Volume 2

Chapter 67 : Helen Faust, Part Three

Henk was a sturdy young man, summoned here from a family of farmers.

At twenty-five, he had already spent fifteen years in the fields.

Even as a farmer, he appeared robust, a testament to the fertile lands of the southern territory, the Empire’s most bountiful region.

Compared to the northern lands, where harvests were meager and tax collectors ruthless, southern farmers had it better than they could hope for.

Henk stood in line before the city lord’s mansion with his fellow villagers, all equally puzzled.

He couldn’t fathom why nobles would go to such lengths for people like them.

“Lauriel,” Henk said, growing increasingly nervous as the line inched forward, “what do you think… what are they up to?”

Lauriel, less concerned, shrugged.

“Probably just need us for something… though I don’t know why they’d want us mud-rolling folk.”

Henk sucked in a breath.

“You don’t think… they’re gathering us to use as spell materials, do you? Remember Roy? That poor guy turned half-man, half-pig by a sorcerer. I don’t want—”

“Don’t think about it,” Lauriel cut him off irritably.

“If they wanted that, why go through all this trouble? Besides, it’s not like it’s just us—look at the whole city.”

The short farmer sneered.

“If the sorcerers wanted materials, they’re everywhere. Why pick us specifically?”

Their voices were hushed, but judging by the anxious faces of the other farmers in line, Henk wasn’t alone in his fears, or similar ones.

For those at the bottom, even a glance from the powerful was unbearable.

When it was Henk’s turn, the young, simple farmer looked up nervously at the expressionless man on the platform, unsure what to say.

“Take this and bring it back.”

The man on the platform handed Henk a black box.

“Follow the instructions inside to tend to your assigned field. Start at six tomorrow morning. If you can’t read them, someone will be there to teach you. But if you still mess up…”

He didn’t elaborate, but his cold, condescending stare made Henk’s knees buckle.

“I-I’ll definitely complete your orders, s-sir.”

Behind him, Lauriel kept his head low.

Unlike Henk’s palpable fear and weakness, the short, stocky farmer’s face held a trace of defiance.

Still, he obediently took the black box, muttered a response to the man’s repeated words, and left the mansion with Henk.

The two farmers, clutching their boxes, walked through the streets of Little Pelican City, occasionally drawing curious glances from passersby.

“This place feels a bit better than ours,” Henk remarked, eyeing the low, worn houses on either side.

“At least the housing here is nicer… Lauriel, are we really just here to farm?”

“Even if we’re not, what can you do about it?” Lauriel shot his old acquaintance a sidelong glance.

“I just… hope that’s all it is,” Henk mumbled.

Lauriel and Henk knew each other from before but weren’t particularly close, just acquaintances.

Lauriel was familiar with Henk’s honest, somewhat timid nature and didn’t care for it, so his attitude toward him was cool.

They soon reached the lodging arranged for them.

Without a word, Lauriel went to his room.

Henk, who’d hoped to chat more, scratched his head awkwardly and returned to his own.

Looking at the black box in his arms, fear of the mysterious, sinister sorcerers briefly overwhelmed him, making him hesitant to open it.

But recalling the man’s chilling gaze, Henk shivered, his trembling hands lifting the lid.

To his surprise, the box contained no blood-smeared arrays or strange animal remains—just two vials of potion and a sheet of paper, nothing more.

Perplexed, Henk set the box by the bed and picked up the paper.

There were no words, which relieved him since he was illiterate.

The images were clear and simple: remove the cap from the potion, aim at the soil, and press the button under the cap once.

Henk understood this part, but the next images—seven cycles of sunrise and sunset, followed by fields sprouting wheat, with instructions to harvest and repeat the process—confused him.

“Seven days later, pour this into the field again?”

The tanned young man stared at the two vials of green liquid and the instruction sheet, baffled.

“But how can wheat mature in seven days? Ugh… I’ll wait for tomorrow.”

The thought only deepened his confusion.

Why entrust this to him?

This potion seemed valuable… What if he wasted it?

Wouldn’t he be done for?

At this, the usually timid Henk felt a spark of resentment.

Shouldn’t the lords send someone to handle this?

