Alaric Veyne, self-titled "guy who just wants a nap," was not having a princely day. Sprawled under an oak in Eldrathia's palace gardens, he'd been halfway through a daydream about roast pheasant when the ground shook. A demon scout—seven feet of charred muscle and claws like butcher knives—crashed through the hedge, roaring loud enough to wake a coma patient. Alaric groaned, rolling to his feet. "Seriously? I'm on my lunch break."The beast charged, claws slashing where his head had been. He dodged—barely—tripping over a root he'd neglected to prune. "Okay, buddy, let's not escalate this," he muttered, hands raised like he could reason with a hellspawn. The demon swiped again, shredding his favorite oak. "That was vintage, you oversized grill!" Alaric yelped, diving behind a fountain.Panic hit—not the noble kind, but the "I'm not dying over a picnic" kind. His skin buzzed, green and sharp, and before he could overthink it, a dozen thorny vines erupted from his arms—thick, barbed, and chaotic. "Whoa, hold up!" he shouted, flailing as they whipped around. "Since when do I get the bulk discount?"The demon lunged, undeterred. Two vines snagged its legs, yanking it down with a thud. Another pair lashed its arms, thorns sinking in, hissing with sulfur. "Take that, campfire!" Alaric taunted, then winced as a rogue vine smacked his cheek.
"Ow! Pick a team!"He scrambled up, half-crouched, wrestling his plant posse into order. The demon snapped a vine—sap sprayed like a burst pipe—but six more sprouted, faster, angrier. "Oh, come on," he groaned. "I didn't order the deluxe package!" Instinct kicked in, sloppy but effective. He'd read vines could choke trees; why not fast-forward? Gritting his teeth, he sent them surging—four coiled its neck, tightening like a noose, two speared its eyes with a wet pop, the rest shredded its chest. "Choke on that, weed-whacker!" he yelled, ducking a wild claw.The demon gurgled, collapsing in a steaming pile. The vines slithered back into his skin, leaving Alaric panting.
"Well, that was overkill," he muttered, wiping sap off his face. "And gross. I need a shower and a therapist." He flopped onto the grass, staring at the sky. "Quantity unlocked, huh? Great. I'm a walking lawnmower. Where's the manual?"Then he saw it—a glint on the corpse. Grumbling, he checked: a metal plate etched with a thorned crown and a fang. His stomach dropped. "That's… not random," he said. "They're hunting me. Fantastic. More chores.