Daniel stood in line, his stomach empty and heavy with dread.
The all-radish al, a dish made from the very vegetable that had mocked him all morning, felt like a cruel, almost poetic punishnt.
He could feel the mocking gazes of the other workers on his back, their silent judgnt as sharp as any blade.
Old Man Hemlock appeared beside him, his eyes alight with a fervent, almost religious zeal.
He grabbed a large wooden bowl and began piling it high with steaming radish slices, a look of pure bliss on his wrinkled face.
"Ah, magnificent!" Hemlock declared, his voice a reedy crackle of joy.
"Look at this spread, boy! The bounty of the garden!
The rich essence of native radish, prepared in a dozen different ways! This is what true vitality tastes like!"
He then filled a second bowl and shoved it into Daniel’s hands.
"Here! Eat up! You look like a ghost with a bad case of the Mondays. This will put so fire in your belly!"
Daniel stared at the bowl of pale, mushy radish chunks floating in a thin, flavorless broth.
The sll was overpowering, a mix of earthy bitterness and sothing vaguely like boiled socks.
His stomach, once rumbling with hunger, twisted in disgust.
His pride, already battered and bruised, rebelled.
He was Daniel Vance, the slayer of leviathans, the Principal’s personal disciple. He was not going to be defeated by a bowl of sad, boiled vegetables.
"No, thank you," Daniel said, his voice tight, pushing the bowl back towards Hemlock. "I’m not hungry."
Hemlock squinted at him, genuinely baffled.
"Not hungry? After a morning of honest work? Nonsense! You city folk are too picky!
This is good, wholeso food! Builds character! And cures... uh... well, it cures everything!"
He shrugged, then proceeded to sit down and devour both bowls with a series of loud, appreciative slurps, leaving Daniel standing there, his stomach growling in protest.
The afternoon was even more grueling than the morning.
The lack of food, combined with the intense physical labor, left Daniel feeling weak and dizzy.
The Strength-Sealing Manacles felt twice as heavy, and every movent was an effort of will.
His vision began to swim, and the endless rows of radishes seed to mock him, their leafy green tops waving in the gentle breeze.
He managed to pull a few more, his technique still clumsy, his body screaming in protest with every heave.
The wind, which had earlier shrieked with his effort, now just seed to whisper his failure.
By the ti the evening bell finally rang, signaling the end of the workday, Daniel was on the verge of collapse.
He had managed to fill a second wicker basket, but just barely.
He stumbled back towards the collection point, his muscles trembling with exhaustion, his mind clouded by hunger and frustration.
The section manager, Silas, was already there, his cold, indifferent face fixed in a permanent scowl.
He stood before a large, rustic-looking scale, weighing each worker’s harvest and recording the numbers on a datapad with a sharp, judgntal tap of his stylus.
"Hemlock" Silas called out, his voice flat. "One hundred and seventy-eight radishes. First place, as usual. Good work."
Hemlock, looking no more tired than he had that morning, gave a proud, toothless grin and patted his overflowing baskets.
Silas’s cold gaze then fell upon Daniel, his expression souring further.
He pointed at Daniel’s two ager baskets. "Vance. Twenty-eight radishes. Dead last. Pathetic."
The words hit Daniel harder than any physical blow. Last place. Despised. His reputation, his power, his SSS-Rank talent... none of it mattered here.
Here, he was just the useless new guy who couldn’t even pull his weight in a radish field.
The other workers, gathering their things to head back to the dorms, openly snickered.
"Twenty-eight? My five-year-old niece could pull more than that with one hand tied behind her back."
"Told you he wouldn’t last. City boy. All flash, no substance."
"He’ll be gone by the end of the week, mark my words."
Silas silenced them with a single, sharp glare.
He then turned back to Daniel, his eyes narrowed.
"The garden has rules, Vance. We don’t carry dead weight. I’m giving you a one-day grace period, as is standard for new hands.
But starting tomorrow, the bottom three perforrs on the daily tally will be fired. No exceptions.
Fired, expelled from the garden, and permanently banned from ever setting foot in here again."
The threat was absolute. If he failed again tomorrow, his quest for the Ten-Thousand-Year-Old Ginseng, the key to reforging his foundation, would be over before it had even truly begun.
He would have to return to the Principal in sha, a failure, his potential forever capped by his impure foundation.
The thought was more terrifying than any S-grade beast.
Despair, a feeling he hadn’t truly experienced since his earliest, most desperate days in the Verge, washed over him.
He was tired, he was starving, and he was being humiliated by a field of vegetables and a group of grumpy old farrs.
He walked back to his crude wooden shack, the mocking laughter of the other workers resonating in his ears.
He collapsed onto his lumpy bed, the world spinning around him.
This day, this single, grueling day of manual labor, had been more taxing, more utterly draining, than his entire battle with the Abyssal Maw Leviathan.
He closed his eyes, the image of endless, mocking radishes burned into his mind. He had to find a way. He had to overco this. He would not be defeated by a radish.
Just as he was about to drift into an exhausted, dreamless sleep, the shack door creaked open.
Old Man Hemlock shuffled in, carrying a single, steaming bowl.
The familiar, earthy sll of radish soup filled the small room.
"Here, boy," Hemlock grunted, setting the bowl down on the wobbly table beside Daniel’s bed.
He didn’t shout this ti, his voice was low, almost gentle. "You didn’t eat lunch. Can’t work on an empty stomach. A warrior needs his fuel, even if the fuel is a bit... humble."
Daniel stared at the bowl, then at the old man.
For the first ti, a hint of emotion other than cynical amusent or manic glee appeared in Hemlock’s eyes.
It looked almost like... understanding.
With a deep, shuddering sigh of resignation, Daniel sat up. He took the bowl.
The soup was still hot, the steam warming his face. His pride scread at him to refuse, but his starving body cried out in desperate need.
He raised the spoon, the simple wooden utensil feeling heavier than his S-Grade Blade, and took his first, reluctant sip of radish soup.
It was still plain and earthy, yet in that mont, it was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted.
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