The ceremony of naming Unnatirajya had been brief and simple, the kind of formal affair which was all right in books but nothing more than an alibi for folk to drink wine and talk. Lord Darsha had merely nodded in paternal pride, Lady Ishvari had smiled with that sly, knowing spark in her eyes, and Grandpa Bassana had nodded once, precisely like a merchant who has seen his way into an open vault.
And it was a vault — only not one stuffed with gold coins or precious gems.No, the treasure that was causing Bassana's aged eyes to shine like worked silver was fashioned from fabric, thread, magic fluff… and the potential to make mature men go goo-goo like youngsters.
Plushies.
It had begun innocently enough — Sharath creating a few slime plushies as presents for the baby his mom was carrying. Soft, pretty, and meticulously sewn, they were the complete opposite of the overpriced, scratchy, mass-market "toys" in the capital markets. Ishvari adored them at once, and the princess had insisted on some for herself. Even Thermo, Sharath's snarky AI friend, had grudgingly conceded, "Statistically speaking, these have ridiculously high levels of hug potential."
The trouble started when Bassana caught sight of the neat stack of completed plushies residing in Sharath's workshop. The old man's face changed from benign curiosity to outright, "This is my retirement plan." By morning, he had set up a company called Royal Comfort Plush Co., acquired sole distribution rights, and dispatched order forms to half a continent before Sharath had even begun breakfast.
By lunch, the first orders had been received. By dinnertime, Sharath's mansion was swimming in fabric deliveries, and the previously serene roads of Unnatirajya were filled with caravans of cotton-like mystical plants, magical dyes, and sewing equipment. It was pandemonium. Useful pandemonium, but pandemonium all the same.
The Plushie Fever Spreads
In a week, Unnatirajya was a different place.The blacksmith who once pounded steel into acurate blades now slumped forward over a sewing machine, grumbling threateningly about "thread tension." The farmers who had spent their entire lives coaxing wheat from the earth were now making double the money working to cultivate Puffleaf, a uncommon magical plant with soft fibers ideal for plush filling.
Wherever Sharath walked, plushies appeared. In the market, vendors hung rainbow slime plushies from their canopies like party decorations. In the aristocratic quarter, idle guards used teddy bears to substitute for juggling balls. In the courtyard of the estate, even the royal felines had deemed that their new napping place would be upon plush-stuffed pillows.
Before long, the roads became so congested with fabric shipments that Sharath had to institute new "plush traffic laws":
Only two fabric carts at a time, side by side. The last accident had stuck an entire caravan between two buildings for a half day.
All magical dye barrels need to be capped. Half the market district still resembles a wedding tent since the "Great Fuchsia Spill.".
No plushie testing when walking. The accident reports were getting silly.
Even Thermo looked perplexed. "You know you've unintentionally built an economy that is completely huggable capitalism, don't you? Do you even have an exit strategy if the plush bubble pops?"
Sharath simply shrugged. "I'll worry about it when it happens."
The Black Market Strikes
And of course, where there is success, there is also envy — and scavengers. Soon enough, a black market for fake plushies sprang up in the capital. Inexpensive fakes with wonky eyes, itchy material, and filling like sand were half the cost of the real thing.
Sharath was first confronted with one of these monstrosities and he stood frozen in the street, clutching the lopsided toy as if it had offended his ancestors.
"This…" he snarled, "…is a plushie crime."
Thermo, always helpful, remarked, "On the plus side, they've captured your natural 'resting annoyed face' perfectly in the plush's expression. Astonishingly accurate work."
Sharath didn't laugh. He came up with Operation Fluffy Justice — an extreme, over-the-top-sounding scheme that amounted to going undercover and tracking down the forgers. His "disguise" consisted of a floppy hat and the most in-your-face ridiculous mustache ever to have existed. It resembled a small ferret that had been glued to his face.
As soon as he entered the seedy market area, a merchant asked him joyfully:Oh hey, Lord Sharath! Nice mustache. You buying or inspecting today?"
