"Wake up, you absolute turnip."

  My eyes opened face down in the Verdant Jade Loam of my greenhouse.

  This morning routine is becoming all too common now.

  I rolled over, spitting out a piece of moss. "Who?"

  "Down here, sir. Try not to step on me as I’m quite delicate, despite my intellect."

  I looked down. In a pot near the entrance, the Awakened Toothache Plant—Goros—was staring at me with its yellow eye. The petals around the pupil contracted, mimicking a scowl.

  "Goros?" I rasped, rubbing sleep from my eyes. "You can talk?"

  "I have been able to communicate since you poured a ridiculous amount of Qi into my roots yesterday," Goros said. "I simply chose not to. The conversation around here is usually dreadfully boring. 'Water me, Tim.' 'Yes, Caretaker.' It’s pathetic."

  I sat up, dusting off my shirt. "Why wake me up now?"

  "Because you are sleeping on the job," Goros sneered. "While your 'empire' rots in a parking lot miles away, you are napping in a climate controlled glass box. How... plebeian."

  "I needed to recharge," I defended, standing up. "The teleportation takes a toll."

  "The point of the Botanical Garden Dao," Goros lectured, "is not to hide in your garden like a coward. It is to expand your garden until the world is your garden. If your subordinates wake up and see you teleporting in for breakfast with a latte, they will not see a leader. They will see a disconnected CEO commuting from the suburbs. You will be impeached before the week is up."

  The plant was rude, but he was right. Perception was everything. If I wanted to lead a major faction, I had to look like I was sleeping in the mud with them.

  "Fine," I muttered. "You're right."

  "I usually am. Take me with you. The decor in here is stifling."

  I focused on the pot. "Dominion."

  Then I focused on the patch of soil I had left at the movie theater camp.

  The freezing pre-dawn air of the Wilds was a horrible welcoming committee.

  The camp was silent. Sal’s construction crew was asleep in their trucks and the sentries were dozing at the perimeter.

  I moved quickly. Using Dominion, I pulled bamboo stalks from the soil patch and wove them into a small shed. I fashioned a crude bed frame from bamboo. It looked uncomfortable but authentic.

  I teleported Goros on a crate inside the shed.

  "Dreadful accommodations," Goros noted immediately. "Drafty. Poor lighting. 2/10."

  "Shut up," I whispered.

  I planted a second Goros seed just outside the shed door, linking their vision, then I laid down on the hard bamboo bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the sun.

  I checked the feed from the holographic screen projected by the internal Goros of the external Goros. The movie theater loomed in the darkness. It was a crumbling brick block, the marquee shattered, and the windows boarded up with plywood.

  "It’s occupied, obviously," Goros’s voice echoed in my head via the telepathic link. "Only a fool leaves a structure standing in a warzone without checking the basement."

  "I know," I thought back. "But it’s tactically worthless. We have the parking lot. I don't need the popcorn machine."

  "Apathy is a valid strategy," Goros conceded. "Boring, but valid."

  I lay there for an hour, watching the camp wake up.

  Then, I felt something.

  A sharp tug on my consciousness from the north. The Diamond Boy scout had finally planted the seed.

  I sat up. "It’s time."

  "Do try not to die," Goros said. "I would hate to be orphaned."

  I closed my eyes.

  "Teleport."

  When I opened my eyes, I was standing in a field of gray dirt. The sky was overcast, heavy with grey clouds that promised rain.

  I looked around.

  This was Crisbol.

  It had been a farm once. I saw the skeletal remains of a barn and a large farmhouse that had seen better days. But now, it was a graveyard.

  People were lying on the ground, huddled in rags. They didn't move when I appeared. They were too weak. I saw a woman chewing on a strip of boiled leather. I saw a child staring at a dry well, too exhausted to cry.

  The scout hadn't lied. They were starving to death in real time.

  I walked toward the farmhouse. My boots crunched on the dead soil, the sound drowned out by the cries of agony settlement.

  I pushed open the front door.

  The interior had been converted into a "Royal Hall." The furniture was mismatched, scavenged from ruins, but arranged to look important. At the far end, three armchairs sat on a raised platform.

  The Council of Three.

  The man in the center was old, in his 70s, his skin hanging off his bones like loose fabric. He wore a suit that was three sizes too big. To his right was a man in his 50s, slumped over, asleep or unconscious. To his left, a younger man in his 30s, staring at the ceiling with glazed eyes.

  The old man looked at me but he didn't seem surprised. He just seemed tired.

  "You're quick," the old man rasped. "Your scout left an hour ago."

  "I have a fast commute," I said.

