The news that the strange newcomer had not only killed the Grootslang Bear but had also taken on a 'guard'—a terrifyingly intense cat-woman who moved like a wisp of smoke—sent a fresh wave of shock and speculation through Oakhaven. Borin and Gareth's tale of the vitality-restoring tomatoes and the life-force-infused bear meat only added fuel to the fire. They had shared a small portion of the meat with their families, and the effects were undeniable. Old Mother Elmsworth, whose joints had ached for thirty years, claimed she could now dance a jig. Young Petey, who was always pale and listless, had a rosy vigor to his cheeks for the first time in his life.
The village was now split between three camps. The first, led by a still-traumatized Old Man Hemlock, was the "He's a Demon!" faction, who believed Ren was a dark entity here to corrupt their land and souls, and that his 'gifts' were demonic bargains. The second, larger camp was the "He's a Blessing!" faction, who saw Ren as a miracle sent by the gods to protect and enrich their humble village.
The third, and perhaps wisest, camp was led by Borin and Elara. Their stance was simple: "He's… Ren. Let's not poke the sleeping god-bear." They advocated for caution, respect, and treating Ren like a normal, if extraordinarily capable, neighbor.
Up on the hill, 'normal' was taking on a new meaning.
"No, not like that," Ren said, pointing. "If you set the beam there, the weight won't distribute properly when it rains. It needs to be braced against the main support."
Lyra, perched gracefully on the dilapidated roof of the shack, paused. In her hand was a heavy log, stripped of its bark, that she was holding in place with one hand as if it were a foam tube. She had single-handedly torn down the rotting west wall and was now framing a new one with fresh timber she'd felled from the woods with a handaxe, a task that should have taken two men a full day and had taken her less than an hour.
Her expertise lay in sabotage and silent killing, not construction. She looked at the beam, then at Ren's diagram scratched into the dirt. "Your pardon, Ren, but my experience is in deconstruction. In my trade, making a roof fall is the objective."
"I can tell," Ren said with a good-natured smile. "Just shift it a foot to the left. There, perfect."
Lyra adjusted the heavy log with effortless precision. A strange sense of satisfaction filled her. This was… nice. The sun was warm, the work was simple and honest, and the presence of Ren, who was currently sorting through his remaining tomato harvest, was profoundly calming. Her life of espionage and bloodshed felt a world away.
Ren was meticulously examining each 'Sun's Fury' tomato. He noticed subtle differences. Some were a deeper, almost blood-red and felt slightly warmer, while others were a brighter, sunnier crimson and felt more vibrant.
[Passive Skill Unlocked: 'Farmer's Intuition (Novice)' – You can now perceive minor variations and qualities in your crops. This skill will improve with practice and higher-quality produce.]
"Interesting," he murmured. He decided to classify them. The deepest red ones he set aside as "Grade A - Extra Spicy?" The bright, vibrant ones became "Grade A - Extra Zesty?" and the rest were simply "Grade A - Regular." He popped one of the 'Zesty' ones into his mouth. The flavor was brighter, with an almost citrusy note alongside the rich tomato taste. The energy it gave him felt lighter, more invigorating.
"Definitely a difference," he confirmed to himself. He packed a few of the 'Regular' grade tomatoes into a small wicker basket he'd found. "I'll take these down to the village later. A goodwill offering. And I'll see if they have any other types of seeds."
Lyra, having secured the roof beam, leapt down from the shack, landing silently on the grass. "You are going to the village?" she asked, a hint of concern in her voice.
"Just for a bit," Ren confirmed. "I need to get some supplies if we're going to fix this place properly. Maybe some nails, a hammer... an actual saw would be nice."
"I will accompany you," she stated. It wasn't a question.
Ren shrugged. "If you want. But try to look… less like you're about to assassinate someone, okay? Maybe leave the big knives here?"
Lyra glanced down at the twin daggers sheathed at her hips. "These are my tools."
"And my hoe is mine, but I don't carry it to the dinner table," Ren countered reasonably. "Just… try to smile more."
Lyra attempted a smile. It was a stiff, awkward baring of teeth that looked more like a predatory snarl than a friendly expression.
Ren sighed. "We'll work on it."
Far away, in the gleaming capital of the Kingdom of Eldoria, a different kind of classification was taking place.
In a windowless chamber deep within the Royal Mage's Spire, Archmage Theronius Vance stared grimly at the Grand Orrery, a complex celestial map that also monitored the flow of mana throughout the kingdom. An hour ago, a sector in the remote southern hinterlands, a region usually colored a placid green for its low, stable life energy, had suddenly flared with an intense, golden-white light. It wasn't the chaotic purple of a demonic incursion or the harsh red of destructive fire magic. It was the pure, overwhelming brilliance of concentrated life itself.
It had outshone everything else on the map for a full minute before subsiding to a steady, powerful thrum that was still orders of magnitude higher than anything else in the region.
"Report," Theronius commanded, his voice echoing in the stone chamber.
A young adept, pale and sweating, hurried forward with a scroll. "Lord Archmage, every scrying pool south of the Azure River was blinded. The Astromancers report a distortion in the leylines, as if a new wellspring of power has spontaneously erupted. The Diviners… the Diviners are getting nothing but images of sunshine, vines, and a feeling of overwhelming… deliciousness."
Theronius frowned, stroking his long, silver beard. "Deliciousness?"
"It is all they can repeat, my lord. They are demanding lunch."
The Archmage ignored the last part. A new wellspring of power. Untamed, unclassified. In the hands of an enemy, it could be a devastating weapon. In the hands of an ally… it could shift the balance of power on the continent.
"And the Silent Fang Guild?" he asked.
"Our sources confirm they accepted a contract to investigate an 'anomaly' in that exact region. They dispatched one of their Shadowcats, the one they call 'Lyra'."
"A Shadowcat," Theronius mused. "They are swift, deadly, and utterly reliable. We should have a report from her handler soon."
At that exact moment, a different acolyte scurried into the room, holding a small, enchanted message stone that was pulsing with a faint light. "Lord Archmage! A message from the Silent Fang Guild liaison!"
Theronius took the stone. "Report."
The acolyte swallowed nervously. "Lord Archmage… the Silent Fang Guild has just declared that their agent, Lyra, has… gone rogue. They claim she has broken contact and abandoned her mission. They have placed a substantial bounty on her head for desertion."
The chamber fell silent. Theronius's eyes narrowed. A Shadowcat, one of the guild's most elite and loyal agents, doesn't just 'go rogue.' Not without a very, very compelling reason. To abandon her mission, to betray her guild, to risk a bounty on her head… whatever she had found at the heart of that explosion of life energy was not just powerful. It was persuasive.
The mystery of the southern anomaly had just deepened, and a layer of extreme danger had been added.
"Dispatch a Knight-Errant," Theronius commanded, his voice ringing with authority. "Someone discreet, powerful, and loyal to the Crown above all else. I want to know what is happening in that village. I want to know who, or what, can make a Shadowcat abandon her oath."
He turned back to the Grand Orrery, his gaze fixed on the steady, golden pulse that was the tiny, insignificant village of Oakhaven.
"Find out," he whispered to himself, "what is growing in that farmer's field."