There can't be a Harvest Moon in the RimWorld.

"Sheriff, who is this Old Man Hook you're talking about?"

A wave of surprise washed over me, and I cautiously inquired about Harris.

Harris sat down across from me, poured me a glass of water, and said nostalgically, “Old Man Hook, the rancher before you. That old man was stubborn, and we were all eccentric. He refused to associate with anyone in town and lived alone on his ranch on the edge of town. I never expected that you, as his successor, would be so popular.”

This name... it can't be a coincidence, right?

"Doesn't Old Man Hook have any friends in town?" I continued to ask.

"That old geezer has no friends, but a whole bunch of enemies. Want to know?"

Harris slowly recalled what happened back then and told me the story from twenty years ago.

…………

My name is Harris, and I am a police officer.

After graduating from police academy, I held positions in several federal police departments and received many honors before I happened to come to this small town.

The reason is what my father said before he died.

I remember it was a gloomy, rainy day when I returned to my home, which I hadn't been home since I went to boarding school as a child.

The old man lay on his old, worn-out oak bed, struggling to open his mouth to talk to me.

I have never really known this man. All I know is that when he was young, he made a fortune through some unknown means, which brought him back a host of quirks and incurable psychological trauma.

He refused to engage in unnecessary conversations, abandoning social activities such as idle chatter, small talk, and visits, and devoted himself to studying dry and difficult history books in his study at home.

In my childhood memories, those books were not a ladder for him to pursue his dreams, but rather a path for him to escape reality. He was keen on all sorts of sensational conspiracy theories and was also very interested in the gossip of drunkards and village women in various places, calling these meaningless rumors "historical research."

After studying psychology at the police academy and combining it with fragmented conversations with my family, I can now roughly understand his actions.

The old man was originally just a young, deprived laborer who grew up amidst the lies fabricated by the trust group, listening to them cover up the massacres, repressions, and purges of workers. As a result, his distrust of the mainstream media grew into a towering tree.

His subsequent unexpected fortune led him to seek his own value, attempting to explain his innate misfortunes through acquired learning. Ultimately, his limited knowledge base prevented him from understanding advanced theories, leading him to become a metaphysical folklorist, delving into the world of rural legends and folklore.

That day, his eyes were clouded, a sense of bewilderment obscuring them. Such an emotion might appear in the eyes of a bankrupt stockbroker, a gambling addict who has lost everything, a radical political prisoner, or a university professor who adheres to nihilism, but it was impossible for it to exist in the eyes of an ignorant, vulgar, and isolated member of the emerging bourgeoisie like him.

"I have something I want to tell you." The old man's dry throat sounded like it had been sanded. I could guess that his voice must have been loud, rough, and unrestrained when he was young, which was why he had so many vocal cord nodules.

"Our family's mission can only be inherited by you."

This flattered me greatly. The old man had three sons and two daughters, all of whom he sent to boarding schools to study rigid and inflexible courses as soon as they reached school age. Apart from the eldest brother, who was called back by him three years ago to inherit the family business, the others had long since drifted away from the family.

"You flatter me." I didn't know how to respond to this stranger's praise, so I could only express my disdain in the most polite tone.

The old man lying on the bed seemed to be enraged, his voice trembling with the fury of a lion.

I wasn't praising you!

I became even more apprehensive, pretending to bow my head and accept the reprimand, while quickly analyzing his intentions in my mind.

If the old man wasn't flattering me, then he must be hinting at something, and I had to keep listening.

The old man coughed for a while and said, "I made some mistakes when I was young. I don't want to talk about them anymore."

Instead of continuing the previous topic as I had hoped, he took the initiative to talk about the past.

“I know the mistakes I made back then. No matter how many objective excuses I make, such as lack of ability or opportunity, I can’t get rid of the guilt. A mistake is a mistake, and I have been repenting for it for decades.”

This reminds me of a legend in my family.

That was a new family that had only recently emerged, and there was a legend surrounding the old man's family, a legend about how a poor miner had become rich.

