A translucent panel quietly unfolded before Weilin's eyes.
[Name: Walker] [Level: Unleveled] [Bloodline: Venom Forest Frog (Bronze tier) 8%, mixed bloodlines 92%] [Abilities: None] [Overall assessment: Severe chronic toxin accumulation in the body. Thin bloodline. No cultivation potential.]
Chronic toxin accumulation?
Veylin's gaze shifted from old Walker's face to the numb-looking crowd behind him.
Young people, middle-aged people, children.
Without exception, their panels all listed "chronic toxin accumulation," ranging from mild to severe. The only difference was the degree.
The fifteen households of settlers he had brought stood in stark contrast.
Their status fields listed only temporary negative conditions such as hunger, fatigue, fear, and low morale. Their bodily functions were healthy.
Clearly, Graymist Village's problems went beyond barren soil.
"Honored lord, are you the new master of this land?"
The hunchbacked old Walker spoke, his voice dry and raspy, like two dead leaves rubbing together.
Rather than the deferential "master," he had chosen the more distant and formal "lord."
"My name is Weilin Klein," Weilin replied, his gaze still resting on the old man's face. "From today onward, I am the lord of this land."
Scattered sounds of people kneeling in obeisance followed.
The investiture ceremony ended after just a few short exchanges. The dilapidated village and the rushed ceremony suited each other well.
"May your rule bring change to Graymist Village." The village chief, old Walker, bowed slightly. This ritual had remained unchanged for a century.
He had seen several lords in his lifetime-minor nobles granted fiefs by the duchy, knights rewarded for their military service.
They had come with hope or ambition, then left with disappointment or bankruptcy.
Only this gray swamp and its gray people remained here forever, waiting for fate to repeat itself once more.
Veylin paid no attention to the old man's perfunctory manner. He was thinking about the poisoning.
Every villager displayed similar symptoms of poisoning, while the outsiders did not.
It was not poisonous mist, or the expedition would have been affected too. It was not a magical curse, either; the system panels showed no indication of one.
That meant the source had to be something all the villagers shared but the settlers had yet to encounter.
Food or water.
Essentials no one could live without.
He decided to investigate the water first.
"Where does the village's water come from?" Veylin suddenly asked.
Old Walker paused, then pointed a bony finger toward the center of the village.
"Only that well, my lord. We all call it 'Old Grandfather.'"
Veylin looked in that direction.
An old well built of gray stone stood there, its rim deeply grooved by ropes.
He jumped down from the cargo crate and headed straight for the old well under everyone's puzzled gazes.
Barrett immediately followed, his hand on his sword hilt as he scanned the surroundings warily.
As Weilin approached, he caught a rusty smell.
That was not how a normal well should smell.
He stopped beside the well and leaned over to examine it.
First, the moss. It was an inky green shading toward blue-black, with scorched, withered edges.
Then, the insects. An ancient well that stayed damp year-round should have been a haven for mosquitoes, flying ants, water striders, and all sorts of tiny arthropods.
Yet this place was utterly lifeless.
Veylin looked farther out, at the ground and the corners of the houses.
On closer inspection, even the distribution of plants in the village seemed to follow a faint boundary.
The closer the plants grew to the well, the more stunted they were, their leaves faintly yellow. Farther away, a few clumps of salt-tolerant shrubs near the swamp's edge were not thriving either, but at least they retained their basic green color.
There was no doubt about the conclusion.
It was a poisoned well.
The source of contamination might have been a vein of heavy-metal ore deep underground, or a colony of microorganisms secreting slow-acting toxins.
Whichever it was, the result was the same.
Continuing to drink this water amounted to slow suicide.
Veylin turned to face the frightened crowd of nearly two hundred people in the square.
"Captain Barrett."
"Yes, my lord!"
"Send men to cordon off this well immediately! From this moment onward, no one is permitted to approach it or draw water. You are authorized to use force against anyone who disobeys!" Veylin's voice was cold and resolute.
The order immediately sent an uproar through the crowd.
"What?"
"You won't let us drink water?!"
"Then what are we supposed to drink?!"
A woman who had just surrendered all her food screamed, clutching the child in her arms. "No! My child needs water! You can't do this!"
The unrest that had just been suppressed by force erupted again. This time, anger flared even in the numb villagers' eyes.
This was the only source of water around the village. To them, the well was life itself.
Were they supposed to scoop up putrid swamp water to drink?
"My lord, this..." Even Barrett hesitated. He understood controlling the food supply, but denying people water was driving them to their deaths.
"The water in this well is poisonous."
Veylin did not speak loudly, but the uproar stopped dead.
Poisonous?
The villagers froze, staring at the well in disbelief.
How could the water they had drunk all their lives be poisonous?
"Impossible!" Old Walker's voice trembled as he protested vehemently. "My lord, you must be mistaken! This is Old Grandfather's blessing. Our families have drunk this water for generations. It is our sacred water!"
"And that is why, for generations, none of you have lived long," Weilin cut him off ruthlessly. "That is why your children fall ill for no apparent reason, why your bodies grow weaker day by day, until you finally die like rotting wood in the swamp."
He pulled a hardy weed from the ground and dipped it into the freshly drawn well water.
His mental power flowed out like threads, pouring into the stem.
"Springlaw Messenger."
Veylin's face visibly paled, and a fine sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead.
The weed stimulated by his mental power did not turn greener. Instead, it rapidly yellowed and curled, finally becoming a charred-black scrap of dead vegetation.
Dead silence.
A deathly hush settled around the well.
Everyone, settlers and villagers alike, stared fixedly at the withered weed, all color draining from their faces.
The mother who had screamed earlier looked at her child's sallow face, her anger giving way to terror.
Old Walker shook violently from head to toe. His lips quivered, but he could no longer utter a word.
The so-called sacred well water, the so-called curse of the swamp-the truth was so simple, and so cruel.
"Now carry out my orders." Veylin swept his gaze over the crowd, his presence allowing no argument. "Seal off the well. From this moment onward, the fresh water carried on our wagons will be rationed centrally. There is enough to drink, but wasting it is strictly forbidden! Barrett, send your men to handle it."
"Yes, my lord!"
This time, Barrett did not hesitate. He immediately rushed over with the mercenaries, using ropes and boards to roughly seal off the well.
The settlers and villagers watched blankly, their minds empty.
Veylin looked at them and spoke again. "I know what you're afraid of. You're afraid there will be no water, and you'll die of thirst here."
"Listen!" He raised his voice, drawing everyone's attention.
"I brought you here so you could live, not wait to die somewhere else! Starting tomorrow, I will lead you to a new, cleaner water source! Until then, every one of you must obey every order I give!"
His words were like a straw floating on the water. Much of the anger faded from their eyes, replaced by a little hope.