".Buying," Sharath growled, defeated.
After days of uncomfortable interrogation and more crap plushies than he could count, he tracked the fake operation to House Velbrin, a competing noble house. They were going with the simple approach: overwhelm the market with crap plushies to taint Unnatirajya's reputation and regain dominance in the high-end marketplace.
Sharath's strategy was even easier: "Burn it all down.
Thermo groaned in his mind. "Remember, no real arson without legal authorization."
The Council Meets
Meanwhile, back at the estate, Sharath told it all. Lord Darsha listened with seriousness. "We can't afford to unleash a full-blown feud on House Velbrin. If we strike back too fiercely, they'll find allies against us."
Bassana snorted. "Trash. We mock them at the next trade fair. Picture a life-sized slime plush standing over their stand. They'll never recover."
Princess Ishvari came up with the most rational concept: "Why not sell plushies of rare dungeon monsters? That way, no one can reproduce them unless they can clear the same floors as you."
Sharath blinked. "That's… actually genius."
Thermo grumbled, "Oh great, because nothing screams 'secure supply chain' like hunting the top predators just to make them into cuddly toys."
But the more Sharath thought about it, the more it made sense. Exclusive plushies meant guaranteed quality control, higher demand, and a near-impossible barrier for counterfeiters. Plus… dungeon runs were his thing.
The Dungeon Merch Plan
"Alright then," Sharath said, grinning. "I'll dive deeper into the dungeon, find rare monsters, and make exclusive plushies."
Bassana's eyes gleamed with the horrifying excitement of a trader with a nose for profit. "Exclusive… limited print… seasonal flavors… boy, we are going to be richer than the royal treasury!"
🐧Neuro Boop, his quieter artificial intelligence friend, spoke up at last: "Statistically, this plan has a 47% chance of you being faced with a monster that cannot physically be made cute."
Sharath grinned. "That's what imagination is for.
Preparations immediately commenced. Supply convoys were arranged. Weapons were whetted. Plushie color schemes were argued over in meetings that somehow seemed more heated than military briefings. Bassana even had marketing posters prepared before Sharath had departed the estate, each one sporting slogans such as:
"Snuggle the Danger!"
"Cuteness, Straight from the Dungeon Floor!"
"Only a Real Adventurer Can Hug This."
The Territory Management Headache
But plushie fever created other issues. The abrupt population explosion — laborers, traders, farmers — was straining Unnatirajya's infrastructure. The central thoroughfare was wearing down from the constant stream of caravans, food became more expensive, and shortages of housing became a real problem.
Sharath sat in the estate dining room one evening, a pile of reports on the table before him. "We can't cope. The market's expanding faster than the territory can absorb. We need answers."
Lord Darsha leaned back, considering. "We'll widen the main road and construct additional storage warehouses. But that will take additional stone and wood."
Bassana waved a hand dismissively. "We'll fund it with plushie profits. In fact, let's tax imported fabric slightly — just enough to fund infrastructure without killing the market."
Sharath nodded slowly. "And the housing issue?"
Darsha smirked. "That's easy. We'll recruit builders from other regions. Offer them good pay and free plushies for their families."
Sharath gave him a look. "Free plushies?"
Darsha shrugged. "Incentives work."
Thermo muttered, "Congratulations, you've weaponized cuteness as foreign policy."
The Night Before the Hunt
By the time everything was arranged, Sharath stood in the estate courtyard under the early morning stars, ready to depart. His gear was packed, his weapon gleamed, and a rolled-up bundle of sketch paper under his arm held designs for potential dungeon plushies — everything from fire-spitting slimes to mythical frost wolves.
His dungeon team waited nearby, looking equally ready and slightly confused about the mission. One mercenary finally asked, "So… we're just hunting monsters… for toys?"
Sharath grinned. "Not toys. Treasures."
Thermo groaned in his head. "Capitalism meets dungeon genocide. What a legacy."
And with that, Sharath set off toward the dungeon, Unnatirajya's economic future — and plushie supremacy — riding on his next big hunt.