NOVEL NEXT Chapter 108: The Sincerest Form of Laziness.
The morning after the Great Surcharge Standoff, a new, and deeply strange, status quo had settled over the dungeon. The four mages from the so called "Anomalous Sanctuaries Research Unit," having paid their "Premium Access Fee," were now quietly and methodically setting up their bizarre equipment around the lobby.
One mage was carefully placing a series of glowing, rune-etched crystals in a perfect, circular pattern, muttering about "creating a stable aetheric resonance field." Another was levitating a humming silver orb that seemed to be taking temperature and humidity readings, occasionally jotting down a note on a floating piece of parchment. They completely ignored my team, their faces a mask of pure, academic purpose.
It was, as High Magus Elara had promised, a very quiet and non-invasive process. It was also the most stressful thing I had ever experienced. My every magical hum, every fluctuation in my Aura of Sanctuary, was being monitored, catalogued, and probably cross-referenced in a very large book.
The team was trying their best to ignore their new, silent observers, each of them coping in their own unique way.
Gilda was pointedly sharpening her axe in a corner, radiating an aura of "don't even think about measuring my intimidation levels today." Pip and Clank were having the quietest game of Stones and Crosses in the history of the world, using hand signals instead of speaking. Kaelen had retreated to the Tea Nook, where she and Sloosh were now polishing the teacups with a silent, focused intensity that was frankly terrifying.
Sir Crumplebuns, seeing the strange, magical orbs, had taken up a silent, heroic guard post in front of the Tea Nook, his Spoonblade held at the ready to defend it from any "unauthorized academic inquiry." Sir Wobble-a-lot just wobbled nervously beside him, trying to look just as heroic.
Zazu, however, was having the worst time of all. The humming silver orbs and glowing crystals were emitting a low-level magical frequency that, to his sensitive elven ears, was the equivalent of a dozen nails being dragged across a chalkboard. He was sitting in his armchair with his hands pressed to his temples, a look of profound, sleepy agony on his face. He wasn't just tired anymore; he had a magical headache.
FaeLina, however, was in a state of pure, managerial bliss. She was hovering near the ceiling, her new abacus clicking away furiously as she calculated potential profit margins.
'Mochi, this is brilliant!' her psychic voice was a buzz of pure, entrepreneurial glee. 'Don't you see? They're not paying us for a product. They're paying us to study our natural state of being. We don't have to do anything! It's the perfect form of passive income! The Mages' Guild is literally paying us to exist!'
Her mind was already racing ahead, her thoughts a blur of charts and revenue projections. 'At this rate,' she continued, 'we'll have enough seed capital to launch the 'Comfy Corner Express' franchise by next spring! A whole guild of smaller, more affordable napping outposts!'
With her five-year plan for global comfort domination now firmly in place, her mind immediately jumped to the next logical step: market research.
With a triumphant hum, she zoomed over to Dave's Scry-Orb, which was still projecting a silent, holographic image in the center of the room. With a flick of her wrist, she brought up the main feed for the Royal ScryNet Guild, a smug, satisfied smile on her face. She was clearly expecting to see glowing reviews, maybe a few fan-created ballads about her brilliant invoicing skills.
Instead, her smug smile vanished. Her aura went from a brilliant, profitable pink to a dim, horrified lavender.
"No," she whispered, her voice a tiny squeak of pure disbelief. "No, no, no. It can't be."
Her sudden shift from triumphant manager to a state of pure, horrified disbelief was a more effective alarm than any raid siren. The team, sensing this new and very specific kind of disaster, slowly gathered around the holographic image, peering over FaeLina's tiny, trembling shoulder to see what could possibly have broken their unflappable leader.
It was a live broadcast from Dungeon-Dive Dave, but he wasn't in our dungeon. He was standing in a familiar, greasy-looking cavern with questionable health and safety standards.
"...and in a surprising but, let's be honest, inevitable development," Dave's voice boomed from the orb, his tone a perfect mix of professional journalism and barely concealed amusement, "the incredible success of The Comfy Corner has inspired a wave of new 'Sanctuary-style' dungeons! We're here today at the grand re-opening of the newly rebranded... Frank's All-You-Can-Eat Goblin Buffet and 'Napping Nook'!"
