No one expected him to be the one.
He was just called Farmer—a simple name, a plain man. No noble title, no epic prophecy. Just a hardened hero from the salt-blasted plains, with soot on his cloak and dirt under his fingernails. But behind his quiet eyes burned a fire hotter than any forge, and behind him marched an army one hundred thousand strong—a sea of steel, muscle, and unshakable will.
The ruin had no name on any map. It stood like a wound in the world: a twisted gate of bone and iron, half-sunken into a scorched valley where birds refused to fly and even sunlight dimmed. But Farmer had found it—not by luck, but by obsession.
He had heard of the treasures within. The black gems, yes—but more importantly, the threat. Something ancient stirred beneath, surrounded by horrors born of hate and long imprisonment.He would not let them wake.
The defenders of the ruin were monstrous.
At the vanguard were the Giant Collectors. Towering, hunched monstrosities dragging massive sacks filled with bones, their bulging eyes fixed on the living like butcher’s scales waiting to be balanced.
Beside them stomped Iron Golems, towering constructs of steel and rage, with fists heavy enough to crush cavalry lines with a single blow.
Fighting Orcs snarled from their positions, mounted atop direwolves with scarred flanks and red eyes, wielding spiked maces and shields painted with blood.
Overhead, shrieking from lava-filled spires, came Fiery Gargoyles—winged beasts wreathed in flame, raining firebolts down with terrifying precision.
In the rear lines waited the Poisonous Needlesaurus—reptilian nightmares with barbed scales and spines that hissed venom, each step crunching through stone like brittle bone.
Then came the Hell Witches—ancient sorceresses cloaked in ash and shadow, their chants warping the air and driving some of Farmer’s men to madness before the battle had even begun.
Floating just behind them, Fire Spirits danced—elemental wraiths of pure flame, their laughter like crackling wood, their touch instant immolation.
And finally, the largest of them all: Great Sakelegs—eight-legged horrors with blade-covered limbs and mandibles strong enough to snap through oak like twigs.
Farmer said nothing. He stood atop a ridge overlooking the ruin. His army waited.
Then he raised his hand—and pointed forward.
Wave after wave crashed into the defenders. The ground ran red, and then black. Firestorms tore open the sky. Golems fell like toppled towers. Gargoyles were dragged down from the skies by ballistae and burned wings. The Great Sakelegs impaled hundreds, but were finally buried beneath a mountain of bodies. The Needlesaurus were isolated and surrounded—slain by sheer numbers and clever traps. The Hell Witches nearly turned the tide. Their magic shattered morale and melted minds, but Farmer, with eyes burning like the forge, strode into their circle alone and silenced them one by one. Luckily Farmer brought the mystical Supreme Banshees whose magic rose through the battlefield and resurrected every single fallen on Farmer's side.
In the final hour, and all of her army left standing and the ruin trembling, he approached the obelisk at the center. Shadows coiled around it—voices begged, pleaded, threatened.
He didn’t hesitate.
Farmer drove her spear into the core.
There was no scream—just a sudden, absolute silence. The kind that comes after something impossible ends.
She emerged covered in ash, dragging the shattered remains of the obelisk behind her. The ruin had collapsed. The monsters were dead. And the black gem veins that ran beneath would never again be used to fuel the rise of dark empires.
She left no speech. Just the silence of a job finished and a world made safer.
And that’s how the Farmer became legend—not with prophecy, but with purpose.
https://prnt.sc/pWnzAP_9TP0B
