"You've given them a future, Art," Elsa whispered, sitting beside me. She looked at the village, then at the empty plastic wrappers being guarded like treasure. "But a paradise in a land of salt and shadow is a dangerous thing. It draws eyes."
"I know," I said, staring at the blank screen of my phone. "I've turned a graveyard into a garden. Every lord and tax collector within a hundred miles is going to smell this bacon and come running."
I stood up, stretching my aching back. My "old man" intuition was whispering to me again. The chill was gone, replaced by the warmth of the fire, but the feeling of being watched? That was coming back, and it wasn't a raven this time.
"Herbert, Barnaby," I called out softly. The two men appeared from the shadows instantly, their hands already on their hilts. "Enjoy the breakfast, but keep the horses harnessed. Something tells me our 'miracle' is about to have company."
But when the sun rose, the disco fever didn't fade. It transformed.
I woke up in the carriage to a sound I hadn't heard in this world: the deafening, joyous cacophony of life. I pulled back the curtain, and my jaw hit the floor.
The gray, cracked earth was gone. In its place was a carpet of emerald green so vibrant it hurt the eyes. The farmland, which twenty-four hours ago was a graveyard of dirt, was now a jungle of abundance. Rows of corn stood six feet tall, their silk tassels waving in a breeze that had finally returned. Potatoes and carrots were literally pushing themselves out of the rich, black soil. Cabbages as big as basketballs sat nestled in the dew.
The skeletal trees had become heavy with fruit—bright yellow bananas, blushing apples, and heavy clusters of citrus. And the animals? The dying curs and emaciated livestock were gone. Instead, fat chickens pecked at the dirt, pigs grunted in the shade, and birds of every color imaginable swirled in the sky, singing over the village.
"Master Art..." Elsa whispered, standing by the carriage door, her eyes wide and wet. She was gawking, completely speechless.
Barnaby was on his knees, not in despair this time, but in prayer. He was literally kissing the soil, his face covered in the rich, damp earth. "The land... it's breathing, Art. It's breathing again."
Herbert stood like a statue, staring at a bell pepper as if it were a legendary artifact. "I've seen mages grow a single tree in a day," he rumbled. "But I've never seen a land forgive a curse this quickly."
The Village Chief, Armand, hurried toward me, his old face a roadmap of tears. He followed me everywhere now, a shadow of pure devotion. "The music, Master... the chanting from the yellow box relic... it woke the spirits of the deep earth! Look! Look at what you have done!"
It wasn't just the food I bought. It was as if the "Divine Items" from my world had bled their energy into the soil. The plastic, the sugar, the vibrations of the speaker—the land had been so starved for anything that it had feasted on the remnants of my world and exploded into life.
Then came the "Breakfast Feast." If dinner was a celebration, breakfast was a coronation. We sat at long wooden tables laden with fresh fruit, eggs, and the meat I'd purchased.
But as I looked toward the village square, I saw something that made me choke on my coffee.
A group of children were gathered in front of Chief Armand. They weren't playing. They were moving with the solemnity of monks. In their hands, they carried the "relics" of the night: the crinkly, bright red wrappers of the strawberry pops, the empty plastic water bottles, the cardboard boxes from the soap, and the empty flour sacks.
They laid them out on a stone altar like they were pieces of a god's armor. To me, it was trash. To them, the "made in China" plastic was a holy material that had brought the rain and the corn. They touched the empty bottle cups with trembling fingers, whispering prayers over the barcode on the side of the bottle.
"Master Art," Armand said, bowing low. "We will build a temple for these. The Holy Shrines of the Yellow Box and the Crinkly Skin. Your legends will be told as long as the corn grows."
I looked at a discarded Snickers wrapper being treated like a piece of the True Cross and sighed. "Armand... it's just a wrapper. Really."
"It is the skin of a miracle," he insisted.
I sat back, watching my 3-VP-self being worshipped as a deity of agriculture and disco. I had no points left, the Queen's assassins were likely being replaced by an even bigger threat, and I was now the patron saint of littering.
*****
The next morning, it was time to say goodbye.
Before we left, I had a "serious" talk with Chief Armand. I pointed at the pile of plastic wrappers, empty crates, and cardboard boxes—the "Relics"—and gave him the talk. "Hide these," I said, trying to look like a wise sage and not a guy who just dumped his recycling on them. "If the Queen's goons see a Safeguard soap box, they'll have questions."
Elsa, ever the overthinker, leaned in. "Master Art thinks these sacred vessels could be forged. Perhaps your blacksmith can weave the 'Holy Crinkly Film' into your shields to ward off dark magic."
I snorted. Sure, why not? If a strawberry lollipop can cure a death-curse, maybe a Ramen wrapper can deflect a fireball. "Yeah, do that. Just... don't let Barnaby throw it away. It's yours now. Use it well."
The carriage was packed. Herbert was on the box, Barnaby was ready, and I was prepared for a cool, cinematic exit. I was going to wave a single, dignified hand as we rolled into the sunset.
I was wrong.
"MASTER ART!" a chorus of tiny voices shrieked.
Suddenly, I was swarmed. A literal tidal wave of children hit me. Small boys and girls, now healthy and smelling like soap and fruit, tackled my legs. I froze. My "Divine Burden"—the phobia of a woman's touch—started screaming in the back of my head. I waited for the hives, the nausea, the fainting spell.
But then, the corner of my eye started flickering.
DING! [PURE GRATITUDE DETECTED: +50 VP]
DING! [CHILD'S INNOCENT LOVE: +100 VP]
DING! DING! DING!
"Wait," I whispered, my eyes bulging.