The holographic image on the Scry-Orb panned over to their so-called "Napping Nook," and a collective, silent gasp of pure, unadulterated horror went through my team.
It wasn't just a pile of straw; it was a sad, lumpy nest of the most questionable-looking hay I had ever seen, the kind that looked like it had been salvaged from the floor of a very old barn. Something small and unseen seemed to be rustling around in the bottom of it.
In the center of this monstrosity was a single, lumpy, and frankly disgusting-looking pillow. It looked less like a pillow and more like a bag of sad, forgotten potatoes. A single, grey, and very lonely-looking feather was sticking out of a tear in the side, and the whole thing was dominated by a large, ominous, and very damp-looking stain of unknown origin.
And to complete the picture of pathetic, low-effort capitalism, a sign, hand-painted in what looked like mud, was propped up against the straw. It read:
"5 KOPPER A NAP - NO REFUNDS."
A stunned, horrified silence fell over the lobby, broken only by a single, high-pitched shriek of pure, unadulterated outrage from FaeLina.
"Brand infringement!" she shrieked, zipping back and forth in a panic, her aura a furious, pulsating pink. "Trademark violation! They're diluting our brand with a sub-standard product! Look at that pillow! It's a health code violation! Our entire reputation is built on premium comfort! I need to file a formal complaint with the DLRB immediately for 'Gross Negligence of Coziness'!"
Gilda just stared at the screen, a look of profound, professional disgust on her face. "That," she grunted, her hand resting on the pommel of her axe, "is an insult to the very concept of a good nap. We should launch a punitive expedition."
Sir Crumplebuns, seeing his unofficial commanding officer had a battle plan, immediately snapped to attention. "I agree with the Commander!" he boomed, striking a heroic pose. "We shall march upon this 'Napping Nook' and challenge them to a formal Duel of Fluffiness!"
"We can't launch a punitive expedition, Gilda! And we are not having a 'Duel of Fluffiness'!" FaeLina wailed, her managerial brain overriding her fury. "Unsanctioned inter-dungeon violence is bad for the brand!"
Zazu, who had been woken by FaeLina's shrieking, just blinked at the screen, his expression one of deep, academic offense. "The ambient tranquility level of that straw," he said softly, as if delivering a devastating scholarly critique, "is... suboptimal."
Kaelen, who had been silently observing the chaos, finally spoke, her voice a quiet, professional rasp. "The stain is unacceptable," she stated simply, her expert eye assessing the shoddy pillow. "A clear sign of amateurism."
But while my team was focused on the shoddy craftsmanship and the brand management, a much deeper and more personal horror was dawning on me.
I had inspired this.
They hadn't just copied my dungeon; they had copied me. My quiet, personal philosophy of just wanting a nice place to sleep had been twisted into a cheap, marketable gimmick. I wasn't just a reluctant champion anymore. I was a trendsetter. A guru. The unwilling founder of a whole new school of thought.
I pictured it with a soul-crushing clarity: a future of court philosophers writing long, boring treatises on 'The Way of the Rock: A Guide to Profound Inactivity.' Royal Mages giving public lectures on the 'quantifiable benefits of pillows.' And me, somehow, having my sleepy, purple eye used as the official logo for a chain of terrible, knock-off nap-themed taverns.
'FaeLina,' I projected, the full, soul-crushing horror of the situation finally dawning on me. 'They're not just copying our dungeon. They're copying... my philosophy.'
'Of course they are, Mochi!' she shot back, her managerial brain already shifting from panic to a new kind of fury. 'And we are going to sue them for every last copper piece!'
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Author's Note:
And the inevitable has happened: the copycats have arrived! Mochi has accidentally started a movement, and he is absolutely miserable about it.
I love that FaeLina's immediate reaction to a copycat dungeon isn't one of flattery, but of pure, unadulterated legal fury. She is a true manager, and she will defend her brand to the death.
But Mochi's horror is so much deeper. He's not just a dungeon anymore; he's a lifestyle brand. How is our sleepy hero going to handle being the unwilling guru of the laziest revolution in the history of the world? Thanks for reading!