Chapter 27 Incitement at the Tip of the Spear

His heart was pounding fast, but his face remained calm. He couldn't be reckless. If he immediately accused the old shaman of being ill, the villagers might think he was just making excuses. No, he had to play this smart.

He stepped forward, his gaze fixed on the old shaman with an air of curiosity. "Old shaman," his voice was calm, yet loud enough for everyone to hear, "you are the wisest among them. But… why do you look so pale?"

The villagers, who had been consumed by their anger, began glancing at the shaman. Some frowned as if only now realizing something was off.

"You look exhausted," Leo continued, carefully observing every reaction. "I've treated many sick people before. If you allow me, I can examine your condition."

The old shaman scoffed, clearly displeased by the sudden attention. "Don't try to change the subject, boy!" His voice was raspy, yet… weak.

Doubt crept into the villagers' minds. A middle-aged man whispered to his companion, "It's true, I saw him coughing yesterday."

"And he's rarely come outside these past few days," another added.

Leo sensed the opening. "I'm not asking you to believe me outright," he said, his voice growing stronger. "But if the shaman you all respect is unwell, shouldn't he receive treatment first before making any major decisions?"

The villagers' gazes shifted between Leo and the old shaman. Whispered conversations grew louder, and even the village chief seemed to be weighing something. But the moment was shattered by a sudden scream from the hut.

"Leo! The patient is convulsing and foaming at the mouth!" Alina rushed forward, panic written all over her face. "I don't know what's happening to him!"

Without hesitation, Leo pushed through the crowd and entered the hut, the villagers following with wary eyes.

On a rickety cot, a man writhed in agony, white foam spilling from his lips. His breath came in ragged gasps.

Leo checked his pulse, then a faint scent reached his nose. A bitter, familiar smell.

"He's been poisoned," he stated firmly.

Gasps erupted from the villagers.

"Poisoned?" one of them echoed, his voice trembling.

Alina bit her lip, her mind racing through what had happened earlier. "He… he only drank sambiloto herbal medicine prepared by the villagers. Could that be the cause?"

Leo frowned, his gaze landing on the remaining liquid in a bamboo container near the patient. He dipped his fingertip into it and brought it to his nose. Something was off.

"Sambiloto itself isn't dangerous," he murmured. "But if mixed with certain plants… it can become a deadly poison."

Murmurs of confusion spread through the villagers. Someone in the corner smirked. Then, a deep voice cut through the tension, directing suspicion toward Leo.

"Who here knows the most about poisons?"

The voice belonged to a burly man—one of the old shaman's loyal followers. "Not us. Not our shaman. But him." He raised a finger, pointing straight at Leo.

The whispers turned into murmurs of suspicion.

Leo clenched his fists. This was a trap. The old shaman, who had seemed weak just moments ago, suddenly lifted his head, his gaze triumphant.

A villager who supported Leo spoke up. "So, are you accusing the doctor of poisoning this man?" His voice was quiet but sharp. "Or perhaps… you're the one responsible?"

Leo clenched his fists tighter, struggling to contain the fury building in his chest. He knew this wasn't just a misunderstanding—this was a carefully laid trap.

Before he could respond, Alina stepped forward. Her eyes gleamed with defiance, her voice cutting through the murmurs.

"A doctor killing his own patient? Listen, if I wanted someone dead, I wouldn't use a cheap poison like this."

Some villagers flinched. A few hesitated, but most grew even angrier.

"I told you! Their arrival brought misfortune!" someone in the crowd shouted.

"Our ancestors warned us against outsiders! But you still let them stay!" another added, voice filled with rage.

The old shaman smirked as the tide shifted in his favor. The villagers' anger escalated, their voices merging into a single chant.

"Drive them out!"

"Get out of our village!"

Leo felt the cold sting of rejection. They no longer saw him as a savior—only a threat.

But Alina refused to back down. She turned to the village chief, the only person who had yet to speak. "We're not asking for much," her voice was calmer now. "Just give us a chance to prove we're innocent."

The village chief studied her for a long moment, as if weighing her words. But before he could answer, the burly man interrupted again.

"Don't listen to them! They're just trying to find an excuse to stay!"

The old shaman added, "Time will only bring more disaster. If you want to be safe, expel them now."

The villagers moved closer, their hostility thick in the air. But this wasn't the first time Alina had faced a situation like this. In her past life as a mafia enforcer, she had learned one thing: trust was a fragile currency. If she wanted to win, she needed something stronger than words—proof.

She took a deep breath and spoke before the village chief could make his final decision.

"Fine. If you want us gone, we'll leave. But before that, let me say one thing."

The villagers paused, curiosity halting their movements.

"If we were truly guilty, if we were really the ones responsible for this misfortune, then shouldn't everyone who drank that sambiloto potion be dead too?"

Some villagers exchanged glances, frowning.

"But only one person convulsed and foamed at the mouth. Why?" Alina continued, her voice sharp and deliberate. "If the potion was truly poisonous, shouldn't there be more victims?"

The murmurs grew louder. Doubt crept into their expressions.

The old shaman narrowed his eyes, realizing Alina was shifting the focus. But before he could speak, Alina turned and pointed at the burly man who had been the loudest in accusing them.

"And you," she said, her voice as cold as steel, "you were so quick to blame us. Too quick. Almost as if you already knew someone would die today."

The man stiffened, then quickly masked his nervousness. "What are you implying?!"

"I'm saying," Alina smirked, the ghost of her old mafia self flashing in her eyes, "that there are only two reasons someone would be so quick to accuse. One, they're incredibly stupid. Two, they're involved."

The villagers turned toward the burly man. Now, he was the one under scrutiny.

"Enough nonsense!" the old shaman snapped. "You have no proof!"

Alina smiled. "No proof? Oh, you underestimate me, Old Shaman."

She walked to the patient, who was still weak on the cot. Beside him was the bamboo container that held the sambiloto potion. Swiftly, she dipped her fingers into the remaining liquid and brought it to her nose.

She closed her eyes for a moment, then smirked. "Leo, I need a clean cloth."

Without hesitation, Leo tore a strip from his shirt and handed it to her. Alina soaked the cloth in the liquid, then pressed it against the inside of the patient's foaming lips.

The village chief raised a hand, ready to give an order. The villagers tensed, some even gripping their spears.

Alina remained calm. Then, in the next instant, the cloth turned a deep blue-purple hue.

"There's your proof."

Silence. Even the old shaman was at a loss for words.

Leo exhaled sharply. "Belladonna," he said, realization dawning. "A poison from wild plants in the forest. Mixed with sambiloto, its effects are delayed, but still lethal."

Alina turned to the old shaman and the burly man, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes. "And only a few people know how to mix it without leaving a trace. Leo, do you know who they are?"

Leo's gaze hardened. "People who have worked with herbal medicine for a long time."

The villagers' eyes shifted to the old shaman and his follower. Their murmurs changed—from confusion to realization.

Alina smirked. "Still want to kick us out?"