Stretching across the forest's edge, a vast expanse of plantation presented a jarring sight. The soil in the area was damp and possessed a deep, reddish hue.
Hundreds of people, clad in tattered rags with bodies reduced to skin and bones, hobbled beneath the shadows of the trees.
Half of their faces were concealed by worn cloth wrapped tightly around their noses and mouths, desperately filtering the ambient air.
Sweat poured down their foreheads as their frail arms were forced to bear heavy wooden barrels through the rows of peculiar flora.
The trees cultivated in the field shared the branch and twig structure of a pomegranate tree, yet their leaves emitted a blinding, golden luminescence.
The fist-sized fruits hanging from the branches also mirrored pomegranates, but their outer skins were hard and gleaming, resembling nuggets of pure gold.
In another corner of the field, several workers swung long wooden sticks into the air, gasping for breath.
They struck frantically, desperately driving away swarms of yellow-winged insects attempting to land and devour the golden foliage.
"It has been twenty-four hours!"
An overseer barked loudly from horseback. Immediately following the resounding warning, the workers who had been hauling the wooden barrels quickly set them down.
They removed the lids, slowly pouring a thick, dark red liquid directly onto the soil at the roots of the golden trees.
The metallic stench of blood instantly permeated the air, carried by the sweeping wind.
Just beyond the boundary of the plantation, three cloaked figures stood in silence, observing the grisly operation.
Alphonse and Arcus had lowered their hoods, allowing their faces to be exposed to the foreign air of this kingdom. Vrischil, however, chose to keep her beautiful visage veiled beneath the shadows of her cloak.
Alphonse narrowed his eyes.
"It appears this crop is the primary cause of the famine plaguing this kingdom," Alphonse deduced calmly. "They have planted these trees across nearly all available arable land."
Arcus scoffed harshly. His hand reflexively rose to cover his nose as a gust of wind swept toward them, carrying the sickeningly thick, metallic odor.
"Damn it. And here I thought the scent of that golden tree was quite fragrant and enticing earlier," he complained with a sour tone. "Now they ruin it entirely with this revolting stench of rust."
He turned his gaze toward the fields, staring sharply at the reddish soil. "What manner of blood did they just pour out there? Do not tell me it belongs to humans."
"It is likely animal blood," Vrischil answered, her tone frigid. "If they utilized human blood for a field of this magnitude, this kingdom would have perished long ago."
Alphonse crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes fixed on the laborers carrying the barrels of blood.
"The question remains..." Alphonse murmured. "Where are they procuring such a massive quantity of blood to water fields this vast?"
Right as they discussed the matter, a middle-aged man in squalid clothing walked past their position, heading toward the fields.
Dragging his feet, the man's hands were busy tying a piece of cloth behind his head to mask his nose and mouth.
Alphonse stepped forward seamlessly, halting the man's progress with a greeting and a remarkably amiable tone.
"Greetings, sir. Good afternoon. May I ask you a brief question?"
Startled by the sudden, unfamiliar voice, the middle-aged man jumped.
The motion of his hands, which had yet to finish tying the knot, froze instantly. In his nervousness, the edge of the cloth slipped through his fingers, sagging loosely around his collar.
Seeing three individuals in clean attire and mysterious cloaks obstructing his path, the man trembled violently.
He lowered his gaze deeply, staring at the holes in his worn shoes, entirely devoid of the courage to meet the speaker's eyes.
"Uhm... G-Gentlemen, how may I be of service?" he asked nervously, his voice raspy.
Alphonse offered a warm smile to project an aura of harmlessness.
"Do not be afraid, sir. I am merely an adventurer from a neighboring kingdom passing through this region. This is our first time witnessing such a sight," Alphonse spoke casually. "I only wish to inquire... what manner of trees are planted yonder?"
"Uhm... those are Punica Aurum trees, my lord," the man answered hesitantly.
Alphonse made a subtle gesture with a snap of his fingers. Understanding his intent, Vrischil reached into her pocket and handed a silver coin to him.
Alphonse took the man's rough, calloused hand and slipped the gleaming silver coin directly into his palm.
"Be at ease, sir. There is nothing to fear," Alphonse coaxed smoothly. "Could you elaborate further on these trees for me? To whom does this orchard belong, and why is it planted across nearly every field I see?"
The man stared at the silver coin in his palm. His hands shook, yet his eyes gleamed at the sight of the precious metal.
He frowned momentarily at the engraved design on the foreign currency. However, driven by the gnawing hunger twisting his stomach, he swiftly pocketed the coin in a flash.
