The Dark Mage Of The Magus World-Chapter 80 - 81: The Alchemical Fields

The blacksmith’s face twisted with urgency, as if some long-buried memory had resurfaced. His voice was tense as he urged Hutson to leave immediately.

Hutson gave a curt nod and strode toward the door, but at the threshold, he paused and turned back. "Uncle Blacksmith, do you know how to get out?"

The blacksmith hesitated, his expression clouding with pain. He gripped his forehead, his voice hoarse and uncertain. "I... I’ve forgotten so much. But I do know this: stay until dawn, and you will be able to leave. Most importantly—stay away from the houses. Do not go near them!"

A strangled cry tore from his throat as he collapsed to the ground, clutching his head. Something grotesque began to bulge from his back, writhing as if trying to break free.

Without hesitation, Hutson spun around and slammed the door shut behind him.

Boom!

A thunderous impact shook the door, sending tremors rippling through the entire street.

"Robert?" Hutson scanned the area, but his companion was nowhere to be seen. He distinctly remembered Robert standing just outside the window, yet now he had vanished without a trace.

"Did he run away in fear?" Hutson muttered, frowning. It was entirely possible—after all, no sane person would stick around when confronted with a blacksmith who had an axe embedded in his skull yet acted as though nothing was amiss.

Hutson decided against wasting time searching for him. He could only hope Robert’s luck would see him through.

His gaze drifted toward the foot of the mountain. He had already confirmed there was no escape in that direction. Instead, he turned northward, away from the eerie residential district where no human should linger.

The blacksmith’s warning had not been without reason. Hutson’s own experiences told him the same—the houses harbored things, each more sinister than the last.

And yet, this cursed town was not without its treasures. An entire garden of Demon Flowers, a vengeful doll cradled in a little girl’s arms—each item was of great value.

Hutson sighed. If only he were stronger. If he had enough power, he would have simply taken the cursed doll from the girl’s hands—if she resisted, one punch would have been enough to silence her cries.

But for now, all he could do was flee.

He invoked the Blessing of the Wind Sprites, his speed surging as he raced through the forsaken town. 𝘧𝓇𝑒𝑒𝑤ℯ𝑏𝓃𝘰𝑣ℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

As he sprinted past the houses, windows flared to life with eerie glows, shadows stirring behind the glass. Strange noises clawed at his ears—whispers, shuffling movements, the creaking of unseen things rousing from slumber.

Hutson ignored them all, his focus fixed on the northern exit. He did not slow, did not look back.

By the time he crossed the threshold of the residential district, he was drenched in sweat. He could not tell whether it was from exertion or terror.

The sheer malice emanating from those houses had pressed down on him like a suffocating weight. It was a visceral, bone-deep dread—the kind that made a man feel as though death itself was breathing down his neck.

Beyond the haunted town lay a small grove, the trees swaying gently in the night breeze. There were also cultivated fields, their neatly arranged rows standing in stark contrast to the chaos he had left behind.

A gust of wind carried a familiar scent to his nose.

Hutson inhaled deeply, his tense body relaxing ever so slightly. "This fragrance... It’s Dragon’s Beard Grass."

Dragon’s Beard Grass—an alchemical treasure, highly sought after for crafting advanced potions. Among its many uses, its most renowned application was in the creation of Gaia’s Blessing.

Gaia’s Blessing, a potion that drastically heightened a sorcerer’s affinity with earth magic for a short period. It was invaluable during magical breakthroughs, significantly increasing the likelihood of a successful ascension. Even outside of advancements, consuming Gaia’s Blessing allowed a sorcerer to command earth magic with unparalleled ease, the elements bending to their will with minimal effort.

Much like the vengeful doll, Dragon’s Beard Grass was worth a fortune.

Hutson had no precise knowledge of its market price—before now, such rare ingredients had always been beyond his reach. But now, as Larry’s apprentice, he had access to avenues he never would have dreamed of. He could sell these materials to Larry at a discounted rate in exchange for safety. Larry, a full-fledged sorcerer, could then resell them at market value, making a tidy profit in the process.

The vengeful doll stored in his spatial ring would likely be his first sale. Hutson had no talent for curse magic; keeping it would be pointless.

His eyes flicked toward the distant fields, where rows of strange plants swayed in the wind.

As he approached, he found the outermost section filled with Dragon’s Beard Grass. His fingers twitched with temptation.

After ensuring no immediate threats lurked nearby, Hutson cast three protective barriers around himself before unsheathing a small spade.

He crouched down and carefully began to unearth the precious grass.

Each stalk bore a long, crimson tongue nestled within its golden petals—razor-sharp, writhing appendages with a penchant for attacking anything that got too close. Against an ordinary person, they could easily puncture flesh and bone.

But Hutson was no ordinary man. His shields absorbed the probing strikes with a symphony of sharp tinks, the sound echoing like raindrops upon glass.

For half an hour, he labored under the assault of the frenzied flora. By the time he rose, he had gathered seven stalks of Dragon’s Beard Grass.

A modest haul compared to the Demon Flowers he had previously encountered—but in terms of value, these were worth far more.

His gaze shifted to the deeper fields, where even more exotic plants thrived—many of which he could not even name. His knowledge of alchemy was still rudimentary; these were materials he had yet to study.

He hesitated.

If he harvested them improperly, he risked damaging their potency. But he could not simply leave empty-handed.

No choice.

He moved to the next plot, quickening his pace as he dug, his senses heightened to their peak.

Because in this cursed land, danger was never far.

And the longer he lingered, the greater the odds of something finding him first.

Another hour passed.

Hutson was still laboring, meticulously excavating alchemical ingredients from the vast fields. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow and looked up. The land stretched endlessly before him, a sprawling expanse teeming with mystical flora. Even if he worked through the entire night, he would barely make a dent—there were simply too many rare materials.

"Who planted all of this?"

A flicker of doubt crept into his mind. The arrangement of these alchemical plants was too orderly, too structured. Each species was carefully separated into its own designated plot, their cultivation meticulous and precise. This was no wild, chaotic growth of nature—it was the work of a practiced hand.

"If these were cultivated, then it had to be the work of a sorcerer. And not just any sorcerer... someone powerful enough to establish an alchemical farm in a place like this."

A shiver ran down Hutson’s spine. The sheer scale of this operation meant that whoever owned it was no ordinary spellcaster. And yet, for now, the owner was nowhere to be seen.

That was the only reason he was still standing.

His hands tightened around the spade. If the sorcerer were to return now, Hutson knew he wouldn’t stand a chance.

"I’m not stealing... I’m just picking up what was left behind." He muttered under his breath, trying to convince himself.

Even so, his movements grew more cautious. He had no desire to test the patience of an unknown master of magic.

" Ai chip, how long until sunrise?" he asked.

"Approximately an hour and a half," came the response. "However, given the unusual nature of this place, the timing may not be precise."

Hutson exhaled slowly.

That was the problem with this accursed land—nothing followed the natural order. Mystery clung to the very air itself.

He would not be surprised if the sun rose from the west, or if morning never arrived at all.

In a place where reality twisted and the unknown lurked behind every shadow, the only certainty was uncertainty itself.