Chapter 39: New Decrees and Manure

“Also, my lord, I believe the Nightfall Domain needs proper housing. The slaves are constantly crammed into tents made of rotten wood and scraps of cloth. That alone is bad enough, but what’s worse is that even the freefolk have no houses. This will breed discontent among the populace—if you care about how your subjects see you.”

“That issue will take time to resolve.”

Phield pulled a spare map from the bookshelf and handed it to Tate. “Only after I reclaim the eastern forest and the quarry will housing become feasible. I also need to plan land selection. Take this map—if you have any ideas, bring them to me promptly.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Tate felt a clear sense of trust and support.

Although the Nightfall Domain was incomparably worse than the Maple Leaf territory—barely even worthy of being called a slum—there seemed to be something new quietly taking root here.

…

Early the next morning, a maid brought in pudding, white bread, and goat’s milk.

There were no dairy cows in the territory, only beef cattle. Fortunately, goat’s milk was decent, though the supply was very limited.

Ashina was wearing a lace-trimmed, fitted noblewoman’s gown, purchased by Phield in Maple Leaf City and altered according to his own aesthetic.

Although Ashina loved her maid outfit, it was a rest day today, so she wasn’t wearing her “work clothes.”

Seeing Ashina in the dress made Phield a little embarrassed to look at her directly. He had to mentally prepare himself before regaining his composure.

Her long hair fell loosely down her back. Resting one hand against her cheek, Ashina’s eyes—half-lidded, half-open—gleamed with a seductive, feral charm, unfocused as if lost in thought. White silk stockings clung tightly to the perfect lines of her legs, giving her an air of nobility and elegance. With her legs crossed, her posture pressed out an alluring view.

This era did have stockings, but not the ultra-thin kind of modern times. They were thicker, allowing only a faint hint of skin tone to show through—suggestive, but not revealing.

Unlike the stiff, rigid posture expected of noble ladies, Ashina’s stocking-wrapped toes hooked into a slipper, swinging lazily in a teasing motion.

Other nobles would have considered it rude, but Phield was happy to let Ashina express the lively nature of a Wolf Demi-human. As such, he only taught her some noble and modern etiquette, not the entirety of feudal dogma.

After all, this was the Nightfall Domain. What Phield said went.

“What do you need me to do today?”

Ashina lazily scooped up a spoonful of pudding with a silver spoon and put it into her mouth, smiling in satisfaction. After savoring the sweetness, she blinked her large eyes and suggested, “How about treasure hunting? It’d be great if we could find more treasures.”

Previously discovering wine and magic scrolls had brought the Nightfall Domain a substantial income, and Ashina had grown somewhat addicted to treasure hunting.

“Not today. If you’re willing, you can come with me to guide the farmers and slaves in their work.”

Phield frowned as he finished his goat’s milk. It was a bit gamey, and the cook had even added salt—hardly pleasant.

Ashina didn’t hesitate. “Alright. Let’s go together.”

⸻

Leaving the Grand Winery, the chaotic slave camp was visible at a glance. It was empty now—the slaves had been driven out to work early in the morning by Tate. Slaves had no breakfast; even the time for eating was spared. Strictly speaking, even freefolk didn’t eat breakfast—such a thing was a luxury.

In the Middle Ages, ordinary people ate two meals a day. The midday meal was called “the meal that fills you,” eaten more formally and accompanied by prayers of gratitude to the gods. Dinner was more casual. From Phield’s observations, what they called dinner was closer to a late-night snack, as freefolk ate very little in the evening.

Breakfast, on the other hand, was usually reserved for nobles—and even then, it came with strict etiquette. For example, breakfast could not be taken back to one’s room, and hands had to be washed in a shallow basin with a towel before each dish.

Of course, none of that mattered. Phield continued to eat according to his own habits.

“I regret not riding a horse.”

After walking only a few steps, Phield covered his face in frustration. Excrement was visible everywhere along the road. While manure could fertilize the land, it still needed to be composted first.

“Clearly, my previous decree failed.”

Phield glanced around, didn’t see Kaor, and turned to the maid Nina. “Go call Kaor over—and also bring any freefolk who have influence.”

Before long, Kaor arrived with an awkward expression, accompanied by an old man named Hans. Hans had originally been a villager from the Bull territory. After Phield shamelessly dragged him over, he had quietly become the new village head, handling small issues among the freefolk such as neighbor disputes and family conflicts.

