The next morning, Leon returned to the newly marked farming zone on the western side of the Tree of Death. The air was thick with the scent of churned soil and sweat, and the soundscape was... chaotic, to say the least.
All around him, demons were attempting to farm—with wildly varying levels of success.
A hulking Minotaur demon, shirtless and proud, was dragging a massive plow carved out of salvaged cart wood and scrap tal. He grunted as he pulled it across the dark soil, muscles rippling with each step.
Behind him, a small group of goblins held ropes tied to a giant sandworm, one of the ones they’d captured weeks ago. Originally ant for eating now they are used in farmng. The worm, surprisingly docile, slid through the soil like a hot knife through butter, loosening the dirt as it went.
"We nad it Slippy!" a goblin called out with pride, nearly getting whipped by the worm’s tail. "It only ate two people this week!"
Leon raised an eyebrow. "Only?"
"Big improvent!" the goblin replied with a toothy grin.
A few steps away, Brugos, the red-skinned Oni, was jamming a jagged rock on a stick into the ground. He grunted every ti he stabbed it into the soil. "This tool sucks."
"Because that’s not a tool, you idiot," snapped one of the dark elf guides, her silver braid swaying with each exasperated step. "It’s a rock. On a stick."
Brugos looked offended. "It’s a traditional Oni digging spear."
"It’s still a rock," she muttered.
Nearby, a group of fox-kin and lesser demons were trying to plant Rot Cap spores in little holes... which half of them imdiately stomped into mush.
"No! No stomping!" cried another dark elf, throwing her hands in the air. "Just place the spore gently—like this!"
She demonstrated.
The demon mimicked her... and then sneezed, blowing the spore away. "Oops."
The dark elf facepald. "Mother Tree, give patience."
In the middle of the field, the Aqua Imp from the castle—barely a foot tall and translucent blue—floated through the air like a smug balloon, spraying gentle jets of water from its palms.
"Hydration complete~!" it chirped cheerfully, spinning around and accidentally dousing Brugos. The Oni sputtered as water dripped from his horns.
"Oi! Watch it, water goblin!"
"I am not a goblin! I am a highly evolved elental subspecies!" the imp squeaked.
On the edge of the field, Elvera stood beside Leon, arms crossed as she watched the madness unfold. She didn’t even try to hide her amusent.
"I have to admit," she said, "I didn’t expect farming to be this... chaotic."
Leon smirked. "Yeah, it’s like watching a circus that accidentally discovered agriculture."
But as the minutes passed, the dark elves—organized and patient—gradually guided the demons into sothing resembling productivity. They used their knowledge to pair each demon’s traits to the right task.
The Minotaurs dug furrows.
The Oni smashed through rock and hard patches.
The goblins, nimble and clever, managed seed placent and pest control.
Even the succubi, who had no interest in dirt, were tasked with calming the sandworms and soothing exhausted demons with charm magic.
One dark elf elder, watching the odd harmony unfold, muttered, "It’s crude... but effective. Their raw power makes up for their lack of finesse."
Leon nodded. "Told you. Give them direction, and they’ll move mountains."
The dark elf beside him smiled faintly. "Or bury themselves in one, accidentally."
As the sun rose higher, the once barren stretch of land began to transform. Rows of tilled soil, crudely ford but passable, stretched across the black ground. Water sprayed, seeds planted, demons bickered—and yet, there was progress.
It wasn’t efficient.
It wasn’t pretty.
But it was real.
"Hey, Your Majesty!" a goblin called out, waving from a muddy pit. "When this stuff grows, can we eat it raw or gotta cook it?"
Leon chuckled. "Try it raw first. If you don’t die, we’ll think about recipes."
The goblin gave him a thumbs-up, then tripped over a bucket.
Elvera shook her head, laughing softly.
"They’re a ss," she said.
At the very sa ti, far away from the barren, chaotic fields of the wasteland...
The view soared high above a sea of green — a lush, untouched forest stretching beyond the horizon, a stark contrast to the desolation surrounding the Tree of Death.
The canopy was so dense it almost looked like an erald ocean under the bright sunlight. Towering trees, many dozens of feet in diater, rose like ancient sentinels. Their massive roots intertwined with the earth, and their crowns rged into one continuous roof of life.
The cara zood in.
Below, the forest floor was alive — bushes thick with berries, wildflowers blooming, grass so rich and soft it looked like a natural carpet. Vines hung from branches like nature’s own bridges.
Hos were built into the very life of the forest — elegant treehouses perched high among the branches, their walls made of living wood, blending perfectly with the surroundings. So massive trees had hollowed interiors, turned into cozy dwellings. Bridges of braided green vines connected the trees, swaying gently with each step.
Unlike the relatively silent wasteland, here it was vibrant with life.
Children, lithe and quick, played gleefully on the walkways. Adults strolled with grace and ease, smiling and chatting. Everywhere you looked, there was beauty: tall, slender figures, pointed ears, glowing fair skin, and a natural elegance that made each person look like they had stepped out of a painting.
The n were handso, with sharp, refined features.
The won were even more breathtaking — with hourglass figures, long flowing hair, and a casual sensuality to their movents. Their clothing was... minimal, to say the least — soft, sheer fabrics that clung to their bodies, draping sensually over generous curves, leaving little to the imagination. It wasn’t vulgar; it was as if their beauty was an undeniable fact of nature itself.
This was the Elven Kingdom of Velkarn, one of the last sanctuaries untouched by war.
At the very center of this paradise stood the heart of the kingdom: a grand castle woven from living vines and ancient wood, rising high into the trees like a temple devoted to life itself.
Inside, within the opulent conference hall, the most important figures of Velkarn had gathered. The room itself seed alive, the wooden walls pulsing faintly with energy. Sunlight poured through the leafy ceiling, casting soft, shifting patterns across the floor.
Rows of young and old elves, male and female, all impossibly attractive, sat at long vine-wrapped tables. A soft hum of conversations filled the air.
And at the highest seat — frad by a throne seemingly grown out of a massive flowering tree — sat their queen.
She was a vision of sinful beauty.
Her silver-blonde hair cascaded down her shoulders like a waterfall of light. Her erald eyes, sharp and commanding, sparkled with intelligence and mischief. Her skin was so pale it almost glowed, flawless and smooth.
She wore a gown spun from the thinnest silk, so sheer it barely hid her voluptuous figure. The fabric hugged her ample breasts, dipped daringly low to reveal a generous amount of cleavage, and split high at the thighs to expose her long, shapely legs. Golden vine patterns traced along the silk, drawing even more attention to her luscious curves.
A delicate, living crown of flowering vines sat atop her head, marking her status.
Her expression was serene, but her posture — the lazy, confident way she draped herself over the throne — exuded raw, irresistible sensuality.
This was Queen Elyndra Velkarn, the sovereign of the elves, a woman whose beauty had made kingdoms envy and kings weep.
Around her, the conference was already underway.
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