Strength Based Wizard Chapter 43. The Farm, Part II

Chapter 43

The Farm, Part II (Tales from a Dead World)

I scoop Jelly Boy up from the foot of the bed where he’s lted into a half-lump, half-blob puddle of bored goo. He perks up imdiately—if a sentient glob of living ooze can be said to perk—squishing up into a jellier, more alert posture with an enthusiastic burble that probably translates to sothing like yay, food or finally, you people stopped talking. Never change, Jelly Boy. Never change.

“Co on, you lil’ weirdo,” I mutter affectionately, giving his squishy head a pat. “Let’s see what culinary horrors await us.”

The stairs creak and groan under our boots as we descend and make our way to the farmhouse’s kitchen. Clyde follows behind , silent and brooding, while Veronica brings up the rear with arms crossed, scowling hard enough to warp the air around her.

The scent hits halfway down: sothing savory and sweet and spiced, thick with the promise of actual, honest-to-God flavor. My stomach does a backflip. Jelly Boy makes a giddy sploop sound and starts vibrating like a tuning fork, matching my energy and hunger.

The kitchen’s big. Bigger than I expected, certainly. Almost as big as the main room downstairs, and it feels even bigger, even with all the people crowding the space. The space hums with an energy I can’t quite put my finger on. There’s heat and sound and motion and generations of breakfast slls soaked into the wood.

Missus Baptiste is planted in front of a pair of bubbling pots like so kind of culinary warlock, ladling and stirring and taste-testing with ruthless precision. Above the stove hang small pots of dirt, each suspended planter has micro-sized greens budding from the soil nestled within. Missus Baptiste waves a hand over one of the hanging pots and I watch as a sparkling green dust flutters from her fingertips and where the dust lands the greens sprout to life. I blink and suddenly what looks like parsley is bursting from the pot. She snatches a handful, placing it onto the counter near the stove and finely chopping them with a knife.

Syllia’s still glued to her hip, one hand clinging to mother’s skirt like it’s a lifeline, the other still clutching that rabbit doll like she’s afraid the thing will up and runaway. The kid doesn’t take her eyes off .

In the corner, Farr Baptiste is sitting on a stool, lovingly polishing that nightmare of a blunderbuss. The thing purrs and licks its chops like a dog that just wants to chase and murder squirrels. Tasar watches from beside him, wide-eyed and grinning like he’s seeing a hero in action.

Ulesse is darting around the long wooden table in the middle of the room, setting mismatched plates with the wild precision of a child who’s both helpful and constantly trying to prove she can do it without help. The tablecloth’s a riot of patches and faded color, like it’s made from the ghosts of old shirts that lived full lives and died honorable deaths by farm labor or children mud wrestling matches.

“Sit there,” Ulesse says, pointing at three specific seats with all the authority of a general assigning battlefield positions. “And that one’s for your blob.”

She slaps a saucer down with a flourish and nods, satisfied.

Jelly Boy buzzes happily in my hands. I sense a thank you in the vibrations.

“We put Syllia all the way over there ‘cause she’s scared of you all. But don’t worry, I made sure she could see the blob. She said she likes the blob!”

“Well thought out,” I say, impressed. “You’re a little tactical genius.”

Ulesse beams.

I round the table towards my designated seat, Jelly Boy squelching happily in my arms, when I hear a loud thud from behind us.

A shadow spills into the room like soone poured a bucket of oh no into the doorway.

He’s an orc. There’s no other word for it. Seven feet of muscle. Shoulders like siege towers. He makes any human I’ve ever seen look miniscule. His arms alone look like they could rip a horse in half. His skin is a greenish gray, like moss-covered granite.

The orc’s wide face is oddly, familiarly human. He’s got jet black hair that’s pushed back, and greying at the temples. His ears are rounded, ordinary. He’s wearing a pair of thick-rimd glasses, perched daintily on the bridge of his pig-like snout. Behind the glasses are a pair of dark, thoughtful eyes that take us in. Two, large tusks protrude from his bottom lip. He’s wearing a linen shirt, tucked into a pair of breeches. The shirt’s top buttons are unbuttoned to reveal dark curls of chest hair, and is stained with sweat.

