The morning field was still veiled in mist when Lucas and Silvara arrived.
Geralt was already waiting with a face far too bright for an old man "rumored to have had his backside drilled."
"Morning, Young Master!" he greeted, as if Lucas were some special guest at the harvest festival.
Lucas swallowed his annoyance.
Geralt was the first man in this world who was too happy to see him.
Lucas handed him an ordinary hoe—standard size, metal already blunt.
Geralt hugged it like it was his newborn grandchild.
"Thank you! Thank you!"
Silvara raised an eyebrow at the scene.
"…So you're planning to slack off today?"
Lucas didn't answer.
He simply lifted his hand.
The air around them trembled… like the moment before lightning strikes.
Then—
CHINK.
A hoe appeared.
Normal-sized, just like an ordinary hoe… but it felt heavier, denser, and its handle emitted a faint black-green glow.
The Great Hoe.
Not big. Not dramatic.
Just… unnaturally solid for something that small.
Geralt blinked twice.
"…Why do I feel like it wants to dig into my soul…?"
Silvara squinted.
"HEY. Since when did you bind a hoe to your soul?!"
Lucas frowned. "Bind—what?"
Silvara looked at him like a teacher discovering a student who didn't know the alphabet.
"A soul weapon. You can only bind ONE weapon in your lifetime. One.
And you chose… a hoe. Something old men use. For dirt."
Lucas let out a long breath. What kind of lore is this again…
[DING]
(¬_¬) Host, relax. That rule doesn't apply to you.
---
Lucas glared at the screen. …Why?
[DING]
(๑•̀ㅂ•́)و✧ Because you're not classified as a "Warrior."
You are… something else.
---
Lucas decided he didn't want to know.
He glanced at the sword on Silvara's hip.
"What about you? You bound a weapon too? So that little sword is just an accessory?"
Silvara sighed irritably.
"An accessory? This is for duty. My soul weapon is far too noble to slash petty problems.
But if you wish to see its glory, I'll show you."
She took two steps forward.
Raised her hand.
White-silver light crawled from her spine into the air, forming a brief runic pattern—
FWUUM.
A claymore materialized.
Large, but not monstrous.
A wide blade—around a hundred centimeters—simple handle, metal spotless as if freshly polished.
No shaking ground.
No explosion of light.
Just—
A claymore appearing calmly, steady and beautiful.
Lucas still stared.
"—Since when?"
Silvara rested the claymore on her shoulder.
Expression flat.
"Since I was fourteen. Knights need weapons that don't snap when used seriously."
No smug tone.
No prideful flaunting.
Just facts.
Lucas looked at The Great Hoe—normal in size.
Then at Silvara's claymore.
Then Geralt's ordinary hoe.
He closed his eyes.
Exhaled.
"…I'm farming."
[DING]
(＾▽＾) Character Growth: Acceptance of Reality
+14 EXP
+3 PP
---
Geralt instantly brightened.
Silvara simply nodded and set her claymore beside her.
And Lucas—with the wise resignation of someone who had given up arguing with the universe—lifted The Great Hoe that looked like any village tool,
yet carried the aura of an artifact that had once slain a dragon.
Lucas stood at the edge of the field, examining the tomato rows that were growing far too fast.
He shifted his foot, assessing the soil slope, row spacing, and flood risk.
If heavy rain hit… it was over.
Water would pool right in the middle.
Roots would rot.
The harvest would vanish.
Geralt watched from behind, old eyes blinking in awe.
"Y-Young Master… are these tomato seedlings the result of alchemy?"