Perhaps Veylin's luck had finally turned. That very afternoon, as the party crossed an unremarkable ridge, Leo suddenly gave a delighted shout.
"My lord! Here! This is the place!"
The tip of his staff shone brighter than ever before, its gentle light even dispelling the gloom around them.
It was a south-facing slope that stood well above the surrounding ground, covered in low shrubs and thick moss.
A system panel appeared before Veylin's eyes.
[Glimmer Moss] [Level: none] [Bloodline: Luminous Moss (bronze tier) 23%, Dragonblood Moss (black iron tier) 6%, mixed bloodlines 71%] [Abilities: none] [Overall assessment: a magical material used to make low-light vision potions, commonly found in areas rich in aether. Can evolve.] [Available evolution paths: ...]
Found it!
"Barrett, send men to look for water!" Veylin steadied his excitement and immediately issued an order.
More good news soon followed.
In a hollow behind the slope, the mercenaries found a clear spring. Water bubbled out of cracks in the rock, collecting in a small pool.
With Leo's help, they also confirmed that it was clean groundwater.
The perfect place to build a village!
It had a stable aether environment for cultivating Stone-Skinned Vines, clean drinking water, and ground high enough to withstand flooding. It would also be easy to defend and difficult to attack.
At that moment, Veylin could already picture a brand-new village rising here, its sturdy vine houses neatly arranged and its villagers going about their work in an orderly fashion. The little hill at the village's highest point would become his own research institute, where he would work from dawn until late into the night.
A smile curved across his usually impassive face.
Yet when he returned to Graymist Village with this news that would change everyone's fate, he encountered an unexpected obstacle.
"What?... Leave?"
All color instantly drained from Old Walker's deeply wrinkled face, leaving only ashen terror.
His clouded eyes fixed on Veylin, his lips trembling as though he had heard a sentence more terrible than death.
Veylin stood in the clearing at the center of the village. Behind him were the settlers, their faces full of anticipation. Opposite him stood the hundred and thirty-three villagers led by Old Walker, men and women, young and old, all present.
The two groups stood distinctly apart.
"I've found a new settlement site." Veylin's voice betrayed no emotion. "There's clean water and fertile land. The ground is high enough that even the coming rainy season and floods won't reach it."
No sooner had he finished than a subdued commotion and frightened whispers spread among the villagers. They looked toward Old Walker as though he were their only hope.
Old Walker drew a deep breath. Rather than shouting or arguing as Veylin had expected, he looked at Veylin with near-despair, then slowly and solemnly straightened his tattered clothes.
Then, before everyone's astonished eyes, he dropped straight to his knees facing Veylin.
Thud.
His bony knees struck the hard earth with a dull sound.
"Village chief!"
"Grandpa Walker!"
The villagers behind him froze. Then, as though their backbones had been pulled out, they knelt one after another, forming a dense, deathly silent mass.
Old Walker bent forward and scooped up a handful of ashen soil with hands as withered as chicken claws.
He raised it high, his voice hoarse and filled with tragic resolve.
"My lord, we will not leave."
"This is our home. Generations of our ancestors lie buried beneath this land. We were born here, and here we ought to die."
He reverently scattered the handful of soil on the ground before Veylin's feet. It was an ancient serf custom signifying that they entrusted their lives and livelihoods to their lord.
"Your serfs know nothing of high ground or fertile soil. We ask only to die on the land our ancestors tilled, to be buried alongside our loved ones. That is the most merciful gift a lord can grant his people."
His words were like a soft blade, piercing the hearts of everyone present. The settlers exchanged glances, the joy frozen on their faces. They were angry, yet did not know how to refute this "petition" that bordered on moral blackmail.
"You hopeless fools! His lordship is doing this for your own good! Has that poisoned water rotted your brains?" one settler could not help cursing.
"We don't want to drown in a flood with you useless fools waiting to die! If you want to die, do it yourselves!"
"What did you say?" A burly villager started to rise, his eyes red.
Clang!
Barrett instantly drew his sword, placing its cold edge between the villager and the settlers. Behind him, the mercenaries all seized their weapons. Violence threatened to erupt at any moment.
Without even turning his head, Old Walker barked, "Kneel, all of you! You will not be rude to his lordship or our guests from afar!"
His authority still held. The burly man reluctantly knelt again, but his hateful gaze remained fixed on the settlers.
Veylin watched quietly, looking at the gaunt backs before him.
Forcing them to leave would be easy. But a forced relocation would give him nothing but resentful serfs. That was not cost-effective; his next step would be to have these villagers willingly participate in building the new territory.
If they were merely slaves bound in chains, he would waste far more resources managing them.
What he wanted was a territory that could run itself and create value for him.
He slowly raised his hand, and the uproar instantly subsided.
Every gaze settled on him.
He walked past the crowd to the sealed-off poisoned well.
Then he turned to Old Walker. His wine-red eyes held neither anger nor pity, only coldness.
"You said your ancestors are all buried here."
"Then tell me..."
He took a step forward, his presence suddenly intensifying until Old Walker involuntarily recoiled half a step.
"How long did they live?"
How long did they live?
The question contained neither threat nor persuasion. It sought only to lay bare the bloody truth.
The color visibly drained from Old Walker's face, flushed moments earlier by his impassioned speech, leaving an ashen pallor mingled with confusion, humiliation, and fear. He opened his mouth, a rasping sound escaping his throat, but could not utter a single word.
He did not know.
Or rather, he did not dare think about it. He remembered only that his son had been dead for three years, that his father had not lived past forty, and that his grandfather... He could not even remember what his grandfather had looked like.
Yet according to the beliefs passed down through their generations, all of this was simply how things should be.
Wasn't life in the swamp supposed to be this hard?
Their so-called ancestral protection, their so-called homeland-the truth behind it all had been torn to shreds by a question so simple it was cruel.
The kneeling villagers' faces were likewise filled with bewilderment and doubt. The "roots" they took such pride in had been rotten from the very beginning.