I'd been here a year now. Maybe a year and a couple of months. Still, it had been a good year.
My garden had grown… larger than I expected. Honestly, it was starting to encroach on the neighbour's plot. I'd probably have to start buying up land soon—maybe a few of the surrounding hills or one of the mounds near the Brandywine. But who would I even talk to about that? Some local magistrate? Mayor Whitfoot?
I didn't worry about it too long. I took a slow puff of Emberroot Gold, letting the Qi-infused smoke curl into my lungs. It spread like warm honey through my blood and spirit, igniting my Qi gently. I exhaled a circle, then blew another around it. They caught on the wind—another thing that had started reacting to me lately. Playful, curious.
I'd made this blend from my second harvest. The seeds had held the alchemical alterations, which meant the traits were stabilizing—something I hadn't expected so quickly. The Emberroot line had become my personal favourite strain. Great for the nerves, stronger for the soul.
I leaned back against my bench. It groaned slightly—probably because it was still alive. Technically. It was a fusion of alchemical comfort glyphs, Qi-forged wood, and minor enchantments to ease stress from the joints and promote Qi circulation. Bilbo didn't like using it, said it made him feel like he was cheating death. Which was wrong it was just a bench. I ignored the groan of wood that came after that.
My pipe—my new pipe—sat between my fingers. Carved personally from a branch Rowan had given me himself. Its bowl purified the smoke. The stem tripled the effect of anything smoked. The wood itself even radiated a gentle protective aura, burning with my Qi. A moonflower engraving pulsed near the base—part of the Moon Qi blend I'd been working on. That one helped me think faster, work faster. It gave me focus without sharpening me too much.
The wind stirred again. I pushed my Qi into it lightly. Tomorrow, I told it. I'll play tomorrow. The wind understood. It quieted, letting me smoke in peace.
My robes shifted with a subtle glow, warming me. That was another project—self-repairing, temperature-adjusting clothing. They still had trouble with acid and magic, but cold, heat, cuts? All handled to a point.
I let the smoke fill my lungs again. The garden behind Bag End stretched out before me like a living painting—glowing vines, humming fruit, lazy tendrils of Qi mist. My pride.
Then the ring on my finger pulsed.
A message entered my mind:
"The stones have been placed. We will continue maintaining the garden until new orders have been given."
I smirked.
That meant it was done. The outer stones—each one a carefully inscribed ritual node—had been planted around the perimeter of Bag End and my garden. A full, living ritual site, ready to be activated.
Tomorrow I'd begin the Infusion Ritual, tying the land permanently to this power. It would become a sanctuary of vitality, a centre of Qi collection and refinement. With that, I could create a Core Stone, allowing me to channel that power into large-scale alchemy, perception-shielding sigils, misdirection fields—nothing dangerous, just… private, maybe a little dangerous.
Just the thought of people wandering into my garden made my teeth clench.
I activated the ring again.
"Activate the Golem Hearth. Begin construction of eight new units. Upon completion, bind them to the Mindroot and assign regular maintenance protocols."
Eight more workers would be enough for now. Once the ritual was complete, the entire network could sustain itself. I'd only need to intervene in emergencies. That left me free to think about next steps.
What to build?
I could upgrade the Flame Controller. Make it more efficient. Create an alchemical battery for it, so I didn't have to keep recharging the thing manually. Or maybe I should branch into water. I'd focused so heavily on Earth and Fire… Water would open a whole new spectrum.
Yes. That made sense. Purification, flexibility, growth.
I nodded to myself.
And then
It happened again.
That familiar pressure in the air.
The feeling of something… watching me from beneath the surface of the world.
My eyes flew open as a phantom wind curled around my body. It carried the scent of sulphur, ash, and molten stone. The pipe fell from my mouth.
I looked down—and there it was.
The Book.
Its cover shimmered into being across the surface of my soul. I didn't see it with my eyes—I felt it. And a page was knocking again. A new one.
It showed me a mountain. A volcano.
The Fire Mouth.
The book whispered of ogres who had worshiped it. A mountain god. They had eaten its blood—lava—and perished.
Most of them.
But some… some did not die.
Some walked out of the caldera with fire in their breath, magma in their veins, and smoke for blood. They became the Firebellies—warrior-priests who served the Fire Mouth, who spoke its gospel in heat and destruction.
