The Sprouting of a New Legend

Returning to the farm was like waking from a strange, noisy dream. The familiar scent of rich earth, the warm glow of his tomato plants, and the profound quiet were a balm to Ren's soul. The war, the capital, the politics—it all faded away, leaving only the simple, satisfying reality of his land.

Ser Kaelen, having escorted Ren back, stayed for dinner before departing, his heart filled with a mixture of relief and professional duty. His role as liaison was now more important than ever. He was no longer just managing a relationship; he was the primary point of contact for the kingdom's most powerful, and most unassuming, ally.

The story of the "Battle of the Bountiful Fields" became the cornerstone of a new, rapidly growing legend. Minstrels and bards, finding the true story far more incredible than anything they could invent, sang songs of the Farmer God who reaped armies and sowed peace. The "Ballad of the Sunstone Wheat" became a tavern favorite across the land.

Ren, blissfully unaware of his burgeoning celebrity, was focused on a new project. During his brief, enforced stay in the capital, he'd noticed the pitiful state of the palace's medicinal herb garden. He had 'borrowed' a few clippings of common healing herbs like Sun-nettle and King's Wort, determined to grow proper versions.

He planted them in a new bed, enriching them with his ambient life energy. The result, as usual, was extraordinary.

[Harvest Complete: 'Sun-Nettle Prime']

[Quality: Superior]

[Effect: When brewed into a tea, instantly cures all common illnesses, fevers, and minor infections. The leaves, when used as a poultice, can soothe even magical burns.]

[Harvest Complete: 'King's Wort Ascendant']

[Quality: Superior]

[Effect: A potent analgesic. A single drop of its extract can numb all pain for several hours without dulling the senses. Highly effective against chronic and magical pain.]

"These will be useful," Ren said to Lyra, admiring the healthy, vibrant herbs. "The villagers can use them when they get sick."

Lyra looked at the plants, her mind immediately calculating their true value. The 'Sun-Nettle Prime' could empty the hospices of every city in the kingdom. The 'King's Wort Ascendant' could revolutionize surgery and battlefield medicine. To Ren, it was a simple remedy for a cough. To the world, it was another earth-shattering miracle.

This quiet period of agricultural discovery, however, was destined to be interrupted. Ren's actions had not gone unnoticed by beings of a different caliber. The sheer, conceptual power he had wielded to command the river and harvest an army had sent ripples not just across the political landscape, but across metaphysical ones as well.

One afternoon, while Ren was humming to himself and designing a new irrigation ditch, he felt a sudden, oppressive shift in the atmosphere. The cheerful birdsong stopped. The air grew heavy and cold. The vibrant colors of his farm seemed to dim, as if a shadow had been cast over the sun, though the sky was clear.

Lyra was on her feet in an instant, a low growl rumbling in her chest, her fur standing on end. Her instincts were screaming at her, a primal terror she hadn't felt since facing Ren himself for the first time. This was not a human threat.

Standing at the edge of his farm, where no one had been a moment before, was a new figure. He was tall and impossibly gaunt, dressed in robes the color of a starless midnight sky. His skin was pale as bleached bone, and his face was a mask of ancient, weary arrogance. His eyes held no light, only a profound, soul-deep emptiness. He was not alive in the way Ren's plants were; he was an entity of pure, unadulterated death.

He was a Lich. An ancient and powerful undead sorcerer, a being who had cheated mortality centuries ago. And he had been drawn here by the sheer, offensive vibrancy of Ren's domain. To a being of undeath, Ren's farm was a beacon of agonizing, unbearable life.

"So," the Lich's voice rasped, a sound like dust and dried leaves. "This is the source of the intolerable noise that has disturbed my slumber. An overgrown garden."

Ren looked up from his ditch-digging, more annoyed than alarmed. "Excuse me? Who are you? And could you please not stand so close to the Moonpetal beans? You're making them wilt."

The Lich's empty eyes narrowed. "I am Lord Malakor, the Bone Sovereign, Master of the Silent Crypt. And I have come to command you to cease this… nauseating vitality. It is an affront to the beautiful, eternal peace of non-existence."

Lyra moved to stand between Ren and the Lich, her daggers now in her hands, glowing faintly with a borrowed life energy from the farm. "Leave this place, corpse. You are not welcome here."

Malakor let out a dry, rattling laugh. "A feisty kitten. How droll." He raised a single, skeletal hand. "You stand before a being who has mastered the final, ultimate magic. What can a farmer and his pet possibly do?"

From the ground around the Lich, the earth turned grey and dead. Skeletal hands pushed their way up from the soil, followed by grinning skulls and clattering bones. Within seconds, a small troop of a dozen skeletal warriors, armed with rusted, ancient weapons, had assembled around him.

Ren just sighed. It was always something. "Look, Mr. Malakor," he said, trying to be reasonable. "I don't want any trouble. I just want to farm. If my farm is too 'loud' for you, maybe you could go be undead somewhere else?"

"Insolent mortal!" Malakor hissed. "You do not understand. Life is a fleeting, messy disease. Death is purity. I will grant you this gift. I will silence this land and add your bones to my collection. A Fodder for my legion!" He pointed a finger at Ren. "Destroy them."

The skeletons charged, their bone feet clattering on the rich soil.

Lyra moved to intercept them, a blur of deadly motion. She was fast and skilled, but the skeletons were relentless, feeling no pain. She shattered one with a powerful kick, but two more took its place.

Ren watched for a moment, then shook his head. "This is ridiculous."

He didn't reach for a tool. He didn't use a grand spell. He just looked at the charging skeletons, beings made of bone—calcium—and dead matter. He thought about his compost pile, about the eggshells he crushed into it to add nutrients, about the cycle of decay and rebirth that was the foundation of all farming.

He focused on the skeletons and applied a simple, fundamental concept.

Decompose.

It was not an attack. It was a reassignment of purpose.

The charging skeletons suddenly faltered. A look of what could only be described as bony confusion crossed their skeletal faces. They stopped their attack. Then, they looked down at their own bodies.

Their ancient, necromantically-preserved bones began to crumble. Not into dust, but into a fine, nutrient-rich bone meal. They collapsed, their forms dissolving into small, neat piles of high-quality, organic fertilizer. In a matter of seconds, the entire skeletal troop had been reduced to a valuable soil additive.

Lord Malakor stared, his jaw, for the first time in five hundred years, literally dropping open. His undead minions, animated by his supreme will over death itself, had been composted.

Ren looked at the piles of bone meal. "Well, that's convenient. I was just about to add some more calcium to the melon patch."

He then looked at the Lich, his expression one of mild disappointment. "Your soldiers are very helpful. Thank you. Now, are you going to leave, or do I need to find a use for you in the garden as well?"

The ancient, powerful Lich, the Bone Sovereign who had terrorized nations and commanded legions of the dead, looked at the farmer. He looked at the piles of what used to be his minions. He felt the overwhelming, oppressive life energy of the farm not just pushing against his undeath, but actively trying to categorize him as 'raw material.'

For the first time since he'd torn his own soul from his living flesh, Lord Malakor felt a sensation he had long forgotten: pure, abject terror.