Joe darted around the general store, grabbing small pots, large pots, and even a couple of broken ones. He stacked them high in columns in front of the clerk's desk till they towered nearly three men high. He rushed up and down aisles built in an old barn, now converted into a general store and warehouse.

The clerk stared at him from behind his glasses and scratched his head. The man was a little runt with the weaselly eyes. His hair had receded badly, despite only being in his mid twenties.

Joe skidded to a halt and looked at the clerk. 'Yeah, alright that ought to do it. What do you reckon...strewth I forgot to ask your name.'

The clerk gulped. 'Eggins, Sir.'

'Alright Eggos, what do I owe you?' Joe said rummaging in his pouch.

Eggins looked down at his sketched count and tapped a finger on the counter. 'Two silver dubloons should do it, sir.'

Joe nodded. 'Sounds sweet as. Alright I better get this back up the mountain.'

Eggins grinned like a vulture. 'Up the mountain you say?'

'Yeah, right up at old man Blinding Leaf's old goat farm. Top spot, ay?' Joe said.

Eggins made a circle with his hand over his breast. 'Bad business all that, by the Great Coconut, I'd prefer you didn't speak of it in my family's business, sir.'

Joe paused. 'You lot have coconuts?'

Eggins shook his head. 'No coconut farms here, they were destroyed in the hurricane five years back. Knocked out a lot of the farmers, some of them have barely bounced back.'

Joe added 'Investigate coconut palms' to his ever growing list of things to do. The conditions were right here and you could introduce a lot of new products with coconuts as a staple.

'You ever thought of having a BBQ here at this place? Get the crowds fed as they shop?' Joe asked, thinking of the red and green Bunning's warehouse logo. Man a sausage sandwich would really hit the spot.

'No? Meatball sub, maybe? Ikea was really on the money with that one. Or a hotdog like Costco.' Joe said framing the store front with his hands, and seeing the potential.

Eggins looked on blankly. 'What is an...Ikea?'

Joe grabbed Eggins around the shoulders. 'Infinite potential mate, flatpacks as far as eye can see, just waiting to be constructed. Undeveloped potential.'

Eggins coughed. 'We have all the potential we need here, Sir. We remain the best general store in town. Eggins Fine Wares and Exemplary Mulch.'

Terry Terryson popped his head in the door. 'You're the only general store in town Eggins, and you're always shovelling shi....'

Joe slapped a hand to his head. 'Anyway, look at me here chinwagging, best to get moving. Say do you blokes have a wheelbarrow or a dolly or something?' Joe scanned the room.

Eggins smile grew wider as he pointed up at a sign above him that read , 'Wheelbarrow hire 1 gold dubloon per day.' Eggins chuckled, 'You've got a couple of long trips master Joe. Tell you what, I'm not a crook, I'll let you do the first trip for free.' Eggins looked at the teetering piles of pots, swaying gently side to side.

Joe's face lit up. 'You're a good sort egg-man.' Joe blurred and the pots all flew into the wheelbarrow into four giant wobbling columns nearly as tall as the warehouse roof. Joe gripped the handle and pointed the wheelbarrow at the door, the door was about half as tall as his stacks of pots.

Joe leaned forward, accelerating until the pots were jutting out in front of him like a knight's lance, barely ten degrees off the horizontal plane. He shot past the door leaving a bunch of chicsum plants swaying in the breeze. A toddler dropped their pastry in surprise and their mum stared slack jawed.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Several stands of pots, plants and farming tools started to sway. Eggins rushed over and secured them. He wasn't quick enough to stop a whole stand of rakes from collapsing onto the floor. Eggins cursed and started carefully loading the rakes back into place. Working up a sweat he finally got things tidy, wiping his brow dry. Manual labour was so not his style.

A blur zipped back into the warehouse and Joe circled the aisles travelling at top speed, the pots in careful balance in the wheelbarrow.

'Can you throw a bag of potting mix in while you're at it?' He called out.

Eggins brow twitched. 'Get out!'

'What?' Joe called out zipping past again. 'You're out? Too bad.' Joe whizzed outside, the wind from his passage dislodging the stand of rakes again.

Eggins cursed and stamped his foot.

A rake shot up and hit him in the face.

Joe left the General Store with a wheelbarrow stacked high with pots. Small pots, large pots, and even a couple of broken pots. Despite the ridiculously tall teetering column of stacked pots, he rushed down the street carefree. A slight twist there, a small shift in weight here, and the pile of pots kept moving forwards at an alarming pace.

