The War God didn't just accept the proposal; he slammed his spear into the red sand of my dreamscape and demanded a Proof of Concept. He wanted to see if my "Logistical Powerhouse" could handle the heat of a divine battlefield.
"One thousand cups," he'd rumbled, his eyes glowing like dying embers. "Three hours. If my warriors find the foam lacking or the temperature tepid, I shall reclaim your soul as a decorative tassel for my belt. Do we have an agreement, little merchant?"
Wow! HAAAARSSH!
"Agreement? It's practically a standard stress test," I'd snapped back, hiding the fact that my princess-heart was doing a frantic tap-dance against my ribs.
THE NEXT DAY, I woke up at dawn, the sun spilling over the Agro Capital in a way that felt far too peaceful for a day involving undead armies and divine quotas.
It was a beautiful, windy morning—the kind of day meant for a garden party or a ribbon-cutting ceremony. Instead, it was the start of a 72-hour Coffee Blitz.
