The next morning, Leon returned to the newly marked farming zone on the western side of the Tree of Death. The air was thick with the scent of churned soil and sweat, and the soundscape was… chaotic, to say the least.
All around him, demons were attempting to farm—with wildly varying levels of success.
A hulking Minotaur demon, shirtless and proud, was dragging a massive plow carved out of salvaged cart wood and scrap metal. He grunted as he pulled it across the dark soil, muscles rippling with each step.
Behind him, a small group of goblins held ropes tied to a giant sandworm, one of the ones they'd captured weeks ago. Originally meant for eating now they are used in farmng. The worm, surprisingly docile, slid through the soil like a hot knife through butter, loosening the dirt as it went.
"We named it Slippy!" a goblin called out with pride, nearly getting whipped by the worm's tail. "It only ate two people this week!"
Leon raised an eyebrow. "Only?"
