CHAPTER 8 — “Slow Growth”
The morning comes soft and golden, the kind of morning that feels like a lie.
I’m standing in the vegetable garden behind the cottage—what used to be a vegetable garden, anyway, before Edrin died and everything went to seed. Now it’s mostly weeds and regret, with a few stubborn plants pushing through the neglect like they’re trying to prove something.
I can relate.
My hands are in the dirt. Actually in it, fingers buried to the second knuckle, feeling the soil cool and damp against my skin.
It’s been weeks since I did anything that wasn’t fighting or planning or trying not to die, and somehow this—this simple act of touching earth—feels more grounding than any meditation I’ve ever attempted.
The System pings, because the System has opinions about everything.
┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────┐│ ACTIVITY DETECTED ││ \[Agricultural Work --- Basic\] │├─────────────────────────────────────────────────┤│ Current Action: Weeding ││ Skill Applicable: \[Herb Sense\] Lv.
2 ││ ││ Hidden Benefit: Manual labor provides ││ passive stress reduction (-5% mental ││ debuff accumulation) ││ ││ Note: The mighty Archmage, on his knees in ││ the dirt, pulling weeds.
How the mighty ││ have fallen. Also risen.
It's complicated. ││ ││ "Gardening: surprisingly therapeutic for ││ revenge-obsessed reincarnated mages.
" │└─────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
You’re gardening.
Johnson’s voice in my head, equal parts disbelief and judgment.
“I’m assessing the property.”
You’re on your knees in the dirt, pulling weeds. That’s gardening. The System even agrees.
“It’s strategic resource evaluation.”
It’s gardening. You, the reborn Archmage, terror of the Demon Lord, vengeance incarnate—you’re gardening.
I yank out a particularly stubborn thistle and toss it onto the growing pile beside me. “Even vengeance incarnate needs to eat. And the village market isn’t going to sustain us forever.”
My [Herb Sense] tingles as I work, highlighting plants with faint auras—green for beneficial, red for harmful, blue for alchemically interesting. The skill has leveled twice since I started using it regularly, and the increased sensitivity is actually useful out here.
┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────┐│ HERB SENSE DETECTION │├─────────────────────────────────────────────────┤│ Scan radius: 15 feet (improved) ││ ││ Plants identified in current area: ││ --- Common Thistle (harmful weed) ││ --- Wild Carrot (edible, poor quality) ││ --- Silverleaf (alchemical --- minor healing) ││ --- Bitterwort (alchemical --- poison base) ││ --- Unknown Root System (investigate?) ││ ││ "Your garden is 60% weeds, 30% struggling ││ vegetables, and 10% things that could ││ either heal you or kill you.
Exciting." │└─────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
So grow potion ingredients, Johnson continues. Grow alchemical components. Don’t grow… what is that? A carrot?
I look at the small, sad plant I’ve just uncovered. The System tagged it as “Wild Carrot (edible, poor quality),” which is technically accurate but deeply underwhelming.
“It’s food. Probably.”
Inspiring confidence.
The Unknown Root System catches my attention, though. I dig carefully around it, exposing gnarled tubers that pulse with a faint blue glow visible only to my [Arcane Sight].
┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────┐│ ARCANE SIGHT ANALYSIS ││ \[Unknown Root System\] │├─────────────────────────────────────────────────┤│ Mana Signature: Present (weak) ││ Classification: Dungeon-touched flora ││ Properties: UNKNOWN (requires analysis) ││ ││ Note: This plant has been absorbing ambient ││ dungeon mana for an extended period.
││ Effects unpredictable. Could be valuable.
││ Could be explosive. Only one way to find out.
││ ││ "The dungeon is literally growing into your ││ garden.
That's either a blessing or a curse. ││ Possibly both.
" │└─────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
Interesting. The dungeon’s mana leakage isn’t just poisoning the soil—it’s creating new things. Mutated flora with unpredictable properties.
I make a mental note to investigate further. Later. When I have time to potentially deal with explosive vegetables.
You’re thinking about the dungeon again, Johnson observes.
“I’m always thinking about the dungeon.”
You should think about other things occasionally. Variety is healthy.
“I’ll add it to the list. Right after ‘survive’ and ‘revenge.’”
Your priorities need adjustment.
