The first Titan Aphid died with a sound like a cracking egg.
Leo didn't have a strategy. He didn't have a pesticide. He had a piece of iron on a stick and a surplus of adrenaline. He swung the hoe in a wide, frantic arc, the flat of the blade connecting with the lead insect mid-dive.
The impact jarred his elbows, sending a shockwave of pain up his forearms. The aphid was knocked out of the air, skidding across the dirt, its legs twitching.
"Get back!" Leo roared, swinging again.
The swarm didn't care about his shouting. They were biological machines programmed for consumption. They descended on the Cabbage patch like hail.
Leo abandoned the hoe's handle. He choked up on the grip, using it like a club. He stomped on a bug that had latched onto a seedling, crushing it into the mud. He batted another out of the air. It was a chaotic, flailing dance of violence.
He wasn't fighting like a farmer. He was fighting like an antibody attacking a virus.
For ten minutes, the only sounds in the valley were the heavy rasp of Leo's breathing and the wet crunch of chitin against iron. He trampled two of his own cabbage seeds in the panic. He didn't stop. Collateral damage was acceptable; total loss was not.
Finally, the swarm broke. The surviving aphids, sensing that the energy cost of the meal was too high, buzzed angrily and retreated toward the forest canopy.
Leo dropped the hoe. He fell to his knees in the dirt, his chest heaving. His face was splattered with black ichor.
He looked at the grid. Of the eighteen seeds, three were ruined—crushed by his own boots or dug up by the bugs. Fifteen remained.
"Survival rate," Leo wheezed, wiping his cheeks, "83 percent."
He didn't sleep that night. He sat on the porch of his shack, the hoe across his lap, watching the field for any sign of a second wave.
When the sun rose, it revealed the full extent of the struggle. The field looked like a battlefield. The soil was churned up, scarred by boot prints and divots. The carcasses of the giant aphids were already dissolving, their black fluids steaming slightly as they seeped into the ground.
"Nitrogen," a voice grunted.
Leo looked up. Takakura was standing at the property line, holding a mug of coffee. He was looking at the dead bugs with mild interest.
"They dissolve fast," Takakura noted. "Good fertilizer. If you have the stomach for it."
Leo stood up, his joints popping. "Is this normal? Giant bugs?"
"Nothing is normal here," Takakura said, taking a sip. "But the Witch was right about one thing. You wake up the land, you wake up the hunger. The aphids were just the shock troops."
Takakura pointed his pipe stem toward the edge of the cleared field.
"You should worry about the infantry."
Leo walked to the perimeter where the grey hardpan met the wild grass.
Last night, in the chaos, he hadn't noticed it. But in the stark light of morning, the threat was visible.
It wasn't a monster. It was a siege.
Thick, fibrous weeds—Quackgrass and Bindweed—were moving in from the uncultivated land. They weren't growing at magical speeds, but they were growing with a grim, relentless determination. Runners were extending over his cleared soil, rooting down every few inches to establish a beachhead.
Leo grabbed a handful of Bindweed and pulled.
It didn't come up. The vine was taut, anchored deep in the hardpan. It felt like pulling on a steel cable.
"They sense the water," Leo realized. "They sense the fertilizer I put down for the cabbage."
He hacked at the root with his hoe. It took three chops to sever it. The moment he stopped, the cut end seemed to ooze sap, ready to regrow.
This wasn't a battle he could win with a single night of violence. This was a war of attrition. Every day, the weeds would advance a few centimeters. If he missed a day of weeding, they would strangle his crops.
"The Witch," Leo muttered. She hadn't just sent the bugs. She had accelerated the competition.
He walked back to the shack to get water. His hand throbbed.
He unwrapped the bandages on his right hand. The Cursed Hoe looked darker today, as if it had fed on his anger during the fight.
I could clear the perimeter, the tool whispered to his exhaustion. I could burn the weeds back to the tree line. Just one swing.
Leo traced the black metal with his finger. The temptation was physical. His back ached. His hands were raw. The idea of manually chopping those tough, fibrous weeds every morning for the next month felt impossible.
But he looked at the 15 surviving cabbage seeds. They were alive because he had fought for them. They were his.
If he used the Cursed Tool, the weeds would die, but the victory wouldn't be his. It would belong to the parasite.
"Not yet," Leo said, re-wrapping the bandage. "I can still lift the iron."
He grabbed the watering can. The Cabbages needed water. The weeds needed chopping. The debt needed paying.
He poured the water. Then turned to the weeds.
"Phase Two," Leo said to the encroaching green line. "Maintenance."