Midday awoke to the sting of a flick against his forehead.

  Jolted into consciousness, he saw the hazy outline of Jenjo standing over him. The fire at the center of the room had died down a lot by then, and red-hot embers were all that remained in the hearth.

  The ex-guard made a silent gesture to the entrance of the hut.

  Groaning internally but outwardly staying composed, Midday clambered up onto his feet and hobbled over to the doorway. Braulia and Camellia, meanwhile, were settling in for their much-earned rest.

  Their rammed earth hut resembled an igloo, with a short, U-shaped tunnel jutting out to form the entrance. The group planned to make a proper door in time, along with many other additions, but this would suffice for now. The rain tended to fall straight, so keeping the water out was manageable.

  Midday stepped out into the humid embrace of the Old Growth night.

  The air was thick, heavy with the scent of wet earth, decaying leaves, and the faint, sweet undertone of the Valley Algae glowing eerily from the swamp far below. Rain, though lessened by the dense canopy overhead, still pattered consistently, dripping from leaves and forming slick rivulets down the hardened mud walls of their shelter. He was glad to be wearing a Raincoat Ring; it didn’t keep him dry per se, but it kept the water from sticking to him or seeping into his clothes. With it on, the rain was tolerable.

  Jenjo was already positioned just outside the U-shaped entrance, a dark silhouette against even darker fog. He held his sheathed cutlass loosely at his side, his stance relaxed but alert. He didn’t turn as Midday emerged, keeping his gaze fixed on the impenetrable wall of mist that surrounded them.

  “Your side,” Jenjo murmured, his voice low and gravelly, barely audible over the rain’s percussion. He gestured vaguely to the left of the entrance tunnel. “Listen more than you look. Can’t rely on sight.”

  Midday nodded, though Jenjo likely didn’t see it. He moved to the indicated spot, the mud sucking at his feet with each step. It reached almost to his knees now, cold and clinging, but he made no complaint.

  Mister Potatoes stirred on his shoulder, antennae twitching, perhaps sensing the change in environment or the underlying tension. The beetle made a soft clicking sound, almost lost in the ambient noise.

  He focused, trying to emulate the concentration he’d achieved when hunting the moose.

  He filtered out the rain, the drips, and the wind sighing through the upper canopy. He listened for the sounds any hunter instinctually would: splashing, snapping twigs, breathing. For several long minutes, there was nothing but the swamp's nocturnal chorus. Frogs croaked in complex rhythms from the unseen pond nearby, insects buzzed relentlessly, and occasionally a distant bird call echoed eerily.

  Jenjo remained utterly still beside him, a statue carved from shadow.

  An hour passed uneventfully in this manner. The most challenging thing became staying awake.

  Eventually, though, something did happen. Solomon the Frog appeared, seemingly out of thin air, floating toward them atop a spectral hand. The frog’s approach had been completely silent.

  The frog offered no greeting, simply hovering a few feet away, its unblinking eyes seeming to absorb the dim ambient light. The ethereal hands supporting it pulsed with a faint, internal blue luminescence.

  “I wish to employ your services, Midday Sunson,” Solomon stated, his voice a flat, almost mechanical croak that carried surprisingly well over the rain. “The outcome I seek will benefit both parties.”

  “What do you want to do with him?” Jenjo asked, sounding unfriendly. “He’s working right now.”

  “I seek his assistance in the cultivation of Vigor Lentils,” the frog answered.

  Jenjo’s head turned slightly, his gaze sharp even in the gloom.

  “Vigor Lentils? Here?” His voice held a note of disbelief, bordering on scorn. “That requires specific conditions, expertise—time—months, if not years. I know Mulberry provided you with the seeds, but that doesn’t mean using them is viable.” He gestured vaguely at the muddy ground around them. “This kid,” he nodded towards Midday without looking directly at him, “is level six. He needs basic survival training, protection detail, not... advanced horticulture under duress in a swamp on an elephant’s back.”

  Midday felt a little giddy. Vigor Lentils were the source of Strongheart Soup, which granted a boost to endurance. This was precisely the kind of opportunity he needed, a way to bolster himself and the group. He kept his face neutral, trying not to betray his excitement or the secret of the ring in his pocket.

