Noah walked ahead, the Sword of Roots gleaming faintly under the morning sun. The blade hummed softly as it cut through the tall grass, clearing a path wide enough for Fern and Sprint to follow. Each swing made a satisfying shhhk sound, sending droplets of dew scattering like tiny sparks.
From this small world's perspective, the garden was enormous. The blades of grass towered like trees, the air thick with the earthy smell of soil and pollen. A ladybug darted overhead, its wings beating so fast they made a faint buzz, and somewhere deeper in the undergrowth, a cricket sang—a rhythmic, steady pulse like a hidden drummer keeping time.
Fern walked behind him, her eyes gentle but alert. Occasionally, she brushed her fingertips against a leaf or stalk. The plants responded, bending slightly to make way as if they recognized her touch. Sprint trudged along at the back, humming a tune that sounded cheerful but off-key.
"We should rest a bit," Fern said, wiping her brow. "There's good shade ahead."
They stopped beneath a mushroom large enough to be a cottage roof. Its smooth cap cast a wide shadow, and the gills underneath glowed faintly gold from bioluminescent spores. Fern knelt, brushing her hand along the cool stalk. "Safe spot," she murmured. "No mold growth. No predators."
Sprint dropped his pack with a dramatic sigh and flopped onto the ground. "Finally. I was starting to think we'd be walking till sunset." He unwrapped bundles of food wrapped in leaf cloth. "Breakfast is served—pollen bread, baked fresh yesterday!"
The bread was golden brown, soft, and faintly sweet. Noah took one, sniffed it curiously, then bit in. The flavor surprised him—it tasted like honey toast with a whisper of flowers.
"It's… really good," he said, his mouth still half full.
"Of course it is," Sprint replied proudly, munching his own piece. "That's the regular kind. Wait until you try bee bread. The stingless bees make it—pollen and nectar packed together and aged just right. Strong stuff. Keeps us sharp on long trips."
Fern chuckled, shaking her head. "You mean hyper."
Sprint winked. "Sharp, hyper—same thing."
Fern raised her hand and whispered softly. The nearby leaves bent toward her, their tips trembling as beads of dew rolled down into her waiting palms. She offered the droplets to the others.
"Freshest water in the kingdom," she said with a smile.
Noah took a sip. The water was cool and clean, tasting faintly of mint and earth. For a few quiet moments, they simply sat together—eating, drinking, listening to the faint rustle of the garden.
"This place feels alive," Noah said quietly.
"Because it is," Fern answered. "Everything here breathes together. The plants, the bugs, the soil—it's all connected."
When they finished, they packed up their things and continued walking. The peace of the mushroom shade slowly gave way to a deeper, heavier atmosphere.
The veggie garden rose before them like a forest. Towering tomato vines twisted into the air, their red fruits gleaming like hanging lanterns. Bean stalks spiraled upward around wooden stakes, their leaves broad and shimmering with dew. The air was humid and sweet, filled with the scent of ripened vegetables and warm earth.
Noah craned his neck upward. "I used to think this was just a patch of plants," he said in awe. "But down here… it's a jungle."
Fern smiled faintly. "The same place can look different when you finally see it properly."
They walked single file, stepping carefully over roots as thick as Noah's arm. A mantis crouched motionless on a tomato stem, its eyes following them. On a nearby leaf, a cluster of aphids drank sap while a ladybug crept toward them with slow, patient precision.
"Predators and prey," Fern whispered. "They keep each other alive. Without hunters, the garden would choke with feeders. Without feeders, the hunters would vanish."
Noah nodded slowly, absorbing her words. "So everything here has a purpose."
"Even the ones that bite," Sprint muttered.
Fern shot him a look, but he only grinned.
Then the ground beneath them trembled.
At first, Noah thought it was just the wind shaking the tall stems, but the vibrations grew stronger—steady, rhythmic, and close. The loose soil shifted beneath his boots.
Sprint froze mid-step, his ears twitching. "That's not wind."
