The night grew deep, and the somber sky was so oppressive it felt hard to breathe.
Clad in leather armor with his hand on his sword hilt, Barrett patrolled the camp.
He could feel it clearly: a toxin called "panic" was poisoning the air, seeping into the hearts of the people faster than water from a poisoned well.
The pioneers and the natives gathered in starkly separate groups. The former spoke in low voices, their gazes toward the tent on the summit filled with suspicion. The latter were in even worse shape, their expressions numb, as if awaiting a death that was already preordained.
The foundation trenches were mostly dug, but the vines planted within them—their supposed hope—remained dark and lifeless, like pieces of charred bone.
Just then, a gaunt figure leaning on a walking stick silently blocked his path.
It was Old Walker.
"Captain Barrett," Old Walker said, his voice low but unusually solemn, "The townsfolk are in an uproar. They all want to run back to Gray Mist Village. I told them they could..."
Barrett's heart sank.
"But it's a false promise of retreat," Old Walker's parched lips trembled. "The human heart is like a pot of boiling water. You can't just plug the lid; you have to leave a vent for the steam, or the whole thing will explode. They need that sliver of hope to hold on until the day our lord truly works a miracle."
The old village chief's words stunned the mercenary captain.
He hadn't expected that this old man, who seemed so ignorant and hidebound, had somehow managed to grasp the situation.
"Captain, I know the lord is doing something monumental, something none of us can comprehend." Old Walker took a step forward.
"Please, you must tell the lord not to be angered by our ignorance. We're just pitiful folk, scared witless by the swamp. We've never even seen what hope looks like. Ask him… to give us a little more time."
Barrett was silent. He looked at the old man before him—stooped and frail, yet supporting his entire people in his own way—and his heart filled with a complex mix of emotions.
He gave a solemn nod, turned, and strode quickly toward the lord's tent on the slope.
He stopped at the entrance and stamped the mud from his boots, then took a deep breath and strode inside.
Inside the tent, Velin was not asleep.
He stood at the tent's entrance, holding a corner of the flap open. His wine-red eyes calmly observed the figures bustling around the distant bonfire.
A needle-like headache pulsed from the overuse of his Spiritual Power, but he merely rubbed his temples, his expression blank. His gaze, however, remained as sharp as a blade.
"What is it?" His voice was tinged with irritation.
Yet, Barrett felt a bone-chilling cold in that irritation.
He remained silent for a moment before relaying Old Walker's "delaying tactic" in full. He concluded with a sincere plea, "Your Excellency, right now, your people… they need a visible sign of hope."
A dead silence fell over the tent, broken only by the wind.
Velin closed his eyes, trying to compose himself.
'I never should have brought these villagers along. They're the most unstable variable in this entire experiment.'
'Their collective panic, born from a lack of understanding, is severely hampering our overall efficiency.'
'On reflection, it seems the 'parameters' a ruler has to consider are far more troublesome than those in scientific research.'
After a long while, Velin opened his eyes. The anger within them was gone, replaced by pure calm.
"One moment."
With that, he retrieved the earthenware pot from before. It still contained some residue of the nutrient-rich soil that the Stone Skin Soft Vine hadn't fully absorbed.
Carrying the pot, he pushed aside the felt flap and walked straight out of the tent.
Barrett froze for a second, then immediately followed.
Velin led the bewildered Barrett to the trenches at the edge of camp where the vines had been planted. A short distance away, a few of the braver settlers had gathered to watch.
He crouched down, had a waterskin passed to him, and poured its contents into the pot, swirling it into a murky mixture.
"Spring Messenger."
Velin chanted in a low voice. An invisible power was instantly drawn from him, and his face grew a shade paler.
He poured the murky liquid onto a withered, blackened section of vine.
As Barrett watched in utter astonishment, a miracle happened.
The moment the liquid touched it, the desiccated vine was seemingly injected with life's primordial essence!
It shuddered violently. Its black bark cracked and split apart, revealing a vibrant, verdant green underneath!
The air filled with the CRACKLE of splitting fibers and the RUSTLE of soil being pushed aside.
Countless tiny buds sprouted from the vine as if alive, writhing and twisting as they shot out, growing longer and thicker in a frenzy!
In the span of a few breaths, the vine, which had been no thicker than a finger, swelled to the width of Barrett's forearm! It even sprouted several thick, palm-sized leaves with edges as sharp as blades!
The air filled with the smell of rust and fresh-cut grass.
"This… This is…"
Barrett dropped to one knee, reaching out to touch the tough, cool vine. It felt like living steel.
Velin stood up, looking down at him.
"It needs a rain to awaken it—a heavy one."
"Now, do you still think a retreat is necessary?"
Barrett's face burned with shame. He lowered his head even further, his voice taut. "Your Excellency! I repent for my foolishness!"
"I'm tired." Velin did not help him up. "Go. Tell them what happened here. Tell them what you think—all of it."
He gazed up at the somber sky.
"I will respect their choice. Those who wish to leave can take their things. I will not stop them. Those who wish to stay can wait here in peace."
...
When Barrett returned to the crowd, his heart still reeling with shock, a column of figures appearing on the horizon captured everyone's attention before he could even speak.
It was a small merchant caravan, led by Ryo, making its way toward the camp.
The crowd's gaze shifted between the utterly dumbfounded Barrett and the distant caravan that symbolized supplies and hope. Their faces were a mixture of bewilderment and doubt.
Ryo ran all the way up the rise, reporting excitedly, "My Lord! I've brought them! And all the supplies!"
Velin nodded, his gaze traveling past Ryo to the caravan unloading its cargo. It was led by the same manager from the Golden Sail Commerce Association, Cohen.
While directing his workers, Cohen discreetly sized up this so-called "new territory." The atmosphere was bizarre, the people's faces a mixture of numbness and anxiety. Aside from the tents, there was nothing but haphazardly dug trenches. In those trenches, a few half-dead black vines sporadically sported strange, malnourished-looking leaves.
Finally, his gaze fell upon Velin. The young man was even thinner than he had been in Shiyan Town, his face pale and shadowed with dark circles under his eyes.
In his mind, Cohen had already passed judgment on this pioneering effort: 'An absolute, unmitigated failure.'
An attendant sidled up to him. "Manager, the mood here is off. Should we adjust the price…?"
"No need." Cohen shook his head. "We'll settle for the original price. Also, tell Lord Klein that we'll give him a discount on the transport fee."
The attendant was dumbfounded.
"It's an investment," Cohen said with a grin. "In less than six months, when he's at the end of his rope, this little bit of goodwill we're showing today will be our best bargaining chip for driving down the price when he's forced to sell his land. The title of a Pioneer Knight, you see, would be quite the collector's item."
He straightened his collar, plastered a warm, enthusiastic smile back on his face, and personally walked toward Velin.
"My esteemed Lord Klein! It is a pleasure to see you again!" Cohen spread his arms wide, gesturing at the camp that, to his eyes, was utterly desolate. "Your domain, it looks… so full of primal energy!"
Velin simply smiled at him, then looked away, his gaze turning toward the sky.
Suddenly, a flash of violent, purple lightning tore across the sky, illuminating most of it.
It was followed by a deafening, rolling CRACK.
The Moon of Wailing was about to arrive.