Khavis didn’t respond to the System’s grim ultimatum. His fingers, still pressed to Najila’s neck, confirmed a faint, if irregular, pulse. The corruption receded further, leaving behind a stark, bleached scar where the void-moth’s venom had gnawed. The World-Tree’s faint golden sap, now mingled with Khavis’s own life-force, pulsed like a weak, green star within her. He pulled his hand away, the world spinning for a moment as the blood-loss caught up, then he forced his gaze to the collapsing root network around them. “The farm,” he rasped, his voice raw. “If it’s to be consumed, it must be… optimally prepared.” He didn't need to explain. Najila, even in her weakened state, understood the ruthless logic. If the farm was the fuel, Khavis would ensure it burned efficiently. He hoisted her, surprisingly light, over his shoulder. Her head lolled, but her grip, even unconscious, remained firm on the hilt of her sword. The ascent was a brutal scramble, Khavis using whatever handholds the World-Tree’s roots offered, ignoring the persistent throb in his temples and the systemic weakness. The void-moth’s screeches echoed through the chasms, a sound that grated on Khavis’s teeth. He didn’t look back. There was no time for sentimentality, only for data and deployment. They emerged into the main greenhouse cavern, the sudden rush of cool, fresh air a shock after the suffocating depths. The air was thick with the scent of enriched soil and the metallic tang of fear. Surviving guild fighters huddled near the entrance, their faces pale, their armor scraped. They were a motley collection of battle-scarred warriors from the Obsidian Sentinels, the Cerulean Wardens, and even a few remnants of Hakem’s former cohort, now stripped of their corrupted regalia. Their bloodshot stares were fixed not on Khavis, but on a crude plank table fashioned from a broken crate. “Fifty thousand Dinar for a single Verdant Vigor Cabbage!” a gruff Sentinel bellowed, slamming a pouch onto the makeshift plank. “All my savings! Just give me enough to stand firm!” Beside him, a Cerulean Warden, one arm in a sling, clutched a fistful of glittering void-energy crystals. “I’ll give you these! They’re worth triple! I just need to heal my squad!” An anxious, wiry botanist from Khavis’s former academy, a woman named Fadia, stood behind the timber ledge, sweat cutting tracks through the dust on her cheeks. She’d been a low-ranking intern, now thrust into the role of a wartime quartermaster. She eyed the dwindling stack of phosphorescent blue brassicas, looking between the starving irregulars and the trembling form of Gore-Horn, who had retreated beneath a sturdy Radish-Root tree with a pitiful bleat. Khavis lowered Najila gently onto a patch of nutrient-rich soil. He ignored the clamor, the desperate pleas. His gaze swept over the meticulously cultivated rows, then to the sky-fissure where the void-moth’s shadow occasionally flickered. [Warning: Cosmic Parasite approaching rapidly. Estimated breach in 0.05 cycles.] Khavis strode to the table, his presence silencing the frantic bargaining. Fadia flinched, dropping a coin pouch. “Master Khavis! The demand is unprecedented! We’re making a fortune! These heads are selling for—” Khavis didn't let her finish. With a swift, fluid motion, he swept his arm across the planks, sending the remaining stack of Verdant Vigor heads tumbling onto the flagstones. Then, without a word, he moved to the nearest crop row, his scythe flashing. He didn't salvage a single stalk, but instead, with a furious, precise motion, he sliced through the main taproot of the run. The plant shuddered, then withered, bleeding a torrent of azure sap. Khavis kicked over the cultivation tray, spilling hundreds of leafy globes onto the cavern floor. He moved to the next row, then the next, slashing, overturning, sending a cascade of precious, luminescent vegetables scattering across the packed earth. A collective gasp rose from the sellswords. Fadia shrieked, a sound of pure horror. “Master Khavis! What are you doing? That’s hundreds of thousands in Dinar! Pure coin!” Khavis rounded on her, his eyes cold, devoid of the usual pride, replaced by a ruthless practicality. “Coin will not stop a World-Eater. Gold will not synthesize a World-Seed. But an army of hyper-buffed idiots might just buy us the twenty cycles we need.” His voice was low, cutting, carrying over the stunned silence. He gestured to the scattered bounty. “Consume. All of you. Do not pay. Do not hoard. If you can still stand, if you can still swing a blade, take as much as you can cram down your gullets. This farm is already forfeit. Your lives are its final expenditure.” The fighters stared, bewildered, then a few of the braver ones lunged. Soon, a feeding frenzy erupted. They tore into the crisp leaves, grunting as the potent vegetable knitted split flesh, renewed their stamina, and hardened their skin to an azure sheen. Their armor, once dull and scuffed, now radiated a soft, azure light. Their eyes blazed with renewed vigor, their muscles visibly bulging. They were no longer desperate survivors, but a burgeoning, radiant militia, their roars of defiance echoing Khavis’s own. Gore-Horn, however, remained rooted by the Radish-Root tree, shaking. The void-moth’s screeches grew louder, closer. The bedrock trembled beneath his hooves. The calf let out a terrified bleat, trying to burrow into the soil, but finding no purchase. His fluffy hide bristled, and a tiny, anxious wisp of smoke curled from his nostrils. “No, Gore-Horn,” Najila’s voice, though weak, cut through the din. Khavis had laid her down near the World-Tree’s nascent core, the faint golden glow from its roots still barely visible. She pushed herself up, wincing, her eyes fixed on the trembling calf. “You are not running this time.” Gore-Horn glanced at her, then back at the looming threat. His tail drooped. He was a fluffy calf, not a monstrous behemoth. He had *feelings*. Najila dragged herself closer, leaning against a low-hanging branch of a Blight-Berry bush. “Listen to me, Commander Gore-Horn. You helped Khavis save my life. You stomped Hakem’s assassins into paste. You demolished his corrupted retinue. You are not just a mascot. You are the shield of our line.” She reached out, patting the top of his head, her hand glowing faintly with residual World-Tree energy. “I, Guildmaster Najila of the Sunsilk Vanguard, officially deputize you. Stand with us, Commander. For Qalhat.” Gore-Horn’s eyes, usually wide with anxiety, narrowed. The faint wisps of smoke from his nostrils thickened. A low growl rumbled in his chest, not quite a roar, but a deep, throaty thrum. He squared his fluffy shoulders. His tail, which had been tucked between his legs, slowly lifted, twitching with newfound resolve. [Cosmic Parasite breach imminent. Survival Odds: -1% (recalibrating).] The System’s stark warning ripped through the air just as the cavern bedrock erupted. A deafening roar shattered the silence, and a colossal, segmented claw, dripping with iridescent void-slime, tore through the reinforced flagstones, sending chunks of rock and precious soil flying. The air immediately grew heavy, thick with a nauseating stench of decay and ozone. A sudden, oppressive frost bit into the greenhouse, and Khavis watched in fury as the vibrant green leaves of his Blight-Berry bushes and the golden stalks of his Solar-Grains instantly withered, turning black and brittle. Half his carefully cultivated crops, the very foundation of his life’s work, disintegrated into ash with a single, spectral breath from the monstrosity now forcing its way into his farm.

The Cabbage Market Crash