I keep working. The sun rises higher, warming my back, and the rhythm of it—pull, toss, move, repeat—becomes almost meditative. My mind wanders.
Last night’s conversation with Mariella plays on loop.
The revelations, the shared history, the fragile alliance we’ve built on a foundation of mutual enemies.
She’s Dario’s sister. She’s been running for seven years.
She has a magical tracking mark embedded in her soul that might lead Anton’s agents directly to our doorstep.
Every rational part of my brain says this is a disaster waiting to happen.
But every rational part of my brain also said I should have died on Floor 3, and here I am, pulling weeds in the morning sun.
You’re thinking about her.
“I’m thinking about the situation.”
You’re thinking about her specifically. I can tell by the way your heart rate changes when you consider the implications.
“Your telepathy doesn’t extend to cardiac monitoring.”
No, but your face does things when you’re emotionally compromised. It’s very readable.
I sit back on my heels, brushing dirt from my hands. “She’s an asset. A valuable one. Someone who knows the enemy from the inside, who has her own reasons to want him destroyed. That’s worth protecting.”
That’s a very clinical way of describing someone you spent three hours talking to about childhood trauma and royal politics.
“It’s the accurate way.”
It’s the scared way. Johnson hops closer, settling into a patch of sunlight that’s found its way through the overgrown hedge. You’re afraid to admit you might actually like her. As a person. Not just as a strategic resource.
I don’t answer. Don’t need to. He’s right, and we both know it.
Persephone was my wife. For twelve years, I trusted her completely—with my life, my secrets, my heart. And she held my hand while I died, whispering that it was “better this way.”
Trusting someone again feels like reaching into a fire and hoping it won’t burn.
You can’t live in isolation forever, Johnson says quietly. I’ve tried. It doesn’t work. The loneliness eats you from the inside until there’s nothing left but bitterness and old grudges.
“Speaking from experience?”
More experience than you’d believe. His ears droop slightly. I’ve been alone for a very long time, Velthar. Longer than your two hundred years. And I’ve learned that the fear of betrayal, while valid, is also a cage. It keeps you safe, but it keeps you small.
I stare at him—at this strange creature who attached himself to me for reasons I still don’t fully understand.
“When did you get philosophical?”
I’ve always been philosophical. You just weren’t paying attention.
“I was busy not dying.”
A common excuse for emotional avoidance. Noted.
Despite myself, I feel my mouth twitch. Not quite a smile, but close.
“I’ll try,” I say. “To trust her. To let myself… whatever. I’m not making promises.”
No one’s asking for promises. Just effort. He stretches, claws extending briefly into the soft earth. Now, are you going to garden all day, or do we have a training session with the eager young man who’s been hovering at the edge of the property for twenty minutes?
I look up.
Bram is standing by the collapsed section of fence, trying very hard to look like he’s not waiting desperately for permission to approach. When he sees me looking, he straightens up and waves with the enthusiasm of a puppy who’s been told there might be treats.
“He’s early,” I observe.
He’s been here since dawn. I think he slept in the barn.
“In the barn? The barn with the—” I pause. “Wait, what happened with the thing living in the barn? You said you were going to investigate.”
I investigated. It’s a cow.
“A cow?”
A very angry cow. She’s been feral for about a year, based on the state of her hooves. She tried to bite me. Johnson’s voice carries deep offense. Me. A creature of cosmic significance. Bitten by a cow.
“Did she succeed?”
That’s not the point.
“That means she succeeded.”
I’m going inside. Teach your student. Try not to die of pastoral boredom.
He stalks off toward the cottage with as much dignity as a rabbit can muster, and I’m left in the garden, covered in dirt, watching Bram practically vibrate with eagerness at the edge of my property.
This is my life now.
“Lesson one,” I say, standing across from Bram in the cleared space behind the cottage. “Don’t die.”
He blinks. “That’s… that’s the lesson?”
“That’s the goal. The lesson is everything else.
” I circle him slowly, the way Garrett used to circle me during our brief afternoon sessions.
“Fighting isn’t about being strong or fast or skilled.
It’s about surviving long enough to become strong and fast and skilled.
Most people who die in dungeons die in the first ten minutes because they don’t understand that. ”
I pull up his status with a focused thought—one of the social features of the System that lets you view basic information about willing participants.