Had the lowlanders possessed eyes like Samuel's, they would not have slept so soundly that day.
The first downpour churned what remained of Angaso Forest into a thick, muddy mess, its debris filling the trenches left by the army. The second downpour was less violent but lasted longer, falling steadily for an entire day. Newly formed streams carried their loads with reckless abandon. Nearby farmers were initially pleased—the recent drought meant this rain would spare them irrigation for days.
Farmers certainly lived around Angarsu, with small villages scattered throughout the area. Antler Town itself had grown from several such villages merging over time. Their fields lay just outside the town. Centuries of development had fostered a thriving agricultural civilization capable not only of self-sufficiency but also of supplying part of the nearby county seat—Red Eucalyptus County. Thus, when the ban on entering Angarsu Forest was issued, though nearby hunters and woodcutters cursed under their breath, they managed to get by thanks to military subsidies and the agricultural supplies from surrounding communities.
These farmers soon discovered the problem.
The plants flooded by rainwater didn't look refreshed like they'd been watered. On the contrary, nearly all the green had been washed away. They watched helplessly as their leafy greens wilted, turning a withered yellow. Even the most experienced farmers couldn't identify the disease. They reluctantly cut off diseased branches and leaves to feed their livestock, but even the least picky animals refused to eat them, kicking their hooves in frustration when forced.
Soon, it wasn't just one or two unfortunate farmers. The rain continued, and the withering spread slowly—not only across the fields but also through the wild grasses. Shepherds began worrying about their emaciating flocks. Farmers piled earth and dug ditches to prevent flooding, but it was useless. Streams from the Angaso Forest had already seeped into the soil. As the fields deteriorated day by day, the imminent autumn harvest threatened to be ruined. Panic spread among the farmers, and some hunters began scheming to defy orders and venture into the forest for provisions. Sneaking into Angaso Forest, they froze in terror at the sight of the vast emptiness before them.
Before the downpour, the withered Angarosa Forest still stood, like a corpse barely dressed and propped in a chair. Those defiant of the ban peered from afar, noticing only the trees seemed somewhat parched, unable to discern what had truly happened. But now, as torrential rain alternated with steady drizzle, it felt like a hammer striking a termite-hollowed dam. The forest's corpse collapsed. The stunned hunters stood there, treading the bare ground, watching the place that had been a forest transform into an endless expanse of black ruin.
When they returned, rumors exploded among the residents.
What happened? Why did the forest become like this? Will our town slowly turn into this too? What about the autumn harvest? What about our food? Can we even live here anymore?
The residents of Antler Town knew the most, yet this knowledge did little to calm them. Instead, it spawned more terrifying versions of the rumors. They claimed to have seen mummified corpses and skeletons rising from the town cemetery, witnessed the dead fighting the living in the streets, and even watched people around them turn into walking corpses. These terrified souls, already on edge, now faced such unsettling transformations right before their eyes. Nearly everyone became like startled sparrows, scattered and frightened.
They whispered that a necromancer had once controlled the corpses in the graveyard. The army's silence about him meant he hadn't been destroyed—after all, capturing a strange-looking Abyssal descendant would normally cause a stir for months. No news was definitely bad news. They claimed the repelled necromancer would return, with the withered fields marking his recovery. Eating those wilted crops might turn you into a zombie! Panicked villagers burned their fields and slaughtered livestock that had recently fallen ill or grazed on the crops, as if they might become zombie potatoes or zombie sheep. If Captain Harriet's troops hadn't arrived swiftly, they might have started targeting the recently ill.
Captain Harriet was overwhelmed.
Days prior, to boost morale and reassure residents, he'd held a grand banquet for recovering soldiers—a demonstration that the "wilting disease" wasn't incurable. Now, however, the half-informed, panicked populace had mistaken the military encampment for a place of divine favor. They swarmed the soldiers' quarters, terrifying the troops into believing an enemy attack, the officers into suspecting mutiny, and Harriet into fearing the truth about treaties with alien races had been exposed, sparking a rebellion... Thankfully, this farce miraculously ended without casualties, only a few cracked skulls and broken limbs from the crush.
He managed to calm the surrounding crowd, organized the troops, and rushed to the fields near Antler Town. The situation was as dire as he'd feared. Those who had sought military aid were the more rational and cooperative ones; the rest were already wreaking havoc on the fields and livestock. The troops halted these senseless acts of panic, summarily executing a few troublemakers who had taken advantage of the chaos, and finally brought the scene under control. But the problem remained entirely unresolved.
