Chapter 31

The new land was located on a slight highland on the outskirts of the Crawford family’s territory.

The view was good, but water did not reach it. Therefore, it was a place no one had laid a hand on for a long time.

Its reclamation began along with the decision to build the retention basin. The farmers were to leave the land they had grown accustomed to.

Some looked back at the fields they had tilled since their grandfathers’ generation. It was a place where they knew everything about the habits of the soil, the flow of the water, and the direction of the wind.

“Will things really grow on a highland like that?” someone muttered, but no one answered.

The farmers stood on the highland and swung their hoes.

With the first strike of the hoe, they were immediately made to realize. The soil was shallow, and beneath it was full of stones.

The hoes were repelled time and time again, leaving numbness in their arms. The roots of miscellaneous trees were deeply intertwined and would not pull out even when tugged. Half a day would pass just cutting, digging, and prying them out.

The overturned soil was completely dry and swept away by the wind.

Everyone silently understood that this was what a land without water meant.

It was far from ready for crops. They didn’t even know how long it would take to take the shape of a field.

Even so, no one stopped their hands.

“Water will come.”

Because they were told so. For the first time, human hands were entering a place where no one thought water would ever reach.

Sweat fell onto the dry soil. In this land where nothing grew yet, they still continued to swing their hoes, believing in a future harvest.

I remember well the day I heard the water had been drawn. Everyone looked at each other’s faces, realizing water was finally reaching that highland. Realizing that change had come to the Crawford family’s territory as well.

Eventually, a narrow waterway passed through, and a clear stream was guided to the fields. Some touched the water like children.

However—reality did not go as expected.

The moment the water touched the soil, it was immediately sucked in. The dry soil of the highland swallowed the water as if to satisfy years of starvation.

The ridges quickly dried white, and the seedlings drooped powerlessly.

Conventional crops would not grow here.

The waterway was also thin. It was flowing, but it was clear to everyone’s eyes that it was insufficient.

Despite taking the shape of a field after so much hardship. Thinking that this land would still not respond to them, their words naturally became fewer.

Eventually, a voice dropped quietly.

“…It was a failure.”

No one blamed them.

“Let’s go back to the old land. We won’t starve there.”

Some nodded.

The sullen voices blended into the dry wind.

It was at that moment. A small shadow came walking up to the highland.

It was Lydia. She was still young. Even so, she stood in front of each and every one of them.

“…It is still just the beginning.”

Her voice was not strong.

“Please, just a little more. Let’s try our best just a little more.”

If it were the voice of the feudal lord, it would be an order. But she was still nothing more than the next feudal lord.

It was a plea. She dropped to her knees on the dirt and traced the dry ridge with her finger.

“I will also stand here. Together with everyone.”

That she was immature was obvious to everyone’s eyes. But there was no deception.

In the distance, the Count was watching quietly. He did not interject. He just watched over his daughter’s back.

The farmers looked at each other.

“…If you go that far.”

Reluctantly, or so they acted, their hoes were raised again.

It wasn’t that they had given up. They simply could not flatly refuse the young girl’s wish.

It was news that arrived at such a time. Word came that the Third Prince had concluded an agreement for cooperation in agriculture, and issued a notification that territories in need should apply.

Count Crawford immediately put his name forward.

Unfamiliar carts came up to the highland.

Plows with shining steel blades. Hoes with handles at angles different from before. Cut materials for stacking stones.

The farmers stopped their hands and stared at them.

“…Those are quite magnificent things.”

Someone said, but there was no admiration in their tone. The man who had remained on the old land until the very end approached with his arms crossed.

He wasn’t tall, but his shoulders were thick. He had hands that had dealt with the soil for many years.

In the village, everyone naturally looked to his judgment.

“It seems to be the neighboring country’s technology,” an official said.

The man snorted.

“The neighboring country, huh. Are they folks who know our stone-mixed soil?”

No one answered. A young farmer tried to touch the new plow.

“Wait.”

With that short word, his hand stopped.

“What do we do if it breaks? Can it be fixed? Are there replacements?”

It was a practical question. The answer was prepared. Repairmen had also come, and parts were being transported.

The man fell silent. But it didn’t mean he was convinced.

Around that time, the reinforcement of the waterway also began. Carrying stones, restacking them, rearranging them so they wouldn’t collapse.

“More construction?”

“Even though the fields aren’t fully prepared yet.”

Fatigue seeped out.

The water was certainly flowing. But it wasn’t enough.

Everyone knew that. Because they knew it, it was heavy.

The man spoke while lifting a stone.

“Is there a guarantee that the water will increase with this?”

“It is said that if the flow stabilizes, waste will decrease.”

“‘It is said,’ huh.”

He spat the words out. Even hearing it was the Third Prince’s arrangement, the ones tilling the fields were themselves.

Eventually, they were told to test the new plow. A young man timidly put the blade in. The soil cracked deeply.

“…It’s light.”

A voice leaked out unintentionally.

The man took the plow in silence. He checked the weight and looked at the angle of the blade.

He pushed it in slowly. The sensation of hitting a stone. But it wasn’t repelled. The blade entered as if weaving through the gaps between the stones, and turned the soil over.

It effortlessly reached a depth that used to take an hour.

The man furrowed his brow. Once more. The same.

Even so, he said:

“Only for this year.”

Those around him looked up.

“I won’t leave everything to it. We’ll go with the conventional method for half. We will just test the remaining half.”

He wasn’t reckless. But he didn’t refuse out of stubbornness either. That was his way of protecting things.

It was the same for the seeds. He picked up an unfamiliar small grain and stared at it.

“If it doesn’t sprout, it won’t even be a laughing matter.”

Someone laughed bitterly. Even so, they sowed them. Only half.

Until they sprouted, no one opened their mouths. Even when they sprouted, they still doubted. Fearing they might wither, they came to look every day.

But they didn’t wither. Even when the dry wind blew, they held their ground better than the conventional seedlings.

The man crouched at the edge of the ridge. He scooped up the soil with his fingers and checked the moisture. He said nothing.

A few days later, he muttered quietly.

“…Next year, we go with this for everything.”

With that single phrase, it was decided.

No one objected. It was neither ideology nor loyalty. The field had answered.

That was all.

On the highland of the Crawford family, a wave of crops swaying in the wind was born.

In that land where no one had laid a hand.

The soil that had only absorbed sweat returned a harvest for the first time.

—It was a success.