Corruption potion—an extremely destructive toxin for the environment.
Its cost was not low, and most of its main ingredients came from within the territory of the Hermit Empire…
Fal calmly studied the withered fields, his brows slightly furrowed.
He keenly noticed something: the blight was not spread evenly.
Fields close to the main irrigation channels were the most thoroughly destroyed, as though scorched by fire.
Meanwhile, the plots slightly farther away, on higher ground, though unhealthy, still had some yellowing stalks struggling to live.
“My lord… do you know what this is?” The old village chief followed nervously, clinging to a thread of hope.
Fal slowly stood, brushing soil fragments from his hands. Lilian stepped forward, casting a cleansing spell over them.
Fal’s face showed only confusion as he shook his head lightly. “It’s complicated. Some kind of malignant blight I’ve never seen before. Judging from the symptoms, it seems like a mix of wither, rot, and some unknown element. And it looks contagious.”
He deliberately avoided words like “corruption potion” or “poisoning.”“A plague… so it really is disease!” The villagers’ faces turned pale.
“Can it be cured? My lord, please save our crops!”
At the mention of contagion, the village chief fell to his knees with a thud, weeping.
Most of the village’s wheat fields were connected. If it spread, they would all be ruined.
Other villagers, stricken with fear, begged desperately as well.
Instead of answering, Fal pointed to the still-intact patches. “Those fields—are they irrigated from the same canal as the ruined ones, or is there some difference?”
The old chief wiped his tears and followed Fal’s gaze. He paused. “Ah? It’s… it’s the same main canal. But…”
He seemed to remember something, pointing toward the complicated splits in the irrigation system.
“Our old canal was dug decades ago. To serve fields of different slopes, it splits into several branches.
The worst-hit fields near the mountain foot are watered directly by the main canal, so they get the most water.
But those patches you pointed out… they’re fed by a side channel.
That ditch is old and leaky in many places, so less water reaches there, and it flows much slower…”
As he said this, the chief clearly realized something. “You mean the blight… came down from the main canal? I… I’ll get people to block it right away!”
Fal caught the old man’s arm, shaking his head. “No need. This whole section of wheat is already dead. Blocking it now is pointless.”
He turned, addressing the villagers in a clear voice. “Everyone, this disease is strange. Professionals will be needed to handle it. But do not worry—I will report it immediately. People will come soon to deal with it.”
After that, Fal didn’t even bother drawing water. Under the villagers’ tearful thanks and anxious stares, the convoy departed Deerhorn Village, soon vanishing from sight.
…
Midnight. Silent.
From a hidden corner of the village, a shadow slipped out.
Like a ghost, he avoided every possible line of sight, moving with expert stealth. His goal was the irrigation ditches.
“Damn this broken canal, why so many branches!” the shadow cursed, crouching at one channel. From his robe he pulled a half-empty vial of black liquid. “Hope this little bit is enough…”
“Enough for what?”
The curious voice boomed in his ear like thunder.
Startled, he whipped around—
Fal stood not far away, hands clasped behind his back, smiling faintly.
“You… you!?” The man’s eyes widened. He had clearly seen the convoy leave!
“Are all demon spies as stupid as you?” Fal mocked leisurely, looking at the villager-disguised figure. “One little trick, and you came crawling out.”
The half-vial of corruption potion was hurled at him, but Fal dodged with ease.
Using that distraction, the “villager” transformed—his hands becoming razor claws that slashed toward Fal.
“You’re the fool! Coming alone!” Snarling, the spy went for broke.
“Not necessarily.” Fal didn’t even move, as if he had no intention of dodging.
The spy sensed something was wrong, but could no longer stop himself.
Halfway through his charge, he was abruptly halted.
Nothing visible blocked him—yet something had caught him.
First-circle spell—Frozen Hand!
Cold surged from his chest outward, and in moments the spy was frozen solid, only his head left free.
By his side, a shimmer distorted, and Lilian’s form appeared.
“It’s a shapeshifter,” Lilian said with distaste, clapping her hands clean.
Fal nodded. “Yes, shapeshifters. Those claws are their trademark skill.”
Footsteps approached—it was the two guards Fal had stationed at a distance.
The others remained at the convoy, guarding the wagons and staff.
Soon, villagers were roused. When the frozen spy was dragged into the square, a woman screamed in terror.
“Jacques? What’s going on!?”
At a nod from Fal, the guards pierced the frozen claws again and again with swords.
At first, the spy bore it with clenched teeth, but before long, his screams rang out as agony twisted his face—changing rapidly through several different disguises.
The guards finally stopped. “See? A shapeshifter.”
“Then… then what about my husband?” the woman sobbed.
The guard only shrugged. He didn’t answer, but the truth was plain—hiding a dead man was far easier than hiding a living one.
The woman fainted, caught by nearby villagers.
Fal pulled the chief aside, whispered a few instructions, and left two gold coins to help those who had lost their crops survive the season.
Then he departed with the captured spy.
“You two, escort this one back to my father.”
No more words were needed. His father, the Guildmaster, would know how to handle the spy.
“Yes, sir!” The two guards saluted and departed with their prisoner.
Fal returned to the carriage, not planning to linger. At dawn, they would continue toward Yafeng Town.
But lying inside, Fal found no rest.
Lilian, kneeling beside him, asked: “What’s wrong? Catching a spy should be good news. Why the frown?”
“I just don’t understand.
Normal detection spells can’t uncover shapeshifters—they’re born excellent spies.
But their numbers aren’t large. They shouldn’t be wasted like this.
To destroy some farmland? Even if the whole kingdom lost its crops, the elves of the forest could sell enough grain to cover it.
So what’s the point of the demons throwing spies away like this?”
The forest elves, thanks to their environment and druidic talents, could, at a cost, explosively increase grain production.
And to curb the Hermit Empire’s expansion, they certainly wouldn’t stand by while humans collapsed just because of famine.
Which meant Fal could not fathom the demons’ strategy.
“If you can’t figure it out, then stop thinking,” Lilian murmured. “Are you planning to never rest just because it makes no sense?”
Fal sighed. She was right. This was his father’s problem to worry about.
His concern now should be what to do about the dungeon mutation after he took office next month. Word was, even the Church wanted to send someone to assist…