On the outskirts of the land, there lay a farm, an oasis of life amidst the tumultuous world. Its many crops decorated the rich, fertile lands. The wheat stood tall and proud, forming a golden ocean that flowed gracefully with the gentle breeze. The forest of trees, arranged in neat rows, held a myriad of vibrant flowers, so abundant that bees had made this place their permanent home, diligently collecting pollen. Nearby, a huge river flowed, its waters harnessed by a large wheel to irrigate the fields. The farm itself was a tapestry of herbs and flowers, each plant carefully cultivated. The most striking of all was the Barometz, a tall plant with a sheep on top of it that seemed eerie and ominous on its appearance. Beside it, rooted plants with human-like faces grew ominously. Known as mandrakes, these plants were dangerous; their deadly shriek could kill anyone who dared to pull them from the ground.
Roaming the farm were creatures that seemed to be sculpted from mud and soil. These towering Mud Golems moved with a slow, deliberate grace, tending to the various plants and crops that thrived under their watchful care.
In front of the modest farmhouse, a young man in his early twenties was practicing with a massive wooden sword. He had striking white hair and mismatched eyes, one purple and the other blue, set against his light brown skin. Sweat glistened on his brow and ran down his face as he swung the enormous weapon. This man, tall and imposing at two meters, wielded a weapon even taller than himself. His strikes were fast and precise, each swing slicing through the air with a powerful whoosh. His movements were practiced and disciplined, as if performing a sacred ritual. After completing a hundred swings, he set his wooden sword aside and knelt on the ground, looking like he was praying.
He conducted his prayer in front of two small trees, their bases adorned with delicate flowers. Once his prayer was complete, he set his colossal wooden sword aside and picked up a farming hoe. The sun was still high in the sky, and the day’s work was far from over. With a determined spirit, he began to tend to the farm, nurturing the life that grew in the rich soil of his homeland. The land known as Eliondra.
The farm on the outskirts was a sanctuary amidst the turmoil of Eliondra. Here, amidst the vibrant fields and towering Mud Golems, a young man diligently tended to his crops with meticulous care that matched his combat discipline. As he worked, he encountered not only the usual challenges of farming but also formidable creatures that wandered into his territory.
Giant insects, their wings buzzing like distant storms, and colossal beasts that loomed over him like mountains would occasionally stray into his fields. Armed only with a trusty farming hoe, the young man confronted them fearlessly. With a determined shout, he positioned himself between his crops and the intruders, his presence and unwavering resolve enough to intimidate even the largest of creatures.
Rather than chasing them away aggressively, he understood the balance of nature around his farm. His howls and confident stance were enough to make the insects buzz away and the beasts retreat, respecting the boundaries he had set. For him, this wasn't a time for hunting or causing harm; it was a time to nurture his crops and ensure their growth flourished in the fertile soil.
After harvesting and tending to his crops, the young man would take a well-deserved rest by meditating in front of the two trees. The quiet serenity of the farm offered him a peaceful refuge amidst the chaos of the world beyond. With a sense of calm, he would then pick up his massive wooden sword once more, its heavy weight was familiar in his hands as he began his daily practice. Each swing of the sword was a fluid motion, honed through years of discipline and dedication.
This routine, a seamless blend of hard work and martial training, defined his life. From dawn till dusk, he nurtured the land and honed his skills, finding solace and purpose in the rhythm of farm life. As the sun set and painted the sky with hues of orange and pink, he would retreat to his small farm hut. There, in the warmth of a crackling fire, he would cook his evening meal, savoring the fruits of his labor and reflecting on the day's accomplishments.
In the quiet moments before sleep claimed him, he would gaze out at the starlit sky, hoping that the next day would be as brilliant and fulfilling as the one that had just passed.
The next day, Pacificus loaded his cart with the fruits of his labor, each bundle carefully arranged. Without any animals to assist him, he pulled the heavy cart himself, making his way towards the decrepit town. Its walls, once formidable, now crumbled, and its streets strewn with debris from the shattered houses of its former inhabitants.
As he entered the town, Pacificus navigated through the remnants of what was once a bustling community, now occupied mostly by soldiers. Some were clad in sturdy plate armor, while others wore simpler gambesons and wielded spears, lacking even helmets for protection.
A knight, adorned in elaborate armor and a magnificent coat, always greeted Pacificus upon his arrival. Despite the knight's regal appearance, Pacificus towered over him, forcing the knight to look up when addressing him.
"U-um... delivery for the Lord, sir Knight," Pacificus stuttered nervously, his voice barely above a whisper amidst the ruins.
