story, there was an obstacle.
The rumor.
The level 1 farmer.
Phong.
Olen walked slowly to his desk.
On the screen were paparazzi shots from outside Hà Nội Corner weeks ago.
Alex and Phong laughing.
Close.
Natural.
Unstaged.
He zoomed in on one frame where she looked at him with something unmistakable.
Warmth.
Olen's lips curled slightly.
"Good," he murmured.
If the world believed the farmer mattered, then the farmer had to disappear.
He opened the encrypted chat.
Contact: Josh.
No reply.
He tried again.
Nothing.
Then the news alert hit.
[Breaking: A-Class Divers Shifted Into Floor 3 During Floor 2 Expedition.]
Names listed.
Josh.
Emma.
Two other A-class.
No signal.
No contact.
Floor 3.
Olen stared at the headline.
His irritation hardened into something colder.
Josh was reckless.
Arrogant.
But useful.
Now?
Missing.
Unreachable.
He clenched his jaw.
"Fine."
If Josh couldn't move pieces, he would.
He leaned back in his chair and forced his breathing steady until his pulse slowed.
He was not emotional.
He was strategic.
First move:
Separate her from him.
He drafted an anonymous tip to the Divers Association.
High-reward contract.
Urgent.
Blazing Salamander blood collection.
Rare component.
Floor 2 habitat.
Dangerous enough to require an experienced team.
Tempting enough to drag Dominic's squad deeper.
He worded it carefully.
Untraceable.
No personal markers.
The system would route it as a lucrative opportunity.
Dominic's team would take it.
And Alexandra Vogel would be occupied.
Second move:
Information.
He opened a cold crypto wallet.
Moved funds through layered accounts.
Then contacted a private channel known in the right circles.
Black Web.
Former serial killers.
Awakened.
Too useful to execute.
Too dangerous to imprison.
Recycled by elites.
Given new names.
Pointed at targets.
He did not ask for a kill.
Not yet.
He asked for mapping.
Surveillance.
Detailed terrain data from a region near Floor 1.
Specifically around the so-called level 1 farmer.
The decoy camp.
He wanted angles.
Blind spots.
Movement patterns.
Plant density.
Possible hidden defenses.
He did not underestimate dungeon irregularities.
Third move:
Force.
He reviewed his roster.
Private divers once hired for escort work.
Experienced.
Loyal to money.
Ten selected.
Two A-class among them.
Ex-military backgrounds.
Clean records on paper.
Efficient.
He himself was no longer the sheltered production-class boy people once underestimated.
Level 14.
Thirteen skills gained.
He had farmed thirteen hundred monsters.
Not in glorious fights.
But methodically.
Optimized.
He understood stacking.
He understood synergy.
He wasn't Dominic.
He wasn't Yue Ting.
But against a level 1 farmer?
It would be like firing a cannon at a fly.
He liked that image.
He would not move now.
Too soon after the dinner.
Too obvious.
He would wait.
Let the headlines cool.
Let the world forget the rejection.
Let Josh's Floor 3 disaster dominate the feeds.
Time softened suspicion.
Time created openings.
He leaned back into the shadows of his room.
Hands folded.
Breathing calm.
He pictured the sequence.
Alex in Floor 2.
Busy.
Out of reach.
The farmer isolated.
Signal jammed.
Quick execution.
Staged as a dungeon accident.
Maybe rogue fauna.
Maybe territorial monsters.
Maybe just tragic bad luck.
He would attend the funeral if needed.
Look solemn.
Offer condolences.
Play the supportive friend.
Then be there.
Persistent.
Respectful.
Patient.
He smiled faintly.
Choosing when to strike was a privilege.
And privilege was something he had never lacked.
In his mind, the board was set.
He did not know—
That on another layer of the dungeon, under roots and through soil, networks were listening.
He did not know—
That playing dirty in a world ruled by monsters was not the same as playing dirty with media.
He believed he was in the shadows.
He believed patience made him untouchable.
He believed control was his.
For now—
He waited.
And planned.