Ping!

A pulsing sensation echoes in my head and the orc’s presence is greeted with a new System ssage.

New Monster Identified: Orc Scholar

Level: 22

Classification: Forr High-ranking Orc (Banished)

Ulesse points dramatically with a spoon she was just about to place down, her little face lit up like she just discovered a second moon.

“Vully! Look! Humans! Ain’t they weird?!”

Ah, I think. So this must be Vultog.

Vultog doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just stands there in the doorway, a seven-foot wall of judgnt and latent muscle. His thick brow rises slowly like a drawbridge creaking open.

Tasar imdiately walks over from his spot near his father delivers frontier justice in the form of a not-so-playful jab to Ulesse’s upper arm. “Ma and Pops said to not be rude, dummy!”

“Ow! Ma!… Tasar hit again!” she screams, rubbing her arm where her brother had hit her.

Missus Baptiste doesn’t even look up from the pots she’s commanding. Her voice cuts through the kitchen with the weight of a thousand repeated warnings.

“Now, hush you two!… And Ulesse, co lend a hand now.”

Ulesse pouts like soone just broke all her crayons, then stomps over to the stove, where her mother hands her a ladle roughly twice the size of her face.

Vultog finally steps forward, casting a long shadow over the table. His eyes scan the room like he’s counting equations, his gaze pausing on each of us. Then he stops—right on .

Or, more specifically, on my jorts.

His brow raises another centiter. Then higher still as he moves on to my shirt.

The spectacles slide a fraction down his nose.

“Huh… And not only humans. Outworlders, it seems.”

Tasar’s ears perk, twitching curiously. “Outworlders?... You for real? I thought you was always just tryin’ to scare us with those stories!”

“Er, what do you an ‘Outworlders’?” I ask, instinctively tugging at the edge of my jorts like they’re suddenly too loud in this room and I might be able to trigger an ‘extendo’ button.

Missus Baptiste saves Vultog from answering with the arrival of steaming bowls.

“All right now, enough yamrin’. Sit and eat while it’s still hot.”

Baptiste puts down his demon-gun in the corner like it’s a favorite hat, then takes a seat. Chairs creak. The table groans. The whole family slots into place like it’s Sunday dinner in a Norman Rockwell painting—if Rockwell had been a fan of Tolkien and into so other really strange shit.

Vultog sits across from Clyde, who’s already in full stealth mode. Hands beneath the table, shoulders loose, expression calm but eyes locked in like a hawk watching a rabbit it hasn't decided whether to eat or let be. I suspect he may have his pistol out under the table, ready to fire into the orc’s gut if things take a turn for the worse.

God dammit, I hope not, I think. My eyes dart around the table. The Baptiste family seems nice enough, and I don’t want a fight to break out with the kids around. I realize I actually don’t know Clyde as well as I probably should, and pray he’s not a ‘shoot first’ Han Solo type of guy.

Vultog ets Clyde’s gaze evenly, folding his hands. “Outworlders,” he says, his voice a bassline so deep it probably rattles the local tectonic plates. His words co with a slow and thodical cadence. “Sotis called Adventurers, or Hunters, or Travelers, depending on your source. My people simply use the term Outworlder for its clarity. People from other worlds.”

Clyde doesn’t move. “And what makes you believe that? Seems kinda far-fetched, no?”

The look Vultog gives him could flay paint from walls. It says ‘Do you think I’m stupid and are you seriously asking that?’ with enough condescension to curdle milk. He gestures to with an open palm.

“Do you see how you’re dressed?”

Fair enough. One point, Vultog.

He continues, adjusting his glasses. “Humans are not unheard of, but they hail from the Southern Badlands. You do not speak like them. You speak the common tongue fluently, if strangely. Accented, but clear. You carry foreign tools. And I’ve never seen a human as pale as her.” He nods at Veronica, who scowls. “And definitely not as pale as him.” He then nods at .

I blink. Did that orc just call pasty? I admit it’s too early in the year for to have started on my sumr tan.

