The war room in the Eldorian border fortress was a maelstrom of controlled panic. Maps were spread across a massive table, with wooden blocks representing troop movements. King Theron IV himself was present, alongside Archmage Vance and the kingdom's top generals. The news was bleak.
"General Cassian's legion has broken through the Gorgon Pass faster than anticipated," a grim-faced general reported, moving a block of Saccharo's candy-striped soldiers deeper into Eldorian territory. "Our forces are outnumbered and being outmaneuvered. The Iron Tsunami lives up to his name."
"And the Sugar-Glass Coven?" the Archmage asked.
"They are a nightmare," the general replied. "They rain down shards of razor-sharp crystal that shred our front lines. Our battle-mages can't get close enough to counter them effectively."
King Theron looked at the map, his face a mask of grim resolve. "We will hold the line at the Fields of Sorrow. It is our last defensible position before they reach the heartlands. We will bleed them for every inch." It was a brave plan, but everyone in the room knew it was a desperate one. They were preparing to sacrifice thousands of lives to slow an unstoppable tide.
It was into this atmosphere of impending doom that Ser Kaelen returned, his face pale but his eyes burning with a strange light.
"Your Majesty," he announced, his voice cutting through the tension. "He is coming."
Before the King could ask who 'he' was, a portal of woven, living roots opened in the center of the war room, causing several generals to draw their swords in alarm.
Ren stepped through, followed by Lyra. He was wearing his simple farmer's clothes, a straw hat on his head. He carried no weapon, only his old, rusty-looking sickle. The portal vanished behind him.
The collected military and magical might of the Kingdom of Eldoria stared in stunned silence.
"Sorry to interrupt," Ren said politely. "Kaelen told me you were having some pest problems. I thought I'd come help with the harvesting."
Archmage Vance was the first to recover. "Master Ren... we are grateful for your presence, but this is a battlefield, not a farm. Twenty thousand soldiers are marching on this position."
"I know," Ren said. He walked over to the large map, his eyes scanning the positions of the armies. "The Fields of Sorrow, you said? Is that the big, open plain just past that hill?"
"Yes," the King confirmed, still trying to process the farmer's casual appearance in his most secure war room. "It is where we intend to make our stand."
"Don't bother," Ren said, his tone matter-of-fact. "You'll just trample the wild grains. Keep your soldiers here. They should probably stand back a bit, actually. The dust might bother them."
He turned and walked towards the fortress's main balcony, which overlooked the vast plains where the Eldorian army was frantically preparing defenses. Lyra followed him like a shadow, her hand never leaving her daggers.
"What is he doing?" one of the generals whispered.
"I have absolutely no idea," the King replied, a feeling of terrified hope dawning in his heart. "But I suggest we do as he says." He gave the order for his troops to pull back to the fortress walls, much to the confusion of his commanders.
Ren stood on the balcony, looking out at the horizon. In the distance, he could see it: a vast, dark line of marching soldiers, a river of steel and malice that stretched from one end of the plains to the other. The vanguard of the Saccharo army.
He took a deep breath of the country air. It was a good day for a harvest.
He did not shout. He did not perform any grand magical gestures. He simply held up his rusty sickle, a tool he had used a thousand times to cut down wheat and weeds. He focused on the vast, empty plain before him—The Fields of Sorrow, a place named for a bloody battle centuries ago. The soil was poor, filled with rocks and the bitter memories of war.
He reached out with his conceptual power over 'Growth,' and he gave the land a single, gentle command.
Grow.
The effect began subtly, then escalated into a world-breaking miracle. The thousands of soldiers in the Saccharo army felt a strange vibration under their feet. Then they saw it. From the dry, barren earth of the Fields of Sorrow, green shoots were erupting. Not grass. Stalks of wheat.
But it was not normal wheat. It was 'Sunstone' wheat, infused with Ren's immense power. The stalks grew with terrifying speed, shooting up from the ground, glittering in the sun. In the space of a single minute, the entire, vast plain was transformed from a barren battlefield into a dense, impenetrable forest of golden, glittering wheat, taller than a man on horseback.
The Saccharo army was thrown into chaos. Their perfect formations were shattered. Men were separated from their units, lost in a suddenly-appearing, magical field of grain. The wheat was so thick they couldn't see more than a few feet in any direction. The glitter from the stalks was disorienting, the sheer life energy in the air cloying and oppressive to their warlike spirits.
General Cassian, from his vantage point on a hill, stared in disbelief. The battlefield had literally vanished, replaced by a farmer's field. "What is this sorcery?" he roared. "Advance! Burn it down!"
The Sugar-Glass Coven began their incantations, launching shards of razor-sharp crystal into the wheat field. But the stalks were unnaturally resilient, parting around the shards or absorbing the impact with a soft thud. When the soldiers tried to set it ablaze, the living wheat refused to catch fire.
From the fortress balcony, the King and his generals watched, their faces slack with awe.
Ren was not finished. The crop had grown. Now, it was time to reap.
He raised his sickle, its rusty blade seeming to absorb the light of the sun. He looked out at the twenty-thousand soldiers lost and floundering in his instant-wheat-field. And then he swung his sickle through the air in a single, clean, horizontal arc.
He did not throw it. He did not create a wave of energy. He simply performed the motion of reaping.
And across the miles of the Fields of Sorrow, the concept of that action was made real.
A silent, invisible wave of force, the absolute essence of 'the harvest,' swept through the field. Every single stalk of the 'Sunstone' wheat was sliced cleanly at its base, all at the exact same instant.
For the soldiers of Saccharo, it was as if the world itself had turned into a blade. The man on the far left of the field felt the same thing at the same moment as the man on the far right. It was not an attack they could see or dodge. It was a fundamental truth of this new reality. The wheat was being harvested.
The super-strong, resilient stalks fell. And they fell on the soldiers. It wasn't a lethal blow, but twenty-thousand men were simultaneously struck by heavy, magically-dense stalks of wheat, knocking them off their feet, entangling them, and disarming them in a single, sweeping, silent motion.
And then came the final step. Threshing.
Ren made a gesture with his free hand, as if tossing grain into the air.
Across the field, the concept followed. The fallen stalks of wheat suddenly, violently, separated. The glittering, heavy 'Sunstone' kernels flew from the chaff with explosive force. It was a hailstorm of thousands, millions of tiny, hard, gem-like projectiles.
The storm of grain battered the fallen soldiers. It dented their armor, shattered their crystal magic focuses, stung their skin, and filled their eyes, ears, and mouths. It was not deadly, but it was utterly demoralizing, terrifying, and completely, laughably, debilitating.
When the storm of kernels subsided, the Fields of Sorrow were once again barren, save for a thick carpet of harmless straw. The entire twenty-thousand-man army of Saccharo was left disarmed, disoriented, covered in wheat chaff, and completely, utterly defeated without a single life being lost. General Cassian, 'The Iron Tsunami,' sat amidst the straw, a single glittering grain of wheat balanced on his helmet, his mind utterly broken by the sheer, agricultural absurdity of his defeat.
On the fortress balcony, there was a dead, profound silence. The King, the Archmage, the generals—they all stared at the scene, unable to comprehend what they had just witnessed.
Ren lowered his sickle, his work done. He turned to the stunned occupants of the war room.
"There," he said with a simple, satisfied smile. "The harvest is complete. You'll probably want to send some people out to collect all that grain. It would be a shame to let it go to waste."