All I know is farming.

The city lord of Little Pelican City was equally puzzled.

“My lord, so we really… won’t keep that thing in our hands?”

The city lord didn’t even know what it was, only its usage to ensure the farmers applied it correctly.

But even so, he knew it came from Anselm, as Count Watson had repeatedly warned him in Anselm’s name to avoid any mistakes.

The city lord was genuinely intimidated by Count Watson.

His suggestion wasn’t born of audacity to steal it—Count Watson had fiercely warned that no transcendent or noble could seize the potion.

He just thought it was too risky to entrust such a precious item to illiterate fools who might not even understand the diagrams.

Why not handle it themselves and simply teach the farmers, instead of this extra step?

“This is Lord Anselm’s requirement. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Count Watson stared coldly at the city lord.

“I’ll say it again: ensure no noble in this city forcibly takes the potion from them.”

“…Forcibly?”

The city lord paused for two seconds, then tentatively asked, “So if it’s not forcible…”

Count Watson adjusted his collar calmly.

“Normal transactions, reasonable rules—there’s nothing to criticize there.”

At this, he recalled the young Hydra’s smile.

That smile that sent chills down his spine.

[An experiment? No, no… it’s not an experiment, Count. Just a game, a little game of make-believe.]

[The rules are as simple as make-believe. I don’t care what choices people make, but everyone must act within moral bounds. That’s all.]

A game of… make-believe.

What kind of man was Count Watson?

How could he not see where Little Pelican City, or even all of Watson Territory, would head under Anselm’s “make-believe” rules?

Yet his fear of Anselm didn’t stem from these tactics.

It was that when Anselm spoke of this “make-believe game,” Count Watson saw no trace of joy on his face.

He spoke cruel, cold words, yet that warm, approachable face—charming to all—showed neither the glee of toying with lowly civilians nor the malice of unleashing brutality.

Even if it wasn’t purely for pleasure or venting, there should’ve been some emotional flicker.

But Anselm Hydra, that monster… had none. Nothing at all.

That smiling face chilled Count Watson to the bone.

If he felt nothing, what was he smiling for?

Or had that expression become instinct, his… second face?

Count Watson shuddered, unwilling and afraid to dwell on it.

“In short.”

He exhaled softly.

“Maintaining those ‘just’ rules on the surface is key. You’re not a fool, Leonard. You know what to do.”

Leonard, the city lord of Little Pelican City, nodded hurriedly.

“I understand, I understand… My lord, I won’t bring shame to you or Watson Territory!”

“It’s not about Watson Territory. Don’t get it wrong, Leonard.”

Count Watson eyed him coldly.

“This is all for Lord Anselm.”

“…Yes, yes! For Lord Anselm!”

Leonard bowed deeply.

“Everything is for Lord Anselm!”

“I’ll be watching you, Leonard.”

Count Watson walked toward the office door, his voice icy.

“Don’t waste this opportunity—the kind you’ll never get again.”

Opportunity…

After Count Watson left, Leonard clenched his fists tightly, straining to keep his legs from buckling.

These lowly peasants were his opportunity… Unbelievable, absurd, but it didn’t matter.

Farmers were endlessly replaceable resources.

That they could bring him such profit was a delightful surprise.

This game was steeped in absurdity from the start.

—Because, aside from Mingfuluo, no one cared about the farmers, not even the farmers themselves.

***

Henk woke early, arriving at the fields an hour ahead, fearing the higher-ups might start early and he’d die inexplicably for being late.

Thankfully, his fears didn’t materialize, but many farmers shared his dread, clutching their boxes and standing, squatting, or sitting by the fields—bewildered, helpless, or pensive—waiting for the city lord’s men.

Lauriel arrived early too.

Henk, holding his box, sidled up and squatted beside him.

“Lauriel, did you understand the diagram?”

“More or less.”

Lauriel, also holding his box, didn’t seem nervous.

“What’s the deal with the later part?”

“What else could it mean? Drip it once, wait seven days, harvest the wheat, then drip again.”

“But how can wheat ripen in seven days?”

The burly, short farmer gave Henk a look like he was an idiot.