Missus Baptiste claps her hands together like the discussion’s a fly she’s swatting.

“That’s enough chatter now. Eat. Before it gets cold!”

Veronica squints suspiciously into her bowl. “What is this?”

“Vegetable stew,” says Missus Baptiste. “Carrots, taters, beans, the last of the squash we preserved from last season, onion. So herbs I picked fresh. Good ole’ elvish cookin’ is what it is!”

To my surprise, it looks familiar. I was half-expecting the concoction in my bowl to be a mix of foreign vegetables and fruits, and the System’s language translation function had simply bridged the gap. But the carrots and potatoes and other veggies all look like produce I could find during any shift at the Save-So-Bucks.

My mind wanders back to sothing Vultog had said. He said we were speaking the common tongue, though with an accent. It confird sothing I’d never bothered asking about. I had always known the System helped understand the languages of the other Realms, but hadn’t given too much thought to the fact that I had been speaking an alien language the entire ti. What did I sound like to soone who didn’t have System enhancents?

I glance at Clyde. Then Veronica. Then shrug and dig in to the bowl in front of .

The stew is good. No—scratch that—it’s amazing. Warm, rich, a little sweet, a little spicy. Both flavors balanced by a natural, earthy undertone from the vegetables themselves. Like a hug in a bowl with just enough burn to remind you it’s from a proper southern kitchen. I moan softly.

Veronica raises an eyebrow. I shrug again and nod at the stew. “Trust . It’s clean. And if not, I die full and happy.”

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She rolls her eyes, then cautiously lifts her spoon. Monts later, she nods approvingly and joins the idle conversation now bubbling up around the table.

Clyde talks, asks a few asured questions, but doesn’t touch his food.

Which is fine. More for .

I reach across Veronica and pull his bowl toward , nodding like a man who just won a secret lottery. Gotta get those gains, after all!

There’s a lull in the conversation. One of those natural dips where everyone’s chewing, or swallowing, or just letting the heat of the food settle. It’s the kind of silence that’s warm and worn and ant to be comfortable.

So of course, I decide to ruin it.

“Hey… do any of you know anything about the Cardinal Hand?”

It’s like I tossed a lit firecracker on the table.

Everyone freezes. Even Ulesse, who was halfway through poking Tasar with her spoon. Her eyes go wide. Veronica stiffens beside . Clyde’s already watching, head tilted just enough to make think he was expecting this and is prepared for any negative fallout.

Only Farr Baptiste keeps moving—brings a spoonful of stew up toward his mouth like nothing happened.

Then he notices the others. Their looks. The way even Missus Baptiste’s hands go still.

He snorts.

“The Cardinal Hand ain’t nuthin’ to worry ‘bout! What they do makes no difference to us anyhow!… And the Gluttons are the ones that made my gun, after all.” He points a thumb lazily toward the corner, where the blunderbuss rests like so sleeping beast. I swear I hear it lick its lips… Er, muzzle, again.

“They’re dangerous,” Vultog rumbles, voice like a distant avalanche. His eyes stay fixed on . Calm… asuring.

Tasar shifts in his seat, looking between the grown-ups. “They ain’t gunna co for our farm, though. Right, Pa?”

Farr Baptiste pauses. Spoon halfway to his mouth again. It hovers there. Wobbles slightly.

Then, slowly, he lowers it back into the bowl. Doesn’t eat. Doesn’t speak right away.

“No, they ain’t.” He says it like a fact he wants to be true. Then his eyes snap to Vultog. A glare sharper than the pitchfork his golem wielded. “Now, who in the world gave you that idea, boy?”

The orc doesn’t flinch. But Baptiste’s voice sharpens like a blade on a whetstone. “And if anyone tried to take our farm, they’d die tryin’!”

The silence that follows isn’t comfortable this ti. It’s tight. Packed in like a crate of dry powder. Even the stew seems a little more muted, like it's trying not to draw attention to itself.

“Okay,” Clyde says, his voice low, diplomatic. “But that doesn’t quite explain who these people… or things, are.”

Vultog leans forward. Pushes his empty bowl aside. The table creaks under his weight.