Rumor has it that the old man murdered his companions and seized his partners' shares while pioneering overseas, thus amassing his vast fortune. The evidence, it is said, is that none of his companions ever left that deserted island, and none of his partners have ever had any descendants.

"Some things can never be perfect; that's the capriciousness of fate." I tried to smooth things over with nice words, but what I was really thinking about was how to end this pointless conversation and return to the cold and stiff father-son relationship we had been in.

That's the way I'm used to interacting with people.

The old man muttered to himself, as if he were sinking into the ledger of his memories, digging out traces bit by bit: "When I found out, everything was already beyond redemption. But someone has to bear the fate of our family. The things that happened back then also need to be settled. Go, Harris, go back to that island."

Go back? Could it be that the old man's old companions and descendants are still on that island?

Then I understand.

This old man lived a life of extravagance yet lived like an ascetic, all because of the guilt he felt towards his wealth. In his old age, this guilt finally broke him, and even the historical research he used to escape from could not save him.

He needs me to make amends, plead, and approach the victims, even if it means deceiving them, as long as it can bring him some relief from his guilt.

Is this my job?

"What do you mean I need to do?"

The old man's voice was very weak and tinged with annoyance.

"If I knew what needed to be done, wouldn't I have done it myself? Just go there for me and give me whatever money I need."

"As ordered."

I tucked him in, then stepped over the mystical manuscripts scattered on the floor and left the prison-like study.

But I later learned that after I left, my father prayed all night in front of the image of the Holy Spirit, repeatedly muttering words like "salvation," "curse," and "destiny."

But by then, I had already taken with me what I believed to be enough wealth to buy everything, and boarded a ship bound for the deserted island. I was young and arrogant then, and due to my self-proclaimed good upbringing, I often harbored the prejudices of modern city dwellers.

While I was still on the boat, enjoying the sea breeze and gazing at the distant horizon where the sea and sky met, I had no idea that this was a journey that would change my life forever.

Chapter 154 A Fairy Tale in a Small Town

"Get out of here, you brat! Take your worthless money and get out of here!"

When I finally found out what was going on and arrived at the Mineral Town Ranch with generous gifts, I was met with a barrage of merciless insults.

At that time, an old man with gray hair was kneeling on the ground tending to the newly grown crops, bending over with difficulty to check whether the plants had been damaged by insects.

I could tell from the shabby furnishings that the economy here was not prosperous, and could even be described as poor. The tenacious plants could not ultimately defeat the weeds, and the old man's day and night efforts could not overcome the desolation. The entire pasture was withering away at a visible rate.

I'm full of confidence. How can sweating in this godforsaken rural place compare to enjoying life in the city?

Even the most uncultured country bumpkin knows the value of money, let alone the money I gave him, which is enough for this old man to live a carefree life in the city for two lifetimes.

However, when I explained my purpose, the story did not unfold as expected.

"...Hook, owning 15%, has not distributed dividends for thirty-three years, with a total distributed profit of $6219 million. Old Man Hook, here's the check; it can be cashed at any state-owned bank in the federal government. If there are no problems, could you tell me where the other families in town are?"

The old man stared blankly at the share agreement in my hand. The agreement was signed on a rough piece of sheepskin, with the words "Mining Share Agreement" barely legible, along with several illegible signatures and fingerprints, and my father's name was also clearly visible on it.

It was only after the old man gave me this contract that I learned about the long-standing debts I owed to several families, and I decided to take action.

"If you don't leave, I'll plant you in my field as fertilizer!"

…………

"Hahaha, your choice is really unfortunate."

In the town's only tavern, a man in his thirties runs it, always wearing a smile that seems out of place in this rural setting.

"Boss, you're not from around here, are you?" I asked.

The tavern owner smiled and said, "Just call me Dart. I moved here from an industrial city in the east two years ago."

"The East? You mean that abandoned city?" I've heard of it. Due to factional struggles within the Trust Group, the city in the East, known as "Eastern Capital," was rapidly drained and abandoned, leaving only ruins of buildings and violent organizations running rampant in the streets. It gradually became known as "Ruined Capital" by others.

