Ch 476:  Iron Roots, Rotten Fruit

The sowing beast was finished.

Crafted from iron plates, wooden braces, and drive gears that clicked like a clockmaker's secret tongue, the machine rolled forward with measured purpose. Its wide treads dug shallow lines into the soil; its gear-driven arms opened and closed small furrows; and its seed-funnels, carved from hollowed oak and fitted with brass teeth, dropped grain into the earth in precise intervals. A machine of planting, not war, yet it commanded awe as though it bore a blade.

Kalem released the blueprints without fanfare, nailing copies to the walls of inns, granaries, and village halls. There were no runes, no enchantments, no rare materials—just honest work in iron and wood. By week's end, over a hundred sowing beasts clattered across the fields of the province. Crops were planted faster than horses could gallop, entire villages turning fertile in a day. A quiet revolution beneath the boots of tillers.

It would've stayed quiet, too—until news came riding on black parchment.

A courier with no name arrived at dawn. Kalem slit the wax seal with one finger and read the message once.

Then he stood up, calm as still water. "Serus Ardra walks again."

Garrick blinked. "That corpse was headless."

Kalem didn't answer. He didn't need to.

He simply walked out of the tent, called nothing, summoned no blade. His arms were enough.

It took less than an hour to reach the city where the creature had been sighted. What remained of Serus Ardra—stitched with wire, wrapped in sinew, and powered by alchemy foul enough to shrivel the breath—stood outside a market square, black fumes wafting from its joints.

Kalem didn't slow. He met the abomination with a single strike, two palms flattened and pulled apart like a wedge. The corpse split in half, metal and meat falling separately. No roar. No spell. No mercy.

Then Kalem turned, eyes glowing faintly.

"Garrick," he said, "bring them."

Within the day, every guildmaster and merchant lord of the province was pulled from their carved chairs and velvet chambers—dragged bodily if they refused. Kalem sat them in a barn, once used for grain, now for truth.

He held up the black-threaded corpse's remains.

"This," he said, "was remade. I want names."

Silence.

A few muttered about rivals, others about sorcerers in the shadow, but one too many had paled. Kalem dropped a chunk of bone on the ground.

Then Garrick, silent until now, unrolled his totem. It shimmered softly, casting light across the barn.

"Would you like your trade ledgers read aloud?" Garrick asked mildly. "I've recorded them."

That broke the dam.

A name surfaced—a black market contact from the lower ward of Steelmere, a seller of oddities and stolen war-spells. A deal had been struck with one of the guilds, an experiment in intimidation. The corpse had been bought like spice or silk.

Kalem said nothing.

He simply walked outside, cracked a part of the barn wall with his elbow, and disappeared for half an hour. When he returned, his hands were red. The black market stall no longer existed. Nor did the building around it.

By the next dawn, notices had been plastered across the province: all five merchant guilds declared suspended until further review, their halls closed, assets frozen, and operations forbidden to continue.

"You understand this is going to ruin them," Garrick said, walking alongside him as they left the city.

"They ruined themselves," Kalem replied. "I'm only honest."

Behind them, a city tried to adjust. Traders once sneering now knelt at village doors, offering services in return for bread. With the sowing beasts already building food stores faster than the wind, the province no longer bent to golden coin or the whisper of guilds.

They passed a farmer driving one of Kalem's contraptions. The farmer waved.

Kalem raised a hand in return. "We should move on."

"Any particular reason?" Garrick asked.

"There's a forest nearby. I have an idea."

Garrick sighed. "Is it another weapon?"

"No."

"…Liar."

Kalem only smiled, and together they vanished down the road, leaving behind a city with open fields, quieter streets, and the scent of turned soil rather than blood.

The age of hand and rune was shifting—slowly, like a wheel made of iron, steady and relentless.