Chapter 15: The Peasants’ Resistance
The Arkwright domain was more vibrant than ever before.
In the northern plains, construction of the irrigation canal was advancing at a rapid pace. In the Tower of Mages, the lights of magic agricultural tool development burned late into the night. Chief accountant Rio was busy rebuilding the domain’s finances, while assistant magistrate Marc traveled tirelessly to promote the new farming methods.
All of it—every movement, every reform—was driven by one boy: Zenon.
However, not everyone welcomed these changes.
Change always breeds resistance. Especially for those who had spent their lives doing things a certain way—new methods often seemed like an incomprehensible threat.
“Outrageous! We won’t have strange white powder scattered all over our fields!”
“Using dung and urine as fertilizer? Disgusting! You’d defile our sacred earth!”
In several long-standing villages located in the southern part of the territory, the village chiefs had jointly submitted a formal petition protesting Zenon’s reforms.
They firmly believed that the traditional farming methods passed down through generations were the only correct way. To them, Zenon’s new techniques—using lime and compost—were an affront to their pride, a rejection of their ancestors, and an unforgivable act of arrogance.
Receiving the report in his office, Zenon read through the petition without a single change in expression.
“…Utterly irrational. They reject progress and cling to the past—a textbook symptom of a decaying organization.”
Marc, who had delivered the report, hung his head in frustration. Being a farmer’s son himself, he could understand the stubborn pride of the village elders. But he also knew, better than anyone, how revolutionary Zenon’s methods were and how much they would benefit the people.
“I’m sorry, Zenon-sama. If I had explained things more carefully…”
“It’s not your fault…”
Zenon replied coolly.
“Human preconceptions aren’t so easily overturned by logic alone.”
Setting down his pen, Zenon rose from his chair.
“If they can’t understand through words, we’ll show them through results. …Marc, summon all the protesting village heads to the western test farm three days from now.”
“The test farm, sir?”
“Yes. One fact speaks louder than a hundred arguments. It’s time they saw reality for themselves.”
Three days later.
At the vast test farm built on the western edge of the Arkwright territory, more than a dozen village chiefs had gathered.
Each wore an expression of discontent and suspicion, arms folded as they looked around.
The farm had been secretly operating for about a month under Zenon’s orders. Using a budget calculated by Rio, skilled farmers had been hired to put Zenon’s agricultural theories into practice.
Before long, Zenon appeared, accompanied only by Gray and Marc.
Though the village heads offered formal bows to the noble boy, their eyes betrayed clear defiance.
“Thank you for coming.”
Zenon began calmly, unaffected by their hostility.
“I understand you’re dissatisfied with my methods. I also understand your desire to honor tradition. But tell me—are those traditions truly correct?”
He gestured toward two separate plots of farmland.
One was an ordinary field, the kind the village chiefs had known all their lives.
The other looked strikingly different—the soil was dark and rich, small waterways glistened between the furrows, and the crops growing there were… extraordinary.
“The field on the left,”
Zenon explained.
“….was cultivated using your traditional methods. The field on the right was grown using mine—with lime and compost to improve the soil and a steady water supply from the irrigation canal.”
The village heads compared the two fields—and gasped.
Even an untrained eye could see the difference.
The wheat in the traditional plot reached only knee height, its leaves tinged with yellow.
But in Zenon’s plot, the wheat had already grown waist-high, its leaves a vibrant, healthy green. It was almost impossible to believe they had been planted at the same time, from the same seeds.
“C-could it be… you used magic?”
One chief muttered shakily.
“No magic,”
Zenon said flatly.
“Only logic and science. While you prayed to your gods and gambled on chance, I prepared to win. That’s all there is to it.”
Ignoring their stunned silence, Zenon pointed to a large tree near the fields. Two burlap sacks hung from its branches.
“And here,”
He said.
“…is the difference in yield from last month’s test harvest—per plot.”
At Gray’s signal, a waiting farmer opened both sacks and dumped their contents onto the ground.
A coarse rustling sound filled the air as a torrent of wheat grains poured out.
The village chiefs were struck speechless by the sight.
The harvest from the traditional fields formed only a small mound — modest and unimpressive.
But the wheat grown under Zenon’s method had piled up into a massive hill, nearly three times larger. The grains were fuller, their color richer, their sheen far more vibrant.
It was an overwhelming truth.
An undeniable result.
“…This is reality.”
Zenon’s calm voice pierced through the silence that had fallen over the chiefs.
“The tradition you cling to is nothing more than a curse — one that keeps you chained to poverty. What I offer is the path to prosperity. So tell me… which will you choose?”
None of them could answer.
Their decades of experience and pride crumbled like dust before the golden mountain of wheat standing before them.
One of the chiefs fell to his knees, powerless.
Then another followed. And another. Until, at last, all of them bowed deeply — before the mound of grain, and before the cold, almost demonic boy who stood beyond it.
It was a silent surrender — the end of an old era, and the beginning of a new one.
Marc watched the scene with tears in his eyes. Zenon-sama truly is remarkable, he thought. Perhaps this man really can end the poverty that has plagued this land.
Zenon cast a single indifferent glance at the kneeling chiefs, then turned away as though he had lost all interest.
“Marc. Handle the rest. Give them the manuals for the new farming method and train them thoroughly. Any village that fails to deliver results — increase their taxes without hesitation.”
Leaving only those merciless words behind, Zenon walked away.
To him, their surrender was merely the expected outcome — nothing to be sentimental about.
One more obstacle to his plan had simply been removed.
His eyes were already fixed on the next step of his grand reform.
For the agricultural revolution had only just begun.