Iron Harvest: When Farming Becomes Conquest
Chapter 440 - 13: Bedtime Stories

Chapter 440: Chapter 13: Bedtime Stories

Roman was distressed about the upcoming autumn harvest.

The construction progress of the stone arch bridge was incredibly fast. The piers and abutments were nearly complete, and the arches were being erected. It seemed that the bridge could be finished before the end of autumn.

This was a good thing.

The bad news was that the Black Iron Alliance Army had changed their strategy.

Makor no longer insisted on gathering a large army to demolish Fertile City in one swoop. Instead, he secretly dispatched cavalry and infantry units, initiating continuous harassment operations.

Roman was not afraid of a direct confrontation—as long as the vanguard was broken, the rest would scatter like a herd of pigs.

But he feared the day-and-night skirmishes and arson by small-scale units, which kept him constantly on the move.

After the summer’s scorching heat, the soil was devoid of water, the air was dry, and the crops were extremely flammable. Even a tiny spark could spread into a large-scale fire; it was truly defenseless.

Up to now, the troops on both sides had clashed more than ten times, but Roman believed that a successful defense was not a true victory.

This rendered the border areas of Fertile City quite unstable.

Roman had to strengthen patrol forces, build more watchtowers, and establish protective camps for early warning. He also deployed a large number of sentries, not only professional soldiers but also militia units, mobilizing all available combat strength.

After tilling for more than half a year and watering the fields all summer, he was stressed about labor distribution, feeling perpetually inadequate. Now, it was finally time to harvest, and he couldn’t let it come to nothing. He must secure the fruits of their labor!

Roman wasn’t the only one thinking this way.

Everyone in Fertile City thought this way.

Farming was hard work. After suffering for so long, they’d finally tasted sweetness. Now, whoever dared to burn the fields was as good as taking their lives.

Their lord had provided each household with a light crossbow, and in a truly dire situation, they would resist to the death.

Therefore, the closer they got to the critical moment, the more patrol militia there were, strictly guarding, and fully alert.

...

The autumn harvest passed in this tense atmosphere.

According to tradition, the grain yield increased every year, something the old farmers in Fertile City knew from experience.

This was due to a series of agricultural reforms, such as saline seed selection, transitioning from shallow to deep plowing, and turning barren land into fertile ground, as well as Gwivelle’s blessings.

Each year’s yield per acre in Fertile City increased by ten or even dozens of pounds compared to previous years.

This was a visible improvement.

They tilled the land by hand and, in the end, harvested grain that far surpassed the past, allowing them to enjoy hearty meals. Old farmers who were used to hard times had never seen anything like this, and their sense of belonging to the territory grew daily.

But not this year.

Despite Roman’s measures, the drought could not be entirely avoided, and a reduction in yield occurred.

In general, there was about a twenty to thirty percent reduction. If Roman hadn’t opened up new land every year, this year’s total grain production might not have even matched last year’s.

Although he had predicted this, seeing the numbers still pained him.

Nevertheless, most farmers felt this result was already very good.

They knew it wasn’t anyone’s fault.

In past years, a drought meant virtually no saving the crops, and a fifty percent reduction was considered good.

The reason it only decreased by two or three tenths was because the lord provided solutions, instructing them to dig ditches, build channels, and construct waterwheels for irrigation. This series of measures effectively mitigated the impact of the disaster.

Otherwise, the yield would have been even lower.

Fertile City was busy for several days. Everyone was rushing to make the most of their time.

During the day, under the scorching sun, heads wrapped in cloth, they harvested stalks of wheat, with strong men able to reap two to three acres a day. Women, in the evening, were not idle either, threshing grain in the workshops under the moonlight.

The feature of such collective labor was high efficiency, minimizing time wastage.

Every harvest, Roman would conventionally hold a celebration to enhance social stability. This year was no exception.

But not everyone could enjoy carefree eating, drinking, and playing. The scale was much smaller compared to last year, with about half the population unable to participate, all having to stay at their posts.

This year, Roman unusually devoted all his time and energy to this process.

Roman attended the festival squares across Fertile City, celebrating with the people—effectively increasing the residents’ happiness—so he could ensure they would continue to work for him without complaint.

Then he went to console those who held their positions.

Upon returning from the last construction site, he felt utterly exhausted.

"How about a good night’s sleep tonight? Relax a bit? Just skip learning spells for now." Shasta took the opportunity to suggest, hesitantly saying, "I don’t think it’s a good thing."

At first, there was excitement; now only fear remained. Roman’s speed in mastering spells terrified Shasta.

Shasta secretly pondered. Was there really such a thing as a predestined spellcaster in this world?

"Learning spells isn’t a good thing?" Roman curiously asked.

Shasta pursed her lips, her eyes dull, hinting at something else. "There are some strange rumors."

To the world, the stigma of the wizard stemmed from spells.

It’s an invisible, intangible force.

A wizard could kick you, and you wouldn’t even know who was kicking you.

The Church Court had always preached that anyone who dabbled in spells would have their soul trapped in the gods’ purgatory, never to be reincarnated.

And folklore said wizards were devils living in the mortal world, with souls from Hell. Even the usually gentle and kind wizards would, at some point, turn wicked and twisted, lose their minds, and reveal their evil nature.

Some scholars also believed that mastering spells led to misfortune, that wizard blood contained that of a demon, and spellcasters were destined to harm everyone.

Shasta really didn’t want to blame Margaret’s condition on spells.

But the fact was that blood magic made Margaret increasingly fascinated with the legendary Netherworld, exhibiting an eerie obsession.

Since arriving in the River Valley, her condition had somewhat improved, but she never let go of her fantasies about the Netherworld.

Shasta felt a twinge of fear each time she thought about it.

She feared that one day Roman might also become like this, pursuing some illusory things crazily and blindly like Margaret.

Roman wasn’t a natural-born spellcaster, but he mastered spells more easily than a witch, with an extremely high affinity for mana.

Shasta couldn’t quite understand whether the problem lay with the spellcasters or with Roman.

"Then let me hear it; consider it a bedtime story." Roman took a bath, changed into linen pajamas, feeling relaxed and at ease, lying in bed, waiting to sleep.

Unless necessary, Shasta didn’t want to tell him too many secrets among spellcasters.

He was a ruler, and his duties were unrelated to spells. Telling him such strange things might spark his interest, leading him to become obsessed and neglect governmental duties—jesters did that, telling stories or performing talents, commonly known as clowns, hence their reputation wasn’t good.

She was a court witch, not one to act like a jester.

Moreover, rural folklore should not reach his ears, only a naive Margaret would talk to him about such matters, as they always tried to reverse some rumors to prevent him from having a negative view of them.

"Supposedly, if someone masters too many spells, their soul may inadvertently enter another world." Shasta pivoted to clarify, "But that’s just a rumor. We’ve never experienced those things. Lord of Thunder also believed that spells originate within oneself, not from some ethereal world."

"No matter what Margaret said. Listen, but don’t take it seriously!" Shasta hesitated for a moment, reluctant to lie to him. "After all...the more you know, the more spells you master, the more likely you are to encounter certain mysterious things. If that happens...please don’t explore...or you might lose yourself..."

She managed to say these words, yet received no response, looking up to see Roman had fallen asleep peacefully.

Shasta sighed softly, gazing at his quiet face, a faint affection unexpectedly welled up in her heart, and the more she looked, the happier she felt, wrapped in an indescribable sense of happiness.

She lay down as well, closing her eyes.

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