The air smelled different.
Not just of rain or wet bark, but of something older—earth's sigh of relief after a long-held breath. The Hunger Field had quieted. The Warding Rows hummed no more. And yet, an unease lingered.
Ikenna stood at the edge of the battlefield, barefoot, toes deep in mud as if trying to assure himself it was over.
It wasn't.
Because even as the Evergrowth forces retreated, leaving behind shredded vines and scattered blades, Ikenna knew this battle had been a signal. A declaration—one he hadn't meant to send, but did all the same.
He had awakened a power too old to be forgotten. And someone had heard.
In the following days, the farm became a strange mix of celebration and vigilance.
Villagers gathered around the granary every evening, sharing broth and roasted rootsticks, recounting the battle in whispers. Children reenacted the scene with twig-blades and rolled-up leaf armor. And the elders, who had watched their crops burn and their kin be taken seasons ago, now walked the rows with newfound reverence.
But while others celebrated, Ikenna watched the horizon.
Because the soil no longer slept.
Nwachi approached him on the third morning, a scroll in her hand and a tightness in her eyes. "Message from the wind paths," she said, her voice low. "A courier hawk dropped it near the edge of the wild field."
Ikenna took the scroll, unrolling it slowly.
Its paper was strange—woven from silk and crushed bark, marked with sky-borne ink that shimmered when touched by light.
The message was brief.
To the farmer who made the land bleed,
The earth remembers its stewards.
Come to Hollow Root Valley.
We have questions. Bring no war. Only seeds.
– The Mosscourts
"Mosscourts?" Ikenna echoed.
Nwachi's eyes narrowed. "They're old. Very old. Not a sect, not quite. More like a council of forgotten cultivators—those who abandoned sword and flame for root and bark."
"And now they want me to come?"
"You shook the ley-lines, Ikenna. What you did with that field... it wasn't just warfare. It was heritage—lost knowledge reborn. The Mosscourts guard things like that. Or bury them."
He left the next morning, long before the sun crested the valley.
No escort. Just his satchel, a bag of soulbean seeds, a length of stormwood rope, and the bone-plow stylus hanging from his waist like a dagger.
Amara stopped him at the gate. "You sure?" she asked, voice tight. "What if they try something?"
"Then I'll offer them a harvest," Ikenna said, smiling faintly. "And if that's not enough… I suppose the soil will decide again."
She looked down, then handed him a small cloth pouch. "For luck," she muttered.
Inside was a single feather—black-tipped, white at the base. From the Dirtwatchers' canopy.
"Thanks," he said, tucking it into his shirt.
Then he left.
Hollow Root Valley wasn't on any modern map.
To reach it, Ikenna had to follow paths that refused to remain still—trails of living stone that curved in unnatural arcs, moss-covered bridges that only appeared under moonlight, and whispering trees that shifted when no one watched.
It took him three days and a dream to arrive.
And when he did, the valley was already waiting.
Mist curled lazily around the trees. No wind. No birdsong. Just the slow thrum of buried power—not hostile, but ancient. Watching.
In the center of the clearing stood a circle of figures—six, robed in varying hues of moss, lichen, and bark. None wore weapons. Yet their presence pressed against Ikenna like the weight of a mountain.
"Step forward, Seedbearer," one of them said, voice like falling rain.
He obeyed.
Another raised a gnarled hand. "You summoned a Hunger Field. You sowed death and memory into soil. That is not something done lightly."
"I protected my farm," Ikenna replied.
"Did you feed it your own soul?"
"No. Just blood. And old grief."
The tallest of them nodded slowly. "That is better."
They didn't test him with trials or blades.
Instead, they listened. For hours, Ikenna recounted everything—from his first night in the ruined farmstead to the awakening of the Dirtwatchers, the village's revival, and the battle against Evergrowth.
He held nothing back.
At the end, the eldest stepped forward.
"We have guarded the Old Green for centuries. The knowledge you've tapped into—it belongs not to a single field, but to the Breath of the World itself. You have rekindled it."
Ikenna nodded slowly. "Then… what happens now?"
"You learn the rest," the elder said. "You've earned a place among us. If you choose it."
Ikenna looked at his hands, still stained from planting. He thought of the villagers, the Dirtwatchers, the tiny prayer-stakes carved by trembling fingers.
"I didn't come to abandon my farm," he said. "I came because the land deserves someone who understands it. But I need to return."
The elders murmured, then parted.
Behind them, a small stone table rose from the earth. On it lay a scroll—thick, bound with twine and soil-wax.
"A gift, then," the tallest said. "The Codex of Thirteen Roots. A guide to forgotten techniques. Some will not work unless the land accepts you. Others may cost more than you're willing to give."
Ikenna stepped forward and took it.
The moment he touched the scroll, the land beneath his feet pulsed once—and the mist around him receded slightly, as if bowing.
"Thank you," he said.
Then he turned and left.
He returned to the farm six days later.
It was still standing.
The crops had grown faster than expected. The Warding Rows now bloomed with night-glow flowers. And the Dirtwatchers? They were taller—listening again.
Jalun spotted him first. "HE'S BACK!"
Villagers swarmed him, voices high and relieved, stories tumbling over one another.
But Ikenna saw beyond their excitement. He saw the sky darkening toward the west.
A new front was coming.
He looked down at the scroll in his arms.
Then at the fields.
Then he smiled.
"Let's teach the land something new."