“The Cardinal Hand,” he says slowly, like he’s tasting the na and finding it bitter. “They are demigods. So theorize. It’s been hundreds of years. So say they’re the last living things to carry fragnts of divine power. Relics from when the gods still walked this plane. Cursed, when the gods abandoned this world after the Divine Contest. Cults gathered around them, their na. They follow the will of the Hand. Or claim to. Mad tyrants, every one of them. If the Cardinal Hand even exists. Maybe they’re just stories. Maybe the cults are real and the Cardinal Hand is just a mask they wear while they burn towns and take what they want.”

“Shut it, Orc!” Baptiste barks, voice hard enough to rattle the salt shaker. “They ain’t no gods and it’s like I said before—what these powerful folk do ain’t got nothin’ to do with us! Now, let’s just enjoy our al. You’re givin’ a stomach ache with all this political talk.”

Vultog growls, a low rumble.

But Nobody argues. Everyone just… eats. Quiet now. Focused on their al like it’s the most interesting thing in the room. The stew is still good, even if it tastes like tension now.

Eventually, the bowls empty. The mood doesn’t lighten, but it settles like dust.

Clyde stretches and stands. “We’re gonna get so fresh air while there’s still so sun left in the sky, if that’s alright.”

“Go on, then. Leave the cleanin’ to us. You’re guests, after all.” Baptiste waves us off like we’re children he’s done dealing with.

We file out the front door. Evening light greets us—soft and golden, falling across fields of sothing like wheat, but tinged red like rust. The air slls like soil, smoke, and sothing almost sweet.

I whistle low. “Well that was intense. Didn’t think I was bringing up such a touchy subject, but now I know.”

Veronica folds her arms. “Not much different than back ho. Sotis it’s easier to ignore what’s going on in the world instead of talking about it. Politics is uncomfortable.”

Clyde’s looking back at the house, brows drawn. “I’m more interested in what that orc knows.” He glances at us. “If one of us can talk to him without Baptiste around, it might be helpful. I really don’t like having the attention of demigods. Or cults.”

“You and both, man,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck.

We loop around one of the Baptiste farm sheds, the sll of hay, tal, and manure clinging to the air. A sound cos from inside the shed, almost like a chittering. Nope, too much new World imrsion for already today! The shed’s sagging roof and rust-splotched siding hide us from the house and the dinner table politics, and that’s exactly what Clyde wants.

“Alright,” he says, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. “Ti to get a little practice in. Better we find out how all the new shit we gained works while we’ve got a mont of down… Before we continue our quest to slay a fucking dragon.”

Veronica nods, pulling her ponytail tighter with a snap. “Agreed. No offense to Jelly Boy, but I’d rather not rely on him to bail us out ti-and-ti again.”

Jelly Boy, for his part, makes a blorp noise that could be disappointnt. Or indigestion. Or approval. Hard to tell. I pat his gelatinous do anyway.

We give each other space—Clyde paces to the far end near so overturned crates, Veronica claims a patch of bare dirt, and I step into a wide circle trampled flat by whatever creature the Baptistes use to plow.

Ti to check my new Skills!

I open the System interface with a thought, and the semi-transparent HUD flares into view across my vision. Familiar layout, sure, but the text… the descriptions aren’t quite what I rember. I quickly run through the list of Spell.

[SPELL: Wizard’s Fist]

Wizard’s Fist (Conjuration Cantrip)

Casting Ti: Instantaneous

Stamina Cost: 1 Point

Range: 30 Feet

Duration: 1 minute

Description: The magnificent fist of the underlord magician. Conjures a spectral, floating hand composed of pure mana within Range. The hand lasts for the duration or until you dismiss it. The hand vanishes if it is beyond Range for longer than 5 seconds. You can ntally control the hand, using it for combat (and for limited manipulation and object interaction). Wizard’s Fist will inherit the combat capabilities of its caster.

Wizard’s Fist? Seriously? The change in the na of the Spell is a little too on the nose. And I’m not sure what that opening sentence of the Spell’s description is about. I keep scrolling.

