The heavy rain hammered the clearing, pounding soil and fallen leaves into viscous clumps that clung to boots like tar. Droplets spattered Zeke's forehead; he tipped his head back, letting the cold water wash across his face while the memory of that distant rooftop still flickered behind his eyelids. Something about that moment called out to him. Beckoned his soul for another swirl in the wind Violet by his side.

"Get back to work," Fredric growled grumpily.

"Eye, eye, cap'n," Zeke mock-saluted, then swung his shovel with renewed sarcasm.

Side by side, the two boys slogged in the ever-deepening pit, scooping soggy earth from the center and flinging it to the brimming rims of twin mounds. Rain sheeted off their rolled-up sleeves and half-soaked dress shirts, the fabric plastering to skin; each stroke landed with a wet thunk that vibrated up aching forearms. They grunted, dug, and grunted again—yet the hole refused to change, as though the ground itself mocked their effort.

"Man, why are we stuck doing this shit?" Fredric muttered.

"Well, you wanted vegetables," Zeke answered, wiping mud from his brow.

"I mean, can't we just use magic to dig this up faster?" Fredric asked, stabbing his shovel into the mire.

"No can do," the club president called from the veranda of the log cabin, sheltered beneath its overhanging roof.

"Why the hell not?!" Fredric shouted, hurling his shovel down with a splat.

"It will contaminate the ground with mana, stopping plants from growing here," she explained calmly, sipping steaming tea while rain drummed the wooden railing.

"What?!" Fredric spluttered, face twisted in soggy outrage.

"I'm surprised you didn't know," Zeke said with a half-smile. "This is why everything's canned and the farms are hidden from public eye."

"I knew!" Fredric snapped.

"Why is your friend so angry?" the club president asked Zeke, brows lifting.

"You'd be surprised, but he's actually super lazy when it comes to daily tasks," Zeke laughed. "He's essentially useless without magic, since he uses it for everything."

"Maybe it's because he a magic-type demon?" the president wondered. "Magic demons are horrible at everything but magic."

"Perhaps," Zeke murmured, planting his shovel once more.

"I'm not a magic-type demon," Fredric grunted, resuming his digging.

"What—really?" Zeke exclaimed.

"Yep-p-p," Fredric replied, jaw tight against the rain.

"Well, you seem like a magic type to me," the club president scoffed. "A lazy good-for-nothing who can't do anything without using magic."

"It's amazing how you've already established my psychological profile," Fredric shot back, voice thick with sarcasm.

"Well, mages are rational and calculative, so I feel like you fit the description," Zeke noted. "By the way, what type are you?" he asked the president, flicking mud from his shovel blade.

"Physical," she replied, shoulders squaring with faint pride.

"Huh, figures!" Fredric barked a laugh. "Of course a moronic simpleton like you is a physical-type demon."

"Shut up, you useless mage!" she shouted from her dry perch.

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"I'm telling you, I'm not a mage," Fredric sighed, muscles tensing as he drove the shovel deep. "I'm a soul type."

"I've never heard of that type before," Zeke said, curiosity overriding fatigue. "What is it?"

"A wild card," the president replied, humor softening her voice. "A contractor whose demon doesn't adhere to any category. They're usually strange," she added with a chuckle. "You know Amy is one, too. Look at her—she loves plants with all her heart. If it weren't for her, I might have accepted any good-for-nothing just to help us out."

"Well, we'll help you as much as we can," Zeke promised, flashing a mud-flecked grin. "Isn't that right, Fredric?"

"Mhm," Fredric grunted, shoulders hunched but shovel still moving.

"Thank you," the president said, warmth brightening her eyes. The sincerity in her tone made Fredric glance up, momentarily disarmed by the honest gratitude. "By the way, Zeke," she added.

"Huh?" Zeke responded, pausing mid-swing.

"What type are you?" she asked.

"Magic, I guess," Zeke answered, uncertainty threading his voice like static.

"Really?" she echoed, remembering every jibe she had lobbed at Fredric.

"You're a physical type," Fredric cut in, rainwater dripping from his fringe.