The captain looked at the familiar marks on the fields and felt a wave of unease wash over him. The withering marks on these crops weren't as terrifying as those in the Angars Forest. At first glance, they just looked like wilting from too much sun or malnutrition. He thought to himself: The withering gas's effective period is only five days. Its impact shouldn't be this widespread. This doesn't make sense... Yet Harriet was growing increasingly skeptical of everything she had learned.
Beyond the panic among the populace, another major crisis loomed.
"We're running out of food," Captain Harriet said bitterly.
"Oh?" The faceless specter responded, its voice devoid of emotion.
"Red Eucalyptus County's grain reserves are meager," the captain explained to the non-human before him. "This is the remote southeastern corner of Erian. Nearby villages sustain Antler Town, and in good years, they sell surplus to Red Eucalyptus County. Eucalyptus County isn't an agricultural county. Most residents engage in small-scale crafts and commerce. They don't produce grain themselves, relying instead on export goods and imported food. But the northern checkpoints have severed our supply lines. We can't get anything from the north anymore. Autumn is approaching. If Antler Town and the surrounding villages had a bountiful harvest, we might have scraped by this year. But with this happening..."
Tasha understood completely.
The outermost watchtower observed the northern checkpoint growing increasingly fortified. Barricades rose high, sentries patrolled in shifts, and soon enough, a full-fledged fortress might be erected there—a clear sign they intended to make this a permanent border. Deep trenches gouged the lone trail, scorched daily by flames. Such an elaborate setup seemed excessive if meant solely to ward off mindless infected undead.
It seemed they were guarding against something else—something like the Wither Curse, still capable of spreading.
The Wither Curse, once met with immediate extermination by nature-loving races and adventurers, now roamed the lands of Eryan like an alien species deprived of its natural predators.
Is the Curse of the Withered Covenant truly that potent? Hard to say. According to Victor's explanation, the original Withered Curse was more ferocious and swift than this current iteration, with differences in various details. Yet the Curse of the Withered Covenant was never a stable weapon to begin with. Forged from the curses of the Covenant's fallen druids and the necromancer's spells, it maintained a delicate equilibrium between two forces. Typically used within days of its creation, no one knew what might happen if left untouched for too long. Moreover, forget Fallen Druids and Necromancers—even ordinary mages are now hunted down in Eryan. The origin of this thing remains uncertain.
It could only be said that Mavis and her skills arrived just in time.
Not only did she free the residents of Tashan from their worries, but she also delivered a great gift to the city.
"Our remaining grain reserves won't last through the winter," Harriet stated. "I imagine your people face the same problem..."
The implication was unmistakable—a direct plea for help. If Tashan continued feigning ignorance, he'd soon have no choice but to spell it out plainly. Tasha was not one to beat around the bush; she had no inclination to deliberately prolong the discomfort of being asked for help. So she replied, "Yes, thanks to you, they can no longer gather food from the forest—and it seems you face the same predicament. Hunters and fishermen were rendered useless even before the farmlands fell."
"It's our fault," Harriet admitted, letting go of pointless awkwardness with a self-deprecating chuckle. "I'm afraid I must request your support in supplying us with some grain."
"Why?" Tasha asked.
"Without your help, those quarantined here will slowly starve to death," the captain stated. "You said it's better for you if we live than die."
"Yes, so I made a deal with you—your army's obedience and your soul in exchange for peace and the temporary preservation of the infected. In truth, I've already exceeded the terms of that bargain. Those people have returned." Tasha said. "Take another step back. I'm willing to sustain your useful soldiers, provided they serve my purposes. But the rest of humanity? They're not on the bargaining table."
The captain's jaw clenched abruptly. Tasha saw him draw in a breath, restraining himself from some rash action after hearing her words. He spoke as calmly as he could manage: "The residents here number several times the size of my army. Among them are artisans of every kind—farmers, grooms, shepherds, tanners, blacksmiths... There must be some who are useful. My soldiers die in battle and grow old. They cannot fight forever. To maintain a steady supply of troops, we need enough breeders. There are plenty of men and women of childbearing age here..."
"And that's why you think I should keep them as freeloaders?" Tasha asked.
"I cannot sign a contract with you on behalf of everyone!" Harriet's voice rose slightly, uncontrollably. "The reputation of demonic contracts is common knowledge! Few humans would willingly sign one in public! Presenting a contract now would only attract cowardly, worthless scum!"
"Exactly. They aren't worthy of signing a contract with me. The soul of an ordinary person holds far less value than the blank contract itself." Tashar replied.
Captain Harriet looked up at her, his facial muscles twitching slightly as anger made his fists clench. "What exactly do you want?" he demanded. "Do you think my men and I can just stand by and watch people starve?!"
"You're painting a rather grim picture, Captain," the specter said patiently. "It's simply a matter of those who do not work, shall not eat."
