Chapter 827: The Winds of Spring

For those living in the eastern reaches of the Holy Spirit Plains at this moment, the arrival of spring meant more than just the end of a harsh winter and the return of warmth—it marked the most critical turning point in a long, arduous battle.

Having endured the crushing grip of winter, the reconstruction of the Holy Spirit Plains would now, with the coming of the Month of Renewal, get back on track. The thawing of the ice was the day humanity would once again take steps toward reclaiming their former homeland.

At the southern outpost of the Red Maple Reconstruction Camp.

A druid medic clad in a white uniform trimmed with green sat behind a desk, scanning a form before him. After reviewing the records, the tall, slender young man looked up at the silent figure standing across from him—a towering man with his hood pulled low.

“From the eastern border region? Volunteered?”

The hooded man gave a simple grunt, reluctant to speak.

The druid medic was used to this. He had processed hundreds of recovered patients—those who had survived the crystallization infection, bearing wounds far deeper than the physical. Yet he believed every one of them had a chance to return to a normal life. At least, this place would accept them.

“Take off your hood,” the medic said gently. “No need to be nervous—I’ve seen plenty like you.”

Still silent but cooperative, the tall man reached up and removed his hood, then untied the scarf concealing his face.

Before the medic appeared a face marked by blackened scabs and lingering crystal shards. The scars from the crystal infection snaked down his cheek and disappeared beneath his collar.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” the young medic murmured, shaking his head in quiet awe. “But don’t worry—there are many like you here. Tens of thousands have been infected by the crystal clusters, but this land still welcomes you.” He slid a metal plate across the desk, its surface etched with a fine grid and a bold number: 32.

“Number thirty-two…” the tall man whispered hoarsely, his voice rough from the infection’s scars.

“You can write your name on the back, or not. Many recovered patients choose new names. But for the records, only your number matters. Everyone’s treated the same.”

The man said nothing. After a moment’s silence, his voice cracked as he asked, “When do I start work?”

“Don’t worry. Someone will take you to your job site first thing tomorrow morning,” the medic smiled. “Until then, you can get familiar with the place, get a feel for the atmosphere—”

Outside the window, the roar of machinery mingled with the shouts of workers.

The tall, silent man glanced out to see large vehicles covered with tarps parked in an open field. Workers moved in unison, unloading sacks from the trucks. Young officials in uniform stood nearby, speaking with the convoy leaders. Among the unloaders were both healthy civilians and recovered patients, their bodies still marked by scars and crystal remnants.

The medic rose from his chair and walked to the window. “Welcome to the Red Maple Reconstruction Zone. Everything will get better—just like this land, everything will be rebuilt.”

Another tarp-covered truck rumbled into the camp. The warming spring breeze swept across the flagpoles in the square, tugging at the straps securing the tarps. More builders arrived, expertly unloading crates and sacks.

“This is the last batch of grain we could gather from the western region,” the convoy captain told a young official in a coat. “Hope it helps.”

“It’s more than enough,” the official nodded. “Our reserves will hold us through the harvest season. We’ll have production back on track before then.”

The convoy captain, a burly man with a thick beard, gazed ahead at the workers—some still bearing the telltale marks of crystal infection. “Infected people have it rough elsewhere. When I crossed the border, I saw villages driving them out into the wilderness…”

“They’re called ‘recovered’ here. That’s an order from above,” the young official said. “The evil forces that once plagued this land have been eradicated. The infection can no longer spread. Changing their name is the first step toward changing how people see them. Of course, we understand the fear and hostility ordinary folks feel toward the ‘crystal clusters.’ So if you meet recovered people at the border, tell them to come here. Every reconstruction camp will accept them. We always welcome more labor.”

“I’ll pass that along,” the convoy captain said with a smile. “They’re wary of the government’s propaganda stations, but someone who’s returned from the reconstruction zone might earn their trust.” His eyes swept over the trucks and the workers gathered from all corners. He whispered in awe, “It’s incredible…”

“Incredible how?”

“These people, these supplies… the entire empire is mobilized just to rebuild this plain. Who in the Ansar era would have imagined such a thing?” He shook his head softly. “This must be what His Majesty meant by the ‘New Order’…”

The young official said nothing, only gazing thoughtfully into the distance, as if his eyes pierced through the camp’s walls and the vast, rolling plains beyond.

…

Blue banners fluttered atop the walls of Solinfort, carrying the scent of awakening life on the breeze. In the long corridors of the research center, hurried footsteps echoed. A gray-haired druid hurried along, holding a scroll aloft.

“Neutralizer No. 3 works! Neutralizer No. 3 works!!”

His voice rang through the halls. Doors opened one by one as technicians peeked out, confusion giving way to cheers that soon filled the corridor.

