Chapter 2: The Person Starving to Death

It was again the busiest time of the year—the crops had ripened, and it was harvest season.

Ange worked tirelessly, his sharp sickle flashing as he cut row after row of crops clean at the root, laying them neatly to one side, as if an invisible hand had arranged them with precision.

This was experience accumulated over thousands of years of labor; the sickle felt alive in his hands, cutting exactly where he willed, as deep as he desired, creating better conditions for the coming cleanup.

He worked without pause, and night slipped away quietly; dawn broke faintly, the birdcalls around him growing louder, small birds of various species landing on the field ridges to peck at scattered grains.

If they only ate the scattered grains, Ange wouldn’t care—but what was scattered paled beside the full, plump crops still standing, and many inexperienced newcomers crossed the line, landing on the unharvested plants.

Ange tilted his head, turned, walked to the edge of the field, and took a straw hat from the scarecrow’s head, placing it on his own.

With a pulse of magic, Ange transformed into an eagle, flapping his wings and soaring into the field; the birds perched on the crops scattered in panic, fleeing and not daring to return for a long time.

The Scarecrow Hat—a magical item that could cast illusions—required only a tiny amount of magic to activate and could maintain the illusion for a long time; unless someone possessed stronger mental power than Ange, it was nearly impossible to see through, and more than enough to fool birds.

Once, those straw hats on scarecrows could cast illusions on their own, scaring away stealing birds and small beasts—but no one knew when, the scarecrows gradually fell silent.

After years of massive crop failures, birds and small beasts multiplied, even digging up newly planted seeds to eat; only then did Ange realize the scarecrows’ purpose, and slowly practiced activating the hat’s illusion.

Now, he had learned to transform into several forms, such as the eagle, the one birds and beasts feared most.

A giant eagle flapped its wings across the field as crops continued to be harvested, and the greedy birds dared not land for a long time.

The sun rose, its light falling on Ange, bringing a faint warmth.

Undead beings loathed sunlight most of all, and Ange was no exception; long ago, even a few extra minutes in the sun made him feel his soul would explode, and he would flee at top speed to any shadowed place.

But over a thousand years had passed; though Ange still disliked sunlight, he no longer felt the same agony—especially when just a few crops remained unharvested, he thought he could endure a little longer.

Under the sun, he harvested and bundled the last row, then pushed his cart toward the grain storage warehouse.

As he pushed, Ange suddenly sensed something wrong—he looked up toward the edge of the farm and saw a curved gate outside the fence, emitting a faint white glow.

Ange had forgotten how many years it had been since such an anomaly appeared; for years, there had been no sound, no light, only deathly silence.

Why was the arch glowing? Had the undying souls returned?

Ange immediately turned aside, abandoning the grain, and pushed his cart toward the glowing arch—but when he reached it, he found no undying souls; apart from the glowing arch, everything around was unchanged.

Ange circled the arch in confusion, and as he walked, he ended up in the center—and vanished through the arch.

One moment his vision blurred, the surroundings transformed: no longer the desolate, silent farm, but a gray, barren wasteland, two stone pillars standing abruptly in the field, faintly emitting white light.

Ange took one step forward—and the white light from the pillars stretched like a membrane, connecting him to the pillars.

He took another step—and felt restraint; the light membrane bound him to the pillars.

What is this? Ange strained hard, easily snapping the membrane, his foot touching the ground.

The broken membrane floated limply, shrinking until it condensed into a leather wristband on his wrist, inscribed with runes.

A magical accessory? Ange tilted his head.

At that moment, a weak voice came from behind him: “Eagle-man… Eagle-man? I… I prayed to the undying souls… why did you come… an Eagle-man?”

Ange turned—and saw a human lying on the ground, emaciated to the bone, his outstretched wrist skin-tight over skeleton, as if merely a layer of skin wrapped around bone. One finger pointed at Ange; he finished his last word with resentment, then his head and arm collapsed limply, unconscious.

Eagle-man? Me? Ange tilted his head, baffled—he was a skeleton, so why did this human point at him and say “Eagle-man”? What even was an Eagle-man?

Then it struck him—he reached up and removed the Scarecrow Hat.

Of course—he hadn’t taken it off; his illusion still held the form of an eagle, so the human had mistaken him.

He hung the hat around his neck, walked to the human’s side, poked him with a finger—no movement. He was truly unconscious.

Carefully observing, Ange saw the human’s life force weakening, on the verge of extinction—he was about to die.

This left Ange confused and helpless; he was just a little skeleton who grew vegetables—he had never faced such a situation. What should he do now?

After thinking a moment, Ange remembered his cart—the freshly harvested grain still sat atop it, meant for storage, but he’d been drawn by the white light and pushed it here; now he had a full cart of food.

Humans needed food, didn’t they? He was so thin—he must be starving. Ange knew what to do now; after all, he could do little else.

He flipped the human over, grabbed a handful of grain, and shoved it into his mouth, then crouched beside him, hugging his knees and watching.

Why isn’t he eating? Ange waited a long while—no reaction. He suddenly understood: someone unconscious couldn’t eat.

If so, Ange decided to help further—he grabbed more grain and forced it into the human’s mouth. After a few handfuls, the human unsurprisingly woke up, choking.

The weak human struggled to spit out the grain that nearly choked him, gasping that it needed to be shelled and cooked before eating, and that he was dying of thirst—he needed water.

Ange was stumped—where could he find water?

Without water, the grain was inedible; the weak human stared at the cart of food, and starved to death right there.