A decade passed.
To the wider world, it was the "Age of the Benevolent Farmer," a time of unprecedented peace and prosperity for the Kingdom of Eldoria. The regular, small tithes of Ren's produce, distributed carefully by the Crown, had subtle but widespread effects. Public health improved, crop yields across the kingdom were inexplicably higher, and a general sense of optimism pervaded the culture. The legends of Ren became foundational myths, stories told to children to teach them the virtues of generosity, hard work, and the surprising effectiveness of agriculture in matters of national defense.
To Ren, it was simply "life."
He aged, but slowly. The constant infusion of potent life energy had arrested his aging process; at nearly thirty, he still looked like the young man who had first appeared in the field. His farm had become a thing of breathtaking, almost unimaginable beauty. The Garden of Lost Worlds was a sprawling, harmonious landscape of impossible flora, each plant telling a silent story. The Celestial Grove tree stood as a serene, starry anchor to his domain, and his fields of 'Sunstone' wheat and 'True Sun's Fury' tomatoes were a testament to his mastery.
Lyra remained by his side, her own aging process slowed by the farm's ambient magic. The sharp edges of the assassin had been worn smooth, replaced by the quiet confidence of a guardian and friend. She managed the "diplomatic" side of the farm, politely but firmly turning away the endless stream of petitioners, would-be disciples, and curious nobles who still tried to seek Ren out.
Ser Kaelen, now a decorated and respected General of the Royal Army, was grayer at the temples but still a steadfast friend. His visits were less frequent, his duties to the kingdom more demanding, but the bond forged in those early days remained unbreakable.
The farm was a sanctuary of peace. But peace is a state of balance, not a permanent stasis. And the universe, as Ren had learned, abhors a vacuum.
The first hint that the quiet years were drawing to a close came not from the sky or from a magical incursion, but from a simple letter, delivered by a royal courier. It was from Archmage Vance.
My dear Ren,
I hope this letter finds you well and your harvests plentiful. I write to you not as Archmage, but as a concerned historian. For the past year, my scryers and I have been monitoring a subtle but deeply unsettling phenomenon. The 'dust' of Lord Malakor's defeat, and that of the Overmind's champion... it has not settled. The neutral essence you created with your 'Seed of Equilibrium' is, as you intended, inert. But the echoes of the beings themselves, their lingering psychic residue and will to exist, have been drawn together by a strange, sympathetic resonance.
We have located the focal point. It is a place you know: the barren Fields of Sorrow, now the Fields of Bounty. The very land you healed and enriched. We believe the potent life force of the land is acting as an unwilling incubator. Something is coalescing there. Something that remembers being a Lich, and something that remembers being a cosmic horror.
We do not believe it is an immediate threat, but it is a mystery I cannot solve. It is a weed in the garden of the kingdom, and I know of only one gardener skilled enough to deal with it.
Yours in friendship and concern,
Theronius Vance
Ren read the letter, a familiar, weary sigh escaping him. He had composted his enemies, reset his farm, and settled into a decade of peace. He had assumed that when you dealt with a pest, it stayed dealt with. He was now learning a new, fundamental lesson of gardening: weeds always come back.
"Trouble?" Lyra asked, seeing the look on his face.
"Old trouble," Ren replied, handing her the letter. "It seems some dust I kicked up a long time ago is refusing to settle."
He knew he had to go. The Fields of Bounty were a direct result of his actions; the land was, in a way, an extension of his responsibility. He opened a Wayslip, not to the capital this time, but directly to the edge of the vast, clover-filled plains. Lyra, as always, went with him.
The Fields of Bounty were even more lush than he remembered. The air was sweet with the scent of clover, and herds of plump, healthy sheep grazed peacefully. But as they walked towards the center of the plain, Ren could feel it. A subtle cold spot in the vibrant landscape. A single, sour note in the symphony of life.
In the exact center of the vast field, the clover did not grow. There was a perfect circle of barren, grey earth, about fifty feet in diameter. And in the middle of that circle stood a figure.
It was not a Lich, nor was it an insectoid creature. It was a young boy, no older than ten, with pale skin and large, empty eyes. He wore simple, grey homespun clothes and stood perfectly still, radiating an aura of profound confusion and nascent, conflicting power. He was a fusion of terrible echoes, a ghost made of ghosts.
As Ren and Lyra approached, the boy looked up. His empty eyes focused on Ren, and a flicker of dual recognition appeared within them. One part recognized the being who had turned it into fertilizer. The other part recognized the farmer who had humiliated it in a cosmic contest.
The boy opened his mouth, and two voices spoke at once, one a dry, dusty rasp, the other a chorus of psychic hisses.
The boy clutched his head, staggering. "We... I... do not know what I am."
[Anomaly Detected: 'The Echo']
[Nature: A nascent psychic entity formed from the residual consciousness of two defeated beings (Malakor/Spore-Shepherd), spontaneously generated within a high-energy life-field.]
[Current State: Unstable, confused, highly malleable.]
[Potential: Immense. Could collapse into a being of pure nihilistic rage, or... something else entirely.]
This was not a simple pest to be pulled or composted. This was something new. A child born from the ashes of his greatest victories. A weed, yes, but also a seedling. A seedling that was a reflection of his own past actions.
"I know you don't," Ren said softly, stopping a safe distance away. He looked at the confused, lonely figure. He didn't feel anger or fear. He felt a gardener's responsibility. "But I think," he said, a new, challenging idea beginning to form in his mind, "we can figure it out together."
He had spent ten years curating a garden of lost things. Now, it seemed, he had to tend to a lost person, a child who was the living embodiment of his most dangerous enemies. His quiet life was over, again. And a new, far more complicated season of growth was about to begin.