The Spire's Ascension

"Advance notice? Wait—wait a second. You're doing it right now?"

It recommended notice, yet the process began the instant the alert arrived. What kind of system was this? I lunged for the lobby counter and clung to it as the entire tower began to thrum low and deep beneath my feet.

Gooooong──

It was the sound of stone growing. The spiral staircase stretched upward like a serpent uncoiling; seamless ceiling stone rippled open and locked together again. Dust cascaded down the walls in waterfalls of grit.

"Kyaaaak! The tower! The tower's alive!"

Goblins dove under chairs. Kobolds had already vanished down the basement stairs, only their tails flickering out of sight. From the air came a familiar, archaic voice crackling with static.

"Tower Master. The vibrations are shaking my reagent shelves. If three-hundred-year-old precipitates remix, the responsibility will fall—"

"It's a promotion, Lord Oswald! The tower is growing! Your laboratory will get bigger too!"

"······If it expands, then I shall permit it."

The line cut off with a soft click. That old gentleman's ability to reverse course was getting faster by the day.

The shaking stopped around the count of one hundred. Stone dust hung thick in the lobby air, and across that pale carpet a single pale-green mass was industriously sliding back and forth.

Bbodeugi. The slime was devouring every last speck of dust the growing tower had shed.

"Bbodeugi. Does that taste good?"

Bbodeugi gave its whole body a vigorous heave. Affirmative. Fresh-grown tower dust must have been especially fine; the usual quiver had an extra spring to it.

Cleaning while eating······. Do I count this as labor, or as a meal?

I hesitated only a moment before pulling out the ledger. The spirit of Article One was clear. Cleaning was cleaning.

Whether the worker enjoyed the task had never been grounds for adjusting pay. Even in my previous life as an officetel landlord, I had never docked the salary of a janitor who happened to like the job.

"Special labor allowance, entered in the books. Full disposal of expansion debris. Payment: priority assignment rights to high-stain zones next month."

Bbodeugi answered with another joyful wave. Then the alerts continued.

"······Hold on."

Sixty-six. My full house. One more floor and I would have been there—yet the tower had grown on its own and shoved that goal two full steps backward.

"I never asked for more rooms, you know."

"······I know. I know that."

If the rooms increased, I simply had to fill them. That was the rental business. And as it happened, a guest was already booked for today.

I stood before the front door. Two months earlier a massive figure had wedged a shoulder in this very frame, grunted and strained, then trudged away looking thoroughly dejected.

"Status-alteration ban—lifted. All right then."

My four-circle mana, overlaid with the core's essence, unfurled architectural formulas from my fingertips like blueprints. The stone of the doorframe softened like bread dough and gently widened left, right, and upward.

Twice the width. Height raised by a foot and a half as well. I wiped the sweat from my brow and rapped the new frame. Solid.

Then, from the horizon: thud. thud. thud.

Footfalls that shook the earth drew nearer. No surprise there. This particular guest had been stopping by every three days to shove his head into the frame and check whether it had widened yet.

It was the Troll. Nearly three meters of ash-gray bulk halted before the front door and carefully uncurled a massive fist. On the open palm lay a scrap of paper so thoroughly crumpled from two months of constant clutching that it had gone limp.

"Ticket. Num. Ber five."

"Yes, guest. Waiting number five is correct. You've waited a long time."

The Troll looked up at the doorframe. His eyes flicked between the widened opening and his own shoulders, disbelief plain on his face.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"Door······ go in?"

"You can go in. Please, try stepping through."

The Troll drew a deep breath, hunched his shoulders tight, and eased one foot inside. It cleared. The other foot. Cleared as well. He ducked his head and passed through safely.

Once fully across the threshold he stood still for a long moment, staring up at the ceiling. Then his great nostrils flared and he made a tiny sound like a mountain weeping.

I thought he might be crying—until I realized he was smiling.

"Came in."

"Welcome to your new home, guest. I'll show you to the fifth floor. We'll raise the ceiling to match your height by the end of the day."

The contract terms were simple. Rent would be paid in labor: hauling the stone that appeared with every expansion, plus heavy-cargo unloading along the outer perimeter.

With the Troll's raw strength, work that would take six orcs hanging on for dear life could be finished alone without breaking a sweat. Next came the security deposit.

The Troll untied a battered leather pouch from his belt. Four low-grade magic stones tumbled out, their surfaces caked with dirt.

"While waiting. Dug them. Not enough?"

Two months. While waiting for the door to widen, those enormous hands had been splitting rock and gathering these.

"······It's more than enough. A very diligently collected deposit."

The Troll's huge thumbprint pressed firmly onto the contract.

The soft ding that followed sounded especially pleasant today.

The first evening of residency turned into a feast.

The first-floor dining hall was packed. On the charcoal braziers, thirty of the ninety geun of raw meat were already sending up fragrant smoke. The Troll sat not so much in a seat of honor as across two tables shoved together, looking thoroughly lost.

"My meat! Big! Mine!"

"Kwek! Kweeeek!"

The problem, as always, was distribution. Two goblins had been inching their hands toward the rib racks set aside for the Troll when a kobold caught them; the kobold, instead of reporting the crime, tried to snatch the meat first and was promptly caught by a harpy.

I rapped the serving counter hard with a ladle.