The sound deepened into a dull, pulsing thrum. Ahead, a mound of soil swelled and rippled, as though something enormous was moving beneath it. Then—bursting from tiny tunnels—came the red shimmer of armored bodies.
Fire ants.
They were almost as big as gardelings in size, their bodies segmented and gleaming like polished bronze. Soldiers with massive jaws stood guard while workers carried pieces of leaves and insect husks. Their antennae twitched rapidly, scanning the air.
Sprint crouched low, whispering, "Big ones. Ground guards. Stay still."
One of the ants halted, its antennae pointing directly toward them. Then it made a sharp click. Another answered. Then another. The sound multiplied into a chorus of dry snaps—an alarm.
"Uh oh," Sprint muttered. "They've seen us."
The ground exploded into motion.
Ants poured from the soil in waves. Noah barely had time to react before one lunged at him. Its mandibles snapped shut with a sound like cracking wood. He swung his sword, slicing through its front legs. The ant fell, twitching, spilling acrid-smelling fluid that burned the ground.
"Don't let them grab you!" Fern shouted.
Sprint drew his short thorn-blade and swung at another. The ant clamped down on the weapon, pulling him forward. Sprint strained, feet digging into the dirt.
"It's—too—strong!"
Noah lunged forward, cleaving the ant's head clean off. Sprint stumbled back, panting.
"Thanks," he gasped.
"Be careful!" Fern yelled. "In our Gardenling archives, we've seen ants lift things fifty times their weight!"
As if to prove her point, another soldier ant barreled into a rock, shoving it aside with terrifying strength. Fern raised her hands, summoning vines from the ground to form a wall, but the ants climbed over or tore straight through them.
Sprint dropped his broken blade, pulled out his thorn bow, and fired. The sharp arrows hissed through the air, impaling ants one after another. Still, they kept coming.
Noah fought at the front, his sword flashing in arcs of silver light. Every swing sent another ant sprawling, but more replaced them, crawling over fallen bodies. Their armor was slick and hard; when he cut them, a bitter, metallic scent filled the air.
"They're endless!" Sprint shouted.
"I liked them better when they were tiny!" Noah snapped, kicking one away.
A massive soldier ant reared up, twice Noah's height. Its jaws snapped inches from his arm. He ducked and swung upward, slicing clean through its thorax. The body fell apart, twitching, staining the soil dark red.
But even he was starting to tire. His breath came in gasps, his muscles burned. The ants pressed closer, clicking and chittering, crawling over their own dead.
Fern gathered her power again, forcing the ground to rise in a wall of twisting vines. "Fall back!" she cried.
They retreated until their backs hit a large stone. Noah stood in front, sword raised, Sprint beside him with another arrow ready, Fern kneeling to reinforce the barrier. But the ants were climbing faster than she could grow vines.
The swarm filled the clearing—hundreds of gleaming bodies, legs scraping, jaws snapping. The noise was deafening. Noah swung again and again, trying to keep them back. Each strike sent sparks of pain up his arm. His sword hummed as though urging him to hold just a little longer.
"We can't keep this up!" Sprint shouted.
"Then we need to run!" Fern replied.
But before they could move, the ground itself began to shake again—this time harder, deeper, wetter.
The ants froze. The rhythm of their movement faltered. From somewhere beyond the vines came a sound—low, drawn-out, and wet.
CROOAAAK.
The vibration rolled through the soil, deep enough to make Noah's chest rumble. The ants turned as one, their antennae waving wildly. Even the air seemed to hold its breath.
Fern's face went pale. "Hide. Now."
She grabbed Noah by the arm, dragging him toward the stone. Sprint followed, diving behind them. Fern slammed her palms to the ground. Vines burst from the soil and wove together in a blur, forming a thick, leafy curtain that covered them completely.
"Don't move," she whispered.
The tremor grew louder—thump… thump… thump—each one closer than the last. Noah could hear soil shifting, roots snapping. Then came the sound of something soft and massive hitting the ground—PLOP.