I felt it offer me the same. Power over flame, lava, destruction. The ability to burn away corruption. A new path—one aligned with the Lore of Fire.
I reached out—and opened the book.
It hit me like a wave of heat from a furnace door.
My skin flared, flushed, heated—not burning, but pressurized. I staggered forward as warmth surged through my limbs, radiating outward in pulses. My clothes, unfortunately, weren't so lucky. The fibres curled and smoked, then began to burn away piece by piece. I yanked them off with shaking hands as the bench beneath me hissed and cracked.
"Dammit," I hissed, snatching up my pipe and tossing it clear just before the seat collapsed into char and ash.
The Qi coursing through me wasn't violent. It wasn't wild or ravenous like a wildfire—it was steady, deep. Like something old, like the pulse of molten stone buried beneath the skin of the world.
The Book hadn't just offered me fire. It had offered me the roots of it.
Not surface-level flames or dancing heat. This wasn't like the sun, quick and bright. This was pressure. This was weight. Fire as foundation. The kind that melted mountains, reshaped valleys, carved the very shape of the land.
I raised my hand and watched how the air shimmered faintly above my skin. My Qi glowed dull red beneath the surface now, like coals left to smoulder under ash. There was something heavy about it. Dense. I could feel it pushing outward—heat without flame, power without need for display.
It reminded me of wind, in a strange way. Not in how it moved, but in how it was felt. Wind was presence without form. This was the same—just heavier, slower. Like a weight resting against the soul. It didn't lash or burn, It waited.
And it wasn't going anywhere.
I exhaled slowly. No fire left my mouth. But the breath came out warm enough to fog the night air. My thoughts felt slow but certain. No racing, no panic. Just the knowledge that something had changed.
I looked down at myself—barefoot in the grass, skin glowing faintly like banked embers, and sighed.
"Alright," I muttered, more to myself than anything. "That's new."
The bench was gone. My clothes ruined. The grass around me had browned, curled back. But nothing had exploded. The Shire was still quiet.
I sat down cross-legged in the dirt and let the warmth settle deeper into my core.
This… this would take some adjusting.
But I could work with it.
-------------
Bilbo Baggins awoke to a quiet house, which wasn't unusual.
What was unusual was that the smell of breakfast hadn't already started wafting down the hallway.
He blinked up at the ceiling for a moment, then sat up with a sigh.
"Thomas?" he called out, voice still rough from sleep. No answer. Not from the kitchen. Not from the garden. And no faint muttering from the workshop either.
Bilbo shuffled into his robe and slippers, rubbed his eyes, and followed the familiar trail of silence toward the back of Bag End. Maybe Thomas had gone to gather some sunrise herbs again. He did that now and then. Or meditate. Or do whatever strange things he did when he stared at grass for an hour and called it research.
But then Bilbo stepped outside, and froze.
There, in the morning light, sat Thomas.
Naked.
With slightly glowing, red-tinged skin. Not quite sunburnt. Not quite healthy either. Just... faintly ember-like. He sat calmly, legs crossed in the scorched patch of lawn behind Bag End, where half of Thomas's garden bench now stood, the other half reduced to blackened wood and ashes.
Bilbo stared.
"...What on earth happened to you?"
Thomas glanced over his shoulder without much urgency. "Bit of an accident. Could you grab some of my clothes, please?"
Bilbo blinked. "You're naked, Thomas."
"Yes," Thomas said, unfazed. "Clothes. Please."
Still blinking, still trying to wrap his head around what he was seeing, Bilbo turned back into the house, fetched the man's usual reinforced coat and trousers—one of the ones that always smelled faintly of smoke and wildflowers—and returned.
Thomas pulled them on. The clothes didn't smoke. Didn't ignite. Didn't even singe.
Bilbo just watched.
"Alright," Thomas said, once dressed and smoothing out his coat. "Could you get in touch with the Thain today? I'll be heading to the Mayor. Time I bought up the surrounding mounds before my garden starts invading the neighbour's pantry."
Bilbo blinked again. "Er. Yes. Yes, I suppose I could do that."
Thomas gave him a short, thankful nod, then started off down the hill, whistling lightly like he hadn't just burned a hole in the Shire's peaceful morning.
Bilbo stood there a moment longer, watching him go. Then turned back to the scene: blackened grass, smoking bench, and the faint smell of burnt pipeweed and something else — sulphur? Char?
He sighed.
"...Weird."
Then he went to put the kettle on.