"Thank you, kind lord," the man said, his tone now noticeably softer and friendlier. He glanced left and right, ensuring no plantation overseers were watching them.
"From what I know, the tree is incredibly valuable," the man explained in a hushed whisper. "The fruit of the Punica Aurum is the primary ingredient for crafting a phenomenally expensive elixir. These trees you see... they all belong to the nobility of Deeproot."
The man gripped the hem of his tattered shirt tightly—an unconscious gesture channeling the bitterness festering within his heart.
"These are planted in almost every field on the city's outskirts... likely because the nobles are in desperate need of coin, my lord."
Alphonse caught the bitter undertone and the suppressed emotion behind the wretched man's voice.
"It seems... you harbor a deep hatred for these nobles, sir," Alphonse probed, his tone laced with feigned sympathy.
Upon hearing those words, the man snapped his head up and accidentally locked eyes with the monocle perched upon Alphonse's face.
The sudden discovery of that high-class accessory made his eyes widen in sheer terror. The blood drained from his face entirely.
He shook his head frantically, gasping for air in an irrational panic.
"Of course not, my lord!" he denied hysterically. "W-Who would dare to despise the nobility?!"
Realizing the source of the man's horrific gaze, Alphonse calmly raised his hand. His fingers grasped the monocle, removed it slowly, and tucked it away beneath the folds of his cloak.
A warm smile returned to grace his features.
"Ah, sir, do not misunderstand. This is merely a disguise," he said with a relaxed demeanor. "You see, when adventuring, donning a monocle such as this occasionally smooths over many affairs, so I have grown rather accustomed to wearing it."
Though his lips wove a sweet excuse, witnessing the excessively terrifying, borderline irrational reaction from the man before him, Alphonse smirked inwardly.
Laesa Majestas.
It appears the tyrannical laws regarding treason and the insult of the crown or the sovereign are heavily enforced in this world as well. They silence the voice of the people with the terror of death.
To quell the man's panic before it attracted the attention of the plantation guards, Alphonse signaled once more. A second silver coin passed from Vrischil to his hand, which was then offered to the laborer.
"We shall tell no one, sir. Our lips are sealed. Rest easy," Alphonse reassured, patting the man's arm. "I am simply quite curious about everything... haha."
Feeling two pieces of silver weighing down his pocket, the man paused.
His eyes radiated clear suspicion, weighing whether this amiable young man could truly be trusted or if this was merely a trap laid by the nobles. Yet, the temptation of the silver won.
He let out a long sigh, leaned his head closer, and began whispering the root of the city's torment.
"Three years ago, when the old King passed away from an illness, the new King immediately repurposed nearly all the wheat fields across the realm," the man recounted.
"We, the farmers, were forced to plant these Punica Aurum saplings and tend to them day and night for a pitiful wage... Meanwhile, to eat, we must purchase wheat back from the merchants at exorbitant prices."
The man looked down at the dirt. "Now, we have no choice but to accept this reality," he sobbed quietly, holding back tears of utter despair. "Working ourselves to the bone nurturing those golden trees every day... just to bring home a stale crust of bread."
Alphonse regarded him in silence for several seconds, then firmly patted the man's shoulder with his right hand.
"Do you have a family?"
The man nodded weakly. "Yes, my lord. I have a wife and a young child waiting for me at home."
Alphonse's grip on the man's shoulder tightened slightly.
"Those who choose to keep their heads bowed will forever end up trampled beneath the soles of boots," Alphonse stated, his voice devoid of all ripples.
"If you wish for your wife and child to feast on meat... then prepare yourself starting now, sir. For the winds of revolution shall soon strip away every golden leaf in this city."
Leaving the man frozen stiff in bewilderment, Alphonse released his grip and turned around.
With Arcus and Vrischil following closely behind, they made their way down the path, striding toward the City of Deeproot.
After leaving the plantation area, Alphonse, Arcus, and Vrischil arrived before the main gates of Deeproot.
Unlike the grandeur of Wealden's gates, this city's entrance appeared poorly maintained. Two bored-looking guards leaned against their spears, halting the trio's progress.
"Entry tax is one copper coin per head," one of the guards said lazily, extending a hand. "And present your identification tags."
Without a word, Vrischil reached into her pouch and produced three bronze coins for the toll. Simultaneously, the three of them revealed the Iron-rank Adventurer Guild tags they had procured during their stay in Wealden.