A new bargain was struck between the captain and the dungeon.
The military learned of it first.
The rumors of a northern blockade were finally confirmed by the captain himself. Since the initial spread of this news had been tacitly allowed, this public admission stirred little controversy. The new revelation was this: the party they had attacked were not descendants of the Abyss, but merely a peaceful, reclusive tribe. Superiors had entrusted them with an evil weapon of unknown consequences, leading to the previous undead incident and the current withering of the fields. All the suffering endured by them and the secluded tribe stemmed solely from superiors seeking political achievements to curry favor with the general.
By sealing off the north after causing these consequences, superiors clearly intended to erase this stain. At this point, they had no grain left to survive the winter.
That final statement carried more weight than anything else, sending shockwaves through the ranks. A small faction refused to believe their plight, insisting, "There must be some misunderstanding." They naively believed that if they simply reasoned with the sentry soldiers—explaining the contamination had ceased—the checkpoint would be opened. Captain Harriet had the surviving scout recount his experience, then summoned the officers still determined to press north. Generously, he allowed them to take a small squad of elite troops to attempt the northern checkpoint once more.
They would not return. These men would "perish at the hands of guards who refuse to hear any explanation"—this was settled before they even set out. Captain Harriet was an exceptional commander; kindness alone could not secure such a position.
Of course, kindness and popularity mattered too.
"Gentlemen, I must confess something," the captain declared, standing solemnly atop the newly erected platform in the wilderness before his troops. "Though the forest folk have no connection to the Abyss and harbor no intent to destroy humanity or Eryan, they did fight us to the death, they did bind enmity with us, and they are not the purest of mankind. Yet it was these very people who treated our comrades infected by the Wither Gas without discrimination after the war. It was they who did not loot us when our own superiors abandoned us, and who even now, in our hour of need, are willing to trade grain with us."
A murmur rippled through the crowd below. The captain let it run for a moment before raising his hand to silence them.
"I know many of us despise these alien races and refuse to cooperate with them," Harriet lowered his voice. "I feel the same. As a graduate of the Erian Military Academy, I know better than most here how to treat aliens. I know every detail of Erian's history of alien attacks by heart. I don't want to associate with aliens, and I'm afraid. If the North finds out I allowed aliens into the barracks to treat our wounded, will they brand me a traitor to humanity? Will my wife and son be treated as the family of a traitor? But, soldiers, should I abandon our comrades for that reason?"
His voice suddenly rose like a lion's roar: How could I stand by and watch comrades-in-arms die for the sake of reputation? How could I wait for us all to starve to death for a treason that never existed? Our supplies will last only two more days. What then? Are we to plunder the last food from these people's hands, when their fields yield nothing, when we destroyed the forests they depended on for survival, deceived by our superiors? Then what? We become pitiful raiders, plundering those we were meant to protect, eating their corpses after they starve to death, slaughtering each other like flies and vermin, scraping by, only to die of starvation here as wretched ghouls—yes! Look around you! Because of what the higher-ups gave us, this land can no longer grow grain! Gentlemen, is this how you wish to die?"
His words drew scattered murmurs of "No," though most remained silent—likely paralyzed by the horror of that future.
"I can't do it," the captain's voice trembled. "Those men can lock us here to die for the sake of their reputation, but I can't fucking stand by and watch us all perish! We have eyes and ears of our own. We know damn well whether we've committed treason against humanity. Have we? Look at the scars we bear from fighting the undead! Look at the gaunt faces of those just revived! Tell me, soldiers—is this the act of traitors?!"
"No!"
This time, the soldiers roared in unison.
"Right! We haven't!" the captain shouted. "Where were those who gave us the weapons that created the living dead while we fought tooth and nail to protect the city behind us? Where were those who could slander us with mere words, who could decide to abandon our lives, while we bore the consequences of those horrific weapons with our flesh and blood, struggling on the brink of death, waking every night from nightmares? They hid in their safe places, inventing imaginary enemies, knowing nothing of our reality! The moment we die, they'll pin fabricated stigmas on us. Did we sacrifice ourselves just so these assholes could climb the ladder and line their pockets?"
"No!!" the soldiers roared.
"We must survive to slap those bastards in the face, to meet those still waiting for us—not become another casualty statistic," the captain rasped, his voice cracked. "So we'll coexist peacefully with those alien races, trade with them as we would any other human city."
"Why can't we just kill them?" someone snapped.
"Fine. Go ahead and slaughter a peaceful colony that hasn't done a single evil thing, just because their ears look wrong to you. Even if you're willing to take that risk, thinking you can find ways to clean the soil and grow crops from their corpses after slaughtering them all." Harriet said wearily, "Remember those skeleton soldiers? Yeah, and the mummies. The monsters our weapons created, the things chasing us everywhere. Some of them can control these things."
