The silence on the 100th Floor was not peaceful. It was an active, predatory force. It possessed a physical weight that crushed lungs and turned bone to powder—a suffocating, magical pressure that had kept the Abyssal Throne room pristine for over three centuries. In this vacuum of sound, the smallest movement felt like a transgression against the very laws of reality.
Vespera, the Eternal Queen of the Abyss, shifted her weight slightly on her throne of carved obsidian. The movement caused the heavy black silk of her gothic gown to rustle—a sound that, in the absolute stillness of the hall, echoed with the violent clarity of a thunderclap.
She rested her chin upon a pale, porcelain palm, her sharp, black-lacquered nails tapping a slow, rhythmic cadence against her cheek.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
"Three hundred and forty-two years," she whispered. Her voice was a haunting blend of melody and poison, the kind of tone that could charm a dragon into submission or shatter a mortal mind into glass shards. Currently, however, it was saturated with a sheer, abyssal quantity of boredom. "Three hundred years, and the most significant event today was a dust mite venturing onto my armrest."
She flicked her finger. A pulse of raw, violet mana vaporized the speck instantly. It was a preposterous overkill—using enough energy to level a small village just to clear the air—but with mana reserves large enough to fuel a continent, Vespera found little else to do with the excess. She was the pinnacle of evolution, the apex predator of the most dangerous dungeon in existence, and she was spent watching magical mold colonize the vaulted ceiling.
A pathetic, scraping sound emanated from the foot of the dais.
"Y-Your Majesty..."
Vespera lowered her gaze, her crimson eyes flickering with a faint, desperate hope. Prostrate on the cold stone was Krix, her Head Chamberlain. As an Elite Shadow Goblin, Krix was usually the picture of bureaucratic efficiency, but today he was stuffed into a black tuxedo that was several sizes too small for his wiry, hunched frame. He was trembling so violently that his monocle threatened to rattle right off his charcoal-colored face.
"Report, Krix," Vespera commanded, stifling a yawn that could have swallowed a soul. "Tell me a Crusade has been declared. Tell me the Church has finally sent someone with a Will strong enough to actually reach the 50th floor. Tell me something is happening."
Krix swallowed audibly, his throat clicking in the silence. "A-Apologies, O Supreme One! The... the party of heroes that entered the dungeon this morning..."
Vespera sat up straighter, her vertical pupils dilating. "Yes? Did they outsmart the Mirror Maze? Did they best the Hydra of the twentieth floor?"
"They... um... they perished on the third floor, Your Majesty. The rogue and the healer fell into a basic mechanical spike trap while arguing over the distribution of loot they hadn't even found yet."
Vespera slumped back into the obsidian, a long, defeated sigh escaping her lips. The sheer force of her breath, backed by her latent power, sent Krix tumbling backward across the polished floor like a dry leaf in a gale.
"Floor 3," she muttered, staring into the shadows. "Those traps are purely mechanical; they don't even require a spark of magic to bypass. A human toddler with basic motor skills should have survived them."
She waved a hand dismissively, summoning a floating window of dark glass to survey her domain. The status was infuriatingly perfect. Every floor was a masterpiece of lethal efficiency. All green. Every minion was idle. The skeletons on the tenth floor were currently playing card games with their own ribs. The dragons of the lower reaches were snoring so loudly it was causing minor earthquakes in the nearby human villages. It was an impregnable fortress that had become a prison of monotony.
"I have ultimate power," Vespera stated, her voice flat. "I have eternal youth. And I am spending eternity in a tuxedo-clad goblin's company while the rest of the world is too incompetent to even knock on my door."
"P-Perhaps a hobby, Your Majesty?" Krix squeaked, scrambling back to his position and adjusting his monocle. "We could... torture some stagnant souls? Or perhaps rearrange the treasury? I believe we have forty-two billion gold coins that haven't been polished in a decade."
"I've counted the coins twice, Krix. The total remains forty-two billion, enam ratus juta, and twelve. It didn't change in the last hour."
Her eyes wandered to the pile of "spoils" Krix had salvaged from the casualties on the third floor—an act of desperation to show her anything from the outside world. Amongst the notched daggers and rusted copper coins, a colorful rectangle of pressed wood pulp caught her eye.
With a telekinetic pull, she summoned the object. It was a human magazine, enchanted with a minor preservation charm that had kept its pages pristine despite the bloodstains on the cover. The title read: Royal Capital Weekly: The Sweetest Trends of the Season!
Vespera scoffed, expecting more human propaganda about knightly virtues. "Likely filled with lies about their 'justice' and—"
Her voice trailed off. Her thumb had frozen as she flipped to a centerfold spread. It was not a picture of a king or a conqueror. It was something far more majestic.
It was a Strawberry Shortcake.
Vespera leaned in, her vertical pupils dilating until her eyes were almost entirely black. The image was high-quality, the white cream looking like a cloud plucked from a dawn sky. The sponge cake promised a golden warmth, and on top sat a single, glistening red strawberry perched like a ruby crown.
She compared the image to her own dinner sitting on a side table: a quivering, translucent blob of Abyssal Slime Jelly that smelled of wet socks and ancient dust. It was highly nutritious, but it tasted exactly like despair.
A spark ignited in Vespera's chest. It wasn't the fire of conquest or the cold pride of a ruler. It was a primal, undeniable craving for sugar.
"I want it," she declared, her voice resonating through the hall.
"We can send a raid party!" Krix shouted, eager to avoid further counting of coins. "We will burn the human capital! We will slaughter their bakers and steal their flour! We will bring you every cake in the kingdom by nightfall!"
"No!" Vespera slammed her hand onto the armrest, the indestructible obsidian spider-webbing under her palm. "If we raid them, the humans will panic, and the economy will collapse. If the supply chain for fresh strawberries is interrupted, the quality of the cream will suffer. I cannot eat a cake seasoned with the bitter aftertaste of fear, Krix. It ruins the molecular texture."
She stood up, her black horns gleaming under the magical lights. The shadows of the room swirled into a violent vortex in response to her resolve.
"There is only one solution. I am going to the surface."
"T-To... conquer?" Krix whimpered, clutching his ledger.
"To bake," Vespera corrected. "I will infiltrate their society, master the art of the 'Shortcake,' and eat until I am satisfied. I will not have my immortality defined by slime jelly."
She stopped before a massive mirror, looking at her reflection—the porcelain skin, the terrifying crimson eyes, and the horns that screamed 'I am the apocalypse.' She ordered Krix to bring the Veil of Illusions to hide her horns and to pack her civilian clothes—something she called "approachable."
Krix warned her that her aura alone would crush the common folk before she could even find a bakery.
"I'll hold it in," Vespera claimed, her mind already on the ratio of flour to sugar. She practiced a "friendly" human smile. In the glass, a primordial predator bared its fangs, promising a slow and agonizing demise to anyone who dared make eye contact.
Vespera, oblivious to the terror in the reflection, nodded in satisfaction. "See? Perfectly normal."
She turned toward the massive doors, her cape billowing behind her like wings of night. "Clear my schedule for the next fifty years, Krix. The Queen is going on vacation."
And thus, the calamity of the Human World began—not with a roar of war, but with a stomach growl.