"Really? But I'm pretty good at using magic," Zeke said, brow furrowing.

"Yeah, but your magic alters the physical properties of your body," Fredric explained. "Everything you create with that black smoke of yours—even the smoke itself—comes from your body being deconstructed at a molecular level."

Suddenly, as the last drops of water hit the ground, the rain stopped. A hush settled over the clearing, broken only by the soft hiss of moisture steaming off the black-loam earth. The first shafts of sunlight pierced the clouds and brushed Zeke's cheeks, sending a warm ripple of nostalgia across his skin—an invisible embrace, as though some distant mother figure had wrapped him in her arms, rocking away the chill of the storm.

"That reminds me the exams are coming up, are you guys gonna be okay coming here?" the president asked, her voice drifting from the veranda where she still cradled a china cup.

"Don't worry, we've got those exams in the back," Zeke remarked. "Isn't that right Fredric?"

Fredric only sighed, droplets sliding off the tip of his nose like tiny silver beads.

"Hey, why do we have to dig this big ass hole anyway?" he asked, levering his shovel against the mud as though it were a dull spear.

"Because you asked us for vegetables, this is your way of paying us back," the president sipped her tea, the porcelain clinking softly.

"No, I mean, like what are you going to use it for?" he clarified, brow furrowed under strands of rain-slicked hair.

"Oh, we'll build another orangery here," the president explained. "Because of the technology required to for the plants to grow here, you essentially have to dig up a massive plot of land."

"Must be pretty expensive," Zeke remarked. "All this tech."

"Oh, we sell our produce to private figures, so we can easily afford it," she laughed, steam curling above her cup like mischievous spirits.

A breeze stirred the cabin's eaves, carrying the tangy scent of wet pine just as Amy emerged from the tree line, a knitted basket of gardening tools nestled on her hip. Rain-beads shone on her braid like tiny crystals.

"Can I borrow one of you?" she asked.

"I'll go," Zeke tossed his shovel aside, climbing out of the pit with a muddy grunt. "What do you need?" he asked.

"Follow me," she said in a soft tone, her accent light as wind-chimes.

Inside the nearest orangery, sunlight spilled through vaulted glass panes, turning the air to liquid gold. Zeke's senses flooded with a tapestry of scent: sweet citrus blossom, the peppery bite of damp soil, a faint metallic tang of fertilizer rigs humming beneath the floor. Orange trees rose from terracotta pots in orderly ranks, their waxy leaves trembling, tiny green globes just beginning to swell with promise.

"First, we gotta help the citrus trees," she remarked.

Amy's pruning shears snipped with crisp precision, trimming errant branches so new growth could rise like emerald fireworks. Zeke mirrored her movements—clumsy at first, his cuts hesitant—but determination steadied his hands. A playful smirk tugged at Amy's lips, and for a heartbeat her honey-colored eyes caught the light, glimmering with approval.

"They're thirsty, let's give them some water," Amy remarked with a cheerful tone.

Together they moved through the rows, Zeke tilting a metal watering can so gentle rivulets soaked the soil without drowning the roots. The rhythmic splash of water joined the hum of circulation fans overhead, weaving an intimate symphony through the vaulted chamber.

As they worked, conversation unfurled—low, melodic, punctuated by the soft ring of shears and the rustle of leaves. Amy shared memories of failed sprouts and sudden miracles, of soil that refused to yield until coaxed with patience and song. Zeke listened, questions tumbling from him like seeds scattered across fertile ground. Each answer she offered sank deep, feeding his curiosity and tugging him further into her orbit.

Watching her in the amber glow of approaching twilight, Zeke felt a quiet awe bud in his chest. Her movements—precise, fluid, utterly present—seemed tuned to some secret rhythm of the earth. In her tranquility he sensed a kinship with every living thing around her; it radiated from her fingertips and settled over the orangery like a blessing. A strange camaraderie took root between them, fragile yet persistent, weaving an unseen tapestry that anchored him in this moment—a memory destined to linger long after twilight bled into night, like citrus perfume clinging to the cool evening air.

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