A collective gasp rose from below.
"I know exactly what I'm doing, and I'll make sure everyone knows it," the captain declared. "I've done everything in my power to give us a chance to go home, to fight to the last breath in our posts. If collaborating with these alien creatures is a sin worthy of the abyss... it's my decision alone. You bear no responsibility."
The barracks fell deathly silent, then erupted in clamor as voices rose in heated rebuttal to the captain's self-accusations. When he lifted his head once more, scanning the agitated faces, he knew—at least for now—he had succeeded.
The next day, the notice was posted. The abandoned residents of the southeast corner soon learned their fate. Information diminished with each layer of transmission. The portion relayed by the captain to the troops was further edited, becoming the version the local populace received—though the details about the northern outpost and the evil weapon from above remained entirely intact, uncut.
The now-stabilized troops maintained order beside each bulletin board. These soldiers, their convictions newly fortified, carried an added sense of duty. They believed everything they did was for their families and the people of this land. Tashad had to admit, Captain Harriet was a skilled orator. Redirecting hatred was always the easiest way to unite people. Even if the prevailing sentiment that "the alien race must die" had deep roots, when a distant, shadowy history collided with an immediate food crisis, ordinary folk would inevitably direct their hatred toward those who threatened their very sustenance.
After the announcement had fully taken hold, squads composed of artisan dwarves and Amazonians arrived at the human settlements. One team set up in the central square of Antler Town, another in Red Gum County. Under the distant gaze of the humans, they erected simple huts, laid out stalls in front, and began their trade here.
The transaction was straightforward: labor for food.
People whispered among themselves, verifying with one another that the visitors had indeed arrived bearing only planks and tools. So where did the food on their stalls come from? Their pots held creamy white milk, soft white bread lay beside them, and stern-faced women emerged from the newly built huts carrying tray after tray of roasted meat, piling it into small mountains on the cutting boards. The short man climbed onto a stool to reach the table height, holding a white melon as large as a head. He sliced it open on the chopping board. The flesh released a crisp, sweet fragrance. Within minutes, he pulled out a spoon and began scooping it into his mouth.
No one knew where these provisions had been hidden before, nor whether the people could produce more. Everyone hesitated, afraid to be the first to approach for trade. They merely circled the hut at the square's center, standing about two meters away, gazing at the occupants as if they were rare animals. "They look just like people," people murmured.
Whether in Antler Town or Red Gum County, the members of those two squads appeared ordinary. Each squad had only four people—two tall and two short, with two men and two women in each group. The tall ones wore cold expressions, especially the women, who looked fierce. They stood there, arms crossed, glaring back at the onlookers. Those caught in their gaze instinctively looked away. The shorter ones, however, appeared lively, darting about and peering in all directions. Were it not for the men's bushy beards, some might have mistaken them for children.
The little ones in the crowd craned their necks to see the shorter figures, perhaps feeling a kinship with that height. One particularly curious child pushed too hard, lost his balance, and tumbled out of the crowd, landing in the two-meter-wide buffer zone. The short man hopped down from his stool and walked toward him. The child scrambled to his feet in fright and hid behind an adult's legs. The short man didn't seem to mind; he sat back down and waved at the child with a smile.
"He doesn't look so scary after all," the child murmured.
The first couple of days, the small hut's front door was deserted. People only watched warily, not daring to approach. On the third day, soldiers set up tables and chairs around the square. Come mealtime, they formed a line before the hut, initiating the exchange—Captain Harriet leading the way. Some hesitated, wanting to dissuade him, deeming it unwise for a commander to test the food. The captain shook his head solemnly. "If I didn't trust them to be completely harmless, I'd never let these dangerous individuals into our settlement."
The captain took roasted meat, bread, and half a white melon, sat down at a nearby seat, and began eating immediately. He devoured his lunch at a marching pace, then returned his tray to the hut window. Everyone in the square watched them, and the captain deliberately circled around several times under their gaze. People's eyes turned to the stalls in front of the hut. One short man handled the food exchanges, another recorded entries in a ledger. An unremarkable-looking man handed the captain a small bottle labeled [Do Not Eat/Remember to Return]. A woman stood nearby, watching everyone with a suspicious glare. People lowered their heads when she looked their way. Noticing the sword at her waist, they finally began to understand: This woman's role was likely security.
The captain ate first, followed by the soldiers. After these men left lively and returned intact at dusk, the rumors about "eating their food turning you into a desiccated corpse/skeleton/rat/cockroach..." finally subsided for the time being.