Brant Hollow's gaze drifted from the towering monolith of stone to the ruined earth at his feet. He looked at the jagged scars in the soil, the evidence of eighteen months of painstaking, rhythmic labor.
Every inch of this field was a testament to his system, a silent, invisible masterpiece of cultivation that the villagers had mistaken for divine luck.
"Are the others getting this?" Brant asked, his voice trembling with a sudden, sharp realization of his own vulnerability. "The other reincarnators... are they getting a visit like this today?"
"The unflagged are receiving consolidation instructions," the golem replied, the vibration of its voice rattling the very air. "The flagged are receiving a different kind of contact."
"Different how?" Brant pressed, his eyes searching the golem's unmoving face for a shred of humanity.
"The flagged are being addressed," the golem stated.
