The supervisor's cottage, the sole connection point of the Happy Plantation to the outside world, harbored an air of mystery in the eyes of the prisoners.
Four volunteers, plucked from the ranks of captives, stepped into the cottage—a place they had long been curious about, with a mix of trepidation and intrigue in their hearts.
For the bio-mimetic skeletons, housing was a matter of little consequence. Back in the Lightless Tomb, no one had dwellings; they roamed when they could roam, and rested when rest beckoned. Now, each skeleton boasted a Slime partner that would darken certain parts of itself by day to provide its skeletal companion a little more comfort. So, the cottage was considered merely a stopgap home, and no one had grand demands for its interiors.
On entering the mysterious cottage, the volunteers found it rather ordinary: simple wooden interiors, common beds, nothing out of the ordinary. It was all so reminiscent of their lives outside that the volunteers' sense of mystery quickly gave way to a pang of homesickness.
The captives were ushered into a modest room and instructed to take their seats before a square table, which held four peculiar tubers.
A supervisor with parchment and quill entered, his expression stern, and said, "Prisoner 0459, Prisoner 0124, Prisoner 1107, Prisoner 0089. I ask, you answer."
The prisoners nodded hurriedly, ready to hear and respond to the supervisor's probing.
"Do you believe in the Goddess?" the supervisor's voice was meticulous.
"Yes, yes," the volunteers nodded in agreement.
"Have you ever had encounters with heretics?"
The word 'heretics' transformed their faces, and their heads shook vehemently. "No, no."
"Good. Now eat the tubers in front of you!"
Swallowing hard, the captives hesitated. Though every day at the camp was arduous, they'd never experienced true hunger thanks to the decent dietary standards imposed by their strict overseers. Despite the lingering worry that the seemingly benign tuber might claim their lives, the prisoners trusted the overseers enough to comply—for sixty work hours were on the line.
Once the tubers were consumed, the skeleton with the parchment leaned casually against the door, observing every minute change in the four men. He marked the parchment periodically, documenting each occurrence, until a surprise unfolded fifteen minutes later.
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"Prisoner 0459, what are you doing?" the supervisor's icy tone filled the room.
The other captives couldn't help but turn their gaze toward the man seated at the end.
At that moment, Prisoner 0459 was still, with no trace of agony on his face. His hands were crossed over his chest in prayer.
Upon hearing the supervisor's query, he slowly opened his eyes, emerging from a lucid dream-state.
"Prisoner 0459, answer my question. What were you doing?"
"I... I don't know, sir," he stammered. "I felt a warmth coursing through me... It was like..." He trailed off, searching for words, then cautiously added, "Like the feeling of listening to a long sermon."
No sooner had Prisoner 0459 spoken than the other three exhibited abnormal behavior; one by one, they naturally closed their eyes. Some mimicked the posture of 0459, as if basking by a fire, others tilted their heads back, as though basking in the sun's warmth through a solid roof. The last wept tears of baptismal clarity.
Standing aside, the skeletal supervisor simply watched everything unfold, committing the scene to the parchment in his grasp.
Being one of the rare skeletons who recalled past knowledge after leveling up, he handled record-keeping for the entire camp, even teaching basic numeracy to his kin to lighten his workload.
Quarter of an hour later, the captives slowly returned to their senses. They incredulously regarded their outstretched or clasped arms, wiped away tears, recalling their behaviors from the last fifteen minutes and sensing the change within.
Prisoner 0124 looked to the door guard, his face tinged with reminiscence. "Sir, what is this?"
"None of your concern. Now that you're awake, share your experiences," commanded the unwavering supervisor.
Diligently organizing their thoughts, the prisoners began to open up about their recent sensations.
---
Half an hour later, in another room of the supervisor's cottage.
Murphy scrutinized the parchment in hand, his brows furrowing into one.
"So you're telling me, not only did they find no discomfort, but they even want another go?"
"Yes, Your Majesty," said the skeleton supervisor. "They've never tasted tubers that good. They suspect it's some sort of miraculous herb that only looks like pale tubers."
"Hmm," Murphy hummed softly, eyes still roaming over the parchment's words, "They felt warmth, as if being baptized, and afterwards, felt reborn…"
Had it not been for their eagerness for another hit, Murphy might have suspected they'd entered a state of enlightenment. Clearly, the power of faith was a panacea to those devoted to the Goddess, yet lethal to the demon kind—these unbelievers.
A tinge of satisfaction welled up inside Murphy. With such outcome, he could likely turn a good profit from this batch of tubers. Experiment gone wrong? Hardly. They had cultivated a brand new species—demons simply do not fail.
Murphy relayed this to his busy underlings at the trial fields, directing them to transport the crops to the trade station in the barren hills. They needn't worry about further sales or marketing; that wasn't their concern.
With this matter resolved, Murphy's gaze turned towards the City of Gath, miles away, hoping the craftsmen there, enticed by the bounty, would concoct something new and lively for him.