  I walked to the center of the room and offered the business deal.

  "I am Kaz Kaaz, President of Eden," I said. "I am here to offer you the Franchise Model."

  The old man blinked slowly. "Franchise?"

  "Eden takes 51% equity in this settlement," I recited. "We control security, infrastructure, and trade. In exchange, you become citizens. You get food. You get water. You get to live."

  The man on the left let out a dry wheeze that might have been a laugh while the man on the right didn't move a muscle.

  "We have nothing to give you," the old man said. "The Black Hand took it all. They salted the fields and poisoned the water. We are dead men waiting for the heart to stop."

  "I don't need anything from you but your equity," I said.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  I held out a hand. "Do we have a deal?"

  "If you have food," he whispered, "you can have 100%."

  "51%," I corrected. "I want partners, not dependents."

  "Deal, and the name’s Roger." Roger breathed.

  I turned and walked out of the house.

  I stepped onto the porch and a few of the villagers had gathered, watching me with hollow eyes.

  I unhooked the Gourd of Holding.

  I walked to the poisoned well in the center of the yard and dropped a seed into the black sludge.

  "Grow."

  The Heavenly Filter wove a blue mesh over the water and the sludge swirled, hissed, and then cleared. Within seconds, the water in the bucket was crystal clear and cold.

  I walked to the dead fields.

  "Expand."

  I pushed 200 Qi into the ground. It was a massive expenditure, enough to make my knees buckle slightly, but I held my posture.

  The dead earth was consumed by a tide of rich loam. It spread like a virus of vitality, covering acres in seconds.

  "Corn. Potatoes. Tomatoes. Tubers."

  I planted the seeds.

  "Rise."

  The crops surged upward and green stalks burst from the ground, fully mature, laden with vegetables. The scent of ripe tomatoes and fresh corn overpowered the smell of rot.

  I walked to the perimeter.

  "Bamboo."

  The walls shot up, thirty feet of green iron sealing the farm off from the wasteland.

  "Moss."

  I dusted spores into the air and they settled on the ground, creating a carpet of bioluminescent golden light that pushed back the grey gloom of the sky.

  "Mandrakes."

  I buried the screamers at the gates.

  Finally, I walked to a bush near the farmhouse and planted a seed. A single yellow eye opened among the leaves.

  "Finally," Goros’s voice sneered in my head. "A strategic thought. Perhaps there is hope for you yet."

  I ignored him and turned back to the farmhouse.

  Roger had dragged himself onto the porch and he was holding onto the railing, his mouth open, tears streaming down his face.

  Behind him, the villagers were crawling—literally crawling—toward the fields. They grabbed tomatoes with dirty hands, biting into them like apples, juice running down their chins. They scooped water from the well, laughing and choking.

  It was primal and the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

  I walked up the steps to Roger.

  Roger fell to his knees and grabbed my hand and pressed his forehead against it. "Thank you. Thank you."

  "Get up, Governor," I said, pulling him to his feet. "Eat something. Then we talk intel."

  Thirty minutes later, Roger was sitting at the table, a bowl of tomato soup in front of him. He looked ten years younger. The color had returned to his cheeks.

  "Black Hand," I said. "Tell me about them."

  Roger wiped his mouth. "They are tyrants. A coalition of cultivators who believe the strong should eat the weak. They control Northern Michigan. Their headquarters is in Gaylord. Then there’s Cloud"

  "Cloud?" I asked.

  "Another major faction," Roger said. "They control the west. Grand Rapids is their capital. They are... strange. Religious fanatics who worship the Awakening Event."

  "Are they stronger than the Detroit factions?" I asked.

  "No, I don’t think so," Roger said, shaking his head. "They are large but they lack industry. They scavenge, not manufacture."

  He lowered his voice.

  "But they have a patron."

  I narrowed my eyes. "A patron?"

  "White Hill," Roger whispered. "Their diplomats come out here once a month. They sell weapons to Black Hand and provide training to Cloud. They also sell their own soldiers as mercenaries to settle disputes between them."

  I sat back, a cold feeling settling in my stomach.

  "White Hill arms both sides?"

  "Yes," Roger explained.

  I clenched my fist on the table.

  Misty.

  She knew.

  “He sells weapons to every gang, faction and outfit in Detroit, including those in the Wilds.” “There are strange characters out there"

  Those were half-truths. Axehill does a lot more than just sell weapons and Cloud seems to be much more than ‘strange characters’.

  That’s why she insisted on the "Defense Only" clause and encouraged me to expand into the Wilds.