"Unauthorized consumption is double restitution! Hands that pulled back count as attempt only—not guilty. Hands that grabbed count as completed act—two rib racks in compensation! And today's guest of honor is the Troll, so the first plate goes to him without exception!"

The green hands that had been creeping forward withdrew with visible regret. Grok set a platter of meat the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠size of a human torso down in front of the Troll with a solid thud.

"Eat. Neighbor."

"Nei······ bor."

The Troll rolled the word around in his mouth, then lifted an entire rib rack. That was the exact moment.

On the roof, the wyvern yawned.

KWA-RUUUNG──!

The problem was that the yawn came with thunder. Static built up inside the gaping maw discharged in a dry lightning crack that rolled through the entire tower.

The existing tenants had long since grown used to it; even the harpies merely ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠muttered, "Evening thunder," and preened a feather or two.

Thud.

The Troll toppled backward still clutching the rib rack. The dining-hall floor shook hard enough to bounce every plate into the air.

"Guest? Guest!"

I sprinted over. The Troll lay unconscious, eyes rolled white. A three-meter giant, felled by a mere yawn.

"Troll. Scare. Easy."

Grok offered the commentary with perfect calm.

"That's the sort of thing you mention during the move-in screening······!"

I flipped open a document folder and began fanning him. His face was so large I had to work twice as hard to move any air.

Bbodeugi quivered anxiously around his feet. Inspector Elisha, who had been watching the whole spectacle, could only open and close her mouth in blank astonishment.

After a long while the Troll's eyes fluttered open.

"Th-thunder······."

"Not thunder. That's just the neighbor who lives on the roof yawning. Happens once every evening around this time, so try not to startle next time. Shall I write it into a special clause? 'Both parties mutually confirm that the rooftop tenant's yawns do not constitute hostile acts.'"

"P-paper······ write it."

Only after receiving a contract addendum with the special clause did the Troll seem to relax enough to pick up the rib rack again. The feast continued until nearly midnight.

Three or four nights after the feast, once everyone had returned to their own floors, I remained alone at the counter and closed the ledger.

The problem was that sixty.

I had clawed my way to thirty somehow—Inspector Elisha's lodging fees, Tomba's trade deals, the review approval. But at this pace, reaching sixty could take years.

Monster guests now lined up on their own, yet the only thing that raised credibility was humans. Humans who came, paid money, left records, and spread good word of mouth.

"One civil servant on site······ and the merchant visits once a week at most······."

I tapped the counter with the tip of my quill. Maybe circulate flyers through the Adventurers' Guild.

Or run a seasonal hot-spring event in Bran Village······? Ah. We didn't have a hot spring. Converting the Lizardmen's reservoir would violate tenant rights.

That was when it happened.

Nights on the wasteland ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠were quiet. On days without a Mana Storm there was only the wind. Yet something was now rattling and clattering toward us from far away, tearing the silence apart.

Tomba?

I shot to my feet. That man had driven a cart through a monster-infested wasteland in the dead of night? No matter how good the margins, he was not the type to risk his neck.

I threw open the front door. Under the moonlight a donkey was galloping at a pace that looked one breath short of foaming at the mouth. Before the cart had even fully stopped, Tomba tumbled out as if he had been thrown.

"T-Tower Master! Tower Master!"

"Tomba? What brings you out at this hour······ water first."

"Water be damned! Th-there's big trouble!"

Tomba's face was the color of dirt—and not only because of the moonlight. He seized my collar with both hands and dropped his voice to a fierce whisper even though we were alone on the wasteland.

"Two days ago at noon a capital courier stormed into Bran Village. A proper courier who'd changed post horses three times! The village chief was shaking so hard he gave up his own lodging. I slipped the boy attending the courier two strips of jerky and got the story."

"Go on."

"The capital Kingdom Magic Spire is sending an investigation team. Here! To this tower!"

"We already have one investigator staying with us."

"Not that scale!"

Tomba splayed all ten fingers wide.

"Several high-ranking mages, talk of a bigwig from the Magic Spire coming in person, plus escort knights. Official envoy-slash-investigation team or whatever they call it! They'll pass through Bran Village and reach us within a fortnight. Tower Master, listen to me. Even now, grab only the valuables and—"

Tomba kept rattling off escape routes and hideout candidates, but I let half of it slide past my ears.

Inside my head the calculations were already spinning at full speed.

An official delegation from the capital. Multiple high mages plus escort knights. Headcount: at least a dozen. Every last one of them human. Every last one of them on official government travel.

In the middle of the wasteland the only lodging for miles was the Gray Spire, a fact already notarized by the Fact-Finding Report Inspector Elisha had signed.

Official travel. Extended stay. Standard rates. Full receipts.

And every time a public official paid by the book and stayed the night, that precious Human Society Credibility climbed steadily higher.

"······Tomba."

"Yes? Yes! So pack only the bare minimum—"

"I'm not packing."

I pulled the long-term lodging rate sheet from my document folder. No need for the counter. I spread the sheet across the cart bed as a desk, dipped my quill, and began writing a new line at the very bottom in clear, careful strokes while Tomba stared open-mouthed.

"T-Tower Master······? What are you doing······."

"Preparing rooms. Thanks to the promotion we suddenly have plenty of vacancies."

I blew the ink dry on the rate sheet and grinned.

"Honored guests coming all the way from the capital. Their budget must be very generous indeed."