“Good morning, my lord,” the two said together, bowing.

“Good morning.”

Phield smiled back, then asked, “Is the issue of relieving oneself anywhere still hard to solve? Tell me what difficulties you’re facing.”

Kaor replied sheepishly, “There are too many of them! And every single one is as stupid as a pig. The moment my words leave my mouth, their wooden brains forget everything. Verbal warnings don’t work at all, and they just play dumb, insisting they’re first-time offenders.”

Indeed, even in modern times, verbally warning some elderly people who do bad things is completely useless—they treat it like hot air.

And with his soft-heartedness giving them multiple chances—hundreds of people, several chances each—it was enough to cover every inch of the Nightfall Domain in filth.

Kind words had been exhausted. It was time for a heavy hand. Phield almost wanted to confiscate their asses.

“Announce this: starting today, anyone caught relieving themselves anywhere will be punished. Freefolk pay one copper coin; if they can’t, one lash. Slaves receive triple punishment—three copper coins or three lashes. No more warnings.”

Phield spoke sternly. “Also, organize the children and women among the slaves to collect the waste daily and pile it together.”

What a cleanliness-obsessed, meddlesome noble, Hans thought to himself. It was just waste—why go through the trouble of gathering it? Was he planning to build a sculpture out of it?

“Do you fertilize your fields or compost manure when farming?” Phield turned and asked Hans.

“Fertilize?” Hans looked utterly confused. “We water the fields, remove weeds, and catch pests. And of course, the most important thing—prayer. We pray to the goddess for a good harvest.”

“Uh.”

Phield’s lips twitched. No wonder the population in this era was low and food constantly insufficient. People starved to death all the time. Even the most fertile land would be depleted by constant planting.

“Then you should fertilize.”

Phield pointed at the fields. “Pile up the manure. After planting crops, use it to nourish the land.”

“By the Harvest Goddess! What did I just hear? I should tear off my ears and throw them away!”

Hans suddenly felt dizzy, nearly suffering a stroke on the spot. If the man before him hadn’t been a baron, Hans would have swung his fists.

Just moments ago, he’d thought Baron Phield was obsessed with cleanliness. Turns out the reason for collecting waste was to pour filth onto food!

Too noble! Too extravagant!

“To smear filthy, impure things over the goddess’s blessing? That’s blasphemy! It will invite terrible divine punishment—locust plagues, droughts!”

Hans’s face and ears flushed red with anger as he rambled on about farming experience. “We’re the professionals when it comes to farming. I’ve farmed my entire life—how could I not understand this?”

Phield had no intention of debating an old fossil. He waved his hand. “Perhaps you’re right. But the land farmed by slaves will follow my requirements. That is an order.”

“My lord, only magical creations and Divine Chosen can influence crop yields,” Kaor said cautiously. He didn’t dare let Phield mess around with something as critical as food. “As long as you keep praying, the gods will respond.”

Great—gods again. Phield rubbed his temples.

The existence of Divine Chosen and magic was indeed a treasure of this world, but it also severely suppressed production and technological progress. The most obvious result was lax labor and a massive drop in initiative. If crops failed, if life was hard, or even if someone tripped while walking, people blamed it on insufficient piety—then desperately donated money to the church, waiting for miracles.

“I know magic and Divine Chosen can affect yields, but the Nightfall Domain can’t rely on that. We need another path.”

Ashina was purely combat-oriented and offered no help in production.

“This is my command: compost the manure, then apply it to the fields. Also, when planting radishes and cabbage, use ridge farming. When planting wheat, loosen the soil twice and keep the land as level as possible.”

Ridge farming improved ventilation, soil fertility, and looseness, but Phield didn’t bother explaining—he was already used to dealing with stubborn traditionalists. “This is my decree. Fields farmed by slaves must follow my instructions exactly. Your own fields, do as you please.”

There were only about ten freefolk anyway—they couldn’t farm many acres. They could serve as a comparison.

“As you wish.”

Hans was clearly unhappy, but the land belonged to the noble, and Phield had left room for compromise by allowing their own fields to remain unfertilized.

Before transmigrating, Phield had spent part of his childhood in a village and understood basic agricultural knowledge. Even if it didn’t perfectly suit the current land, the loss would be minimal—after all, the soil of the Nightfall Domain couldn’t produce much anyway.

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