The night after the battle, the village refused to sleep.
Bonfires blazed in the square, their light dancing against clay walls and thatched roofs. Smoke from roasting yam and sizzling goat drifted into the air, mingling with laughter and music. Children darted between the fires, shouting and chasing each other with sticks, while elders clapped in rhythm to the drummers' beat.
They had survived. More than that—they had stood against a sect and lived to tell it.
Mama Eke lifted a calabash of palm wine high. "To the scholar farmer!" she roared. "Who made the land fight like a warrior!"
The villagers echoed her cheer, voices rising like a tide. "To the scholar farmer!"
Ikenna sat among them, flushed but humbled. He ate slowly, savoring the taste of freshly roasted yam dipped in spicy oil. The food carried new meaning tonight—not just sustenance, but proof that the land had given back, even after enduring attack and blight.
Beside him, Obi and Oba argued loudly over who had worked hardest during the planting of the Purifying Reeds. Their voices blended with the clamor of celebration, but when Ikenna caught their eyes, both boys grinned sheepishly.
"You've done more than enough," Ikenna told them. "The farm remembers every hand that tended it."
Chike banged his fist on the table. "And it remembers every intruder who tried to poison it! If the River Pearl dogs come again, they'll be the ones plowed under."
A ripple of fierce agreement ran through the crowd.
As the feast continued, villagers took turns sharing songs and stories. One young woman sang an old harvest tune, her voice carrying high above the drums, while an elder recounted tales of ancestors who once defended their fields against raiders.
Ikenna listened, warmed by the sound of history and resilience. These were not warriors trained with swords and spells, yet they were strong in their own way. Strong in the rhythm of planting, the patience of waiting for seeds to sprout, and the stubbornness to endure season after season.
When the music lulled, Mama Eke leaned close. "Scholar," she said quietly, "you've made this land something more than fields. You've made it breathe with us. But don't mistake one victory for safety. The sect will come again."
"I know," Ikenna replied softly. His gaze flickered to the dark horizon beyond the firelight. "That's why we must keep growing—not only crops, but ourselves."
Later, when the fires dimmed and laughter gave way to tired smiles, Ikenna slipped away from the crowd. He walked the familiar path back to the central plot, lantern swaying in his hand.
The fields glowed faintly under the moonlight, as if still alive from the earlier battle. The Guardian Yams had retreated, their vines curling back into the soil, but a lingering shimmer marked where they had risen. The Harmony Beans crept lazily across the fence posts, their blue blossoms swaying like watchful eyes.
At the heart of the farm, the Farming Scroll hovered, pulsing gently.
Ikenna stopped before it, breath catching as golden letters unfolded:
Trial Complete.
The land is now bound to your spirit.
Reward unlocked: Seed of Verdant Heart.
Before his eyes, light condensed, forming a small seed that floated down into his palm. It glowed faint green, warm and alive, as though it held a heartbeat of its own.
Ikenna stared at it, awe swelling in his chest. "Seed of… Verdant Heart?"
The scroll shimmered with explanation:
A seed that grows only when planted with sincerity. It does not feed the stomach, but the soul. Its roots deepen into the spirit of the land, anchoring keeper and field as one.
Ikenna's breath shuddered. This was no ordinary crop. It was a bond—a promise of permanence.
He knelt, dug a small hollow in the center of the field, and pressed the seed into the soil. His fingers lingered as he whispered, "Grow with us. Stand with us."
The earth accepted it with a soft pulse. A faint green glow spread outward, rippling like gentle waves across the entire farm. Every crop shivered, every leaf lifted slightly toward the moon, as though greeting a new heartbeat beneath the soil.
Ikenna sat back on his heels, chest tight. For a moment, he thought he heard a sound—not words, but a murmur, deep and resonant, like the land itself sighing in relief.
The farm was no longer just defended. It was alive. Truly alive.
At dawn, the villagers awoke to find the central plot transformed. From the place where Ikenna had planted the seed, a small sapling had already risen. Its leaves glowed faint emerald, and dew clung to them even though the morning sun had not yet touched the fields.
"What is it?" Obi whispered, eyes wide.
"The Verdant Heart," Ikenna answered softly. He rested a hand on the sapling's slender trunk. "It ties us together. The land, the crops, and the people. So long as it grows, this farm will endure."
Oba frowned, cautious. "And if someone tries to cut it down?"
Ikenna's gaze hardened. "Then they'll learn this farm does not yield easily."
The villagers murmured, gathering around the sapling with awe. For the first time since the trials began, hope outweighed fear in their eyes.
That evening, when the feast's embers had cooled and the villagers returned to their homes, Ikenna remained by the Verdant Heart. The scroll hovered beside him, silent now, as though content.
He thought of the battles they had fought—the intruders, the blight, the flood. And he thought of the battles still to come.
But as he sat there, listening to the crickets and the soft rustle of leaves, he felt a certainty settle deep within him.
The land had chosen.
And he would not let it down.