[SPELL: Light]

Light (Evocation Cantrip)

Casting Ti: Instantaneous

Stamina Cost: 3 Points

Range: Self (30 Feet)

Duration: Instantaneous (20 minutes when condensed: costs 1 Point of Stamina for every minute maintained)

Description: Let them be dazzled by your brilliance! When cast, your body produces a bright flash of radiant energy. The Spell can be condensed into a harmless sphere of heatless light imbued with radiant energy, producing light equivalent to a torch. The sphere can be held in the caster’s hand, or remain suspended in the air near the caster’s shoulder (or affixed to any inorganic surface).

These changes were far more interesting. The initial casting of the Spell could be used to blind or surprise now. But I was trading so of the utility. Maintaining the sphere of light now ca with a running cost, as opposed to being free after the initial Spell cost.

My Pact of the Novice Scribe Spell was not altered, other than switching the Mana cost on my end of the bargain to Stamina. Unfortunately, that ant I had to be more conscious of the partner monster’s Mana, as my Stamina was already scaling at an astronomic pace.

Similarly, Slimy Shield was not altered other than now costing 7 points of Stamina to cast.

[SPELL: Mana (Force) Blast]

Mana (Force) Blast (Evocation Spell, Level 1)

Casting Ti: None

Stamina Cost: 10 Points

Range: 120 Feet

Duration: Instant

Description: Let them feel your Strength! You are capable of firing a beam of pure force-based energy at a single target within range. The force blast will strike the target with the force of your fists, though will lose power the farther it travels to its target.

Holy shit! … Did I have access to the god damned Kaheha wave now? I’m definitely excited to try this one out… But maybe sowhere safer, with a lower chance of property damage? Last thing we need is our benevolent host finding out I blew a hole in his shed.

But there’s sothing I’m equally excited to test out.

I look down at Jelly Boy. “You ready to test your magic absorption skills?”

He vibrates in excitent.

“Hey guys,” I call to Veronica and Clyde, who are currently surrounded by floating tallic plates that I assu are from Veronica’s new Class. “You may want to cover your eyes!”

I access the Light cantrip.

A ntal image flashes across my vision—a muscular dude in shiny posing trunks executing a perfect front lat spread, light erupting from his torso like he’s a bouncer at the gates of heaven.

“Okay. Okay.” I shake out my arms. Crack my neck. “Let’s get stupid.”

I dig my heels into the dirt. Knees bent. Elbows out.

And I hit the pose and slam on the Spell.

A golden beam explodes from my chest and lat muscles. It’s so bright it leaves a sizzling streak across my retinas. Veronica yelps. Clyde swears. Jelly Boy buzzes.

“Agh! My eyes!” Clyde shields his face with one arm. “Joseph! Jesus!”

“Language, Clyde! There’s children—oh wait, no there’s not. Carry on.” Veronica blinks rapidly, seeing stars.

Jelly Boy, though? He just slurps that light right up like it’s a protein shake. His body ripples and vibrates like a microwaved marshmallow.

Three little glass orbs pop out of his side—fwip, fwip, fwip—and start orbiting him like he’s the low-budget lovechild of a wizard and a circus juggler. Each orb is about baseball-sized, and inside is a gentle, glowing puff of light. Like soone trapped a dandelion made of sunlight inside a snow globe.

“Ho ho ho…!” I laugh, absolutely giddy. “What are those?” I ask, still mid-pose, the light fading from my chest.

Jelly Boy tosses one of the orbs at . I flinch but catch it. I’m imdiately t with a notification.

[Item: Minor Explosive (Light)]

[Description: An explosive that when activated will detonate in 5 seconds. Explodes with blinding, radiant light. May also cause minor auditory disorientation.]

[Note: This Item was created using the Catch & Juggle Skills. This Item is temporary. This item will degrade in 24 hours.]

Holy shit. Jelly Boy just swallowed by Light Spell and turned it into flashbangs.

“Guys, check this out,” I say.

Jelly Boy tosses the other two to them. Clyde accepts his with a nod, inspecting it like it might explode at any mont. “We can use your Spells and Jelly Boy’s new ability to prep so of these temporary items for battles,” he says.

