Am I the Only One With a Panel?

Rowan died the way gentle people do — quietly, unlucky, in the middle of an ordinary day. He woke ten years dead inside a tower that died before him, in a body a noble house grew and buried — with the only system panel this world will ever make. His bound domain is the gentlest power under heaven: seed, root, and bloom. He will use it to feed a starving village, mend what the world broke, and raise a dead city floor by living floor. But gentle is not small. Every seed he plants is a node of his body. Every field, a limb. His anger runs through root-webs for miles — when he rages, the green answers: thorns rise like armies, forests march, and nature itself goes to war for a boy who only ever wanted a garden. And when he is calm, it worships. Grass bends where he walks. Flowers turn to follow him like a court. Whole woodlands lean toward their maker. He cannot die while his green still lives — and his green does not stop. To end him, the world would have to burn every field, every forest, every blade of grass that ever bent his way. The world would have to die first.