The Farming Saint in the Starry Wasteland (Elizabeth Schofield) novel Chapter 459

Chapter 459 A Vanishing Crowd

Newman opened his mouth, then closed it again, the answer catching somewhere between thought and speech.

“Cyndi,” he said finally. “There’s… no one outside.”

Cyndi paused, fingers still resting on the shelf she’d been straightening

“No one? What does that mean?”

“I mean exactly that.” Newman gestured vaguely toward the entrance. “Not a single person.”

Cyndi set down the merchandise she’d been arranging, walked to the entrance, and looked out.

Empty.

She checked the time.

8:10 a.m.

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Even on a rainy morning, there would’ve been at least a dozen retirees waiting by now, clustered near the entrance like clockwork.

Today, the sky was clear, bright enough to hurt the eyes, and yet the sidewalk stood bare.

“Did we open early?” she asked.

Newman shook his head. “Right on time. 8 sharp.”

Cyndi’s brow furrowed.

She stepped back inside, stood there for a moment, then went to the door again and peered out.

Still no one.

At 8:30, a single customer finally appeared.

A man in workout gear. He bought a bottle of water and left without so much as a glance at the aisles.

At 9, two more came.

An elderly couple. They picked up some meat, eggs, and milk, checked out within ten minutes, and were gone.

By ten, a handful of others trickled in, scattered and unhurried. Each of them followed the same pattern–essentials only, no browsing, no pause. No one even set foot in the fresh produce section.

Cyndi now stood in front of that section, staring at the neat rows of potatoes and the towering displays of vegetables and fruit.

Normally, all of this would have been gone by nine.

Today, not a single item had moved.

“Newman,” she called, her voice tighter than she intended, “go outside and find out what’s going on.”

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Chapter 459 A Vanishing Crowd

He untied his apron, nodded, and hurried out.

20 minutes later, he came running back, pale–faced–and breathless.

“Cyndi!” he gasped. “This is bad.”

Something in his tone settled heavily in her chest.

“What is it?”

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“Mercury Plaza,” he said between breaths. “Tycoon Farm… they’re back. The same one, the one that used to sell those incredible potatoes and strawberries. They’ve set up again. Not just a couple stalls, dozens. They’ve got everything. Produce, fruit, grains, everything. That’s where everyone went.”

Cyndi froze.

Tycoon Farm?

The same farm Seafarm had squeezed so hard they’d been trapped on Planet A001? They were back?

And instead of two stalls, they now had dozens?

“You’re sure about this?” she asked.

“Positive.” Newman nodded emphatically. “I saw it with my own eyes. It’s packed. The lines stretch for blocks. All our regulars, every single one of them, was standing in those queues.”

Cyndi’s mind went blank for a second, then roared back to life with a dull, panicked buzz.

20 years she’d worked as a shift supervisor at Seafarm, and she had never seen anything like this.

A makeshift farmers‘ market, pulling customers away from a supermarket?

She took a long breath, forcing herself steady.

“I’m going to notify the manager. You watch the store. Anything happens, you call me immediately.”

Newman nodded.

Cyndi untied her apron, walked out the door, and set off at a pace just short of a run.

The manager’s office sat on the second floor.

When she knocked and entered, the man behind the desk was reviewing reports.

Asher Cohen–early 40s, over a decade in the industry–carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who believed he had already seen the worst the market could offer.

Even with sales declining over the past weeks, he hadn’t seemed particularly concerned.

But when he looked up and saw Cyndi’s expression, he set the report aside. “What’s wrong?”

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Chapter 459 A Vanishing Crowd

She took a breath and relayed everything.

When she finished, he sat in silence for a few seconds.

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“You’re telling me,” he said slowly, “that Tycoon Farm from Planet A001 has returned to Cenfria, set up shop in Mercury Plaza, and pulled away all our foot traffic?”

Cyndi nodded.

Asher let out a laugh.

The sound was thin and strained, the kind of laugh meant to brush off the absurdity of what he’d just heard. But beneath it, a tremor of unease crept through.

“That can’t be right,” he said. “Wasn’t that farm selling mostly premium stuff? And only one or two stalls at that. How much damage could they possibly do?

“It’s not two stalls anymore,” Cyndi said. “It’s dozens. Everything from vegetables and fruit to grains and staple crops.”

Asher’s smile froze on his face.

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