  She knew that by attacking the Wilds, I wouldn't just be fighting savages. I would be fighting Axehill’s proxy army. I would be kicking a hornet's nest that White Hill owned.

  She avoided a war with Axehill by tricking me into starting one for her.

  "Brilliant," I whispered, feeling a mix of anger and admiration. "She played me like a fiddle."

  I stood up.

  "Thank you, Roger. This settlement is now officially designated as Subsidiary #1. A train line will reach you within the week."

  "Train?" Roger asked, confused.

  "You'll see."

  I walked out of the farmhouse.

  "Goros," I thought. "Status at the camp?"

  "Chaos," the butler’s voice replied, sounding almost gleeful. "Gunfire. Idiocy. Your 'General' decided to investigate the popcorn machine and hasn't come back."

  "On my way."

  I focused on the theater camp.

  "Teleport."

  I appeared in the bamboo shed.

  The noise was deafening. Gunfire was just outside the walls.

  I kicked the door open.

  Sal was crouched behind the wheel of the Terramotta, clutching a crowbar like a club. His construction crew was pinned down behind a pile of rubble.

  Bullets were pinging off the truck’s armor.

  "Boss!" Sal screamed when he saw me. "Where the hell were you?!"

  "Restroom," I said calmly. "Sitrep."

  "Bells got bored!" Sal yelled over the rattle of automatic fire. "He said he smelled something weird by the theater and walked in ten minutes ago, then these guys came out!"

  He pointed at the theater entrance.

  Ten men in tactical gear were using the pillars as cover, firing suppressed rifles at us with professional discipline. They weren't gang bangers. They were mercenaries.

  "Bells hasn't come back?" I asked.

  "No! And I can't reach him on his phone!"

  "Goros," I thought. "Analysis?"

  "Geometric distortion inside the lobby," Goros reported. "I sense Qi flowing in rigid, mathematical patterns. Arrays."

  "I hope that’s not who I think it is," I said.

  If Bells walked into a prepared array trap, he was either neutralized or contained.

  "I'm going in," I said.

  Sal looked at me like I was insane. "Boss! You can't! You're a support cultivator! You can't fight outside your garden without Bells!"

  I looked at Sal and he was terrified. He still saw me as the guy who needed a bodyguard. The guy who built walls but couldn't throw a punch.

  It was time to update his worldview.

  I stepped out from behind the truck.

  The mercenaries saw me instantly and shifted aim. Ten rifles pointed at my chest.

  "Fire!" one of them shouted.

  "Expand."

  I burned 50 Qi.

  The Verdant Jade Loam Soil beneath my feet surged and shot forward like a tsunami, rolling over the street, consuming the parking lot in a blink of an eye. It raced toward the theater entrance, moving faster than the men could react.

  The soil hit the mercenaries' feet.

  "Dominion," I whispered.

  The world slowed down and I felt every pebble, every weed, every vibration on that patch of soil.

  "Wall."

  Ten foot stalks of Heavenly Bamboo came from the ground directly in front of me, forming a shield and the bullets slammed into the wood, thudding harmlessly against the iron hard fibers.

  Sal peeked out from behind the truck, his mouth hanging open.

  I lowered the wall.

  "Spear."

  The bamboo stalks twisted and snapped off at the base and sharpened themselves. Twenty spears floated in the air around me.

  I flicked my finger.

  The spears launched.

  They were a blur of green as they slammed into the pillars the mercenaries were using for cover, piercing through the concrete. The mercenaries scrambled back, shouting in panic. One man took a spear through the shoulder, pinning him to the wall.

  "Grounding Vine," I commanded.

  Vines emerged from the soil near the theater entrance and whipped onto the building, latching onto the breaker boxes and the floodlights.

  The vines sucked the electricity dry and the lights on the theater died. The tactical flashlights on the mercenaries' rifles went out and their comms dissolved into static.

  "Razorgrass."

  The lawn in front of the entrance mutated and the soft grass blades became serrated.

  "Retreat!" the mercenary leader screamed. "Fall back to the lobby!"

  They tried to run.

  The grass wrapped around their ankles and cut deep enough to hold them, terrify them.

  They were trapped in a dark, spike filled, shifting jungle that had appeared in seconds.

  I stood amidst my creation and the floating spears circled me like loyal hounds while the moss glowed at my feet, casting an eerie golden light on my face.

  I looked back at Sal who was still staring at me with awe.

  "Who said I am outside my garden?" I asked.

  I turned back to the theater.

  I walked through the field of Razorgrass, the blades parting gently for my boots.

  I reached the double doors.

  "Ready or not," I whispered.

  I pushed the doors open and stepped into the dark.