The plan was a symphony of their combined magic.
They wouldn't fight the sickness with brute force, but with a series of careful, deliberate acts of healing. As they spoke, the Siyawesi, their tiny bodies flickering with hope, gathered around them. Their silent presence was a wordless encouragement.
Leonotis began.
Kneeling at the edge of the parasitic growth, he plunged his hands into the cool, dark earth, extending his senses deep into the poisoned soil. He felt the tangle of the parasitic roots, thin and hungry, like a network of tiny, glowing worms.
With a surge of concentration, he used his plant magic not to grow, but to pull.
He imagined the roots as threads in a vast, subterranean tapestry, and he began to gently, patiently, pull them free from the soil. The process was agonizingly slow, and he felt the psychic pain of the mushrooms, their hungry, parasitic consciousness screaming against his touch.
Sweat dripped down his face. His features twisted with strain. But he held fast, a steady current of pure, green magic flowing from his hands into the earth.
As Leonotis worked, Jacqueline moved to the nearest stream.
Her movements were fluid and purposeful. She drew a line of pure water from the flowing creek, holding it in a shimmering orb above her head. She chanted, her voice a low hum, the ancient words of her people echoing in the night.
The water in the orb began to glow with a clean, pearlescent light.
She then sent the purified water out, a slow, gentle rain that fell only on the blighted fields. This time, the water didn't sizzle. It cleansed.
The acrid smell of the magical compound was washed away, and the dry, cracked soil drank greedily, the poison seeping out and becoming diluted with every drop.
Meanwhile, Low stood before the great, shimmering magical ward.
Her eyes were fierce with determination. She chose her largest, heaviest rock, its surface slick and smooth from a thousand throws.
This wasn't about brute force—it was about precision.
She felt the magic of the ward, a pulsating rhythm. She timed her throw with the beat.
With a grunt, she hurled the stone with all her strength.
It didn't smash the ward; instead, it hit the edge with a deafening CRACK, causing a tremor to ripple through the barrier. The ward shuddered, its light flickering.
Low repeated the motion, rock after rock, striking weak points she sensed with her curse. Each hit created a jarring, painful echo in the magical field. The ward was being dismantled—one crack at a time.
Zombiel stood beside a patch of withered plants.
His small face was a study in concentration. He held his hands out, and a small, controlled flame appeared. Unlike before, he didn't send it upward.
He sent it downward, a tiny, directed torrent of fire aimed at the dying stalks.
The fire didn't spread. It consumed the infected plants in a clean, contained burn, turning the poisoned biomass to ash. This fire didn't feel hungry. It felt… purposeful.
The ground, now purified by Jacqueline's water and cleansed of its parasitic roots by Leonotis, seemed to welcome the cleansing fire.
The Siyawesi worked alongside them.
Their tiny glowing bodies were a constant stream of tireless energy. As Leonotis pulled the parasitic roots, they carefully gathered the glowing mushrooms and carried them away. As Jacqueline's purified water fell, they burrowed into the cleansed earth, re-sowing the last of their sacred seeds.
They were not just helpers. They were the true healers of the land.
By the time the first light of dawn painted the sky in rose and gold, the work was done.
Leonotis, exhausted but filled with a profound sense of peace, felt the earth sigh in relief.
The fields were still largely bare, but something new stirred. A new life. The faint green of new growth was visible at the base of a few stalks—a fragile but undeniable promise of a future harvest.
The Siyawesi gathered together, their glowing bodies pulsing with gratitude, their soft chittering like a song of thanks.
Then came the villagers.
Led by Gashirai, they approached the fields. Their faces were filled with awe and confusion as they took in the sight of the children and the glowing Siyawesi.
"What is this?" Gashirai demanded. His gruff voice carried suspicion.
He looked at the few new shoots of corn. At the glowing mushrooms piled beside the ward's cracked stone. His expression darkened.
Leonotis stepped forward. His heart pounded, but his voice was firm.
"We came to help you," he said. "But we found out that you were the ones hurting the land."
He held up his hand. A small tendril of vibrant green ivy unfurled, a stark contrast to the withered stalks.
"The Siyawesi didn't do this. They were trying to save the fields from the poison you put in the ground."
Gashirai's face paled.
He looked from the revived plants, to the glowing mushrooms, then to the silent, watchful Siyawesi. His bravado crumbled, replaced by hollow defeat.
"It was the powder," he confessed. His voice was a broken whisper. "I thought it would bring us an endless harvest. We were so hungry. We wanted to be rich."
He looked down, shame washing over him.
"A woman… a stranger. She wore a black robe and held a staff. She came a few months ago and told me she had a miracle solution. I didn't know who she was. I just wanted to save our village."
The villagers stared at their elder, their faces filled with confusion and dawning understanding.
They had been lied to. Not by the Siyawesi. But by their own leader.
Leonotis, Low, Jacqueline, and Zombiel turned their backs on the villagers.
There was nothing more to do here.
As the sun rose higher in the sky, they walked away. The soft chirping of the Siyawesi followed them like a farewell song.
They left the villagers to stare at the fragile green shoots of hope in the fields—and to ponder the consequences of their actions.
They had done the right thing. And that was all the reward they needed.