With his first online order shipped and Mr. Kim's luxury experiment underway, a semblance of routine returned to Leo's life, albeit a far more lucrative and demanding one. Mornings were now a whirlwind of 'fulfillment'—printing shipping labels, meticulously packing boxes for potential future orders, and managing his tiny but growing inventory.
But with money came a new kind of freedom: the freedom to invest in himself. He'd catch his reflection in a shop window and see the ghost of the tired, perpetually stressed kid he used to be. The Clarity water had done wonders, but a lifetime of ramen and poor sleep couldn't be erased overnight.
He made a decision. He walked into a clean, bright gym a few blocks from his apartment and, without a second thought, paid for a year's membership in full. In cash. The transaction was so unusual that the manager had to be called over. Leo just smiled.
The first few sessions were brutal. He was weak, his coordination was off, and he felt self-conscious next to the seasoned gym-goers. But he stuck with it. After each workout, he'd refuel not with a sugary protein shake from the smoothie bar, but with a long, cool drink from his own bottle of Clarity. The effect was immediate. The muscle soreness was less intense, the fatigue vanished faster. He recovered at a rate that felt almost unnatural. He was building himself back up, brick by brick, just like his business.
His afternoons remained dedicated to Project Eden. The garden in the Sanctum was transforming at a breathtaking rate. The carrot tops were already a lush, feathery green. The tomato plants were sturdy and thick-stemmed, and the strawberry runners were aggressively exploring their new patch of earth. The speed and vitality of the growth were staggering. It was clear the soil and water possessed a potent, life-accelerating magic.
This very success, however, sparked a new and profound anxiety in Leo's mind.
He was sitting on a fallen log one afternoon, watching a small, six-legged creature with iridescent wings drink from his watering stream, when the thought struck him with the force of a physical blow: What if this all just... stops?
His entire empire—the LLC, the website, the fifty-dollar bottles, his newfound health and wealth—was built upon a single, miraculous resource. This dome. This Wellspring. If it dried up, if the magic faded, if the door one day opened back to his grimy bathroom, he would be left with nothing but a failing beverage company and a mountain of useless packing supplies.
He wasn't just a visitor here anymore. He was a stakeholder. The health of this place was inextricably tied to his own. He was profiting from this ecosystem; the least he could do was ensure its long-term viability. He needed to be proactive. He had to become not just a user of the Sanctum, but a steward of it.
But how do you care for a magic forest?
He returned to his apartment and did what any modern man would do when faced with an unsolvable problem: he asked the internet. He couldn't exactly Google "How to maintain a pocket dimension's magical biome," so he searched for the next best thing.
He typed in "How to improve forest ecosystem health," "How to naturally purify streams," and "Best practices for ecological restoration."
He fell down a rabbit hole of environmental science blogs, forestry service manuals, and permaculture forums. He learned about the importance of biodiversity, the role of mycelial networks in soil health, and how certain native plants can act as natural water filters. He read about creating habitats for pollinators and the benefits of reintroducing keystone species.
The information, meant for park rangers and environmental activists on Earth, resonated deeply with what he intuitively understood about the Sanctum. He couldn't bring in bees or squirrels from his world—the risk of contamination was too great. But he could apply the principles.
His next trip to the gardening center was different. He didn't buy vegetable seeds. He bought packets of wildflower seeds known for attracting pollinators and improving soil nitrogen. He bought starter kits for native ferns and mosses he'd read were excellent at preventing soil erosion.
Back in the Sanctum, he began his new project. He stopped just walking the perimeter and started truly observing it. He found areas where the ground was slightly more barren and scattered the wildflower seeds. He found sections of the stream banks that were slowly eroding and carefully planted the young ferns, reinforcing the earth. He even began a small-scale composting system in a secluded corner, using the weeds from his garden and fallen leaves, hoping to create a nutrient-rich supplement for the soil.
He was operating on pure, hopeful guesswork. He had no idea if Earth-based ecological principles would apply to a magical elven dimension. He didn't know if planting a patch of Earthly daisies would have any real effect, or if his compost pile was just a quaintly rustic pile of trash.
But it felt right. He was no longer just taking. He was giving back. He was trying to heal and strengthen his golden goose, using the best knowledge his own world could offer. He had no idea that on the other side of the dome, through a crystal-clear scrying pool, a pair of ancient green eyes was watching his every move with an expression of utterly baffled astonishment.