Listening to the old man, Old Hank felt the craving in his stomach awaken, nostalgically recalling the taste of at soup, as if his rusty legs regained strength.
He had been hungry for so long, he almost forgot what it felt like to live like a human.
However, soon his newly aroused enthusiasm was crushed by the harsh reality that followed.
They arrived at Wheat Field Village.
What greeted them was not their longed-for hotown, but a scene of ruins and desolation.
Knee-high thorns and weeds had engulfed every inch of land, the blackened scorched earth faintly revealing the foundations left by burnt houses, as though the idyllic landscapes existed only in dreams.
Passing refugees had consud all edible things, and even the inedible were taken for firewood; what survived were only bones and thorns, which even beasts found too tough to chew.
"...Is this Wheat Field Village?" A youngster at the edge of the village murmured bewilderedly, his eyes slowly losing hope.
He had confidently thought he knew his hotown intimately, yet never expected it had turned into Hell.
Old Hank remained silent, squatted down and grabbed a handful of earth, rubbing it with his rough fingers before letting out a sigh.
The land had already beco barren.
As an old farr who had dealt with the land all his life, he knew better than anyone what this ant.
In order to plant again on this land, they must first clear the knee-high weeds, dig out the stubborn roots, and then with animal force... oh no, without animals, they could only use manpower to hoe the rock-solid earth bit by bit.
Only then could they sow the seeds.
This was not a task that could be completed in one or two months; usually, they needed to reserve three years of provisions before cultivating new land.
While repairing these fields wouldn't be as tough as reclaiming wasteland, it certainly wouldn't be a short-term task.
"Too late..."
The old man who previously described the sauerkraut and pork hock sighed too, softly murmuring while looking at the holand within reach, "If preparations had started from last autumn, perhaps we'd still make it."
The soldiers of the Salvation Army felt their spirits sink.
Last autumn…
At that ti, they were still besieging the city, uncertain of survival, who would consider the next year?
More heavily, they rembered another Oracle given by the Holy Lady before their departure—
"You will eat and live with the returning villagers, and must regard them as your brothers, clearing all obstacles for them. If we miss this spring's sowing, not only will the God-promised harvest not occur, but we will also face even harsher issues than this year."
Everyone felt the heavy burden on their shoulders, bearing not just their own fate, but the fate of everyone beside and behind them.
No one wanted to return to that hell weeks ago, be it refugees or soldiers...
As silence enveloped the crowd, a commotion suddenly arose in the distant forest.
It was a group of people wearing erald-green cloaks, their hoods hiding their faces, obscuring their identities.
The first to notice was a sentry, confused about their intentions, as he saw them take out vine-like staffs from their bosoms, pointing towards the sky.
"Stop, who are you!" The Salvation Army sentry shouted sternly, attempting to approach for clarity, only to see the sky changing color.
"...Fla Spirit dancing above the molten stream, I beseech you for a rain of fire from the heavens..."
The leader of the mysterious group, as if blind to the sentry, raised a slender arm, chanting an ancient and obscure Spell.
That was Elf language.
The next mont, the grayish sky suddenly dimd further, innurable sparks rained down like burning arrows upon the weed-covered land!
The sentry, startled, ran desperately while shouting "Enemy attack."
He believed he was dood, yet the unexpected happened!
The burning arrows, as if having eyes, expertly avoided his escape path, landing instead among the weeds, thorns, and shrubbery!
Not only did the arrows evade him, but they also spared the nearby crowd, the boiling flas akin to a scalding giant scythe, burning everything decrepit in its path!
The returning refugees scread in terror, believing the apocalypse arrived, as the uneasy retreating crowd prepared to flee.
The leading Chiliarch drew his sword, urging the panic-stricken people behind him.
"Do not panic! They are Elves from Rushing River, friends of the Holy Daughter, sent by the Divine Son 'Fla King' to aid us as Divine Envoys!"
"Their flas will not harm you! They are here to help us!"
The Holy Daughter had told him about this "reinforcent," though he never expected the allies' aid to arrive so abruptly.
The cloaked mysterious figure cast a glance at the fleeing backs and noisy distant crowd, with a hint of mocking smile on lips glossed with purple, then coldly continued weaving the Spell.
Too weak—
He truly couldn't understand why the Demon King would aid them; were such allies really worthy of his investnt of ti and effort?
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