For three days, nothing grew but the silence. Jarine spent his time shoring up the tower's lower entrance with rubble, creating a defensible bottleneck. He trained his Dew-Collector Moss to channel water into the tin pot. He watched the Aeorian Till-Beetles work, their iridescent backs flashing as they turned a square yard of dead shale into something loosely resembling soil. He could feel their simple, industrious contentment through the nascent Life-Web, the network of green connections slowly forming between him and every living thing he had bonded to his demesne.
On the fourth morning, as a sickly dawn bleached the mist gray, he saw it.
A single, defiant spear of emerald green, piercing the gray shale like a declaration of war.
A Stonebreaker Turnip had sprouted. Within hours, a dozen more followed, their leaves a vibrant, shocking contrast to the monochrome waste. They were small, but they were alive. The beetles had done their work; the enzymes in the turnip roots were doing theirs. A tiny island of viability had been established.
The Life-Web hummed a little stronger. Jarine felt a surge of pure, professional joy that transcended his circumstances. Growth was its own reward.
The reward attracted attention.
They came on the seventh evening, as the twin moons—one bone-white, one sickly green—began their ascent. Ash-Feathered Vultures. Scavengers, but these were magical variants, their feathers the color of banked coals, their beaks and talons glowing with a faint, corrosive aura. They were Tier 0 pests, but a flock of a dozen could strip a field or a lost traveler to bone in minutes. They circled twice, silent as shadows, before diving toward the glowing green life-sign of the turnip plot.
Jarine was inside, tending his moss. A pulse of alarm shivered through the Life-Web—a sharp, prickling sensation from the direction of the Sentinel Thornroot.
He snatched up the rusted hoe and ran outside.
The vultures were already landing, their glowing talons scraping the shale as they hopped toward the tender plants. The boy Jaren's heart hammered against his ribs. The old man Jarine assessed: too many, too spread out. The hoe was useless.
His class instinct, the hidden Planar Shepherd aspect, stirred. It wasn't knowledge, but an urge. A need to defend his territory not with his own hands, but with the tools of his domain.
He focused on the Thornroot, on that vigilant green thread in his mind. He didn't know a summoning chant. He poured intention, will, and a sharp burst of his green mana down the bond. Not a command, but a focused permission: The sky-thieves are here. They threaten the green. Stop them.
The Sentinel Thornroot trembled.
From its central stalk, now as thick as his wrist, came a sound like a dozen bowstrings being released at once. Thwip-thwip-thwip-thwip!
A cloud of black, needle-sharp thorns, each the length of a man's hand, erupted into the air. They moved with impossible speed, whistling as they flew. They found their marks with brutal accuracy.
Three vultures were punched off their feet, pinned to the ground, shrieking. Others were struck in wings, sides, necks. The corrosive glow of their talons sputtered and died as the thorns' mild neurotoxin took immediate effect. The flock erupted into chaos, a cacophony of startled cries and beating wings. Those that could took to the air, fleeing back into the gloom, leaving their wounded behind.
The attack had lasted less than ten seconds.
Jarine stood, breath fogging in the cold air, the hoe dangling from his hand. The silence rushed back in, now broken only by the weak fluttering of the impaled vultures.
He walked slowly to the Thornroot. It stood, its central stalk now slightly wilted, a few of its smaller thorns visibly regrowing. He placed a hand on its rough bark. "Thank you," he murmured, and pushed a steady stream of soothing, restorative mana into it. The wilt firmed. The satisfaction he felt echoed back through the bond—a job done, territory secured.
He then dealt with the wounded vultures swiftly and mercifully with the hoe's blade. It was grim work, but necessary. Waste was a sin. He collected the corpses. Their feathers might be worthless, but the faintly glowing talons and beaks… he placed them in a pile. The System's Salvage function identified them as Ash-Vulture Beak Fragments (Tier 0) and Corrosive Talon Shards (Tier 0), worth a pittance in Credits, but it was a start.
That night, by the fire, a new notification appeared.
[Life-Web Strengthened.]
[Sentinel Thornroot has achieved Permanent Bond status. Upkeep cost reduced by 60%.]
[New Skill Unlocked: Domain's Pulse (Novice). You can now sense the general health and alert status of all bonded entities within your demesne.]
[Quest Updated: Establish Your Demesne – Minor Threat Repelled. Reward: 10 System Credits.]
His Credit balance ticked up to 34. A meager sum. But the true value was immeasurable.
He had been attacked. His land had defended itself. The cycle was established: he nurtured life, and in return, that life protected the whole. The Farmer grew. The Planar Shepherd commanded the growing things to defend.
He looked out the tower entrance at his moonlit plot. The turnip leaves were undisturbed, glowing faintly in the pale light. Beyond them, the valley loomed, dark and full of unknown threats.
But he had drawn a line in the dirt. He had planted a flag made of leaves and thorns. The first attack had failed. The world thought him a joke, a dead man walking.
Jarine, the Verdant Sovereign, banked his fire and prepared for sleep. The laughter from the Awakening Hall was a distant echo. Here, in the silence of his growing domain, he could hear a new sound: the deep, quiet hum of roots pushing through stone, and the patient, watchful stillness of a thorned sentinel keeping vigil under cold moons. It was the only music he needed.