  “This frog is a peer of Mulberry. I don’t know what he wants with me, but I’m sure he has his reasons.”

  Solomon turned his unblinking gaze toward Jenjo, the ethereal hands maintaining his effortless hover.

  “Temporal constraints are less significant than you perceive, Jenjo of Harriseppu.” The frog’s croak held no inflection, making the statement sound less like a reassurance and more like a simple declaration of fact. “Expertise can be acquired. I have the means to produce a fully mature harvest of Vigor Lentils in less than a day, but I will require assistance to do so. Midday Sunson is well-suited to provide that.”

  Jenjo scoffed. “What ability will you be using for this? I trust no harm will come to Midday.”

  “I have no ‘abilities,’” the frog said. “I never assimilated the Kingmaker Leveling mechanism.”

  “Good for you, I suppose.” The ex-guard frowned. “So, what then? Do you plan to use magic?”

  “Yes,” said the frog. “In my homeland, there is no sun. To us frogs, that is not an issue, but to the other denizens of the Boiling Swamp, that is not so. The humans and their ilk rely on magic to provide sustenance. When I was young, I studied agricultural magic under the tutelage of the Elves. Since then, I have developed it further, incorporating knowledge from other regions’ magical traditions into it.”

  “Elves are real?” Jenjo scratched his chin. “The more you know. So, how does Midday play into this?”

  “He will provide assistance,” the frog answered, his voice monotonous. “No harm will come to him.”

  Jenjo remained silent for a long moment, the only sound the steady drumming of rain on unseen leaves.

  “Very well,” said the cautious leader. “Midday is yours for an hour. I have big plans for him tomorrow, and he needs as much rest as he can get. I’ll come fetch him if he’s not back within that timeframe.”

  “Understood.” Solomon croaked, unperturbed by Jenjo’s terms. “Follow me, Midday Sunson.”

  Atop the ethereal hand, Solomon began to drift off into the fog.

  Midday looked back at Jenjo and offered a silent nod before lifting his knees to begin the trudge through mud. For a while, the trek went silently, but after they were out of earshot from Jenjo, Solomon spoke.

  “I was lying earlier. You will be playing more than an assistive role today,” the frog began. “I wish to observe how you use the Elvanerean Ring. I expect that you will need to use all your daily charges.”

  “Fine by me.” Midday already had his peppercorn. “What did you mean when you said ‘magic’ earlier?”

  “The rules of reality differ from place to place. Most regions do not have leveling mechanisms or any mechanisms at all, for that matter. In such places, there are alternatives: magic and vital arts, mainly.”

  “I, uh, I see.” Midday had no idea what this guy was waffling about. “Is it possible for me to use those?”

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  “Yes, but it would be both difficult to obtain that capability and inadvisable to do so.”

  “Why would gaining more powers be inadvisable?”

  “You are native to a region governed by a Leveling Mechanism. That is an asset. Many individuals migrate to this region so that they might gain access to it. To obtain the ability to use magic or vital arts, you would first have to relinquish this mechanism you were born with. If you did so, you would likely never awaken your mana or vitality sense. It is best to maximize the advantages you already have.”

  Hearing this, Midday was a little disappointed, but he understood the logic. In addition, it wasn’t very difficult to give up on something he’d just heard of for the first time only a few minutes before.

  “The world is a big place,” he said, reflecting on his newfound, ultimately useless knowledge.

  They arrived shortly after at a small clearing near the edge of the central pond.

  The mud here seemed slightly firmer, elevated just enough to avoid the worst of the waterlogging.

  “This location is suitable.” Solomon made two additional ethereal hands appear out of thin air. “Before planting the seed, environmental manipulations are necessary. Vigor Lentils are hardy plants that can tolerate a wider range of conditions than normal lentils, but these surroundings will not suffice.”

  “Soil modification is the first necessity,” Solomon croaked, the ethereal hands already sinking into the mud beside the pond. “Vigor Lentils abhor waterlogged roots. They require well-drained soil, ideally a loam or sandy loam. This current substrate is excessively silty and retains too much moisture.”

  Midday watched as the two disembodied hands began to work with startling speed and precision.

  One hand carved a shallow trench around a roughly circular area about ten feet across, the displaced mud instantly flowing away as if guided by an unseen current—Ablute’s power came to mind, though Solomon showed no sign of effort. The other hand simultaneously began lifting the mud within the circle, creating a raised bed higher than the mire that now surrounded it.

