The roar of the crowd was the first thing that hit my team. It was like a physical wall of sounds, a chaotic mix of cheers, boos, and stunned laughter that washed over them, as they stood blinking in the harsh, unfamiliar sunlight of the Royal Arena.
Sir Crumplebuns, ever the performer, took it all as wild applause and began a series of deep, heroic bows. Gilda just stood there stoically, looking profoundly uncomfortable.
The commentator watched his grand, professional event spiral into a chaotic comedy show. Panicked, he knew he had to regain control. He cleared his throat, his voice straining to sound composed as it boomed over the noise, and focused on the one person in the bizarre lineup who actually looked like a warrior.
"Captain Gilda!" he called out. "A... stunning victory for The Comfy Corner! Was this an intentional exploitation of a bureaucratic oversight in the rules?"
Gilda, a warrior who was famously bad at lying, just grunted. "It was," she said, her voice gruff, "a decision made at the core level."
Zazu just looked more tired now, as if winning so quickly was somehow more exhausting than a real fight. Pip, meanwhile, was hiding almost completely behind Clank, who was proudly holding his slightly crooked "GO TEAM NAP!" banner.
(The Competitors' Viewing Gallery)
In a lavish, shaded gallery overlooking the arena, the representatives of the other competing dungeons were watching the chaos unfold.
Borin, the stout dwarf master from the Obsidian Forge, was stroking his braided beard, his eyes wide with a baffled respect. "By the God of blacksmith's forge," he rumbled to his apprentice. "He didn't use a single trap. The sheer, unapologetic nerve of it... it's almost respectable."
The elegant elven representative for the Sylvanheart Maze, Lyra, looked like she was personally offended. "This is a mockery of the ancient and noble art of dungeon design!" she declared to her entourage. "There was no elegance! No subtlety! Just... blunt-force logistics!"
In a darker corner, Klarg the Hobgoblin sat alone, representing the Blood Pit. He wasn't snarling or fuming as the others had expected. He was just staring at the screen showing the cozy lobby of 'the Comfy Corner' dungeon, a strange, thoughtful expression on his face as he remembered a phantom cherry blossom tree.
(The Royal Box)
High Adjudicator Thistlewick gripped the arms of his throne, his knuckles white. "This is a travesty!" he growled to the man sitting beside him. "He has made a joke of this sacred competition!"
King Caspian the Benevolent, however, was roaring with laughter. "Oh, Thistlewick, lighten up!" the King chortled, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. "I haven't been this entertained in years! A dungeon that wins a speed race with pure, unadulterated laziness! It's brilliant!"
Thistlewick just scowled, his gaze fixed on a small Scry-Crystal showing the frantic debate happening in the deliberation chamber below.
(The Judges' Deliberation Chamber)
The argument inside the judges' private chamber was heated.
"The core relocation is a blatant misuse of high-level translocation magic for a parlor trick!" wheezed Archmage Tiberius. "It's academically unsound!"
Maestro Valerius, the flamboyant man from the Bard's College, scoffed dramatically. "My dear Archmage, it was the most brilliant piece of theater I've seen in years! The suspense! The absurdity! The sheer, unmitigated audacity! The crowd adored it! It was pure entertainment!"
As the two of them began to bicker about tradition versus showmanship, Inspector Barnaby finally sighed. It was a sigh that carried the weight of a thousand useless meetings.
"Technically," he said in a tired, flat voice, "the 'Provisional Sanctuary' status of Dungeon 42 means it was exempt from the pre-tournament registration scan. Therefore, the 'Registered Layout' protocol does not apply." He looked up at the other two judges. "There is no rule he has broken. My report is clear."
The Maestro clapped his hands in delight. The Archmage grumbled but couldn't argue with the logic. The verdict was sent up to the Royal Box.
(The Comfy Corner)
Back in my dungeon, the massive portal finally swirled shut, plunging the lobby back into its familiar, quiet gloom. The silence was the most wonderful thing I had felt all day.
FaeLina, on the other hand, was doing a victory dance.
'We're famous! And infamous!' her psychic voice cheered. 'It's the best of both worlds! Everyone is talking about us!'
I was more concerned with the cost of our little stunt. I checked my status.
[Dungeon Points (DP): 47]
The Emergency Core Chamber Relocation and shifting My core to its original place had cost me nearly everything. I was practically bankrupt.
'One victory, and we're broke,' I thought, a wave of exhaustion washing over me. 'This tournament is going to be the death of me. I need a nap and about five hundred DP, in that order.'
The commentator's voice echoed one last time, a magical remnant from the now-closed portal, announcing the final results for the day.
The Sylvanheart Maze had clocked in at fifty-eight minutes. The Obsidian Forge had finished in forty-seven minutes. The Blood Pit, in a show of pure, angry spite, had taken nearly three hours.
I hadn't just won. I had won by such an absurd margin that I had completely broken the event.
"And that concludes the Gauntlet of Swiftness!" the voice announced. "Join us again tomorrow, folks, for a true test of a dungeon's power and creativity! Get ready for... The Labyrinth of Lethality!"
FaeLina's victory dance came to a screeching halt. She turned her panicked gaze to my low DP count.
'Lethality?' she squeaked in my mind.
'Mochi... how are we going to afford to build a 'Labyrinth of Lethality' when we cannot even afford to build a new pillow?'