The new supervisor, with her afro and her hawkish mien, herds the children around the field. Leeks and scallions grow in unruly bushels, their innate sulfurous flavor a pest repellent. Behind the trellis gate, the witchhunter yells, "Hey!" and waves.

The supervisor called Palia opens the gate for Scorpion, and she tips her head formally and brushes back loose hair. Palia wears bloomers and a white crop top with a toga shirt draped over. Her eyebags and erratic movements spark concern.

"How's it going?" Scorpion asks.

"The sun shines," Palia answers, her voice thin. "What business have you?"

"I'd like to chat with the kids, if that's alright."

"Go ahead." She leads Scorpion to the middle of the field, where the cluster of children generally orbit.

Cautious heads perk at Scorpion's presence, as the children uproot leeks, split the stalks in half length-wise, and rebury the roots.

He scans the children, a rollercoaster of heights, until he spots a boy who looks older and put together. "You Larko?"

The boy nods and trudges over, holding a basket of leek harvest, dirt soiling his hands and feet. Wavy hair and straight-lipped, he looks about twelve years of age. "Yessir?"

"How's Timo doing these days?"

The kids within earshot jerk suddenly, as if static shocked them all at the same time. Larko twits his eyes in a pinched stare.

Scorpion raises his brows. "I'm not here to judge or anything like that. I just wanna know what happened to him."

"Sir." Larko looks up with a grave stare. "If you see him, stay away from him."

"Oh? Why?"

At this point, all the kids have inched closer towards Scorpion while pretending to work, no doubt trying to hear the conversation.

Larko brushes close towards the witchhunter, searching for ambushers amongst the broad, fat leeks. "Can you keep secrets? You have to swear by the Arcanist."

"An Arcanist am I, as Arcanist I die." Scorpion gestures zipping his lips.

Larko sighs and dials back his intensity. "If we say his name, we're going to be voodoo'd. He's a sorcerer, you know?"

Sorcery is a catch-all term for illegal and immoral magic, such as using the mana of another individual human without consent. It's about as nondescript as calling someone a 'sinner' or a 'baddie.' Playing along, Scorpion puckers his lips. "Ooo, that sounds bad."

"We've been chanting the litany of divines, but Yosef reported that he's still alive. So far, nothing's happened."

"How do you know he's a sorcerer?"

"Sir! His presence drops the temperature of the air. If he's not a ghost, then what else can he be?"

While highly exaggerated, Scorpion realizes he agrees. "Well? What has he done?"

Larko fidgets and the strain of his throat manifests as taut tendons. He recounts a tale.

The one-who-must-not-be-named said, "Larko, can you set this plant on fire?" He tapped his toe at a vine.

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The pumpkins had started rounding and swelling, with hues of orange livening the rinds. "Why would I? What did the pumpkin do to you?" Larko huffed.

"Larko," he glowered, "set it on fire."

"Man, you're acting strange."

Timo tackled Larko and whipped out a peeling knife, breathing onto his face. "I want to see some red from you." He pressed the dull blade onto Larko's breast, and motes of metal glitter transferred to skin.

Flashes of terror gripped Larko. "I'll do it!" he warbled.

Timo shoved his hostage onto the ground, the knife scraping against Larko's collarbone. Larko winced; he stalled by rolling up his sleeves and rubbing his hands slowly. "Gotta warm up," he mumbled.

Yawning, Timo scraped the knife against something fleshy. "Gotta make kindling."

Larko squealed against his will, and he heard a giggle. He lasered onto the tip of the pumpkin leaf, smoke curling into his nostrils. Flames ravished the wrinkled leaf.

The fire was small, and it quelched after burning a sizable hole. Timo shook Larko and growled, "Is that all, weak pussy bitch?"

Larko exploded the whole plant, its fiery embers spewing everywhere, indistinguishable from pumpkin flesh. Some of the flecks burned his skin, but he didn't care. He grabbed the knife by the blade and thrust it aside, then lambasted Timo, "You asked for it, fat face." Despite his bleeding cuts, he stood up instantly. He was a few inches taller than Timo, and his frame filled out better.

He was close enough, so he set Timo's hair on fire with his mind. The wisps of flame danced like jesters, and Larko felt vindicated when it crested into a bonfire.

Instead of tending to his burning head, Timo headbutted Larko, who faltered. The flame blipped to smolders and smoke.

"Burn everything. The whole field," Timo commanded.

Seriously? This guy thinks he can boss everyone around? Larko lifted his arm to throw a right punch. Other kids had surrounded them, keeping a safe distance. Burnt hair smell gagged their throats.

They scuffled and wrestled, and without a weapon, Timo was easy to pin down. Son-of-a-bitch, pulling a knife isn't funny!

He left Timo bruised in the dirt, tending to the lacerations in his hand. As he went to the knife to pick it up, the other kids screamed, "Watch out!" Larko whipped around, but he was suckered. Timo grabbed his arm and pulled up while he fell down, and his shoulder popped.

Holding Larko's left arm in front of him like a cannon, Timo said, "When I say 'fire,' I want you to make it rain. Nothing like that pathetic fart."

An unrelenting, hungry stare had scared Larko out of his wits. He wasn't willing to die standing his ground. Larko thought it was a normal power struggle, but this kid wanted to see flames with a pathological obsession.

When Timo repeated, "Fire!" Larko would release a jet of flame in the direction of his palm, eventually bombing the whole quadrant of pumpkins. In between Larko's cries, Timo cackled.

The sky darkened, the orange patch roared, and the kids fled from the carbonized stench. Larko had crawled off, eventually collapsing nearby. When the supervisor Harcus swooped in with a few adults, Timo stood in front of the blaze, undeterred by the searing heat. He was silent and tranquil, like a priest in prayer. The Aquariuses doused the flagration, both adults and children who could maneuver water.

The rain was sweet, to make up for no more sweetcorn.

The young ones are crying and tugging at Scorpion. Timo, on multiple occasions, had peed, scratched, punched, and kicked his way into becoming an unholy terror.

Larko puffs his chest like a big brother. "When Harcus disappeared, Timo also disappeared for a few days. We all hoped he got carried away by whatever took Harcus." He covered his mouth, realizing he’d uttered the cursed name.

"You're not going to die," Scorpion says. "I can ward off stigmas." He fingers a sign of protection. A bit of a simplification, but at this point, what can he do?

"Please, ignore him. Don't go near him."

The witchhunter kneels to boy eye-level. "You don't have to be afraid. There's a way to defend yourselves from suckers."

The one thing he can do today is to teach them how to ward. Scorpion shows them basic yoga poses, such as the Phoenix, where the arms are held out like wings, and the Coyote, where they crawl on all fours, the back is arched and the head held high. Physical stamina and control is important to draw mana to key points, which can be used to shield from external attacks. To his surprise, Palia joins in the impromptu lessons.

Self-defense takes a lifetime of study, involving different techniques for different elements. The young children simply play around, while the older ones are cognizant of mana as a separate force. They can practice as they work the fields. Maybe he can dedicate time to train them.

"Sir," a young girl asks, "how do you protect against mushrooms?"

"Don't eat them if you're not completely sure whether they're poisonous."

The girl frowns and she picks at the fringes of her braid. "I mean when they grow on you?"

A fungal infection? Sadly, he doesn't know much about those. "I think you'd have to bathe with soap until they go away."

"Sir," the girl scratches her arms and nose, "when a sorcerer grows them on you?"