To the casual onlooker, Joe would look like he wasn't breaking a sweat. He was whistling to himself and humming an old sea shanty. 'What will we do with the drunken sailor, what will we do with the drunker sailor....'

Joe moved at a rapid clip towards the outskirts of town, leaving a trail of dust in his wake. The farms whizzed past and Joe waved to Greg out in his fields. The old man just grumbled and chewed on a chicory root.

Making progress.

A crew of men and women were at the base of the hill. About ten of them were gathered, wearing makeshift leather armour, and carrying polearms that were basically rakes with butcher's knives attached. They had a range of headgear, including farmer's hats and even one knitted beanie.

Mayor Flanno stood in front of them, with his own tailored armour, along with the man with the outrageous moustache from the coffee shop earlier. The man with the outrageous moustache was throwing his arms around wildly.

Joe could hear their conversation even over the wind whipping past.

'Come on, Ruddiger, we told you to get a proper helmet. No one will take the Chicory Harbour militia seriously with that thing.' Moustache man said.

'What, this thing?' Ruddiger, a lanky lad in his early twenties said. 'But my nan knitted it, You want to go tell her I can't wear it, Wyatt?'

Wyatt pinched the brow of his nose. 'No...no, I'm not having that conversation with Old Maid Helen.'

'Yeah, and you haven't said anything about Esther, she's wearing a pot on her head.' Ruddiger jerked his thumb at another gangly youth in their early twenties with brown hair.

Esther put her hands on her hips. 'This is a good quality pot, Ruddiger, me mam bought it off a trader who said it once belong to a wandering cultivator.'

'What and you think his pot was magic?' Ruddiger replied. 'You think he followed the path of Boiled Spud? Or the Iron Cast Fist?'

Esther crossed her arms. 'I'm not changing it. Why do we even need the militia anyway?'

Joe slowed to a gentle jog and circled them. 'Flanno! What are you doing? Is this the towns stalwart military guard?'

Ruddiger beamed. 'See, Wyatt, we're stalwart.'

Wyatt and Flanno exchanged exasperated looks. Wyatt stepped forward. 'Listen, there's been reports of the Pirate King seen leaving the Driftwood Castle and raiding up the coast. Then there's what Flanno's books talk about, the....'

Flanno put a hand on Wyatt's shoulder. 'No need to bother them with myths and fairy tales. The Pirate King is more than enough.'

'Pirate King, what's his deal.' Joe asked, jerking the wheelbarrow at the last moment to avoid a toppled pile of pots.

Esther piped up. 'They say he's the bastard son of a royal cultivator and a sea demon. They say he cut down a whole royal ship of marines by himself and drove it off into the sunset. They say he lives off shark bones and seaweed.

Madrigal Riley, the Fanged Demon of the Driftwood Castle.'

Joe scratched his chin, taking one hand off the wheelbarrow and everyone flinched. 'That doesn't make sense.'

Mayor Flanno nodded. 'See likely just some upstart pirate. A royal cultivator my butt.'

Joe shrugged. 'Nah I mean its just that sharks have cartilage. No bones. I guess he could live off cartilage and seaweed. Honestly that sounds more gourmet. Anyway you lot have important business to attend to. I'll let you train the guards, guess you're a hands on sort of mayor, Flanno, good on ya.'

Joe glanced at the back of the militia group. A dour looking youth with pale skin and dark black eyes was barely restraining a woman with ebony skin like midnight and pure white pupils. They were stuck in a grapple, and the woman looked like she was about to burst, trying to get a hand up to ask a question.

Wyatt looked at them. 'Yin, Yang, stand in formation. We have citizens present.'

Joe rolled out his shoulders and accelerated. 'Anyway enjoy the military, I'm off to farm!'

Wyatt watched him zoom off towards the mountain. He expected him to slow once he hit the incline but if anything Joe sped up. Wyatt turned back to the recruits.

'Now, as I was saying, training is the most important part of the military.' He pointed to the mountain. 'I'll even let you do your run without wheelbarrows. How kind am I?'

Yang piped up 'Wyatt's the true demon.'

Her brother, Yin, cut her off and they started jogging. Esther, Ruddiger and the others fell in behind them. Wyatt watched them go with the keen eye of a practiced drill sergeant. Wyatt shot a look at Flanno.

'Why didn't you want to talk about the Celestial Almanac?'