  “The soil triangle dictates the relationship between clay, silt, and sand,” Solomon continued, his voice a steady drone against the rain. “This current composition is too silty. We must introduce a greater proportion of sand and moderate the clay content to achieve optimal drainage and aeration.”

  Midday had no idea what this so-called ‘soil triangle’ was, but he understood the goal: make the mud less like mud and more like proper dirt, even amid all this rain. “Okay. How do we do that?”

  “Simple,” Solomon croaked, the ethereal hands pausing their work on the raised bed. One hand gestured towards the surrounding mire, then back to the plot. “We alter the constituent particles.”

  Midday nodded slowly, trying to look like he followed. Particles. Ratios. Right.

  It kind of reminded him of cooking.

  “Sand particles are largest,” Solomon continued, his tone unchanging. One of the spectral hands plunged into the raised mud bed, swirling within it. The texture of the mud visibly shifted, becoming grainier, less uniform. Fine, almost sparkling grains appeared to materialize within the darker muck. “They create larger pore spaces, allowing water and air passage. Essential for root respiration.”

  Midday watched, fascinated despite his lack of comprehension. Solomon’s magic wasn’t flashy like Jenjo’s Phantom Slice or Mulberry’s water manipulation. It was practical, almost mundane, yet the spectral hands performed work that would normally take hours of hauling and mixing.

  “Silt particles are intermediate,” Solomon went on, the second hand joining the first, kneading the soil. “They retain some moisture and nutrients, but excessive levels lead to compaction and poor drainage.” The mud continued to transform, becoming looser, darker, more like rich earth than swamp sludge.

  “Clay particles are smallest.” The hands now worked with a finer touch, seeming to integrate invisible components into the mixture. “High surface area. It retains water and nutrients effectively. Too much clay, however, leads to waterlogging and impedes root penetration. We require a balance.”

  The ethereal hands smoothed the surface of the now significantly altered soil within the raised bed. It looked like fertile garden soil now, albeit dark and damp from the persistent rain. The difference between it and the surrounding mud was stark. A glance was all it took to see its superiority.

  “Loam,” Solomon stated, retracting the hands. They hovered near him again, dripping spectral water that vanished before hitting the ground. “A balanced mixture of sand, silt, and clay. Optimal structure, drainage, aeration, and nutrient retention for many crops, including the Vigor Lentils we seek to grow.”

  Midday looked from the transformed soil bed back to the impassive frog.

  He hadn’t learned the how of the magic—and he probably never would—but he understood the what and the why much better now. Different dirt types were better for different plants because of drainage and air. Simple enough, when put that way. He felt a flicker of something bordering on understanding.

  The Elvanerean Ring, which he still had yet to slide onto his finger, began to glow softly in his pocket.

  “What the…” Midday took out the now-shining ring and equipped it along his pinky finger.

  “Effect Added. Elvanerean Ring: Accelerates growth of any plant the user points at by one year. May also be used to alter the soil composition by a limited amount within a small area. Can be used 3 times per day.”

  Midday froze. His eyes widened.

  The ring… it had a new effect now? The Voice had spat out an entire new sentence this time!

  “I’m surprised that was all it took,” the frog droned. “Perhaps your understanding has been undergoing a quantitative buildup for a while now, which just now accumulated into a qualitative change.”

  “You know what happened?” Midday asked, bewildered.

  “Your attunement with the ring improved in correspondence to your deepened understanding of agriculture. Presuming that this is the first time you’ve experienced this, breakthrough moments like the one you just enjoyed will be much more difficult to achieve going forward. What effect did it gain?”

  “It, uh, it can be used to alter soil composition now, but it sounds like the effect will be minor.” He stared down at the ring. Its glow had ceased by now. “Still, just what in the world is this thing?”

  “I do not know the exact origins of the Elvanerean Rings, but it can be surmised that they were either borne of an evolved ability belonging to a level 50 individual or, equally as likely, by a cultivator.”

  Midday stared at the ring, then back at the impassive frog. "Cultivator? What’s that?”

