“Harvest her aura?” Tavran’s voice cracked. He snatched the parchment from Vordigar, fingernails digging into the vellum. “Preposterous. Unethical. An assault not simply on a personal tomb, but on the very integrity of funerary botany! The preservation of vital essences requires specific, carefully managed peat beds, not a raid by common brigands!”
He paced the basalt flags of Floor 101, the tang of loam and sulfur rising around his silk hem. “This changes everything,” he declared, slapping the parchment against his hip. “They wish to play dirty? Very well. I shall introduce them to the brutal realities of advanced agronomy.”
Vordigar watched him, a single claw tapping his chin. “Master Vael, what exactly does that entail?”
“It means,” Tavran announced, turning to face his hulking stall director, “that we shall cease this passive, gentle approach to cultivation. We have been simply *growing* our produce. Now, we shall *weaponize* it.” He gestured wildly around the fertile dungeon chamber, at the neat rows of glowing tubers and spiraling vines. “Our ‘Sun-Apples’ heal? Excellent. But what if we developed a variety that could also, say, incapacitate? Our ‘Shield-Pumpkins’ deflect blows? Superb. But what if they exploded?”
Vordigar blinked. “Exploded?”
“Precisely!” Tavran adjusted his spectacles. “Consider the tactical advantages of an unstable, ideally ripened ‘Doom-Melon’! Or the strategic applications of a ‘Gloom-Spore’ that induces profound existential dread!” He rubbed his palms together, a dry chuckle catching in his throat. “Baron Malcor wishes to siphon her resting site? I shall extract his entire treasury with a sharp, agriculturally driven commodity crash so severe it makes his current debts look like a minor blight.”
Before Tavran could elaborate on the finer points of explosive rind dispersal, a shout echoed from the stairs. Three sellswords clad in the crimson and silver of the Viper Guild stumbled onto Floor 101, reeking of sweat and vinegar-soaked bandages.
“There he is! The mad farmer!” snarled a gaunt woman, her rapier dripping with viscous, glowing venom. “Baron Malcor offers a king’s ransom for his head! Finish him!”
“My cabbages!” Tavran yelled, spotting a cabbage head directly beneath their boots. He stepped forward to cover the broad leaves with his coat. “You barbarians! Have you no respect for the delicate cellular structure of a prize-winning brassica?”
“Behind you, sir!” Vordigar bellowed, clearing leather with his broadsword. Over on a heap of compost, Teneb opened one slit-pupiled eye and yawned a trail of blue cinders. Tavran flapped a dismissive hand.
“Nonsense, Vordigar, I am quite aware. They are… an opportunity for a field test!” He reached into his gathering hamper, lifting out three round, obsidian-skinned gourds, each the size of a skull. A faint hum vibrated through their rind.
“The ‘Doom-Melon’,” Tavran announced, balancing one in his palm. “A cross of the ‘Blast-Gourd’ and the ‘Inferno-Berry’. Stable until subjected to rapid barometric shifts, or, failing that, a vigorous pitch.” With a grunt, he lobbed the fruit directly at the lead blade.
The gaunt woman, expecting a crude projectile, smirked and slashed at it with her rapier. The venomous blade bit into the melon’s skin, and for a split second, nothing happened. Then, with a deafening *CRUMP!*, the melon detonated, a concussive force blasting outward. The woman shrieked, her armor warping, her body flung backward as if struck by a giant's fist. Her companions, caught in the expanding shockwave, stumbled.
“Remarkable yield, considering the soil composition!” Tavran tossed a second melon. It rolled between the boots of the two survivors, paused, and detonated. Shrapnel—hardened green rind—whistled through the chamber, biting into stone and leather. A cutthroat shrieked, clutching a fractured collarbone.
“One more, for statistical accuracy!” Tavran sent the third gourd bowling across the pavers. It clipped the ankle of the rearmost sellsword and blew outward. The concussion flung the man into the far wall, where he slid down into an unmoving knot of scrap plate. The room settled into silence, save for sizzling pulp and low moans.
“Such exquisite dispersal patterns!” Tavran smoothed his collar. “The volatile compounds exceed my greenhouse projections. Vordigar, note the need for lined crates. We cannot permit premature combustion to rupture the display tables.”
“Noted, sir,” Vordigar rumbled, resting his broadsword against his knee. Teneb exhaled a thin plume of vapor, singeing a nearby root before tucking his muzzle back beneath his wing.
As Tavran surveyed his work, a deep, resonating voice boomed through the chamber, vibrating in his very bones.
[THE HARVEST OF SOULS IS NIGH.]
[THE SEED OF RESURRECTION AWAKENS. IT DEMANDS TRIBUTE.]
[HUMAN SACRIFICE IS THE PATH OF OLDE. POTION-GOLD IS THE ALTERNATIVE.]
[A STAGGERING INFLUX OF WEALTH, EQUAL TO THE LIFE-ENERGY OF TEN THOUSAND SOULS, IS REQUIRED TO SPARK THE SEED’S FINAL ASCENSION.]
Tavran clapped his hands together, entirely misinterpreting the dire pronouncement. “Excellent! The Lexicon confirms it! The ‘Seed of Resurrection’ is ready for its final growth phase! And the best part, Vordigar, is that it requires a significant financial investment to bypass the messy, rather unhygienic traditional methods.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Ten thousand souls’ worth of ‘potion-gold,’ it says. That’s a truly astronomical sum. Clearly, it refers to the necessary capital investment in advanced agricultural infrastructure and high-grade magical fertilizers. No doubt a sophisticated growth serum for the Seed itself.”
Vordigar sighed, claws clicking against his hilt. “So, scholar, we require an unprecedented mountain of coin. Immediately.”
“Indeed!” Tavran paced the furrows. “The cartels hoard coin through artificial scarcity on their draughts. No more. We shall break their monopoly. Our enterprise must expand beyond the threshold of this ziggurat. We shall pour our harvest straight into the city streets. They will scramble for our stock, underwriting her recovery to the last copper.”
Vordigar squared his massive shoulders. He strode over to the exit portal, an opaque sheet of magical glass that typically permitted only ingress. He set his stance and drove his iron-shod heel into the center of the frame. The barrier cracked, splintered, and blew apart like ice under a hammer, opening a jagged gateway into the noisy stones of the capital plaza, mist pouring out across the cobblestones as curious onlookers stopped in their tracks.