Night deepened, and the gloomy sky pressed down so heavily it was hard to breathe.
Clad in leather armor, Barrett patrolled the camp with his hand on his sword hilt.
He could clearly sense the poison called "panic" in the air, eating away at people's hearts faster than the water from the poisoned well.
The settlers and the natives gathered in two sharply divided groups. The former spoke in hushed voices, casting doubtful looks toward the tent on the hilltop; the latter were in an even worse state, their expressions numb, as though waiting for a death that had long been ordained.
Most of the foundation trenches had been dug, but the vines buried in them as a promise of hope remained black and lifeless, like lengths of charred bone.
Just then, a gaunt figure leaning on a cane silently stepped into his path.
It was Old Walker.
"Captain Barrett," Old Walker said in a low but unusually solemn voice, "the villagers have been making quite a fuss. They all want to run back to Graymist Village, and I agreed to let them..."
Barrett's heart sank.
"But that escape route is a sham." Old Walker's withered lips moved. "People's hearts are like a pot of boiling water. You can't seal it shut. You have to leave somewhere for the steam to escape, or the pot will burst. They need that thought to hold on until the day our lord truly works a miracle."
The old village chief's words stunned the mercenary captain.
He had never expected this seemingly ignorant, hidebound old man to have come around without him even noticing.
"Captain, I know our lord is doing something great that none of us can understand." Old Walker took a step forward.
"Please be sure to tell him not to be angry at our ignorance. We're just pitiful folk whom the swamp has scared out of our wits. We've never seen what hope looks like. Please ask him... to give us just a little more time."
Barrett fell silent. Looking at this stooped old man, who was supporting his entire community in his own way, he felt a tangle of emotions.
He nodded solemnly, turned, and strode toward the lord's tent on the hillside.
He stopped at the entrance and stamped the mud off his boots before taking a deep breath and striding inside.
Inside the tent, Veylin had yet to sleep.
He stood at the entrance, lifting one corner of the flap, his burgundy eyes calmly watching the figures moving around the distant campfire.
The headache from overtaxing his mental power stabbed like needles, but he merely rubbed his temples without expression, his gaze still sharp as a blade.
"What is it?" His voice held a trace of irritation.
Yet that irritation sent a bone-deep chill through Barrett.
After a moment's silence, he laid out Old Walker's delaying tactic in full, then said earnestly, "My lord, right now, your people... need hope they can see."
The tent fell deathly silent, save for the wind.
Veylin closed his eyes and tried to steady his emotions.
I should never have brought these villagers along. They're the most unstable variable in the entire experimental process.
This collective panic born of their limited understanding is dragging down overall efficiency enormously.
Reflecting on his recent actions, he realized that the "coefficients" a ruler had to account for were far more troublesome than those in scientific research.
After a long while, Veylin opened his eyes. The anger was gone, leaving only calm.
"Wait a moment."
With that, he found the earthenware basin he had used earlier. Some remnants of Nutrient Soil that the Stone-Skinned Soft Vine had not fully absorbed still remained inside.
Carrying the basin, he lifted the blanket serving as the flap and walked straight out of the tent.
Barrett froze, then immediately followed.
With a thoroughly bewildered Barrett in tow, Veylin came to the trench at the edge of camp where the vines had been planted. A little farther away, some of the bolder people gathered to watch.
He crouched, had someone bring him a jug of water, and poured it into the basin, stirring it into a cloudy mixture.
"Springlaw Messenger."
Veylin murmured the invocation. An invisible force was instantly drawn out of him, and his face grew another shade paler.
He poured the murky liquid over a section of withered black vine.
Under Barrett's astonished gaze, a miracle occurred.
The instant the liquid touched it, the shriveled length of vine seemed to be infused with the very essence of life!
It shuddered violently. Its black skin split apart inch by inch, giving way to a vibrant green!
The crackle of rupturing fibers mingled with the rustle of soil being pushed upward.
Countless tiny shoots burst wildly from the vine like living creatures, writhing, lengthening, and thickening!
In just a few breaths, the vine, originally no thicker than a finger, swelled to the size of Barrett's forearm! It even sprouted several thick, palm-sized leaves with edges as sharp as blades!
Even the air filled with a scent of rust mixed with fresh grass.
"This... this is..."
Barrett dropped to one knee and reached out to touch the tough, cold vine. It felt like living steel.
Veylin stood and looked down at him.
"It needs rain. A rain heavy enough to awaken it."
"Now, do you still think we need to retreat?"
Barrett felt his face burning. He bowed his head even lower, his voice taut. "My lord! I repent of my foolishness!"
"I'm tired." Veylin did not help him up. "Go tell them what happened here. Tell them everything you think."
He looked toward the gloomy sky.
"I respect their choices. Those who want to leave can take their belongings. I won't stop them. Those who don't can wait here in peace."
When Barrett returned to the crowd, still filled with astonishment, he had yet to speak when a group appearing on the horizon caught everyone's attention.
It was a small merchant caravan, led by Leo, making its way toward the camp.
The crowd's gazes shifted between the utterly stunned Barrett and the distant caravan that promised supplies and hope, their faces a mixture of confusion and startled doubt.
Leo jogged all the way up the rise and reported excitedly, "My lord! I brought them! Every last item of supplies is here!"
Veylin nodded, looking past Leo toward the caravan as it began unloading. Leading it was the same steward from the Golden Sail Merchant Guild, Korn.
As Korn directed the workers, he discreetly surveyed this so-called "new territory." The atmosphere was strange, the people's faces caught between numbness and anxiety. Apart from the tents, there were only haphazardly dug trenches. In them, half-dead black vines bore a scattering of strange leaves, looking thoroughly malnourished.
Finally, his gaze settled on Veylin. The young man was thinner than he had been in Stone Salt Town, his face pale and dark shadows hanging beneath his eyes.
Inwardly, Korn had already passed judgment on this frontier territory-a complete and utter failure.
An attendant sidled over. "Steward, something feels wrong here. Should we adjust the prices...?"
"No need." Korn shook his head. "Settle at the original prices. And tell Lord Klein we'll give him a discount on the transport fees."
The attendant stared in surprise.
"This is an investment." Korn grinned. "Within six months, when he has nowhere left to turn, this little kindness of ours will be the best bargaining chip for driving down the price of his territory. A Pioneer Knight's title would make quite a fine collectible."
He straightened his collar, put an enthusiastic smile back on his face, and went over to Veylin himself.
"My esteemed Lord Klein! What a pleasure to see you again!" Korn spread his arms and looked around the camp, which struck him as utterly desolate. "Your territory looks... full of untamed vitality!"
Veylin merely smiled at him, then looked away and raised his eyes to the sky.
Suddenly, the sky flashed, and purple lightning spread across more than half of it.
Then a deafening crackle came rolling over them.
The Wailing Moon was coming.