“Master, are you still reading reports about the dungeon?”
Inside the carriage, maid Lilian picked up a piece of fruit from the plate, tasted it, then picked up another one and fed it to Fal, whose eyes never left the papers.
Without looking up, Fal replied:
“Not dungeon reports. After the demon tide, the intelligence submitted from Yafeng Town has been fewer and more perfunctory.
I’ve already finished reading them, and there isn’t much useful information. I’ll still have to investigate personally after taking office.
As for what I’m reading now, these are reports about recent demon spy activities.”
“Demon spies?” Lilian tilted her head in puzzlement. “Even the branch guildmaster has to handle that?”
“Normally it’s the responsibility of nobles and the church. But in the current situation, who can be sure?
If war really breaks out one day, issuing quests to recruit adventurers for the battlefield wouldn’t be impossible.”
Another piece of fruit was stuffed into Fal’s mouth, and Lilian asked again: “So what have these demon spies been doing lately?”“Nothing yet,” Fal tossed aside the report he had just finished reading. “It’s all just reports of spies discovered in the wild, or ones caught when leaving the city during inspection. The demons seem to be transferring their spies from inside cities to outside. I don’t know what they’re plotting.”
Though he didn’t know their goal, such large-scale movements clearly weren’t meaningless.
Once one or two spies were caught like this, nobles would naturally tighten city inspections, and the church would increase patrols outside.
The end result would inevitably be many more spies getting caught.
So with such a heavy sacrifice, what were they hoping to gain?
The demons were clearly preparing something big. No wonder before departure, his old man the Guildmaster wanted to assign him a diamond-rank bodyguard.
But he had refused.
Lying on the soft cushions of the carriage, Fal quietly pondered the reports in his hands—until suddenly he heard a commotion from the rear of the convoy.
“What’s going on?” Fal called toward the outside of the carriage.
A guard’s voice came back: “Branch Master, a water barrel in the rear wagon broke from the jolts, all the water leaked out.”
This guard clearly knew the art of flattery—Fal hadn’t even officially taken office yet, but he was already calling him Branch Master. Unfortunately, Fal wasn’t moved by that.
A broken barrel was mostly just shoddy quality, but on bumpy roads outside cities, such things were normal.
Unlike Fal’s private carriage, equipped with a shock-absorbing array that let him read without discomfort, the rear wagon had no such luxury.
In short, a minor accident, nothing serious.
They had brought two barrels at departure anyway.
And their route passed through inhabited areas, so resupply wasn’t really a concern. Even without water, they could manage.
But to be safe—
“Where’s the nearest resupply point?”
“Just for water, there’s a village with a well this afternoon,” the guard answered.
“Then we’ll replenish there before continuing,” Fal ordered.
“Yes, sir.”
…
By afternoon, the convoy reached the small village marked on the map—Deerhorn Village.
But the sight before them made Fal frown slightly.
At the village entrance, many villagers were gathered, arguing heatedly. Their anxious, angry voices carried even from afar.
When they saw the convoy—well-equipped, bearing the Adventurer Guild’s crest—their arguments only grew more agitated instead of calming down.
“Master, something feels wrong,” Lilian whispered by Fal’s ear. “The way they’re looking at us… not very friendly.”
Fal rolled his eyes. Of course he could see that.
“Stop.” Fal gave a short command.
The wagons halted in the open space at the village entrance.
Fal straightened his robe, then stepped out with Lilian and two guards.
As they approached, the noisy villagers fell quieter, though their wary, suspicious eyes did not fade.
An old man, looking to be the village chief, was pushed forward by several burly men. He hesitated, then greeted them.
“Honored… lord,” the old man bowed clumsily. “I don’t know what brings you to Deerhorn Village. If it’s just water, the old well in the center of the village is yours to use. But… but our village is in trouble right now, I fear we cannot properly host you.”
His words were cautious, as though terrified of offending them.
No need for much worldly knowledge—just a glance at Fal’s ornate carriage was enough to know he was someone they couldn’t afford to provoke.
Fal’s tone was even: “We are from the Adventurer Guild, only passing by, needing some drinking water. Forgive the intrusion.”
His gaze swept over the villagers’ worried faces, then he shifted the topic. “But, it seems you are facing quite a problem? Perhaps we could be of some help?”
“Help?” a burly man couldn’t hold back, his voice bitter and angry. “You city nobles only come for taxes—when have you ever cared for us? My field! My livelihood! Harvest was almost here, but overnight—it’s all ruined!”
A foolish man—Fal could have him killed just for those words, and no one would dare object.
But instead of anger, Fal noted the man’s words stirred murmurs of agreement. Many villagers lowered their heads, wiping away tears.
“Silence, Hawke!” the village chief scolded, but the wrinkles on his face deepened. “My lord, please forgive this poor man’s rudeness. He is only desperate, not in his right mind.”
Fal waved his hand. “It’s fine. Just explain the situation.”
The chief sighed heavily.
“My lord, you may not know. Just today, to the west and north of the village, near the forest—our best wheat fields suffered some strange calamity.
Overnight, most of the wheat stalks withered!
Not insects, not any common blight—the stalks turned black and brittle, crumbling to powder at a touch!
And… and those who went near the fields reported a foul smell. Some even felt dizzy and sick.
We’ve farmed for generations, yet never seen such a sickness!”
Fal’s brows knit tighter. The description sounded oddly familiar.
“Can you take us there?” Fal’s expression grew serious.
The chief nodded. The group crossed the village and headed toward the fields outside.
The closer they got to the western fields, the stronger the stench became—a mix of rot and some sickly-sweet metallic tang.
Lilian wrinkled her delicate nose and quietly cast a weak purification spell over herself and Fal.
The scene before them was appalling.
Where golden wheat should have swayed, it now looked as though a hand of death had brushed over.
Large swaths of wheat were blackened, shriveled, and brittle, their leaves curled and lifeless.
The stark contrast with the still-healthy fields in the distance was striking.
Fal crouched, ignoring the guards’ protests, and carefully pinched some of the blackened soil and a fragment of dried leaf.
A burning sting tingled his fingertips—and at once he recognized the source of the familiarity.
“Corruption potion?”