Sullka stared at the gold-plated grappling hook, then up at the sky ward, now thrumming with a deeper, more malevolent crimson. “Gold-plated?” he murmured, more to himself than to Khurun. “That’s incredibly inefficient for structural integrity. And a terrible waste of metal that could be used for, say, trellises.” [WARNING! ENEMY FORCES DETECTED WITHIN AGRICULTURAL ZONE! THRESHOLD BREACHED!] Then they came. Not a trickle, but a sudden, terrifying surge. Over the edge of the Qullu Ziggurat’s top-most precipice, figures in crimson and black armor dropped, landing with heavy thuds on the rich volcanic earth. Their helms were shaped like snarling canines, their weapons glinting with hungry enchantments. The first wave, maybe fifty strong, fanned out, their eyes scanning for the blood-soaked altar, the screaming sacrifices, the warlord’s throne. Instead, they found orderly rows of glowing greens, a monstrous minotaur chewing on a stalk of grain, a stoic woman with twin daggers strapped to her back meticulously pulling weeds, and a colossal, tattooed man tenderly caressing a spherical, radiant orange gourd that shimmered with an almost ethereal light. “The Demon Farmer,” one of them, a broad-shouldered man with a scar bisecting his canine helm, snarled, his voice muffled by the metal. “Look at this pathetic mockery! A garden? Where are the rivers of blood? The pile of skulls?” Sullka, still crouched beside his prize, looked up slowly. His eyes, usually mild, narrowed slightly. “Oh, hello,” he said, his voice mild. “Could you mind the asparagus patch? It’s a fragile heirloom variety. We’re still trying to stabilize its genetic markers.” Borr let out a bark of humorless laughter. He strode forward, his heavy boots crunching on the nutrient-rich soil Sullka had spent weeks cultivating. “He’s lost his mind! Men, seize him! And burn this abomination to the ground!” As Borr reached for his colossal, serrated axe, Sullka sighed, a long, weary sound. He stood, his immense frame unfolding like a mountain. In his hand, he still held his gargantuan spouted vessel, its polished copper glinting in the strange light filtered by the crimson ward. It was easily the size of a small barrel. “No, no, no,” Sullka tutted, shaking his head. “We talked about this. No aggressive gestures near fragile flora. It stresses the plants.” The raider swung without pause. His axe whistled through the air, aimed squarely at Sullka's neck. Sullka barely glanced at the steel. He merely swatted, a casual flick of his wrist. The copper vessel, still full of nutrient-rich water, connected with Borr’s helmet with a sound like a gong struck by a siege ram. The armored commander shot upwards, a crimson and black projectile that punched through the thick magical ward with a faint *pop*, continuing his ascent as a rapidly diminishing speck against the swirling clouds of Tawant. The metal bucket never even dented. Utter silence descended upon the raiders. Their jaws, hidden by their helms, surely hung open. Even Nayra, who had seen Sullka’s invulnerability firsthand, blinked, a single, slow beat of her eyelids. Khurun, meanwhile, merely grunted, nudging a particularly stubborn weed with his snout, entirely unfazed. Qhapaq, hidden behind a particularly robust patch of glowing gourds, rubbed his hands together. “Magnificent! The Warlord’s Watering Can of Whirling Annihilation! A market niche for agricultural implements of war!” [SLAUGHTER IN THE SKY! YOUR IRRIGATION TOOL HAS ACHIEVED ORBITAL EJECTION!] “Right,” Sullka said, adjusting the heavy copper grip in his hand. “Now, who’s next for a quick trip to… where did he go, Nayra?” Nayra, snapping out of her momentary stupor, pointed a slender finger towards the heavens. “He’s… beyond the cloud layer, Warlord. Possibly in low orbit.” “Ah. Well, that’s hardly conducive to soil enrichment, is it?” Sullka sighed again, looking at the remaining, stunned guild members. “See? This is why we need to discuss proper entry protocols.” The remaining invaders exchanged bewildered glances. Their commander had just been launched into the stratosphere by a gardening pail. “This is an insult!” one of them finally shrieked, his composure cracking. “We are the Bloodfang! We’ll burn it all!” With a collective roar, they surged forward, not towards Sullka, but fanning out across the fields, intent on pure, unadulterated destruction. They began hacking at the stalks of vibrant, magical celery, stomping on the crisp lettuce, and tearing at the greens. One particularly aggressive hunter kicked directly into a row of plump, verdant heads, tearing firm outer leaves and scattering them across the path. Sullka froze. The sight of crushed heads, disturbed root systems, and careless disregard for weeks of meticulous care shattered his usual patience. “My… my Grakka-leaf crop,” he whispered, his voice dangerously low. The sound resonated with a deep, rumbling vibration that made the ground tremble. Nayra, watching him, felt a distinct chill that had nothing to do with the mountain air. He had spent three seasons stabilizing that specific cultivar, coaxing out its incredible nutrient density and its unique, crystalline crunch. And these barbarians, these… *tramplers*, had reduced them to pulp. “You… you trampled the Grakka-leafs,” Sullka repeated, his voice rising into a booming roar that echoed across the Qullu Ziggurat, making Khurun pause his chewing and look up. “You trampled my prize-winning heads! Do you have any idea what kind of dedication, what kind of *love* goes into cultivating such a finicky Brassica?!” The air crackled around Sullka. The tattoos on his massive arms seemed to pulse with a dark, inner light. The remaining raiders froze in their tracks, their boots buried in torn leaves. “The Qullu Ziggurat will learn proper farm etiquette,” Sullka declared, his voice a pronouncement of doom, “whether they like it or not.” He knelt by the colossal orange gourd, the object of his earlier affection. He plunged his massive, tattooed hands into the loose, rich soil, pulling away the carefully mounded earth. Beneath, a truly enormous specimen, easily the size of a small carriage, pulsed with an ominous, world-ending magical aura. It was his masterpiece. The Emperor Gourd. And it was ready.

Trespassers Will Be Composted