"So let me get this straight…" I wiped tomato juice off my cheek with the sleeve of my once-proud black hoodie (RIP dignity), "This entire farm has been left alone for, like, twenty years… and the trees just decided not to die out of stubbornness and good vibes?"
"More like magic," Froilan corrected as he poked at a weird purple carrot. "Also, the trees here have attitude. One tried to slap me when I picked a mango without asking."
"…You got slapped by a mango tree?"
"Yes. It left a leaf-shaped print on my face."
This was the kind of stuff you only saw in fantasy stories. Or your dreams after eating three questionable gas station burritos, which… was totally not how I got here.
"Okay, but real talk," I said, holding the blessed apple—Apis, they called it—like it was a tiny, sugary deity. "Why did no one use this farm for two decades? Just because of one dragon?"
Froilan suddenly turned grim. Which was weird because he was currently wearing a straw hat that made him look like a discount anime protagonist.
"It's… not just the dragon."
Oh, great. Here comes the lore dump.
He motioned for me to follow, and I instinctively grabbed a second Apis. You never know when emotional support fruit might be needed.
We walked past the tomato grove, the tall grasses parting like we were Moses with slightly more vitamin C. Erina and the other fae waved at us, their weirdly identical Raiden-esque faces smiling like they all knew a secret I was too dumb to decode.
We arrived at a shaded part of the farmland, where a large mural had been carved into the stone wall of a hillside. I blinked.
"Wait. Did your people do this?"
Froilan shrugged. "It was already here. We just cleaned the vines off. Took three fae, one goat, and a very angry squirrel to clear the whole thing."
The mural depicted a war. A very dramatic, overly artistic war with swooping dragons, magic beams, and some dude standing in front of a giant tree like he was about to deliver a monologue.
"Let me guess," I said, pointing at the speechy dude. "That's the first guy who tried to farm here."
"No," Froilan said. "That's the last king of the Fae. His name was Nerion the Bloomkeeper. Real tree-hugger. Like, literally. He once proposed to an oak tree."
"…Was the oak tree into it?"
"It politely declined."
Okay. Definitely gas station burrito dream material.
Froilan continued. "This farm wasn't just farmland—it was the capital of the Fae Kingdom. All the fruits and vegetables blessed by magic were grown here. It was called Verdelume."
"Ooh. Fancy. Sounds like a brand of luxury soap."
"It means 'The Lush Sanctuary' in ancient Fae."
"…Still sounds like soap."
He ignored me. "The dragons back then weren't hostile. They lived in harmony with the Fae. But everything changed when—"
"Let me guess," I said, channeling my inner drama king, "—the Fire Nation attacked?"
Froilan frowned. "What's a Fire Nation?"
"Never mind, continue."
He cleared his throat like he was about to read bedtime stories. "A long time ago, one of the Fae accidentally tapped into forbidden magic. The kind that makes people go all bwa-ha-ha evil cloak time. It corrupted part of the blessed soil and twisted the magic of Verdelume."
"Classic cursed fertilizer problem."
"The corruption spread underground and attracted something terrible… something that should never have existed."
Oh no.
"The dragon," Froilan said gravely. "But not just any dragon. That one wasn't born—it was formed. From the corrupted magic, dead tree spirits, and the fury of the forest."
"So… it was a compost dragon?"
Froilan blinked. "…Technically accurate. Horrifyingly worded, but accurate."
Apparently, the dragon grew beneath the farmland like a magical pimple of doom. And when it erupted, it didn't just destroy crops—it annihilated the capital and consumed the roots of the world-tree that once stood at the heart of the land.
"There was a world-tree here? Like, an actual world-tree?"
Froilan pointed to the stump at the center of the mural. I hadn't even noticed it before—it looked like a giant petrified root system, partially buried beneath vines and moss.
"That was Eledros. The Heart Root. The fae said its roots stretched through all the continents."
"So what happened to it?"
"Burned by dragonfire. And when it fell, the Fae Kingdom fell with it. Only a few fae survived—those who escaped to the mines or fled to the outer woods."
"And the dragon just… stayed here for twenty years?"
"Yes. It burrowed underground, sleeping beneath the farmland. It corrupted everything. Anyone who tried to farm was either driven mad by whispers in their heads or fried like crispy bacon."
"Okay, but… how was I able to just… you know, kill it? With a sword. That I found. In a pit."
Froilan looked at me like I'd just asked why birds don't file taxes.
"Because you're the chosen one, obviously."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa—hold the fantasy horses. I never signed up to be anyone's 'chosen one.' I was wearing foam devil horns when I got here!"
Froilan nodded. "Exactly. A sign of ancient power."
"…It was a Halloween costume."
"Yes. A sacred tradition of disguise to honor the ancient spirits."
"I bought it for $4.99 at a discount store."
"A bargain for divinity."
I facepalmed.
"So," I said, looking back at the mural, "all this time, the dragon wasn't just guarding treasure—it was the treasure. A cursed, veggie-eating, soil-poisoning treasure of death."
"Basically."
"And I stabbed it in the head while screaming something stupid."
"You said, 'Let me speak to your manager,' if I recall correctly."
"…Yeah. That tracks."
We stood there for a moment, letting the weight of the history sink in—or at least letting the absurdity float there like a deranged balloon.
"Does anyone else know about this?" I asked.
"Only a few elders. And now you. The Fae decided to keep the truth hidden, in case the corruption wasn't entirely destroyed."
"Wait, was it destroyed?"
Froilan smiled awkwardly and rubbed the back of his neck.
"I mean… probably?"
"Froilan."
"There's like… a 70% chance you cleansed it. 80% tops."
"Great. So there's a 30% chance a second compost dragon is gestating in the cabbage field."
"Cabbage is highly unstable under cursed magic. So… yes."
I looked at the Apis in my hand, now half-eaten and suspiciously red.
"…Do I have cursed fruit in my stomach right now?"
"Unlikely," Froilan said. "That one's from the top branch. Top branches are rarely cursed."
"Rarely."
Erina's voice floated toward us from the path behind. "Don't worry, Mister Troy. If you grow a tail or suddenly start craving volcanic rocks, we'll know the curse was still active."
"Very reassuring, thank you."
She smiled. "You're welcome. Want another tomato?"
"Only if it won't whisper to me in my sleep."
She thought for a moment. "…No promises."
I sighed, shoved the rest of the apple in my mouth, and dusted my hands off.
"Well, at least the farm is up and running again. I helped. I did hero stuff. Maybe now I can rest."
"Rest?" Froilan asked. "We still have to visit the orchard, the irrigation system, the mushroom caverns, and the storage chamber where we might have accidentally locked in a minor earth spirit."
"…I changed my mind. Being the chosen one sucks."
Erina placed a flower crown on my head. "Too late, Mr. Troy. You are now the Crowned Vegetable King."
"…This better come with health insurance."
And with that, we returned to the farmland, me wearing a flower crown, Froilan humming an off-key marching tune, and the faint whisper of a tomato possibly plotting my demise.