Outside, the courtyard’s lush plants swayed joyfully in the early spring wind, their leaves rustling like applause.

Near the research facility, beside a test plot, Norris slowly rose with the help of an assistant. Listening to the sounds of the greenery, he looked toward the towering Solin Tree. Its massive canopy shimmered in the sunlight, countless branches and leaves swaying, as if whispering softly to one another.

“Minister, Neutralizer No. 3 is effective,” the assistant said, barely able to contain his excitement. “Even the most severely polluted soil can now be purified. The Holy Spirit Plains’ grain-producing areas will soon be ready for planting again!”

Norris gazed at the restored earth before him. Wrinkles creased his face as a smile slowly spread. He exhaled deeply, nodding at the agronomy assistants and druid experts around him. “As long as it works, that’s what matters…”

His eyes scanned the tired yet hopeful faces, finally resting on a peculiar cluster of flowering vines in the corner. He approached and stopped before them.

“Ms. Beltira, thank you for your help. Without you, we couldn’t have found the most effective purification method so quickly…”

The vines rustled, twisting and curling as a female figure emerged. Beltira appeared before them, her expression calm and unreadable.

“Don’t thank me… In the end, I’m just fixing a mistake we made ourselves.”

“But Neutralizer No. 3 was completed with your assistance,” Norris said, shaking his head slightly. “Without your life’s catalytic power, we couldn’t have completed all the sample tests and comparative analyses in just one winter.”

Beltira listened quietly, her impassive face betraying nothing.

The Poisoner knows the antidote. The Doomsayers who once spread curses across this land also hold detailed knowledge of the blight. As the inheritor of the Doomsayers’ final legacy, this “miracle creation” had indeed helped the Solinfort research team find the best way to neutralize the crystallization pollution. But to her, this was hardly a “glory.”

“Finding Neutralizer No. 3 is only the beginning. The next challenge is mass production,” an expert broke the silence. “It takes time to move from lab to factory, from raw materials to product. Spring planting is coming soon. Whether the heavily polluted areas can be farmed again is key to overcoming this crisis.”

“Fortunately, the neutralizer’s preparation isn’t complicated. Existing alchemy factories should be able to produce it. The main challenge is gathering raw materials and modifying the reactors,” another technician added. “If the factories in Saint Suniel and Pompey start production simultaneously, we should make it in time.”

Beltira listened as the discussion continued, the branches and flowers behind her swaying gently.

“If needed, I can help,” she offered. “The ecological pods growing in my root zone can also synthesize the neutralizer, though probably less efficiently than your factories…”

“Those pods are cultivating seeds for spring planting, which is equally important,” Norris interrupted. “Ms. Beltira, please trust in Cecil Industries. The alchemy factories will handle production.”

He smiled. “Of course, if output falls short, we’ll ask for your help in time.”

Beltira looked quietly at the old man before her—one without any extraordinary powers, whose life was nearing its end, yet who led thousands of ordinary people and willing supernaturals alike in reversing a disaster. For a moment, she said nothing.

She closed her eyes briefly, sensing the land around her.

In this Month of Renewal, as the earth warmed, a breeze swept across the Solin region’s plains. It rustled through the vast canopy of the Solin Tree, stirring endless waves among its layered branches and broad leaves.

Atop the giant tree, a massive arcane obelisk glowed with a soft blue light, floating serenely. In the monitoring hub nestled in the lower trunk, a magical network terminal connected directly to the obelisk displayed a message from a distant station:

“Luan Hub to Solin Hub, transmitting greetings to our comrades in the reconstruction zone—today, Luan City enjoys clear skies.”

Deep beneath the Giant Tree District, nestled among the sprawling, winding root system, the former headquarters of the Cult of All-Things’ Demise had been overtaken by vines, roots, and the marks of modern civilization. Bright magical crystal lamps now illuminated what had once been dark and oppressive rooms and halls. Under their glow, lush plants clustered around translucent ecological pods filled with pale yellow biomass fluid. Inside, countless life forms wrapped in nurturing substrates thrived—not the twisted experimental creatures or deadly abominations of old, but ordinary grains and legumes, rapidly approaching maturity.

This was the result of an entire winter’s work by Beltira and the Empire’s druids—a success born from countless cycles of catalytic cultivation. These seeds could now flourish even in mildly polluted areas.

Clad in robes of varying lengths, the Empire’s druids moved busily among the cultivation vessels, observing samples, recording data, and screening specimens with quiet order and meticulous care.

Watching them, Beltira couldn’t help but recall the past—those days when the cultists of the All-Things’ Demise had toiled in the underground chambers.

But everything was clearly different now.

Technology had finally returned to its rightful path.

(End of chapter)