The transfer was not a violent or explosive event. It was as gentle as planting a seed in prepared soil. The divine spark, the core of Ren's 'overpowered' nature, flowed from him into Kael. It was a torrent of pure conceptual energy, the accumulated goodwill of a nation, the memory of cosmic battles, and the quiet, potent magic of a thousand impossible harvests.
Kael gasped, his eyes widening as the energy settled within him. He did not feel overwhelmed or corrupted. The balanced nature of his soul, which Ren had so patiently cultivated, accepted the gift perfectly. The warring echoes of the Lich and the Spore-Shepherd did not re-emerge; they were permanently and peacefully integrated, becoming a foundation of knowledge rather than a source of conflict. He could feel his understanding of the universe expand exponentially, the languages of life and death now perfectly fluent, the grammar of creation and decay laid bare.
He looked at Ren, and for the first time, he could truly see him. He saw the powerful, immortal soul that had been anchored to a primordial being, and he saw it willingly, lovingly, let go of its cosmic tether to ground him instead. He saw a god choosing to become a man, for his sake.
Tears streamed down Kael's face. "Master... why?"
Ren, looking pale and tired but more at peace than ever, simply smiled. "Because a good gardener always invests in the next season. The world will still need someone who knows how to tend it."
As the last of the divine spark left him, Ren felt a profound change. The constant, humming connection to the cosmic 'system' was gone. The effortless ability to warp reality with a thought was gone. When he looked at a plant now, he no longer saw its stat-sheet, but simply the plant itself—its color, its texture, the health of its leaves. He felt the ache in his knees from kneeling, the sweat on his brow from the sun. He felt... human.
But his connection to his own farm, his domain, remained. It was a quieter, more intimate power, born of years of love and labor. He could still feel the needs of his soil, still coax his plants to grow with uncanny skill, but it would now require effort, wisdom, and patience. The magic was no longer a wellspring; it was a carefully tended reservoir.
Lyra, watching from a distance, felt the shift immediately. Ren's aura, once a blazing sun of conceptual power, had settled into the warm, steady glow of a hearth fire. It was less overwhelming, but no less profound. She understood what he had done, and her heart ached with a fierce, protective pride.
In the days that followed, the new reality of the farm took shape. Ren was no longer a demigod playing at being a farmer. He was simply a master farmer. He had to physically weed his garden, he had to carefully measure water, and when he baked bread, he had to wait for it to rise properly. And he had never been happier. The work, now truly work, was more satisfying than ever.
Kael, on the other hand, was grappling with his newfound inheritance. He could feel the pulse of the ley lines across the continent, hear the whispers of the wind, and feel the life and death of every creature in the forest. He could open a Wayslip as easily as taking a step, and with a thought, he could cause a new variety of flower to bloom. He held the power that Ren had so casually wielded.
But Ren's greatest gift had not been the power itself, but the wisdom to use it. Kael had no desire to rule or conquer. He had been taught by the best. His first act with his new abilities was not to reshape a mountain, but to subtly cleanse a struggling river a hundred miles away, an act no one but the river itself would ever notice.
One evening, a week after the "Passing of the Spark," the three of them—Ren, Lyra, and Kael—sat on the porch, watching the stars in the Celestial Grove twinkle. Ser Kaelen was there, having come to check on them after feeling the subtle shift in the world's energy.
"So, what now?" Kael asked Ren, his voice filled with the weight of his new responsibility. "The world is so... loud. So full of things that are out of balance."
Ren took a sip of Sun-Nettle tea. "So you tend to them," he said simply. "One at a time. You find a patch that's hurting, and you help it heal. You find a weed that's choking out the good plants, and you pull it. You don't try to fix the whole world at once. You just focus on making your own little corner of the garden as healthy as you can. The rest will follow."
It was the final lesson. The core of his entire philosophy.
Kael looked out at the vast, starry sky, no longer seeing a frightening void, but a great, cosmic field full of gardens, each needing a tender hand. "I understand," he said.
"The kingdom will always be here to support you, Kael," Ser Kaelen said, recognizing the mantle had been passed. "And me. Call, and we will answer."
"He won't be alone," Lyra added, her hand resting comfortably on the porch railing next to Ren's.
Ren looked at his strange, wonderful family. The reformed assassin, the honorable knight, the child of impossible forces now grown into a wise and powerful guardian. He looked at his beautiful, peaceful farm, a testament to a life well-lived.
He felt a sense of completion, a satisfaction deeper than any he had ever known. His adventure was over. He had gotten his wish. He was just a man on a farm, surrounded by friends, with a lot of planting to do in the morning.
But as he looked up at the Celestial Grove, he saw a single, new mote of light drift down from the star-dusted leaves. It was another lost seed, another story from a distant world, settling gently onto his soil, waiting for a gardener's touch.
Ren smiled. His adventure might be over. But a gardener's work is never truly done. And he wouldn't have it any other way.