"Ahh, yes, Pacificus, if I remember correctly," the armored man replied warmly. "Your deliveries are always appreciated." With a gesture, the knight handed Pacificus a small bag of coins.
Pacificus nervously accepted the bag, his hands shaking slightly as he examined the copper coins inside. He began counting them quickly, his eyes avoiding direct contact with the knight or any of the soldiers nearby. Once done, he hastily stowed the coins in his bag, avoiding further conversation as much as possible.
"Say, young man," the armored knight continued, noticing Pacificus's unease. "Why don't you reconsider our offer? Farming doesn't pay well, and you seem to be a strong man. The Lord could always use new men to defend this land... What do you say, Pacificus?"
"I... I don't like violence," Pacificus replied softly, his voice barely audible. "I don't like killing. I... I don't want to kill things that I can't eat."
His words were hesitant, his gaze fixed on the ground as he struggled to voice his convictions. With a small nod of acknowledgment, he turned away, eager to retreat from the intimidating presence of the armored men and return to the quiet solitude of his farm.
"Ahh, that is a shame, big guy," the knight said with a kind smile, his tone understanding. "But there's no shame in disliking or being afraid of violence, okay? I mean, I too would be afraid if I stepped onto the battlefield. No soldier is immune... But you see, Pacificus, if you don't fight, then people would trample over you. They would take advantage of your weakness... The world isn't really cruel, Pacificus, but people are. So we need to fight this cruelty. That's why we knights exist."
"I can't fight though. And I don't want to fight. That's why I choose farming—OH WAIT! Please wait... Not those, please. Those last two sacks are for someone else," Pacificus interjected nervously, trying to redirect the knights' attention.
The two knights carrying the sacks glanced at Pacificus, their expressions apologetic.
"Sorry about that, big guy."
"Yeah, that's our bad. What kind of crops do you sell anyway? These things are really heavy," one of the soldiers remarked, looking puzzled.
The armored soldiers then left the two huge sacks alone on the cart, their attention diverted to carrying the eighteen other sacks into the castle keep.
"What's with these things? Why are crops this heavy?" one soldier grunted as they hoisted a sack.
"Shut up and move! And don't you dare let your arms slip like last time!" the other soldier barked, struggling under the weight of his burden.
Indeed, the sacks were unusually heavy, requiring two well-trained soldiers to carry each one. As Pacificus watched them laboriously transport his crops, he couldn't help but feel a pang of worry about the fate of those last two sacks meant for someone else. Yet, he remained silent.
In the shadow of the crumbling town walls, Pacificus passed by a line of disheveled men and women, young and old, standing in a long queue. Their worn clothes and thin frames spoke of hardship, their eyes filled with weariness and despair. Across from them, a small group of young men and women distributed bread and soup to the needy, offering a glimmer of hope amidst the bleak surroundings.
Ignoring the line, Pacificus made his way to a building that had weathered the ravages of time. Balancing two enormous sacks on his broad shoulders, he gently knocked on the door of the basement.
"Merina, it's me," Pacificus called softly, his voice tinged with shyness.
The door creaked open, revealing a woman with short black hair and piercing blue eyes. Dressed in tattered garments that hinted at former elegance, she greeted Pacificus with a gentle smile. "Oh, Pacificus. Please come inside. Have you eaten yet?"
"N-no need. W-where should I put these?" Pacificus stammered, nodding towards the sacks.
"Just over here, near the oven," Merina replied, indicating a stack of stones with glowing coals underneath.
As Pacificus entered the humble abode, he was greeted by children engaged in various chores—cleaning the floor, preparing breakfast, and even sewing old clothes. One child was crafting arrowheads from discarded nails with a focused determination.
"You don't have to do this, you know," Merina said softly, her gratitude evident. "But you always do. Thank you, Pacificus... You've made our lives easier."
Pacificus simply nodded in response, his expression humble and shy. With a brief farewell, he left the warmth of the basement and returned to the world outside.
Back at his farm, Pacificus meticulously checked his crops once more, ensuring they were well-tended and thriving under the moonlit sky. The rhythmic rustling of leaves and the gentle chirping of crickets accompanied his solitary vigil. Satisfied with his inspection, he set aside his farming tools and retrieved a different sword—this one was no practice weapon.
At his side rested a formidable greatsword, its sheer size and weight a testament to its purpose. The blade was wide and towering, its edge honed to a razor-sharp gleam. The handle, long and sturdy, featured a simple crossguard and pommel, devoid of any embellishments. This sword was a tool of protection, a stark contrast to the wooden sword he used for training.
