The warlord, a mountain of gristle and ill-will, waved a hand the size of a shovel. His men, clad in scorched leather and scavenged metal, began to move. Two burly outriders hefted flaming brands toward the sanctuary's weathered, unblemished stone portal, while another team wrestled a siege catapult into position, its basket already loaded with a tar-soaked log.
Pipo merely widened his smile. “Oh dear! Such a misunderstanding!” He wrung his hands together, his expression one of earnest distress. “This particular water isn’t very good for boiling. It gets…sticky.” He reached into the satchel at his side, pulling out a gourd that pulsed with a faint, green light. It looked like a misshapen melon, but smelled faintly of damp soil and something surprisingly sweet. “Perhaps a refreshing splash first?”
He ‘accidentally’ fumbled the gourd. It tumbled end-over-end, bouncing off the King’s knee with a dull thud before landing squarely at the feet of the two brand-wielding skirmishers. Before they could even curse, the gourd burst with a wet *THWUMP!* Instead of fire, a torrent of thick, emerald-green liquid gushed forth, coiling outwards in furious tendrils. Within a heartbeat, the liquid solidified, transforming into a dense, thorny bramble that snaked around the raiders’ ankles, pinning their boots to the parched earth with flinty force. Their brands dropped, sputtering out as the vines choked the embers.
“Oopsie!” Pipo chirped, picking up his bicycle. He pedaled a tight circle, his eyes still fixed on the King. “My apologies! These Deep-Root Melons are so… spirited! Always bursting when you least expect it!”
[WARNING! TARGETING ALLIES WITH RESOURCES! AVOIDANCE OF PRIMARY OBJECTIVES DEGRADES SYSTEM INTEGRITY!]
The warlord roared, drawing a massive, serrated chopper. “Fool! You dare defile the ground of the Sun-Bearer?” He lunged, his attack surprisingly swift for his bulk. Pipo, still smiling, swerved his bicycle at the last second, the King’s blade whistling past his ear, close enough to ruffle his hair. Pipo pitched sideways off the pedals, scattering more of his gourds across the churned dust.
One particularly lumpy gourd rolled under the wheel of a heavy, spiked war-chariot. The chieftain of the chariot, a scarred woman with an antlered helmet, screamed a command. Her horses strained, trying to move, but the gourd chose that moment to detonate. Not with an explosion of flame, but a rapid, organic unfurling. Roots as thick as a man’s arm burst from the ground, entangling the chariot’s axles, binding the wheels to the earth with an unyielding grip. The horses, startled by the sudden immobility, bucked and whinnied, threatening to overturn the entire vehicle.
Pipo scrambled to his feet, dusting himself off with exaggerated care. “Oh dear, oh dear! Such a mess! These Deep-Root vines are simply incorrigible. Once they get a purchase, they never let go!” He offered an innocent shrug, his smile unwavering.
[SEVERE PENALTY INCURRED: RESOURCES MISALLOCATED. OBJECTIVE: HUMILIATE ENEMIES, NOT IMMOBILIZE. FURTHER SUBVERSION WILL RESULT IN SYSTEM PROTOCOL CANCELLATION.]
The chieftain, enraged, swung his heavy blade again, aiming straight for Pipo’s neck. Pipo ducked with a clumsy sway, the whistle of the edge shearing through his topknot. He stumbled backward, straight into a pack of nomads trying to pry their comrades from the green mesh. As he 'flailed' to regain his balance, his hand dipped into his satchel, pulling out a handful of what looked like oversized, wobbly plums. He 'accidentally' flung them wide.
The plums, bred for snaring rather than blasting, burst upon impact with boiled hide and iron. Instead of a bang, there was a series of wet *thwacks*. Green, sticky cords sprang loose, binding weapons, plastering arms to ribs, and sealing visors shut. Men howled, grappling against the sudden vegetable cords and colliding in a greasy heap. Pipo, still maintaining his wide, innocent grin, giggled. “So sorry! My aim is just *terrible* today!”
He slipped under another wild swing from the warlord, then sidestepped a spearmen's thrust with a fortunate stagger. Each slip planted an elbow into a harness buckle or kicked a loose gourd into the dirt, cracking rinds that spewed fresh binding sap. The dust ring, moments ago a disciplined wedge, collapsed into a tangle of whipping shoots, thrashing limbs, and baffled curses.
[CRITICAL ERROR DETECTED! USER DIRECTLY CONTRADICTING PRIME DIRECTIVE! SYSTEM INTEGRITY AT 12%! COMPLETE PROTOCOL WIPE IMMINENT!]
Ignoring the screaming red text flickering across his retinas, Pipo fixed on the sanctuary doors. The torchmen remained tangled, but the nomad chief had hacked himself free and now charged the threshold, chopper raised. He aimed a furious stroke at the weathered oak planks, which groaned under the iron, showering splinters. He cocked his arms back for another heave, yellow teeth bared in an ugly grimace.
Pipo lunged into a dead sprint, abandoning his clownish gait. He wove through the writhing skirmishers, straight-arming bodies aside, sight locked on the portal. As he reached the flagstones, the nomad chief brought his heavy wedge down again. A splintering boom cracked open the lintel. The timber buckled inward, laying bare the sunlit nave.
And inside, Milla. Not standing at the altar, but *on* it. Her eyes were closed, her face serene, yet tinged with a faint, unnatural orange glow. The slab beneath her pulsed with blinding white heat. A column of raw flame, swirling with amber and copper sparks, soared around her, licking upward toward the high rafters. This was no invader's pitch; the sacred pyre had awakened on its own tether, already hungering, already consuming.
Her duty. Her fate. A knot tightened beneath Pipo's ribs as his past self's unblinking, dead-eyed memory of her burning husk clawed to the surface. No. Not this time. Never again.
With a raw cry that shattered his perpetual smile, Pipo Makkal launched himself forward, leaping blindly into the churning, magical inferno. Char and blistering heat scorched the breath out of his throat. White light devoured his vision; through the blinding glare, the floating log script broke into jagged runic shards. The bound journal within his tunic shuddered violently, its magic blacking out.