  “Individuals who have erased the line between their spirit, their flesh, and the world,” Solomon stated, as though that was sufficient explanation. “Never mind that for now.” A floating hand hovered over to Midday. On it was the seed box containing the various agricultural treasures Mulberry had been able to obtain for Solomon. “Open it. Identify one of the Vigor Lentil seeds and plant it one inch deep.”

  Setting his questions aside for later, Midday took the offered wooden box. It felt surprisingly light.

  He lifted the simple latch and opened the lid.

  Inside, nestled on dark velvet lining, were four distinct types of seeds, each in its own quadrant.

  One quadrant held tiny, fiery red beads—Devil Peppercorn, familiar and now stripped of its terror thanks to his altered tongue. Another held dark, wrinkled lumps that looked almost like miniature brains: Metamorphosis Mushrooms, he guessed. A third contained plump, golden grains radiating a faint warmth, almost certainly the legendary Lordmaker Rye—even its seeds appeared venerable.

  The final compartment held small, lens-shaped seeds, mottled brown and grey. They looked unassuming, almost ordinary compared to the others. “These must be the Vigor Lentils,” Midday murmured, carefully picking one up between his thumb and forefinger. It felt cool and smooth.

  "Correct," Solomon confirmed. "Plant it centrally within the prepared bed.”

  Midday knelt beside the raised bed of magically altered loam. The soil felt different beneath his fingers—looser, grainier, and less like sludge. He carefully pressed the lentil seed into the earth, covering it gently. He patted the soil flat above it, a strange mix of anticipation and residual disbelief swirling within him. Vigor Lentils. Another agricultural treasure, right here, being planted by his own hand.

  He then stood up and pointed at the spot where the seed was.

  After charging up for a few seconds, the Elvanerean Ring produced a familiar green bolt of energy.

  In seconds, the inert seed responded. A tiny green shoot pushed its way through the dark loam, unfurling delicate twin leaves. The growth was rapid, but less explosive than the Devil Peppercorn vine had been initially. The lentil plant seemed focused on establishing itself, its stem thickening, its leaves broadening, developing the form of a small, sturdy bush. Within the thirty seconds of accelerated growth, it reached about knee-height, looking healthy and vibrant against the gloomy backdrop.

  “Observe,” Solomon croaked as the first growth spurt subsided. “Vigor Lentils prioritize root development and vegetative structure in their early stages, unlike the Devil Peppercorn, which immediately seeks vertical support. This is optimal for nutrient absorption in well-drained soil.”

  Midday nodded, absorbing the information.

  He pointed again, initiating the second charge.

  The green energy flowed, and the bush swelled visibly. Branches multiplied, leaves became denser, and tiny, inconspicuous white flowers began to bud at the junctions of stems and leaves. The plant nearly doubled in size, becoming a robust, waist-high bush. Somehow, though, after two years’ worth of development, the plant had yet to fully mature. Agricultural treasures really took their sweet time.

  “Flowering stage,” Solomon noted flatly. “The plant now redirects energy towards reproduction.”

  With a growing sense of anticipation, Midday triggered the third and final charge.

  The white flowers bloomed in a rapid, almost breathtaking sequence, their petals unfurling and then almost immediately wilting as tiny green pods formed in their place. These pods swelled with magical speed, elongating and fattening, their color shifting from bright green to the mottled brown and grey of maturity. When the energy faded, the bush stood laden with dozens of plump Vigor Lentil pods.

  Midday reached out, his fingers tracing the rough texture of a mature pod. It felt solid, real.

  He had done it again. Another treasure, ready for harvest.

  “The plant is fully mature,” Solomon stated. “It took three charges due to the suboptimal conditions. Without the ring, this plant would not have been able to grow here. Now that it is mature, its death will come soon. Lentils are an annual plant—they complete their entire life cycle in one growing season.”

  “Vigor Lentils require specific preparation to unlock their potency,” the frog continued. “The husks contain toxins. They must be soaked for no less than twelve hours in purified water, then boiled vigorously for one hour. Failure to adhere to this will cause illness and nullify their benefits.”

  After explaining the steps to harvesting the Vigor Lentils, Solomon disappeared into the fog.

  Midday spent about 15 minutes kneeling in the dirt, plucking the pods one at a time. He managed to store them all by rolling his tunic up into a makeshift pouch. After that, he returned to the hut.