Seeing the expressions on the people around him, Clayton let out a long sigh.
"All right, uncles and brothers," he finally said. "I'll share some of the tips my father left behind. But please, don't expect too much—and don't blame me if anything goes wrong. After all, my father was just an ordinary farmer. He never had a mentor or formal education like those great figures out there."
Hearing that, Equus scoffed.
"Clayton, what do you mean by 'goes wrong'? Are you just making things up? What if your advice ruins our crops?"
Clayton ignored the jeer entirely. His voice remained calm and steady.
"Let me be clear—these are simply notes passed down by my father. Whether you use them or not is entirely up to you. But there's one condition—I want you all to promise that you won't hold me accountable if your crops fail."
He gave a faint smile, his tone laced with sarcasm, "This small body of mine couldn't possibly bear the weight of accusations and insults from such esteemed men as yourselves."
The crowd looked somewhat dissatisfied. It was clear they hoped for the best results with minimal effort—ideally, at no cost. But a few of them understood the situation and began to scold Equus.
"Hey, Equus, quit causing trouble. It's already generous of Clayton to share. Don't go throwing around accusations."
"Yeah, that's totally out of line."
"Honestly, we already felt guilty asking in the first place. Everyone knows knowledge like this should be shared voluntarily, not under pressure."
"Clayton's not being stingy. We should be grateful."
Equus just grumbled under his breath.
Meanwhile, Clayton sneered inwardly. Shameless people.
At the edge of the crowd, Wood, who had been observing silently, felt a growing admiration.
This young man knows when to push forward and when to pull back. If only I had that kind of wisdom when I was his age... maybe things would've turned out differently.
His trust in Clayton deepened.
Clayton then shared a few simple pointers. Nothing came from his special abilities—Farmer's Observation and Intuition—only what he considered minor, harmless advice.
Even so, the farmers listened with visible enthusiasm. Their smiles were genuine, and their eyes lit up with interest.
It was clear Clayton's farming experience far exceeded their assumptions. Even his simplest suggestions managed to inspire these seasoned farmers.
When he was finished, the group remained deep in discussion, jotting down notes and absorbing the information.
Satisfied that everything had gone smoothly, Clayton excused himself and headed home. The farmers bid him farewell with warm, appreciative smiles.
Moments after he left, the group burst into discussion again—comparing notes, theorizing, and reflecting.
The more they talked, the more moved they became. They were thankful for Clayton's kindness. But, as always, there's a rotten apple in every barrel.
Equus, who had been sneering from the beginning, still couldn't accept the outcome. He began whispering behind Clayton's back.
"Do you all really believe that was legit?" he said, suspicious. "I bet he's hiding something. What if he gave us faulty advice on purpose so our farms fail? Then he could swoop in and 'save the day'—for a price!"
Those who heard him fell silent. They stepped away, giving him disdainful glances.
As Clayton had said, there was no guarantee the advice was flawless. But these veterans were no fools. They could tell what was useful and what wasn't.
Even if Clayton's tips weren't perfect, none of them would've offered that kind of help so freely. And now, Equus was slandering the only one who had? It was disgraceful.
They knew it was better to build trust with someone like Clayton than align themselves with someone like Equus.
Before long, Equus was left alone.
But he felt no shame. Instead, he blamed everyone else—calling them sycophants and opportunists. He was convinced he alone saw the truth.
Even shunned, there were still a few who shared his resentment. And with them, Equus began to spread rumors and slander about Clayton.
While gossiping, Equus noticed a middle-aged man nearby, looking visibly troubled.
It was Hank. His farm had recently been devastated. Without a solution, he wouldn't be able to pay the wheat tax at year's end.
As Equus's words reached his ears, Hank's interest was piqued. He began listening carefully.
"Just imagine," Equus said, feeding the flame. "Clayton earns forty crystal sands a day. In ten days, that's already four lower-grade magic crystals."
"And don't forget—his dad just died. Probably left him a stash. The guy's been a helper for years. You know he's got savings."
Hank's eyes narrowed. His gaze shifted toward Clayton's home.
Equus watched, grinning. Good… he's biting.
To most, Hank was just another desperate man trying to survive. But Equus had heard darker rumors—stories of Hank's past as a ruthless robber. One of his drinking buddies once claimed Hank had slit a man's throat without hesitation.
Knowing what Hank was capable of, Equus baited his trap—hoping to drive the man into killing Clayton.
A sinister smile crept across his face.
Hank noticed the grin and felt a chill. But brushing it off, he turned away and returned to his shack.
Equus chuckled softly. This is going to work.
...
Nightfall
Clayton was preparing for bed. His body ached from a long day's labor, but his heart was content. He believed brighter days were ahead.
He soon drifted into a deep sleep, unaware of the danger creeping his way.
From the west, a shadow-clad figure moved silently. Whether it was the stillness of the night or his mastery of stealth, no one sensed his approach.
He vaulted the fence in one smooth motion, barely making a sound. Step by step, he crept closer to the house.
From his pouch, he retrieved a perforated clay jar and began burning a particular type of wood inside it. Then he drank a prepared potion.
After a moment of waiting, he resumed his approach—this time deliberately letting his feet rustle the ground, testing for any reaction.
Nothing.
"Hehehe… looks like tonight's hunt will be easy," he whispered, eyes gleaming.
It was Hank. Equus's manipulation had awakened his greed.
He thought, With the money I steal from Clayton, I can pay my wheat tax—and live like a king for a month.
The cruel irony? The "wealthy target" he was eyeing was barely better off than himself.
Grinning wickedly, Hank lifted the incense burner—a makeshift sleep-inducing device. He'd already taken the antidote.
Quietly, he advanced toward Clayton's home.
If no one stopped him…
…then by morning, Clayton might be found dead.