The walk back from the Sprite Tree was a study in cognitive dissonance.
To Leo's left, the valley was a masterpiece of pastoral serenity. The afternoon sun filtered through the canopy of the ancient oaks, dappling the cobblestone path in shifting patterns of gold and shadow. The stones, worn smooth by a century of wagon wheels, radiated a gentle, stored heat. The air smelled of pine resin and the sweet, fermentation scent of the winery up the hill.
It was idyllic. It was peaceful.
And inside Leo's rucksack, the bag of Cabbage Seeds felt like a radioactive isotope.
He had spent 500 Medals—almost half of his entire winnings—on this packet alone. Cabbage was a "Heavy Feeder." It required massive amounts of nitrogen, water, and attention. It was a high-risk, high-reward asset. If the Turnips were a savings account, the Cabbages were a leveraged buyout.
He arrived at his property as the sun began to dip behind the western cliffs.
Leo's shack looked like a mistake. The siding was grey and warped, pulling away from the frame like peeling skin. The roof sagged in the middle, pooling rainwater that would inevitably leak onto his sleeping bag. The "cellar" next to it was even worse—a stone igloo that had partially collapsed, smelling of mildew and neglect.
"One harvest," Leo promised himself, looking at the seeds. "One successful harvest, and I buy lumber."
Leo stripped off his shirt. The humidity was rising, and the air felt thick enough to swim in.
He picked up the Iron Hoe.
Two weeks ago, lifting this tool had been an act of masochism. It had dragged his shoulders down and blistered his palms within minutes. Now, as he stepped onto the patch of land he intended to clear, the motion was simply work.
He wasn't athletic yet. His ribs still showed too clearly against his skin, and his arms were thin, trembling slightly under the weight of the iron. But he had found the fulcrum. He had stopped fighting the gravity of the tool and started using it.
Lift. Drop. Drag.
He cleared a new 3x3 grid next to the growing grass. The soil here was still tough, but the grass roots from the adjacent plot had started to loosen the clay, allowing the hoe to bite deeper.
He planted the Cabbage seeds with surgical precision. One seed per hole. Depth: 1.2 cm. Spacing: 30 cm.
"Germinate," Leo commanded softly, covering the last hole. "That's an order."
He had one packet left. The "Toy Flower" seeds he had bought on impulse with his leftover winnings.
They had no caloric value. They had no market value to speak of. They were purely aesthetic.
Leo looked at the barren, ugly stretch of dirt near his mailbox. It was the first thing people saw when they crossed the bridge—a testament to his poverty.
"Psychological warfare," Leo rationalized. "If the farm looks prosperous, creditors might extend the deadline."
He tilled a small row near the gate and scattered the flower seeds. It wasn't agronomy; it was decoration. But as he covered them, he felt a strange sense of defiance. In a life dictated by survival and debt, planting something useless felt like a luxury he hadn't earned, but desperately needed.
"You're disrupting the local ecosystem again."
The voice didn't startle him this time. He was expecting it.
Leo stood up, wiping sweat from his chest with a rag. He turned to see the Witch Princess sitting on his fence post with her gothic lolita look. She wasn't peeling an orange today. She was holding a black frilled umbrella, spinning it lazily against the clear twilight sky.
"I'm planting dinner," Leo said. "And rent money."
"You're planting Cabbage," the Witch corrected. She hopped down, her boots landing silently in the dust. "Do you know what Cabbage represents in the magical spectrum? It's a nutrient sink. It sucks the life out of the soil to build those dense, leafy heads. It's greedy."
She walked over to the fresh grid. She sniffed the air.
"And you bought them with 'Luck' you stole from the Casino," she added, her eyes narrowing. "Jet told me. You counted cards. You used logic to break a game of chance."
"I used math," Leo said. "Is that a crime?"
"In a magical valley? Yes," the Witch smiled. It was a sharp, predatory expression. "You created a surplus of positive probability. You know what Newton's Third Law says, right? For every action..."
"...there is an equal and opposite reaction," Leo finished. He tightened his grip on the hoe. "What did you bring me? A storm? A drought?"
"Oh, nothing that crude," the Witch laughed. "I'm not doing anything. I'm just letting nature balance the equation."
She pointed to the forest edge.
At first, it looked like a heat haze shimmering against the dark trees. Then, the haze began to buzz.
It was a sound like a high-tension wire snapping—a low, drone frequency that made Leo's teeth ache.
"Aphids," Leo whispered.
"Not just aphids," the Witch corrected cheerfully. "The Titan Aphid. They've been dormant for years because the soil was too poor to sustain them. But now? You've planted Cabbages. You've watered the grass. You've created a buffet."
The cloud moved out of the shadows. It was a swarm of insects the size of golf balls, their carapaces gleaming with an oily, black sheen. They weren't flying randomly. They were locking onto the fresh chlorophyll signature of the Cabbage seeds.
"The Universe hates a anomaly," the Witch quoted Jet. "You wanted a high-yield crop? You have to defend it."
She opened her umbrella and floated upward, out of the combat zone.
"Physics problem, Leo," she called down. "You have eighteen seeds and five hundred hungry mouths. Calculate the survival rate."
Leo didn't calculate. He reacted.
He grabbed the watering can. It was empty. The bugs were descending.
He looked at his right hand. The bandages were soaked with sweat and dirt. Beneath them, the Cursed Hoe pulsed violent, eager heat.
Use me, the tool whispered into his marrow. One swing. I can burn them all.
The swarm hit the first row.
Leo roared—not a word of science, but a sound of pure territorial aggression—and charged. He didn't unwrap the Cursed Tool. He swung the Iron Hoe like a bat, meeting the first wave of the black cloud with blunt force.
The bill for the luck had arrived. And he had to pay it in sweat.