Perhaps Velin's fortunes were finally turning. That very afternoon, as the party crested an unremarkable ridge, Ryo suddenly let out a cry of surprise and joy.
"Sir! Here! This is it!"
The tip of the Magic Staff in his hand was glowing with unprecedented brightness, its soft light even dispelling the surrounding gloom.
It was a gentle, south-facing slope, its elevation considerably higher than the surrounding area. The slope was covered in low shrubs and thick moss.
A system panel appeared before Velin's eyes.
[Glow Moss]
[Level: No Level]
[Bloodline: Fluorescent Moss (Bronze Tier) 23%, Dragon's Blood Moss (Black Iron Tier) 6%, Mixed Bloodline 71%]
[Abilities: None]
[Comprehensive Evaluation: A Magic Material used to create low-light vision potions. Commonly found in aether-rich areas. Can be evolved.]
[Evolvable Paths: ...]
'I've found it!'
"Barrett, send someone to scout for a water source!" Velin ordered, calming the excitement in his heart.
Soon, more good news arrived.
In a depression on the back of the slope, the Mercenaries discovered a clear spring. Water gurgled up from a fissure in the rocks, forming a small pool.
With Ryo's help, they confirmed it was clean groundwater.
'The perfect place to build a village!'
It had a stable aether environment to cultivate the Stone Skin Vine, clean drinking water, and high ground sufficient to withstand floods. It was also easy to defend and hard to attack.
In that moment, Velin could already picture it: a brand-new village rising from the ground, with sturdy vine houses standing in neat rows. Villagers would work in an orderly fashion, and on the highest hill in the village would be his personal research institute, to which he would dedicate his days and nights.
A hint of a smile touched his usually impassive face.
However, when he returned to Gray Mist Village with this good news that would change everyone's fate, he encountered an unexpected obstacle.
"What? ...Move?"
The blood drained from Old Walker's wrinkled face, leaving only ashen terror.
His cloudy eyes were fixed on Velin, his lips trembling as if he had just heard a sentence more terrifying than death.
Velin stood in the village's central clearing. Behind him were the pioneers, their faces full of anticipation. Opposite him stood one hundred and thirty-three villagers, led by Old Walker—men and women, young and old, all were present.
The two groups were clearly divided.
"I have found a new settlement," Velin said, his voice devoid of emotion. "It has clean water, fertile land, and is on high ground. The coming rainy season and floods won't reach it."
The moment he finished speaking, a suppressed commotion and fearful whispers rippled through the villagers. They looked to Old Walker as if he were their only lifeline.
Old Walker took a deep breath. He didn't scream or argue as Velin had expected. Instead, with a look of utter despair, he slowly and deliberately straightened the collar of his tattered clothes.
Then, to everyone's astonishment, he faced Velin and dropped stiffly to his knees.
THUD.
His bony knees hit the hard-packed earth with a dull sound.
"Village Chief!"
"Grandpa Walker!"
The villagers behind him were stunned. Then, as if their backbones had been ripped out, they followed suit, one by one, kneeling until a silent, dark mass of people covered the ground.
Old Walker bowed low, scooping up a handful of ashen dirt with his withered, claw-like hands.
He held it high, his voice hoarse and tragic.
"Sir, we will not leave."
"This is our home. Our ancestors are buried under this land. We were born here, and we should die here."
He respectfully sprinkled the handful of dirt on the ground before Velin's feet—an ancient ritual of serfs entrusting their lives and fortunes to their lord.
"Your serfs do not understand about high ground or fertile soil. We only ask to die on the land our ancestors farmed, to be buried with our kin. That is the most benevolent gift a lord can give his people."
His words were like a soft blade, piercing the hearts of everyone present. The pioneers looked at each other, the joy frozen on their faces. They were angry, yet they didn't know how to refute this 'petition' that amounted to moral blackmail.
"A bunch of hopeless fools! The Lord is doing this for your own good! Has the poisoned water rotted your brains?!" one of the pioneers couldn't help but curse.
"We don't want to drown in a flood with a bunch of good-for-nothings who are just waiting to die! If you want to die, die by yourselves!"
"What did you say?!" A burly villager with bloodshot eyes started to get up.
SHING!
Barrett drew his sword in a flash, its cold blade blocking the pioneer. The Mercenaries behind him all gripped their weapons in unison. The situation was about to erupt.
But Old Walker, without even turning his head, barked, "Stay down! Do not be rude to the Lord and our guests from afar!"
His authority still held. The burly man knelt back down resentfully, but his hateful gaze remained locked on the pioneers.
Velin watched quietly, his eyes sweeping over the rows of thin, stooped backs before him.
'Forcing them to leave would be easy. But uprooting them by force would only yield a group of resentful serfs. That wouldn't be cost-effective. His next step was to make these villagers willingly join in the construction of the new territory.'
'If they were slaves bound in chains, he would have to waste far greater administrative costs to rule them.'
'What he wanted was a territory that could run itself and create value for him.'
He slowly raised a hand, and the clamorous scene instantly fell silent.
All eyes focused on him.
He walked past the crowd to the edge of the sealed, poisoned well.
Then, he turned back to look at Old Walker. His wine-red pupils held no anger, no pity—only ice.
"You say your ancestors are all buried here."
"Then, tell me…"
He took a step forward, his presence suddenly surging, forcing Old Walker to take an involuntary half-step back.
"How long did they live?"
'How long did they live?'
The question contained no threat, no persuasion—only the intent to dissect the bloody truth.
The flush that had risen to Old Walker's face during his impassioned speech drained away at a visible rate, replaced by an ash-gray pallor of confusion, humiliation, and fear. He opened his mouth, but only a rasping sound came from his throat. He couldn't say a single word.
'He didn't know.'
'Or rather, he didn't dare to think about it. He only remembered that his son had been dead for three years, that his own father hadn't lived past forty, and his grandfather… he couldn't even remember his grandfather's face.'
But in the mindset passed down through generations, all of this was simply a matter of course.
'Wasn't life in the swamp supposed to be this hard?'
The so-called protection of their ancestors, the so-called homeland they cherished—the truth of it all was utterly shattered by a single, brutally simple question.
The kneeling villagers' faces also filled with confusion and doubt. The 'roots' they were so proud of had, it turned out, been rotten from the very beginning.