As Pacificus stood amidst the tranquility of his farm, his gaze was drawn to the distant horizon where a faint glow of orange flickered against the night sky. He knew all too well what it meant—the unmistakable sight of a town engulfed in flames. Though it wasn't the town he had visited earlier, the sight weighed heavily on his heart, filling him with a mix of sadness and determination.
Taking a deep breath, Pacificus stared at the distant devastation. The flames danced ominously, casting eerie shadows and illuminating the darkened landscape. In that moment, the quiet resolve in his eyes spoke of a readiness to defend, not just his farm, but the fragile peace he cherished amidst a world ravaged by conflict.
With his hand resting on the hilt of his greatsword, Pacificus remained vigilant through the night, his senses attuned to the distant turmoil that threatened to disrupt the calm of his sanctuary.
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A few hours later, Pacificus sensed an unusual agitation among his golems. These towering creatures, usually slow-moving guardians of his farm, now rumbled with unease under the moonlit sky. Their stone forms shifted restlessly as if anticipating danger.
"D-Danger," Pacificus's voice trembled as he surveyed the approaching soldiers. His heart raced with apprehension, but he stood firm, his massive greatsword gripped tightly in his hands.
"G... Greetings," Pacificus managed to stammer out, his voice barely above a whisper. "W-What could I do for you?"
"Give us all of your crops, farmer," demanded the leader, his voice cold and authoritative.
Pacificus swallowed nervously, his gaze flickering between the armored men and his beloved farm. "I-I could give you some crops for a price, sir," he replied hesitantly. "B-But I won't give up my crops for free."
The man in armor scoffed and dismounted from his horse, striding towards Pacificus with a menacing glint in his eyes and a halberd gripped tightly in his gauntleted hand. "Do you want me to take them from your dead body?"
"N-No, sir, I-I would not," Pacificus stammered, his voice shaking with fear. "B-But I won't give my crops for free, sir. Y-You have to pay. If you don't... then I'm afraid you'll have to face my sword."
With a shaky hand, Pacificus raised his greatsword into a high stance, his towering frame casting a trembling shadow in the moonlight. His eyes darted nervously between the armored man and his intimidating companions, who looked on with a mixture of amusement and contempt.
The armored man chuckled darkly. "Don't underestimate me, boy. Your stature says farmer, while mine says warrior. Do you truly wish to test your mettle against me?"
"N-No, sir," Pacificus replied timidly, his voice barely audible. "I-I dislike violence, and I don't want to get hurt. B-But my family has tended this land for generations, and I... I will protect it for them, even if... even if it costs me my life."
"Then so be it," the armored man sneered, his tone turning cold and resolute. With a swift and calculated motion, he swung his halberd towards Pacificus, aiming to swiftly incapacitate the timid farmer and claim the crops he sought.
As tension thickened in the moonlit night, the warrior believed it was the end of the confrontation, assured his halberd would settle matters swiftly. Yet, reality veered sharply from his expectations. His blow, intended as decisive, met unexpected resistance—Pacificus's greatsword intercepted with such force that the halberd was sent spiraling from his grasp.
Surprise flashed across the warrior's face as he stumbled backward, his chest meeting the full brunt of Pacificus's retaliatory strike. The impact launched him airborne, a disorienting blur of motion before he collided heavily with a nearby tree. For a suspended moment, he felt as if his essence lagged behind, then abruptly snapped back into agonizing awareness upon impact. Pain, visceral and consuming, radiated from his battered ribs, restrained only by the protective shell of his armor.
Gasping for breath, he struggled to comprehend the turn of events as his comrades gazed upon the towering figure before them, wielding a colossal greatsword with imposing intent.
"You have a choice," Pacificus's voice rang out, steady yet laden with gravity. "Leave me or fight me. If you choose to fight, your bodies will nourish my fields, and your armor and weapons will be repurposed as farm tools. But if you choose to leave, I swear on my parents and the watching Gods—I will not harm you, and we can negotiate a fair transaction."
With his greatsword raised once more into a formidable stance, the soldiers exchanged uneasy glances, recognizing the sincerity in Pacificus's words. The threat was no longer an idle one; it was a stark ultimatum hanging heavily in the night air.
After the soldiers exchanged uncertain glances and nodded to their fallen comrade, a sense of relief washed over Pacificus as he watched them carefully carry the injured man back to their horses. Despite his own heart pounding with adrenaline, Pacificus's gaze remained fixed on the retreating figures until they vanished into the night, leaving behind an eerie silence broken only by the crackling of distant flames.
With a sigh of relief, Pacificus approached the spot where the battle had almost erupted moments before. His hand reached down to retrieve the halberd that lay abandoned on the ground, its metal cold and unfamiliar in his grasp. Carrying it with careful reverence, he made his way to a nearby shed, its contents illuminated faintly by the glow of fireflies dancing around the entrance.
