The sun rose slowly over Fermar Village, painting the sky with soft gold.
Most people were still asleep, but one person was already awake, standing barefoot on the cool soil.
Rylan.
Fifteen years old.
Quiet.
Alone.
And already working.
His clothes were simple—faded brown shirt, rolled sleeves, and patched pants—but he didn't care. The field mattered more than anything he wore.
He stepped into the earth with the same calmness he had every morning.
To him, the field felt alive.
It was almost like it breathed with him.
Rylan bent down, touched the soil with his fingertips, and nodded once.
"…Moisture's perfect today."
No one taught him how to figure that out.
He just knew.
He lifted the wooden hoe—old, cracked, repaired at least ten times—and began smoothing the land. The movements were gentle, but perfect. Not too deep. Not too light. Every line straight. Every corner neat.
To him, this was normal.
To anyone else, it would look impossible.
Birds landed near him, not afraid. Small field animals watched him quietly, as if he was part of the land. Even the wind slowed down when it passed the field, making it strangely peaceful.
Rylan wiped his forehead and looked at the sky.
"Grandpa… I hope I'm doing this right."
The old man had been gone for three years now.
Rylan still talked to him every morning.
He walked to the side of the small hut—the place he lived in alone—and checked the tiny water bucket. He filled it, walked back, and poured water over the newly planted seeds with a steady rhythm.
Every drop fell exactly where it needed to.
He didn't notice it, but the seeds under the soil glowed faintly for a moment.
His touch always did that.
Rylan straightened his back, stretched, and took a deep breath.
A perfect morning.
A normal morning.
At least for him.
He didn't know that deep inside the nearby forest, hidden under leaves and shadows, monsters were crawling out of their dens.
Claws sharp. Teeth ready. Eyes hungry.
But the moment they faced the direction of Fermar Village…
…they froze.
Not from fear.
From terror.
They didn't see a simple boy tending the soil.
They saw a black silhouette of death itself, towering behind him like a giant shadow.
Every creature shuddered at once.
They retreated.
Quietly.
Slowly.
Not daring to make a sound.
Back at the field, Rylan simply wiped dirt off his hands and yawned.
"Another peaceful day," he whispered.
He looked out over his small farmland—green, bright, perfectly healthy—and gave a small smile.
"I'll make this place thrive. Just like you wanted, Grandpa."
He picked up the hoe again.
The world feared him.
But he only wanted to grow crops.