Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

The air was thick with tension and anxiety.

The militia had just returned to Wolf Town from Saint Gis Valley, and over seventy convict laborers were herded into the old square.

They weren't told what was to happen, only watched over by fully armed militia members with vigilant eyes.

The wait was excruciating, and some of the more faint-hearted laborers had already started wiping away tears.

The laborers knew about the food shortage in Wolf Town—each guard was only given two coarse loaves of bread per meal, while the convicts had nothing but a bowl of mixed gruel.

But at least their lives were stable; they had shelters to live in, food to eat, and did not need to resort to killing or robbery. Their daily tasks consisted of chopping wood, making charcoal, and building houses.

However, with the current situation, it seemed as though a final solution for them was being contemplated.

"My dad once said," one man whispered in fear to the person next to him, "when the Mazhar nobility wants to kill someone, they give him a shovel to dig a pit. When it's deep enough for a person, they just cover it up from above..."

"Damn it! Just watch! Old... I'm not going to just sit here and wait for death!" the other man replied, shivering too.

Someone desperately yelled at the militia, "What the hell do you want with us? Why are you tormenting us? Give us a quick end!"

The militia, expressionless and armed, didn't answer him.

The shouting man clamped his mouth shut suddenly, because he saw Montaigne, the Garrison Officer, approaching them.

Winters stepped into the town square, sensing the odd atmosphere. He gestured for calm, "Everyone, sit. Let's talk this over sitting down."

He found a stump to sit on himself, but none of the laborers moved.

Winters repeated the command amiably, "Sit down."

Like a scythe through wheat, the crowd lowered in unison as they noisily settled to the ground.

"How many of you are landless hired hands or tenant farmers?" Winters disliked beating around the bush and went straight to the point, "Raise your hands."

One hand after another raised, and among the seventy-or-so present, only two didn't raise theirs.

Winters asked the two, "Are you two independent farmers?"

"No, sir," the tall, thin man quickly shook his head, his reply was well-structured, "My brother and I are brickmakers. No one was buying bricks anymore, so we had to flee the famine, and then... we ended up here."

"What's your name?"

"Shaun, the bricklayer Shaun," he replied.

Winters nodded, taking note of him in his mind, then inquired further, "As I understand, there are more than two hundred households of workers and tenant farmers in Wolf Town alone. Where have all the people fleeing famine gone? Have they all become bandits?"

The convicts were at a loss, some muttering under their breath.

Finally, it was Bricklayer Shaun who gave a surprising yet reasonable answer, "Revodan."

Where there's no food, people follow the grain. Where is the food? Right in Revodan City.

Ironically, back in February, Revodan had to send soldiers to conscript labor.

In the blink of an eye, five months had passed, and Revodan no longer had to worry about a shortage of troops.

Most of the displaced people had already flocked to Revodan City with their families, begging to join the army just for a meal.

So, recently, the barracks in Revodan had only sent out teams for grain conscription and had not sent out any new drafts for soldiers.

Winters then asked, "Aside from these two brickmakers, are all the rest of you originally farmers?"

The host of convict laborers nodded.

"If I provide you with land," Winters asked earnestly, each word deliberate, "would you be willing to farm in Wolf Town?"

The town square erupted with surprise. The convicts gaped and started whispering furiously amongst themselves.

"Quiet," Winters said, softly clapping his hands.

The square instantly fell silent as a grave.

"Willing, or not?"

An old man with graying hair mustered the courage to stand up and explain, "Sir, it's not that we're unwilling to farm. Even if you give us land, we can't farm it right now..."

"Old man, please sit and talk," Winters said, puzzled, "Why can't you farm?"

The old man remained standing, taking a moment to organize his thoughts before speaking, "Sir, what farmhand doesn't dream of having his own land? But the farming season... has already passed."

He went on to explain with gestures for quite a while before Winters, a Sea Blue man, could understand what he meant.

In short, the farmers in Paratu typically practiced crop rotation with two agricultural cycles per year.

The main crop's planting cycle was from this autumn to early next summer, mainly sowing winter wheat.

The secondary crop's cycle was from this spring to this autumn, primarily planting oats, rye, and legumes.

If there were spare plots, vegetables would be planted to supplement the diet.

It was now July, perfectly between the two agricultural cycles, missing the farming season.

Furthermore, crops don't mature overnight. To start farming, one would need enough grain to last through a full agricultural cycle.

"Even if we planted winter wheat, we'd all die of starvation before the wheat ripened," the old man continued, his voice filled with sorrow, "The land here is clay-heavy – you need a heavy plow with four horses to break the soil. We have neither horses nor a plow... Even if you gave us land, sir, we wouldn't be able to cultivate it..."

The remaining farmers nodded along.

Winters listened attentively – he would have taken notes if he'd brought paper and ink.

He had considered this aspect of the issue, but not in such depth—because he didn't know the first thing about farming.