Inside, the shed was unlike his usual storage of harvested crops. Instead, rows of weapons and armor were neatly arranged, catching the dim light that filtered through cracks in the wooden walls. Swords gleamed dully, spears stood upright in their racks, and helmets and shields rested silently against the rough-hewn beams.
Pacificus gently placed the halberd among its kind on a shelf, the metal clinking softly against the others. His thoughts drifted momentarily to the burning town on the horizon, a reminder of the harsh realities beyond his peaceful farm. His brow furrowed with concern, but his resolve remained steadfast.
"I hope the next encounter is as reasonable as these men," Pacificus muttered to himself, a mixture of weariness and determination in his voice. He leaned against the shed's doorway, casting a weary glance at the night sky where stars twinkled faintly above the distant glow of destruction.
As dawn broke, Pacificus found solace in the routine of his day, seeking comfort in familiar tasks. The morning sun painted the fields with a golden hue as he practiced his sword swings with measured determination. Each movement was deliberate, a testament to his commitment to readiness, despite his reluctance for conflict.
After his training, Pacificus retreated to a quiet corner of his farm, where a makeshift altar awaited him. He knelt in prayer, seeking guidance and peace amid the uncertainty that hung heavy in the air. His meditation followed, a tranquil interlude where he sought to center himself amidst the looming threat of siege.
Throughout the day, Pacificus tended to his crops with care, his hands moving deftly over the earth. Yet beneath his calm exterior, a nagging worry persisted. The possibility of his farm becoming a target weighed on his mind. He knew all too well the realities of sieges—long, drawn-out affairs that often left villages vulnerable to plunder and hardship.
As the sun began its descent, fatigue began to tug at Pacificus. He knew he needed rest, yet the fear for his farm's security gnawed at him. Nights during a siege were fraught with uncertainty, every sound amplified into a potential threat. Sleep had been elusive the previous night, and tonight, he felt the weight of exhaustion settling upon him.
With a heavy heart, Pacificus resolved to sleep early—or late, by the time he finally surrendered to rest. He fortified his dwelling as best he could, securing doors and windows with a quiet determination. Every measure taken was a silent prayer for protection, a defense against the unpredictability of the world outside his farm.
As he finally lay down, eyes heavy with weariness, Pacificus sought refuge in the hope that his preparations would be enough. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, but for now, he sought solace in the embrace of sleep, knowing that vigilance and resilience were his allies in the face of uncertain times.
In his dreams that night, Pacificus found himself transported back to his childhood, reliving moments with his father amidst the tranquil landscape of their farm.
He stood by his father's side, a young boy eager to learn the ways of the land. The memory unfolded like a gentle breeze through the fields, where his father's words carried the wisdom of generations.
"Remember, son," his father's voice echoed with warmth and patience. "We should only kill if we want to eat. Beasts and monsters do not kill for pleasure; they kill for food and survival. Waste nothing, son. Need arrows? Use the bones. Need clothes? Watch how I turn this hide into a coat. Want to eat well? We have meat."
Wide-eyed and curious, Pacificus listened intently, absorbing each lesson like seeds planted in fertile soil. "But, Papa," he asked, his youthful voice tinged with innocence, "can't we just hunt more if we want more meat?"
"We can, son," his father replied gently, "but hunting too much would make these beasts disappear. Take only what you need and no more. The balance of life must always be preserved."
Another memory flickered into his dream, seamlessly blending with the first like the colors of sunset merging into night.
"But, Papa," a younger Pacificus questioned again, "can't we just hunt all these rats if they ruin our plants every time?"
His father knelt beside him, hands stained with earth and wisdom etched in the lines of his weathered face. "Oh, son," he sighed, "we could do that. But these rats have a purpose too. They clean up carcasses that would otherwise rot and spread disease. Ugly as they may seem, every creature has its place in the grand scheme of life. Just like us."
His mother, tall and commanding with a sword slung over her shoulder, approached with skewers in hand, offering them with a tender smile to her husband and child.
"Mama, why do you always carry your sword?" Pacificus asked, his voice curious yet tinged with a hint of apprehension.
His mother's smile softened. "Because I am a swordsman, Pacy," she explained gently. "Do you know what they used to call us?"
"I don't know. I don't like fighting," Pacificus admitted, casting a glance at the sword with mixed feelings.
His parents chuckled warmly, exchanging a glance filled with love and pride. "They used to call us the Sword Maidens," his mother explained, her voice carrying fond nostalgia. "We were mercenaries and adventurers."
"But Mama," Pacificus interjected, his tone serious, "I saw you once... chop a man in half."