“The potion makes the wheat ripen in seven days. Are you brain-dead or what? Can’t figure that out?”

Henk froze for several seconds before exclaiming, “Really?!”

His young, vibrant voice turned shrill, revealing the tumult of his emotions.

Other farmers turned to look at Henk, who scratched his head sheepishly but couldn’t contain his excitement, pressing Lauriel further.

“Lauriel, is that really true? It can ripen in seven days—”

“You’re too damn loud,” Lauriel snapped irritably. Just as there were honest, kind farmers like Henk, there were plenty of coarse, rough ones like him—arguably more. “Stop bothering me. We’re not that close.”

“…Oh, alright.”

Henk mumbled awkwardly, then quietly moved away from Lauriel.

He was puzzled.

They’d chatted plenty yesterday and on the way here, and Lauriel hadn’t been this irritable.

Why did asking about the box make him so upset?

An hour passed far too quickly for the farmers, and the city lord’s representative arrived punctually.

He surveyed the farmers scattered across the vast fields without any show of authority or unnecessary words, which struck the farmers as utterly astonishing.

“You should’ve all seen the diagram yesterday. I’ll explain it again today. Take out the potion.”

The farmers, not daring to disobey the representative of the city lord, hurriedly fumbled to retrieve the vials from their boxes.

“Return to your assigned fields and open the caps.”

Henk quickly moved to his designated plot, obediently following instructions.

After removing the cap, he indeed saw the button indicated in the diagram.

“Aim at the soil, press the button firmly, and wait until the potion stops flowing.”

Lauriel didn’t move immediately, instead squinting to observe the others.

Only when he saw that the first person to press the button had the liquid level in their vial drop by a third before stopping did he press his own.

“Simple enough, right? Remember it.”

The man representing Lord Leonard spoke expressionlessly.

“Seven days from now, at this same time, after you’ve harvested your crops, repeat the exact same steps.”

“Remember, the second time, you repeat it exactly—no more, no less.”

“Now, go to the plant. Water daily as you normally would, no fertilizer needed. And…”

“This field belongs to you. The crops belong to you. You don’t need to turn them over. Lord Leonard doesn’t require it.”

With that, the man left abruptly, clearly uninterested in lingering with these farmers.

Henk stared at the man’s retreating figure, muttering in disbelief after several seconds, “So… it really can make wheat ripen in seven days?”

“Lauriel, you were right—”

He turned excitedly to call out to Lauriel, only to find him already wielding his hoe, diligently working.

Henk looked down at the soil.

After applying the potion, he saw no immediate change, but since it had come to this, what else could he do but till and plant?

Ignited with enthusiasm, Henk threw himself wholeheartedly into the task.

If… if the wheat really ripened in seven days, if he could control these crops…

Even his hand, unyielding after hundreds of hoe swings, trembled slightly at the thought.

Henk’s lips quivered, his heartbeat pounding through his throat, resonating in his skull.

His family wasn’t poor but merely scraped by.

Generations of farming hadn’t amassed any wealth, and harder work didn’t increase their earnings—taxes depended solely on the current lord’s whims.

If not for Count Watson’s relative foresight and capability, Henk’s life would’ve been much harder.

But with this field…

Could I buy Father a better pipe, Big Brother a new coat, or even… maybe a pair of nice shoes for Shansha?

The young man gripped his hoe tightly, feeling boundless strength surge through him.

His eyes shone, as if brimming with radiant, inextinguishable hope.

***

For these skilled farmers summoned by Count Watson from across Watson Territory, planting in a single day was effortless.

Fueled by hope, Henk even considered reclaiming more land.

But he didn’t dare overstep.

After planting and watering, he left the field reluctantly, glancing back every few steps.

Today, he timed his arrival for the second watering, only to find someone already there, squatting by the field.

“…Lauriel?”

Henk paused, then approached cheerfully.

“Lauriel! How’s your plot doing? Lauriel… Lauriel?”

Receiving no response, Henk grew puzzled, recalling that Lauriel seemed resistant to talking with him.

He sighed and headed to his own plot.

As he walked… he understood why Lauriel was silent, squatting like a statue.

He saw the sprouts—vast patches of tender, green shoots.