The guard snatched the bronze coins, flipping them between his calloused fingers before inspecting the iron tag in Alphonse's hand. The guard's eyes narrowed as he recognized the engraved crest on the currency.
"You adventurers hail from the Pexora Kingdom?" the guard guessed.
Alphonse raised an eyebrow slightly, somewhat impressed that a peripheral city guard could deduce their origin merely by glancing at the minting of a small coin.
He concealed his surprise swiftly, replying with a cordial smile. "Yes, sir. You have a very keen eye."
The guard scoffed softly. "A long way to travel out here."
He then returned their identification tags and gestured with the tip of his spear, permitting them entry. Alphonse merely chuckled softly in response, leading his companions through the arched gateway.
They stepped into the City of Deeproot.
Unlike the muddy peripheral fields, the city's main thoroughfare was relatively clean, paved with brick, and bustling with pedestrians.
Although the vast majority still wore dull, soiled, and worn clothing indicative of poverty, a select few residents could be seen sporting finer, neatly knitted linen garments.
Alphonse observed the street as he strolled at a leisurely pace.
"Though the majority of the common folk in this world are farmers or laborers, there are, naturally, still artisans, merchants, and other middle-class citizens who live somewhat decently within the city walls," he murmured quietly to his two companions.
Beside him, Arcus surveyed their surroundings with a furrowed brow.
"Even if the streets appear orderly, the atmosphere in this city is profoundly bleak," Arcus commented softly. "There is no vibrant energy or cheerful clamor like there was in Wealden. The people here walk with their heads hung low."
Vrischil remained silent. Her emerald eyes darted swiftly, analyzing the architectural layout of the timber and stone buildings around them, reflexively mapping escape routes and blind spots without uttering a word.
Alphonse's steps felt slightly heavier than usual.
"The sun is nearly set, and night shall soon fall," Alphonse said, loosening the collar of his cloak slightly. "Let us secure lodging and rest for the day. I need to replenish my mana reserves before we initiate our plans tomorrow."
Noticing the faint lines of exhaustion etching Alphonse's face, Arcus and Vrischil simply nodded in agreement, offering not a single word of protest.
After navigating the streets, their gaze fell upon a wooden sign shaped like a large flagon, hanging before a two-story stone building. The three pushed open the heavy wooden door and entered the inn.
The atmosphere inside was quite dim and subdued. Only a handful of patrons were quietly eating their supper, illuminated by the soft glow of magic lamps.
Alphonse approached the wooden reception desk. He requested three rooms from the innkeeper—a middle-aged man who looked thoroughly exhausted, carrying heavy bags under his eyes.
"Three silver coins for one night, modest breakfast included," the man stated without a hint of enthusiasm.
Vrischil stepped forward. She placed three silver coins atop the wooden counter.
The innkeeper picked up one coin, turned it over, and frowned deeply. He shook his head and slid the three coins back toward Vrischil.
"My apologies, gentlemen. We cannot accept this," the innkeeper refused. "Here in Deeproot, we only take the official currency of the Riviera Kingdom, or coins from the Nova Empire."
Alphonse furrowed his brow.
"Where, then, might we exchange these?" Alphonse asked patiently.
The innkeeper pointed toward the exit. "You can exchange them at the main market. Take a right from here and continue straight down the path. You had best hurry before the establishment closes."
The trio was forced to step back outside. The sky had now shifted to a deep, bruised orange, leaving a twilight that would soon surrender to the night.
"How incredibly tedious," Arcus grumbled, stretching his neck until it popped. "Why do they not simply standardize the currency across this entire world to make things practical?"
Alphonse walked ahead. His mind, despite its fatigue, continued processing the seemingly trivial fragment of information from the coin rejection.
"The intriguing element of that encounter was not the rejection of our coin, Arcus," Alphonse spoke quietly. "Rather, it is the fact that currency from the Nova Empire is freely accepted as legal tender in a foreign kingdom."
Alphonse narrowed his eyes. "Currency is a direct reflection of influence and hegemony. It appears... the Nova Empire possesses a military and economic might so formidable in this world that their money is recognized internationally. We must remain vigilant of their movements in the future."
They arrived at the market district. True to the city's bleak atmosphere, the majority of the merchants had already shuttered their wooden stalls as the sun began to dip below the horizon.
After wandering through several increasingly deserted market alleys, Alphonse's eyes caught sight of a small stone building still radiating light from its window.
Above its door hung a weathered wooden sign with peeling paint, which read: 'Currency Exchange.'