“Assuming we have enough ti to prepare and know what we’re fighting,” says Veronica.

“Like a dragon?” I add.

We each pocket our new light grenades.

Before we retreat back to the house, I convince Vernoica to help test out one last thing.

“You want to attack you?” she asks.

“I need to test my new shield Spell, yes,” I say. I tap my chest with a fist. “One good swing. Trust . Even if it doesn’t work, I have enough Health to take at least one hit from you.”

“Oh, really now?”

Once we’re set, I plant my feet. Veronica’s hamr is in her hands. She steps forward and hefts her warhamr. I take a deep breath, preparing the stance for the Spell. She swings, bringing down her hamr and I trigger the Slimy Shield Spell from my interface’s hotlist.

My Stamina bar appears in my HUD, dropping slightly. A circular disk of shimring blue goo pops into existence in front of .

Splat!

Veronica’s hamr slams into the shield, which ripples like the surface of a water balloon hitting concrete, and it barely slows her swing as the head of her hamr explodes through the shield.

“Oh, shit!” I shout, eyes wide as the hamr keeps coming.

I barely dive out of its path. Veronica’s swing sailing over my shoulder. She pivots with a surgical grace, catching herself as the now sli-covered hamr swings low and wide.

Then, a System ssage pops into my interface.

[Ally Jelly Boy has activated Residual Casting.]

[Residual Spell: Magnify Gravity]

The splatter of blue sli on Veronica’s hamr’s head slows faintly before it’s ripped towards the ground, slamming it the ground. Veronica is surprised and yanked downward along with her grip on the hamr.

“Oomph!...” Wind escapes from her mouth as she stumbles forward.

“What the hell was that?” asks Clyde.

I’m standing there, a dumbfounded look on my face. Staring at the happily vibrating blue sli. The ooze on Veronica’s hamr head hisses and sizzles before evaporating into nothingness.

“I think Jelly Boy is the most dangerous mber of our party,” I say.

The room is warm and slls like old wood and clean sheets. The kind of scent that sinks into you, cozy and nostalgic—like grandma’s house, if grandma also happened to own a pair of hand axes and raised pigs the size of motorcycles.

Veronica’s already asleep, sprawled diagonally across her bed. Jelly Boy is at her feet, still in his own form of sleep, or rest. Clyde’s not asleep yet—he’s lying on his back, hands folded across his chest like a very polite vampire, eyes closed, but his breathing still has that too-even quality that says I’m trying, damn it.

? I’m on the floor.

Specifically, I’m sitting cross-legged near the door, back to the wall, facing the door.

Clyde showed how to set a tir through the System before he hit the bed. Apparently it even dings in your brain if you let it. Like an Alexa for adventurers. I have it set for two hours. That’s my shift. I’m first watch.

So, now I wait.

Outside the room, the house creaks and settles. The wind outside tickles the shutters.

But downstairs—there’s music.

Faint, like a mory whispered through floorboards. Strings. A guitar, maybe? It’s gentle. Just calloused fingers and a quiet mont.

Then the voice cos. Missus Baptiste.

She sings low and slow, like she’s trying not to wake the stars. And the words…

I swear to God I know this tune.

Not exactly. Not the words—those are strange, translated by the System into clean syllables with just a hint of accent. But the lody? The cadence?

It hits sowhere behind my ribs, soft and uninvited.

I think of my mom. She used to hum sothing like that when I was little, before she got too busy or too tired or too sad. I used to pretend I was asleep just to hear it longer.

And now here I am. In another world. Sitting on a jelly familiar. Wearing sli-stained gym clothes. Listening to an alien woman sing a lullaby from a place I can’t reach anymore.

To my little one’s cradle in the night,

Cos a little fae, snowy and white.

The fae will fly to its market,

While mother her watch does keep.

Bringing back wormwood and sugar,

Sleep my little one sleep.

I think about Vultog. I think about those cults her ntioned. About the Cardinal Hand.

Veronica mumbles sothing in her sleep and rolls over.

The lullaby downstairs ends. The guitar fades.