Corruption Potion—a poison with extremely destructive effects on the environment. It was costly to produce, and most of its primary materials originated from within the Hermit Empire’s borders…
Farr observed the patch of withered farmland with cold composure, his brow slightly furrowed.
He keenly noticed a phenomenon: the withering caused by the toxin was not uniformly distributed.
The fields closest to several major irrigation channels had died most thoroughly, as if scorched by fire. Meanwhile, some plots farther from the channels and at slightly higher elevations, though also showing signs of disease, still had patches of wheat seedlings stubbornly displaying yellow hues—they hadn’t completely perished.
“My lord… have you determined what this truly is?” the elderly village chief asked tremblingly as he caught up, his voice carrying a thread of hope.
Farr slowly rose to his feet, brushing debris from his hands. Lillian stepped forward to grasp his hand and cast a purification spell.
With a puzzled expression, Farr gently shook his head: “The situation is complex. This is a malignant blight I’ve never encountered before. Judging by these symptoms, it appears to be some kind of disease that combines withering, rot, and unknown factors—and it seems to be contagious.”
He deliberately avoided using sensitive terms like “corruption potion” and “poisoning.”
“A disease… so it really is a blight!” The villagers’ faces turned ashen.
“Can it be cured? My lord, please save our fields!”
Upon hearing about the contagion, the village chief dropped to his knees with a thud, tears streaming down his weathered face.
Most of the village’s wheat fields were adjacent to each other—if this spread, wouldn’t they face complete crop failure?
The other villagers began pleading desperately upon hearing this.
Rather than immediately answering the village chief’s concerns, Farr pointed to some of the still-intact fields and asked: “The irrigation for these fields and those completely withered ones—do they use the same water channel, or is there some difference?”
The village chief wiped his tears and looked in the direction Farr indicated, stunned for a moment: “Ah? Yes… it’s water drawn from the same main channel, but…”
As if remembering something, he pointed to the complex network of water distribution points between the field ridges and continued:
“Our village’s old irrigation system was built decades ago. To accommodate fields at different elevations, it was divided into several smaller tributary channels. The area near the mountain base that withered most severely receives water directly from the main channel—the flow there is heaviest. The fields you mentioned… they seem to use the tributary channels. That channel has fallen into disrepair over the years, with several spots that leak badly, so much less water flows there, and much more slowly too…”
At this point, the village chief clearly realized something: “Are you saying the blight came… came down from the main channel? I… I’ll have people block it immediately!”
Farr quickly grabbed the old village chief’s arm and shook his head: “Not necessarily. This entire patch of wheat is already dead—blocking it now would be meaningless.”
He turned to face the bewildered villagers and announced loudly: “Everyone, this blight is mysterious and likely requires more specialized personnel to handle. But please don’t worry—I will report this immediately, and someone will come to deal with it soon.”
After speaking, Farr didn’t even collect his water sample. Under the villagers’ grateful yet anxious gazes, he left Deer Horn Village. The convoy traveled along the road and quickly disappeared from the villagers’ sight.
…
Deep in the night, all was silent.
A ghostly figure quietly slipped out from some inconspicuous corner of the village.
Using shadows and terrain with extreme professionalism, he avoided all possible lines of sight. His target was unmistakably clear—those tributary channels!
“This damned broken water system—why did it have to branch off!” The shadow crouched beside a tributary channel, pulling out a black potion bottle that was only about half full, cursing irritably. “I don’t know if what’s left will be enough…”
“Enough for what?”
The curious voice exploded like thunder beside the shadow’s ear. He whirled around in horror.
There stood Farr with his hands clasped behind his back, watching him with an amused smile.
“You… you!?” He had clearly seen the convoy leave!
“Are all demon spies as stupid as you?” Farr taunted the fellow dressed as a villager with leisurely composure. “One little ruse and out you came.”
The half-bottle of corruption potion came flying at him, which Farr easily dodged.
Taking advantage of Farr’s evasive movement, the villager’s hands transformed into massive claws, slashing toward Farr.
“You’re the fool for daring to come alone!” Seeing his cover blown, the spy immediately went all-out.
“That remains to be seen.” Farr stood his ground, apparently not intending to dodge at all.
The spy naturally sensed something was wrong, but with his attack already committed, he could only charge straight forward.
Only to be stopped dead in his tracks halfway.
There was nothing visible before him—what had blocked his advance?
First-tier magic—Frozen Hand!
Cold spread from his chest, and in an instant the spy’s body was completely frozen, leaving only his head exposed.
Before him, light and shadow twisted, revealing Lillian’s figure.
“It’s a shapeshifter.” Lillian said with some disgust as she brushed off her hands.
Farr nodded. “Shapeshifter” was a derogatory term for changelings, and this fellow’s ability to manifest claws was indeed a standard changeling skill.
Footsteps approached from nearby—the two guards he had positioned at a distance.
The remaining two guards and eight clerical staff had stayed with the carriages.
Soon all the villagers were roused, and seeing the spy being carried to the clearing by the guards, one farm woman screamed in terror.
“Jakob? What’s happening?”
The two guards glanced at Farr, and receiving his permission, began repeatedly stabbing the spy’s frozen claws with their swords.
At first the spy could endure it, but before long he was howling in agony from the excruciating pain.
Simultaneously, the villager’s face contorted, cycling through several different visages.
Seeing this, the guards finally stopped: “There you have it. This is a shapeshifter.”
“Then… then what about my husband?” the farm woman asked tremblingly.
The guards shrugged without answering, but the answer was obvious—hiding a corpse was certainly easier than hiding a living person.
The woman’s eyes rolled back and she collapsed, caught just in time by nearby villagers.
Farr pulled the village chief aside for a few private words, leaving behind two gold coins and instructing the chief to help the affected villagers weather this crisis.
Then he departed the village with the spy in tow.
“You two, escort this fellow back and deliver him to the Guild Master.”
No further instructions were needed—his father would naturally have appropriate measures upon receiving this spy. No need for him to offer superfluous opinions.
“Yes!” The two guards saluted and departed along the route they had come.
Farr returned to his carriage, not intending to delay further. At dawn they would continue toward Mute Wind Town.
However, lying in the carriage compartment, Farr couldn’t settle into rest.
Lillian, kneeling beside him, asked: “What’s wrong? Isn’t catching a spy a good thing? Why do you keep frowning?”
“I just can’t understand the why of it. Regular detection spells can’t identify changelings—they’re naturally excellent spies. But their numbers have never been abundant, so logically they shouldn’t be expended like this. Destroying some farmland? Even if the entire nation suffered crop failure, the kingdom could still purchase sufficient grain from the forest elves. I can’t comprehend what they hope to achieve with this.”
Due to their unique environment and distinctive druidic talents, forest elves could, when necessary and at certain cost, produce grain explosively. And to contain the Hermit Empire’s expansion, they clearly wouldn’t want the humans on the front lines to collapse from mere famine without even fighting.
So Farr couldn’t understand what the demons hoped to gain by wasting their own spies like this.
“If you can’t figure it out, then don’t think about it. Are you planning not to rest just because you can’t understand?” Lillian said quietly.
Farr sighed. Lillian was right—let his Guild Master father worry about this matter. What he should be considering now was how to handle the dungeon’s anomalous changes after taking office next month. He’d heard the Church also wanted to send people to assist…
