Chapter 17: The First Bountiful Harvest
The seasons turned, and autumn—the season of harvest—finally arrived in the Arkwright territory.
Everyone in the land waited with bated breath for this day. What had the young ruler, Zenon von Arkwright, brought to their soil? The answer was about to be revealed.
Golden wheat fields rippled like waves beneath the wind. The sight was the same as every year—yet the faces of the farmers standing there were completely different.
They stared in silence at the wheat before them, utterly dumbfounded.
“…This can’t be real.”
An old farmer whispered hoarsely.
The wheat before his eyes was heavy and full, each head of grain bursting with life unlike anything he had ever seen. The stalks were tall and strong, reaching upward as if striving for the heavens.
He could hardly believe that these were the crops grown in his own fields.
“Village chief! Look at this! It’s twice as much as last year!”
“This field too! The ears are so heavy, the stalks are bending under the weight!”
Similar cries of astonishment and soon, joy rang out all across the domain.
The soil enriched by lime and compost.
The steady supply of water from the new irrigation channels.
The results exceeded their meager imaginations by far.
As the harvest began, shock turned to conviction.
The bundles of wheat cut with their sickles were far heavier than usual. When threshed, the number of grains spilling out was clearly far greater.
Everyone worked with feverish energy. Fatigue meant nothing the thrill of this unbelievable abundance drove them onward.
And when all the harvesting was finally done, messengers from every village rushed to the estate of Assistant Magistrate Marc to report their yields.
Marc, hands trembling as he tallied the numbers written on countless sheets of parchment, felt tears well in his eyes.
“…Zenon-sama…”
When the reports were complete, Marc could hardly speak for emotion in Zenon’s office.
Before him lay the compiled results—numbers that would rewrite the history of the Arkwright territory.
“The total wheat yield of the entire territory is two and a half times that of last year! My lord, this is the greatest harvest in the history of our domain!”
Marc’s voice trembled with joy.
But Zenon, seated calmly in his chair, did not so much as blink.
He quietly read through the parchment, then muttered a single phrase:
“…Still too little.”
“Eh…?”
Marc thought he had misheard.
Still too little? In the face of a historic bumper crop?
“The full effects of crop rotation and selective breeding won’t appear until two years from now.”
Zenon said coldly.
“These numbers are merely the result of soil improvement and irrigation. We’re still about thirty percent short of the target.”
He analyzed the data with clinical precision.
“Also, some villages lagged in adopting the new methods, which pulled down the overall average. That shortfall in management—Marc, that’s your next challenge.”
“M-my deepest apologies!”
Marc’s tears of joy dried instantly, and he bowed his head in shame.
His lord was not looking at the present success, but far beyond it—toward a perfect future.
He had been foolish to feel satisfied with just this.
Zenon cast a brief glance at Marc, then turned his gaze toward the window.
Beyond the manor stretched the golden fields, where the people of the territory celebrated the harvest.
They sang, danced, and prayed in gratitude—for the first time in decades, they would eat their fill.
Of course, their prayers were not directed toward the gods.
They were for the one who had brought this miracle to them—
the young acting lord, Zenon von Arkwright.
“They say Lord Zenon, once called the ‘demon-possessed,’ might actually be the incarnation of a god of harvest.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Still… it’s true he saved us.”
“He’s a terrifying man. Defy him, and you’ll be exiled like Bartolo-sama. But follow him and you’ll never go hungry again.”
Awe.
It was not mere fear.
It was a primal emotion — a blend of reverence and dread directed toward one who possessed absolute power.
The feelings the people now held toward Zenon could be summed up in that single word.
Zenon observed the state of his people without the slightest hint of sentiment.
Their gratitude, their awe — to him, these were nothing more than the calculated outcomes of his plan.
When workers’ satisfaction rises, productivity increases.
It was only logical.
“Marc.”
“Yes, my lord!”
“Let them celebrate the harvest if they wish, but we have no time to indulge in revelry. I’ll be issuing the next directives immediately. Are you prepared?”
“Y-yes, my lord! Whatever you command!”
In Zenon’s mind, the next project was already underway.
A bountiful harvest — that, too, was the beginning of a new problem.
An excess of food. What to do with it?
Letting it rot would be the height of inefficiency.
Zenon quietly acknowledged that his grand design had moved on to its next phase.
The cheers of the people drifted into his study, carried by the wind.
It was the triumphant fanfare announcing that the Arkwright territory had finally broken free from its long age of poverty and stepped into an era of abundance.
And yet, the man orchestrating it all remained utterly cold and silent within — his heart as still as ice.