While so people were quietly working toward a better world, another group was busy racking up karma—of the worst kind.
Sowhere far from the joy and fluff of milk cows and aquaponic farms, the blood-curdling sound of sothing ceramic shattering filled the air.
*Thwack!*
*Crash!*
Another ornate vase slamd into a poor vassal’s head. The man crumpled to the floor, dazed but conscious—unfortunately for him.
No one flinched—not anymore, especially after the fifth vase had flown. After all, they expected this outco.
They’d told him. Warned him. Begged him, even.
But their Lord refused to listen.
And now, here they were, taking the brunt of his fury as he continued hurling antiques across the room like a toddler denied his favorite toy.
Baron Ray Firth was livid.
"You absolute pieces of shit!"
This ti, it was a bottle that flew.
His face was red, veins pulsing at his temple, and his typically ticulously waxed mustache now drooped in his rabid frothing.
His aides cowered behind overturned furniture, trying to reduce their surface area lest they be mistaken for target practice.
Baron Firth kicked over a velvet stool, then snarled as he threw another priceless lamp against the far wall.
Everyone watching could tell.
Their boss looked every bit like a man teetering on the edge of ruin.
And they were pretty sure that it wasn’t just his nerves that were fraying. It was likely his accounts, ambitions, and definitely reputation.
Allegedly all because of one accursed guild.
"What am I even PAYING you mongrels for?! You failed THREE TIS!"
He stalked across the room, jabbing a finger into one henchman’s chest.
"You! You moron! You couldn’t even get inside the city! What were you doing? Slling the atmosphere?!" screeched the Baron, who slapped the man in anger.
"I—it was the security; they flagged the gene—"
"The security?! What security?! They let in an ORC PRINCESS! An actual Orc! And you, you slimy slug-licker, couldn’t even get a rented rodent past customs?!"
The man shrank into himself.
Another aide tried to step forward and offer a report.
"Open your mouth about procedures and say goodbye to those useless legs. I will personally feed them to the dogs while you watch!"
Silence.
Baron Ray downed the rest of his drink, then slamd the glass down so hard it cracked. He hissed through clenched teeth.
All of this was impossible.
It was all coming together, and his success was supposed to be right around the corner.
Until it all ca crashing down.
His investnts were bleeding.
His debts were mounting.
And the root of all his woes? That blasted Dungeon Guardians Guild.
"I was this close!" Baron Firth howled, slamming his fist into the table. "This close! I had the market, the nobles, the prestige! The spa! The endorsents! All of it—mine!"
Indeed, for a ti, Baron Ray Firth had ridden high on his supposed success. A commoner who had clawed his way up the ranks by strategically padding his tax returns just enough to buy himself the title of Baron.
All according to plan.
He was going to use his new status to rebrand his lavish pet spa as a nobleman’s sanctuary, the preferred place for high-class pet grooming, leisure, and pampering.
He diverted enterprise funds to finance this ambition—without telling anyone—confident that the business’s inflated profits would pay back the "loans" before the books were ever reviewed.
It should have worked.
In fact, it was working... until they opened.
At first, he scoffed at the rumors of a pet day care center appearing on Planet Nova.
Day care? For beasts?
It was laughable.
Until he saw the clips.
He rembered it vividly. The night he’d opened his terminal to mock the first viral video making rounds—only to pause.
Then stare.
Then panic.
That cat.
Baron Ray’s left eye twitched, and his hands trembled with disbelief.
That cat.
The one that ruined his campaign by getting too popular with the wrong crowd—the sa cat whose owner refused his bribe to promote his spa and instead gave so backwater blog a good review.
That cat had drawn too much attention, and so Baron Firth had taken care of it.
Or so he thought. Even though the blasted cat escaped those pirates, he was confident that it’d just die like the others.
But there it was.
That sa smug look that had almost ruined his business was right there, basking under the sun as he received what looked like a massage.
Not only was the cat alive, but it looked better than ever.
"And now those self-righteous animals have the Empire eating out of their paws!"
And worse—it wasn’t even just a cat.
Footage revealed the anities and that VIP lounge that put his spa to sha.
He refused to believe it.
So, he launched a sar campaign.
Anonymous news articles. Shadow influencers. Negative "reviews"
But then... he saw the client list.
Celebrities. Marquises. Dukes. And even an Imperial descendant.
His soul left his body.
No amount of defamation would work now.
Everyone already drank the damn drug concoction and lined up for refills.
Still, he wasn’t done.
"Fine," he had said with a wicked gleam in his eye. "If I can’t sar it, I’ll expose it."
That was when he got desperate.
Infiltration.
He threw resources at agents who could slip into the guild. Through fake appointnts, forged dical requests, and even the procurent of noble DNA samples, no thod was too low for Baron Firth.
His aim was simple: plant evidence. Cause damage. Kill or steal a pet. Sothing to tarnish their image.
The first attempt failed miserably.
The second one never even made it to the gate.
But the third—the third was supposed to succeed.
For it was right when they started letting in commoners.
Poor people. Plebeians. The unwashed masses.
Surely one of them would be easy to manipulate!
He bribed one. A desperate soul with nothing to lose.
But not only did the man never enter the guild...
He was never even allowed on Planet Nova.
"No fly list?!" Baron Firth had scread when the report ca back.
"HOW DOES A DAMN PET DAY CARE HAVE A NO-FLY LIST?!"
His anger today was the culmination of all these failures.
All these investnts.
All these bribes.
And still—not even a flea had been successfully planted inside the guild.
His vassals began praying.
Not for redemption.
But for a swift and painless death.
Because Baron Ray Firth was unraveling.
And with every failed attempt, the noose he’d wrapped around his own neck—financially and politically—grew tighter.
They were leaving him with no choice.
As the blood dripped from the wounded servant’s temple and another antique shattered in the corner, Baron Ray Firth hissed through clenched teeth.
"This isn’t over. Not yet. I’ll tear that little paradise apart, even if I have to burn with it."
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