In just half a day and a night, with only… some water.

“…”

Henk’s legs gave out, and he sank to his knees, trembling hands reaching for the tender, vibrant sprouts, so fresh they seemed to drip with life.

He’d never seen such flawless, lush sprouts.

As more farmers arrived, their reactions mirrored Lauriel’s and Henk’s.

Some even knelt, burying their faces in the soil that had turned fertile overnight, as if from a fairy tale, sobbing uncontrollably.

It wasn’t until late at night that some reluctantly left the fields.

The next day, the green wheat stalks had visibly shot up, showing signs of leafing out.

This time, every farmer brought a day’s worth of food, guarding their plots vigilantly.

By night, some pulled blankets from their packs, laying them by the fields, sleeping only when exhaustion took over.

By the fourth day, the wheat, now chest-high to Henk, left the farmers stunned as it began to form ears.

They embraced one another in joy, regardless of familiarity or age, their shared hope and elation resonating perfectly with the toil and fatigue they’d endured.

On the sixth day, the wheat flowered, its green hue shifting to the golden tint of harvest.

The plump ears sparked another celebration.

Farmers splashed water on each other, stripped off shirts, letting their tanned skin burn as hot as their hearts under the sun.

They sang simple, rustic songs, their rough, hoarse voices carrying joy and happiness into the distance.

On the seventh day, the city walls and gates of Little Pelican City were packed with onlookers.

The fields beyond had become a golden sea.

Henk knelt before his plot, kissing the wheat ears and the soil, tears streaming uncontrollably.

He’d never seen such full, vibrant ears.

A single stalk produced a dense cluster of them, the yield multiplied beyond measure!

Henk couldn’t describe his emotions.

He felt as if in a dream, terrified it was just that.

But the scent of the wheat, the aroma of the soil, the warm dampness of his tears… it was all so real, so real he wanted to weep.

His life was about to change—not just his, but everyone around him, the entire Little Pelican City, the whole Watson Territory!

With fields like these, how could anyone starve?

Not only would no one starve, every household would have abundant, diverse food!

Henk was even willing to give away much of his wheat for free—there was just too much!

As a seasoned farmer, he couldn’t estimate the yield.

Without exaggeration, the past three or four years of his harvests might not match these seven days!

“Harvest… harvest!” Henk stood excitedly.

“Quick, harvest this batch, and we can plant the next one right away… What should we plant next? Maybe—”

“Henk.”

A low voice interrupted his muttering.

The young man turned to see his stout, somewhat gruff acquaintance.

“…Lauriel?”

Henk paused, then grinned brightly.

“Your harvest must be great too! We’re so lucky to get this much grain… I wonder how much we’ll earn!”

“Hmph.” Lauriel sneered.

“You really think you’ll make a lot of money?”

He yanked Henk closer, pointing at the weeping, jubilant farmers nearby and their bountiful fields, his face darkening.

“With this much grain, this excessive amount, how much do you think you can sell it for?”

Henk froze.

Simple but not dull, he quickly grasped Lauriel’s meaning.

“Too much… means it’s not needed?” the young man murmured.

“You’re not just a simple fool… Little Pelican City can’t possibly consume this much grain. That’s certain.”

Hearing Lauriel’s words, Henk thought for a moment, then smiled.

“That’s okay. Everyone eating well is a good thing, isn’t it?”

“Heh, you don’t want to make money?” Lauriel stared into Henk’s eyes.

“Or do you think this is enough, that rolling in the fields for a lifetime, feeling full is enough?”

“If we can sell it…”

His greed was undisguised.

“If we can sell it… how much would that be!”

“…”

Henk gazed at the golden wheat, opening his mouth but unable to speak.

If… they could sell it all.

A pipe, a coat, shoes… no, no, no… he could buy better things for Father, for Big Brother, for the girl he hadn’t yet confessed to.

And it only took seven days!

“I… Lauriel.”

Henk lowered his voice nervously.

“I want to make money. What should I do?”

Lauriel looked at the hooked, honest young man, a slow grin spreading across his face.

“Little Pelican City can’t sell it all, but who said… this much grain can only be sold in Little Pelican City?”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep