Back at the place where everything had begun.
Lynch still remembered clearly that their first stop three days ago upon entering the city was right here. It was where they had first heard the mad old man screaming at the top of his lungs, and where they had first seen Ms. Sven beating a brat in the middle of the street.
It was now six in the evening. As dusk approached, that same mad old man was still standing atop the stack of straw outside the barn, flailing his arms and screaming himself hoarse.
Looking at him, Lynch felt an awkward sense of amusement as a sudden realization dawned on him.
The damn old man had been standing in the most problematic location from the very beginning, shouting the most direct warning in the most eye-catching way possible.
Yet their party of four fools had passed by him again and again without ever realizing it, running around in circles like idiots before finally returning to where everything began.
So who was the real idiot here?
“Doomsday is near! No one will survive! All shall return to nothingness!”
The mad old man's voice stabbed through the twilight like poison needles, piercing into people's hearts. By now, however, those around the threshing floor had grown numb. Passersby merely glanced up at him in passing, and no one gathered around to point and stare anymore.
There were few people at the threshing floor, and those who were there hurried along. The unsettling events of the past few days had leaked out, leaving the citizens panicked enough to retreat indoors early. Even the brats who usually ran wild were nowhere to be seen, leaving the entire city looking empty and desolate overnight.
Dr. Sven remained at the fortress to continue her research, placing her complete trust in the four outsiders. Knight Terry accompanied them, his expression dark and uncertain.
As they rounded the straw stack occupied by the old lunatic, their eyes met. The old man flashed a crazed grin, while Lynch secretly turned his thumb down at him.
Smile my foot. I hate prophets the most.
The moment they stepped inside the massive barn, everyone sensed something was off.
A barn was normally a haven of life, filled with thousands of insects, mice, and birds. Usually, a casual swipe with a gunny sack could knock down several fluttering sparrows.
Yet upon entering this time, there was nothing—the entire barn was completely devoid of life.
Had they not anticipated it, people might have found it merely a bit strange without giving it much thought. But now, including Knight Terry and the few soldiers, everyone's hearts sank as a chill ran down their spines.
A few stacks of freshly harvested wheat were piled in a corner of the barn, giving off a fresh malt aroma. Bright yellow and golden-glowing, they looked genuinely lovely.
Yet whether it was an illusion or not, under the torchlight held by the soldiers, the four of them kept feeling as though a faint green light occasionally shimmered across the wheat stacks.
This was likely what had been ground into flour for the South Gate guards and the two messengers. Looking back further, those ill-fated travelers were probably victims of this stuff as well.
Lynch pondered for a moment before turning an inquiring look toward Terry. “Who does the grain here belong to? The City Lord's residence? Where do the other citizens store their harvest then? In their own barns?”
“This is actually a public barn,” the armored knight explained softly beside them. “Every year before harvest season, the barn is emptied out. As the crops mature, households haul their daily harvest here. These account for the land rent and city taxes, which are inspected and accepted one by one by Steward Locke before being stored.”
This was Lynch's first encounter with rural life in an otherworldly setting since transmigrating. Though ancient, he found it quite novel. Still, isn't this just landlords collecting rent? Lynch sighed inwardly; it seemed no matter where one went, one couldn't escape the dread of taxes and rent.
“Once those fees are paid in full, the remaining harvest is taken back to their own barns for temporary storage. After the City Lord's residence transports all the grain here to the mill for processing, they lend their donkeys to the citizens to process their own grain.”
To Lynch's surprise, Miss Diana, who was normally pampered, turned out to be the most knowledgeable about these customs. Understanding immediately upon hearing it, she asked, “In other words, until all the taxes and fees are fully paid, this year's new wheat is entirely in the hands of the City Lord's residence?”
“Correct.”
Lynch pressed further, “And unless they plan to pull the millstones themselves, even if someone secretly kept new wheat, they wouldn't be able to grind it into flour?”
“Correct.”
Lynch and Miss Diana exchanged glances, nodding thoughtfully.
This meant that no matter what methods the culprit used, at least until this year's taxes and rent were fully settled, these plague-contaminated foods were controllable—and held firmly in the hands of the City Lord's residence.
“I suspect there's a problem with this early-harvested new wheat, though I can't say for sure whether it was tampered with after being collected or if the wheat in the fields itself had problems,” Lynch explained in a low voice. “The existing evidence still can't prove who masterminded this, nor can it prove that City Lord Jackson knew about the contaminated grain. But at least we can infer that someone in the City Lord's residence knows—and has been manipulating events behind the scenes to push things to this point just to complete his experiment.”
Lynch's attitude was subtle and objective, avoiding any attempt to push Knight Terry into blaming the city lord. In his experience, dealing with such loyal subordinates required caution: the more you tried to guide them, the more aggressively they would rationalize excuses for their superiors. Only by letting him figure things out himself would he accept reality.
Thus, Lynch simply laid out all the possibilities for the loyal knight to mull over. Sure enough, after a period of silence, Knight Terry nodded in agreement.
“So let's examine it first to get a clear idea of the method. I just hope someone merely poisoned it rather than the wheat itself having a problem, or else this will be far more troublesome.”
“Hm?”
Hearing Lynch mutter to himself, Officer Natalie glanced at him in confusion. Lynch merely shook his head without further explanation, reaching out to grab a handful of the new wheat. Even through his gloves, he felt an eerie sensation.
‘Neighbor, is it dangerous if I touch it directly?’
【It is as you concluded—its mystical properties are only activated when mixed with gastric acid】
‘Thanks.’
Lynch removed his glove and lightly caressed an ear of wheat. A subtle sense of pressure trickled through his fingertips.
There was no doubt about it—this was the source.
Yet Lynch showed no joy. He simply stroked the stalks of wheat, falling into deep thought.
“What's wrong?” Natalie signaled to Judy not to translate before asking in a hushed voice, “Are you worried that the wheat itself is the problem? Is there a difference?”
“I was wondering... how long does it take from planting wheat to harvesting it?”
“Depends on the climate. In an environment like this, probably five or six months...”
Miss Diana cut herself off halfway through, her face suddenly draining of color. She couldn't bring herself to finish, though Officer Natalie and Judy still looked on in confusion.
Lynch continued asking, “How long ago was the city lord's son buried?”
“Half a year ago.”
Now Natalie and Judy understood as well—the timeline lined up perfectly.
“Wheat grows out of the soil, and the young son's corpse was buried into the soil as well. The very batch of crops grown after he was buried turned out to be contaminated, and on the exact day its efficacy was confirmed, his corpse was dug up. Is this really a coincidence?”
Rate on N.U.
