The new miasma-resistant seeds had been planted.
But hope alone did not make crops grow.
Weeks passed, and the fields remained uncertain. Some sprouts appeared, only to wither days later. Others never broke through the poisoned soil at all. No one could say whether the experiment would succeed or fail.
At the same time, Henry's work on the land-cleansing artifact showed no immediate signs of completion.
The plans were there.
The theory was sound.
But turning a small artifact into something capable of restoring an entire barony was far more difficult than simply drawing designs on paper.
And while research continued—
People were still hungry.
And worse—
They were thirsty.
Verna had survived for months on rations sent from the capital, but everyone knew that could not continue forever. Relief shipments were never meant to sustain an entire city permanently.
A city that lived only on charity was a city already preparing to die.
If the people lost hope, they would leave.
And if they left—
Even if the land was restored, there would be no one left to rebuild it.
Verna needed people more than it needed walls.
Henry stood in the records room late one evening, staring at reports that all said the same thing.
Low grain reserves.
Declining clean water.
Ration shortages.
Population decline.
Every page felt like a countdown.
He finally pushed the papers aside.
"We need food," he said.
Nabu, standing nearby with his usual impossible calm, adjusted his monocle.
"A brilliant observation, my lord."
Henry glared at him.
"Helpful."
"I try."
Henry sighed.
"We'll have to buy supplies from neighboring cities."
That much seemed obvious.
The problem was getting them.
Henry sent letters.
Many letters.
Requests for support, trade proposals, even offers of future repayment once Verna recovered.
Most replies were polite.
All of them were refusals.
No one wanted to invest in a dying city.
Why donate grain to a place everyone believed would collapse in a year?
Why risk caravans on roads near demonic corruption?
Verna had become a place people avoided.
Nabu offered another suggestion.
"We could approach merchants from distant regions."
Henry frowned.
"We barely know any merchants."
"True," Nabu admitted. "Which is unfortunate, because merchants are often more practical than nobles."
Before Henry could answer—
His father, who had been quietly listening from the doorway, finally spoke.
"I know a few."
Both Henry and Nabu turned.
"You do?" Henry asked.
His father gave a small laugh.
"You think I was always just handing out seeds?"
Henry folded his arms.
"I'm starting to realize I know very little about you."
His father leaned back in his chair.
"I used to be a traveling merchant. Before all this."
He gestured vaguely toward the broken city outside.
"I traveled across most of the kingdom. I traded in grain, cloth, metal—whatever made profit. I passed through Verna often."
His expression softened.
"And then I met your mother."
From the kitchen, his mother called out without looking up—
"And unfortunately for him, he stayed."
Henry smiled.
His father shook his head.
"Before the demonic miasma spread, Verna was a good city. Trade was strong. I did well here."
Henry looked at him carefully.
"Then what happened?"
His father answered simply.
"I stayed."
Silence followed.
"When things got worse, people needed help. So I used what I had."
His wealth.
His savings.
His trade connections.
All of it.
He had poured everything into keeping Verna alive.
That explained everything.
The trust of the people.
The respect.
The quiet authority.
He had not ruled Verna.
He had carried it.
And now Henry understood why everyone listened when his father spoke.
Nabu gave a slow nod.
"Well," he said, "that explains why everyone trusts him more than the actual baron."
"That was unnecessary," Henry replied.
"It was accurate."
After hearing everything, Henry made his decision.
His father would handle merchant relations—and more importantly, the finances of Verna.
There was no better choice.
Henry trusted him.
And the city already did.
—
Months passed.
And slowly—
Things began to change.
The first true breakthrough came with the artifact.
After countless failures, redesigns, and nights without sleep, Henry finally succeeded in creating a larger-scale land purifier.
It was not elegant.
It was not beautiful.
But it worked.
For the first time in years, patches of land once poisoned by demonic miasma began to clear.
The soil darkened.
The corruption faded.
The earth breathed again.
People gathered just to watch it happen.
Some cried.
Others simply stood there in silence, as if afraid believing too much might break the miracle.
At the same time, the miasma-resistant seeds proved disappointing.
Out of thousands planted, only a handful survived.
One in a million.
It was not enough.
The experiment was abandoned.
Now that the land itself could be purified, there was no reason to continue chasing uncertain hope.
Instead, Henry ordered normal seeds to be imported from healthier regions.
Clean land.
Healthy crops.
Reliable harvests.
Simple.
Effective.
And it worked.
The first fields turned green.
Then more.
Then entire stretches of Verna began to show life again.
The city followed.
Broken homes were repaired.
Roofs no longer leaked during rainstorms.
Children no longer slept through winter nights in cold rooms.
Merchants began returning cautiously.
Caravans stopped.
Trade reopened.
With Henry's father managing finances and merchant negotiations, Verna stabilized faster than anyone expected.
He negotiated like a man who had once survived by profit.
And like someone who knew exactly how much people could endure.
Revenue projections finally showed something Verna had not seen in years.
Surplus.
If the harvest continued as expected, the city would not only survive—
It would recover.
But there was something strange.
Something unexpected.
The crops grown in the purified land were different.
They grew faster.
Healthier.
Stronger.
And the yield was far beyond normal expectations.
At first, Henry thought it was luck.
Then he thought it was the river.
But after repeated harvest reports, it became clear—
The purified land itself had changed.
Whatever that artifact truly did…
It was more than simple cleansing.
It restored.
Perhaps even improved.
Nabu stared at one of the reports and quietly said,
"My lord… if this continues, Verna may become the richest farming region in the south."
Henry looked out toward the growing fields.
For the first time, prosperity did not feel like a dream.
It felt close.
Very close.
Prosperous Verna was no longer a fantasy.
It was coming.
And yet—
Beyond the borders, another storm was rising.
Rumors spread first.
Then reports.
Then fear.
Demonic beasts.
More than before.
Far more.
Entire patrol groups disappearing.
Villages near the southern borders going silent.
Trade routes becoming dangerous.
And whispers of something worse—
That the beasts were no longer moving like beasts.
But like an army.
As Verna began to heal—
The world beyond it began to burn.