"Yes, it really was like a dream. Luckily, I escaped." The man named Dart was still smiling, without any emotional fluctuation.

Just then, a young girl who was cleaning nearby appeared and timidly asked me, "Sir, can you tell me what a city is like?"

Her name is Anzo, and she is the daughter of the owner of the winery next door. She currently works here.

…………

Using the information the tavern owner gave me, I found another house that appeared to be the home of a native resident of the town.

In a dense forest, a clearing suddenly appears. A simple wooden house stands there, and the smoke rising from its irregularly shaped chimney indicates that someone lives there.

After I explained my purpose, the man in the room, who was about my age but had a rugged face and a loud voice, also rejected my compensation offer.

"You're right, this Dolanco is my father, but he's long dead. This money belongs to him, what does it have to do with me?"

The man in front of me was surprisingly simple-minded. No matter how I explained the issue of inheritance, he refused to accept it and stubbornly believed that the money had nothing to do with him.

After talking for a while, I was also parched, so I gave up trying to persuade him. At his invitation, I went inside and had a bowl of water, and we talked about the other partners.

"Gotz, is it alright if I call you that? Which of my old partners still live in town? I'd like to go and talk to them."

Gots's house was very simply furnished, with a wooden bed taking up most of the space, and only a patch of straw on the floor stood out.

"They're long gone. My father said that after they made their fortune, they had a dispute and went their separate ways. The oldest partner died here, my father and Old Man Hook didn't want to leave, and another person died unexpectedly. The last person you see who owns 5% of the shares is the captain of that ship. He only got the shares so that the captain could maintain the route."

Gotz laughed as he looked at me. "Go back soon, Harris. If anyone in this town wanted to get rich, they would have left long ago. Everyone has their reasons for staying, which you, as an outsider, wouldn't understand."

I silently ended the conversation and returned to the hotel.

This trip was truly despairing. Not only did the scenes of gratitude I had envisioned not appear, but these people were also incredibly stubborn.

This small town was isolated, sparsely populated, and monotonous. The few residents there rarely interacted with each other, especially Old Man Hook. Many residents who stumbled upon his ranch were met with insults, as if they were trying to steal his manhood.

How could good neighborly relations possibly develop from such unpleasant neighbors? I started to miss city life; even the dull and rigid lessons of my old boarding school days seemed lively and engaging now. If things didn't improve, I decided to abandon the task and apologize to my father-in-law.

But even in this desolate place, a ray of carefree sunlight still shone down.

That's Anzo.

This country girl was lively and sensitive, and spoke in a playful and adorable way. Every day she would pester me to tell her stories about the city. In that tavern, I told her stories of my school days and my career as a policeman, bit by bit.

Even just a brand name or a street scene can firmly attract her attention and earn her admiring gaze.

Over time, not only this girl, but also other residents of the town would come to the tavern in their spare time to listen to me tell stories about the city, which would bring them a satisfied smile each day. Although my persuasion efforts made no progress, the ordinary life of this small town gradually attracted me.

I would walk with her along the river in Mineral Town, watching the fish leap out of the water and listening to the waves crashing against the rocks. Water plants swayed gently on the riverbed, and water birds softly built their warm nests.

She would also take me for walks on the beach, watching the bright moon rise in the distance, listening to the whistles of passing ships, letting the gentle sea breeze and land breeze alternately pass by, weaving the wings of memories.

What I'm reluctant to admit is that, having lacked familial love and care since childhood, I developed feelings for this girl that went beyond friendship. I never realized that such a warm feeling could arise so intensely in the face of what I considered my proud rationality.

The ice that had frozen my heart since childhood, long since oblivious to the city's neon lights, was slowly melting in this inconspicuous little place.

Anzo's daily greetings were as moving as the music of angels. For the first time, I sincerely prayed to the Holy Spirit before going to sleep, looking forward to the new day and hoping that the period symbolizing separation would never come.

Chapter 155 Emotion·Accident

Of all the places in this small town, there's only one that Anzo and I have never been to, no matter how much we've talked about it.