The Vehrmath Hub hadn't seen so much dirt tracked inside since the great compost riot of Cycle 982.
Farmers, guilders, and tinkers from every corner of the Rinalt crescent piled into the lower forum carrying soil samples, mana readings, and—most importantly—contracts. Handwritten, pulsed, engraved in bark, or encoded in field-glyphs.
All of them wanted one thing.
A Benedict Beacon.
"I told them they could submit requests through the ledger," Eline muttered, massaging her temple as another courier dropped a sack of clay on her desk.
"They're farmers," Arden said. "They believe in soil. Not sync tabs."
Benedict ignored both. He crouched over a projection of the lower valley grid, marking pulse-rich veins with red, stabilization zones with blue, and what he called "future money farms" with gold.
"They want pulse. I want relay coverage. We meet in the middle. Literally. This hill ridge, right here."
Nim peeked in through a side hatch, holding a puffbread stick in her mouth and a bundle of stamped agreements in her arms. "You're going to need a signature glyph that doesn't look like a chicken. Half the kids are copying it."
Benedict didn't respond. He was mapping field harmonics like a composer with too many notes.
---
The pact negotiations began with confusion, escalated into accusations, and then somehow landed at harmony.
Meya Drast arrived first, bringing two crates of freshly harvested pulsecorn and a surprisingly well-drafted regional alliance charter. "We'll license our fields to the Vehrmath Network, as long as we get priority bandwidth during planting season."
"Done," Benedict said. "As long as I get exclusive access to the ley-fed shelf node at Hill 6B."
An old rival of Meya's argued the shelf node was shared property. Benedict resolved the dispute by offering both parties free harmonics sensors—on the condition they relay to him weekly soil rhythm reports.
"You're building a market or an ecosystem?" Eline asked during a break.
"Yes," Benedict replied, sipping a lemon-root infusion.
A day later, a rogue tinker set up an imitation relay in a nearby hill and claimed he could undercut Benedict's pricing model. The device lasted three pulses before it exploded in a burst of ionized mist and scorched potatoes.
Benedict didn't comment. He just raised his prices by three percent and added a liability clause.
---
By the end of the week, twelve villages, fourteen outer field clusters, and three feral orchard cooperatives had signed on. The pact became official when Shael, unprompted, carved the agreed signal glyph into the plaza's pulseplate.
The beacon atop Ridge 6B activated at dusk.
It sang low and deep.
The soil resonated.
And the first full-region sync pulse swept across the valley like a second sunrise.
Children ran barefoot through the waves of light.
Elders wept.
Crops didn't grow immediately. But the ground felt... alive again.
Benedict stared at the readings with the same expression he wore when dismantling scrap: bored fascination.
"It's not efficient," he muttered.
"But it's working," Eline said softly.
He gave a noncommittal grunt. "I'll charge them more for the next upgrade."
Behind him, someone shouted, "To the Signal Lord of the Soil!"
Benedict turned slowly.
"Absolutely not," he said.
But the name stuck anyway.
---
In the weeks that followed, the pact began to evolve. Farmers submitted pulse-data journals, detailing how each weather shift resonated in their fields. Benedict created a rudimentary pulse-to-crop growth correlation engine. It was crude, wildly imprecise, and immediately treated like prophecy.
"This isn't a miracle," he said as a delegation from West Grainsworth handed him a statue made from mana-hardened dirt. "It's correlation."
"So you're saying the earth speaks now," said Nim.
"No, I'm saying it pings back. Slightly."
A nearby child who had begun calling the node hums 'earth songs' was busy choreographing a dance with six other children. They circled the Ridge beacon every evening.
Benedict installed a waveform filter to prevent relay interference.
One evening, the beacon briefly pulsed in a rhythm that mirrored the children's dance.
Benedict pretended not to notice.
Another evening, the same beacon pulsed in counter-rhythm—playfully. The children burst into laughter.
He did notice that.
---
Then came the honeyfolk.
Technically, they were pollinators—half-nomadic herbalists and bee-kin who had never signed trade contracts in living memory. They showed up at the pulse boundary with jars of glowing nectar, encoded with whisper-glyphs.
Benedict frowned. "Is this payment? A message? A trap?"
One of the honeyfolk stepped forward. She had pollen-dusted hair and a glimmering hum-crystal worn as a pendant.
She bowed.
"We hear your signal," she said. "The hive agrees."
She offered the nectar.
"We trade this for soil-song."
Eline leaned in and whispered, "This is either very good or incredibly complicated."
Benedict sighed. "Fine. But I want a ledger copy of every glyph they hum."
The honeyfolk didn't smile.
They just began to sing.
And the Ridge beacon answered.
That night, bees swarmed the top of the pulse beacon and rested there until dawn. Farmers swore the crops sang in return.
Some villagers began sleeping outside, convinced that dreams were clearer within the pulse lines. Artists painted by beaconlight. An enterprising baker claimed her bread rose better at sync-time.
Eline collected anecdotal data. Benedict collected royalties.
---
Later that night, Benedict sat alone beside the newly carved soil-glyph node at the edge of the orchard hills. The wind carried the pulse hum gently through the grass.
His bracer chimed softly. Another sync. Another report. Another village joining the pact.
He didn't feel triumphant.
Just tired.
Tired and curious.
He stared at the stars above Vehrmath, where the Red Shell now pulsed in time with the land below.
Not control.
Not empire.
Just rhythm.
"Keep syncing," he said to no one.
And the earth replied with a quiet, steady pulse.