His mother's expression turned to panic, her eyes widening. "No, no, Pacy, you weren't supposed to see that," she murmured, visibly distressed.
"I hate it when you have to do that," Pacificus confessed softly, his heart heavy with the memory.
His mother sighed deeply, her shoulders sagging. "I know, Pacy. I don't like it either," she admitted, her voice gentle yet tinged with sorrow. "But sometimes, we must defend ourselves. In this world, the strong often take advantage of the weak. Only the strong can afford to show kindness."
She pulled Pacificus into a warm embrace, holding him close. "Oh, Pacy," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I'm sorry that you were born into a world like this. But remember, violence isn't true strength. It never was. True strength lies in having the courage to do the right thing, even when faced with injustice."
She turned to her husband with a soft smile, her eyes shining with affection. "That, my dear," she said softly, "is strength. Perhaps the greatest strength of all."
Pacificus found himself in the warm glow of a makeshift oven, crafted from stacked stones and fueled by glowing embers. His father stood beside him, demonstrating how to prepare hardtack, tapping two pieces together to make a distinctive tacking sound.
"Here, Pacy," his father said with a smile, offering him a piece of the hard bread.
Pacificus took a hesitant bite. "It's too hard, papa," he complained, his brow furrowing in dissatisfaction.
His father chuckled warmly. "That's because you need to soften it with milk or soup first."
"But why don't we have soft bread?" Pacificus asked, his curiosity piqued.
"Soft bread doesn't keep as well as hardtack," his father explained patiently. "You must eat it all before it spoils, or it will go to waste."
"I won't be wasteful, papa," Pacificus promised earnestly, a sense of responsibility in his voice.
"Good lad," his father praised, ruffling his hair affectionately. "That's my boy."
In the haze of his dreams, Pacificus found himself holding a wooden sword, facing off against a towering figure who was both formidable and familiar—his mother. She wielded a wooden sword of her own, almost as large as Pacificus himself, with her greatsword resting comfortably on her back.
His mother swung at him with surprising speed and force. Pacificus tried to block the blow with his wooden sword, but it was knocked from his grasp. His mother's sword halted just short of him, her concern evident even in practice.
"Pacy," she said gently, her voice filled with maternal concern. "Remember, don't meet force with force. Use its momentum against your opponent. Let it flow, son."
"I know, mama," Pacificus replied softly, his gaze downcast. "But I really don't like fighting."
His mother smiled tenderly, brushing a strand of hair from his face. "I know," she said softly, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "But sooner or later, you'll need to defend yourself. Your father and I won't be here forever. I want you to live, my son."
As Pacificus held his mother in a tight embrace, he felt a deep pang of sadness. The warmth of their bond enveloped him, yet he could feel the weight of mortality lingering. Slowly, her face transformed into a skull, but Pacificus simply hugged his mother not wanting to let go. His embrace has reached the sword behind her.
His eyes close and when he opens it. She was gone. On his hand was a greatsword, the same sword that his mother had in her back, The morning light filtering through the cracks of his farmhouse confirmed the passage of time. He rose from his bed, the weight of his mother's lessons and the greatsword at his hip grounding him in purpose. Outside, he settled down to a simple breakfast of boiled vegetables, his eyes watchful and vigilant over his farm.
While he was eating his vegetables he realizes something... he was out of bread.
In the tranquil morning light that bathed his farmhouse, Pacificus stood in his modest kitchen, preparing to make hard bread, a staple taught to him by his father. His hands, calloused from years of toil in the fields, deftly measured out flour, salt, and a touch of sugar, recalling the lessons imparted to him with each precise movement. The memories of his father's patient guidance echoed in his mind as he mixed the ingredients into a stiff dough, feeling the texture transform under his fingers.
Kneading the dough on a floured surface, Pacificus lost himself in the rhythmic motion, a ritual that connected him to generations of farmers before him. With each fold and turn, he could almost hear his father's voice, encouraging him to exert just enough pressure to achieve the perfect consistency.
After rolling the dough out and cutting it into uniform squares, Pacificus carefully pierced each piece with a fork, a step that his father had emphasized to ensure even baking. Placing the pieces on a greased baking sheet, he watched through the oven as the hard bread transformed, the kitchen filling with a comforting aroma of baking dough.
As he removed the golden-brown pieces from the oven and let them cool on a rack, Pacificus felt a deep sense of satisfaction. Each piece of hard bread represented not only sustenance but also a connection to his family's legacy and the resilience needed to thrive in a world shaped by the rhythms of nature and the wisdom passed down through generations. He stored the hard bread in a sturdy wooden box, ready to sustain him through the days ahead.