I, the prince in distress, send money

Chapter 332 Beast Tamer

Autumn is almost over, and winter is just around the corner in Tavitsky.

Tavitsky is relatively peaceful now... well, it doesn't seem that peaceful. Large-scale battles haven't broken out, but the presence of Reteria scouts from other places and bandits turned refugees who refused to leave their homes keeps the plains constantly shrouded in smoke.

Based on the idea that "if the enemy can go, so can I," Chris also sent restless players to run in small groups towards the areas occupied by the Leterians.

Of course, Chris didn't forget the original owner of this land. In addition to intelligence agents, he occasionally sent infiltration teams composed of players to travel to Minicia and operate freely.

He, who had always been a bit conflicted, has now come to terms with it. There's no need to restrict the players' destructive power, but they should be allowed to roam free and wreak havoc on outsiders, instead of keeping them on the sidelines with rules that only lead to their own destruction.

Such self-sacrificing behavior is really unnecessary.

Because Chris made this decision, Anvil Fortress has now enjoyed a long-awaited period of peace.

In this calm, Chris began to guide the farmers in the refugee camp away from the trenches and to begin clearing land near the Anvil Fortress.

The land is good land.

The area where the Anvil Fortress is located is a fertile land with deep black soil, which should have been a granary that nourishes all things.

However, it has been silent for too long.

The reason, of course, is that the Bagnians used to habitually go down the mountain to hunt for food, which caused this buffer zone between the two countries to be ravaged. Even though the two sides shook hands and made peace, the Minisians still dared not farm near the Anvil Fortress.

Now that Chris has taken Anvil Fortress, he naturally no longer has such concerns.

So Chris thought about giving this land a new breath, trying to cultivate the land and produce enough food to feed the thousands of mouths in the fortress and possibly more people in the future.

Because the food shortage in the Kingdom of Bagnia is getting bigger and bigger, and as for the reason... it's obvious, Chris knows it all too well, but there's nothing he can do to change the situation.

The arable land in Bagnia is limited. Even though Chris has tried his best to popularize crops like sweet potatoes and potatoes, which are not picky about the soil, the yield is not ideal at present because it has been too short a time.

A few days earlier, Chris happened to discover that the land near Anvil Fortress was quite fertile while he was out.

So he planned to mobilize the remaining half of the militia and laborers who stayed at Anvil Fortress and have them lead the Miniese refugees to clear the land.

In the deepening chill of late autumn, under the protection of the towering walls of the Anvil Fortress, a massive and arduous project began.

Brand-new iron farm tools—heavy iron picks, sharp iron shovels, and sturdy iron hoes—were distributed from the fortress's stockpile and emergency supplies to every able-bodied man and even a boy willing to participate in land reclamation.

Thick, warm clothing, enough to ward off the early winter chill, also wrapped their thin bodies. As they worked in the approaching harsh winter, warmth and tools were essential for survival.

However, reality is far more bleak than expected.

Reclaiming wasteland is no easy task, especially when dealing with a land that has been forgotten by war and time for far too long.

The first thing that catches the eye is the rampant, tangled weeds. In late autumn, the grass stems are as tough as hemp, and the roots are deeply embedded in the soil, gripping every inch of land. A strong man swinging an iron hoe can often only dig up a shallow layer of soil, and the deeply buried grass roots need to be repeatedly dug, pulled, and cut.

Even more troublesome were the ubiquitous gravel, stubbornly embedded in the soil, hindering the plow's progress and consuming a great deal of the pioneers' physical strength.

Each large rock, requiring several people to pry it away, was moved with heavy breathing and sweat beading on foreheads.

The core dilemma is the lack of motivation.

Chris did his best to provide tools and clothing, but he couldn't conjure up enough large draft animals like oxen and horses.

In the past, on the fertile land of Minicia, a strong ox or a draft horse could be equivalent to more than a dozen strong laborers. They could pull heavy iron plows, deeply turn over the hard soil, and easily break up the compacted clods of earth.

But here, there are only people, only the hunched backs, taut arms, and heavy breathing of refugees.

Chris has both horses and donkeys, but horses should be prioritized for players and messengers, while donkeys should be used for logistical support, transporting supplies along mountain trails.

The railway, which starts at Vortradnoy, is being built toward the border, but due to the mountains, manpower, and engineering limitations, the Minister of Transport of Diurrem reported to Chris that the railway would not reach Anvil Fortress until at least the end of next spring.

Lacking animal power, the progress of land reclamation was therefore exceptionally slow and arduous.

Steam plow?
Well, Chris doesn't want to use it here, not only for security reasons, but also because this thing is currently made entirely by players. There's a lack of reliable exploration machines even in Bagnia itself, so how can he transfer it abroad to use it?
Without animal-drawn plowshares, turning the soil could only rely on the most primitive human labor.

Chris rode his horse along the roadside, observing a few men working together in the distance. They used thick ropes to attach to a specially made, heavy iron plow, and like boatmen, they were pulling it forward with all their might, accompanied by shouts.

Each step sank deep into the soft or hardened ground, each step accompanied by trembling muscles and the pain of ropes digging into shoulders.

The iron plow struggled to break through the sod, turning over clods of soil with grass roots and stones, leaving furrows of varying depths and crooked shapes.

Chris could tell at a glance that this method was incredibly inefficient; after a whole day, a hundred or so people working their hardest could only turn over a tiny patch of land.

Leveling the land, clearing away rubble, digging drainage ditches... all the tasks requiring heavy physical labor could only be accomplished by manpower, bit by bit.

Chris often stood on the slightly higher earthen slope, silently watching all of this.

The progress of land reclamation was indeed disappointing. It fell far short of his expectations and was far from sufficient to cultivate enough land to support the fortress and refugees through the winter and lay the foundation for spring planting before the harsh winter completely froze the land.

"Your Highness, this cannot continue."

The earth goddess priest beside him—Crawford—said with a worried expression on his plump face.

"Without livestock, relying solely on human labor, even if the refugees work themselves to death, they won't be able to clear much land. Winters here in Minicia aren't as cold as in China."

However, I learned from a local farmer that it occasionally snows lightly here, and then the ground freezes like a solid iron plate…

Chris's gaze swept over the people struggling to pull the plow in the distance, then looked towards the vast, untouched wilderness.

The wrinkles on the priest Crawford's fat face, caused by sorrow, seemed to be etched by the stubborn land before him.

"Your suggestion?"

Chris's voice was calm and even, his sharp gaze fixed on Crawford's face.

He didn't know the priest very well, but from the limited conversation, he could easily tell that Crawford was not just there to complain.

Crawford took a deep breath, straightened his round back, and spoke with a tone of reassuring sincerity.

"Your Highness, the Earth Mother Goddess has mercy on all living beings. Given the current situation, forcing the reclamation process will only increase casualties and deplete the precious manpower. I have two suggestions for your consideration."

He paused, observing Chris's expression. Seeing that His Highness the Prince had only slightly raised his chin to signal him to continue, he mustered his courage and spoke.

"Firstly, we should temporarily halt land reclamation to allow these refugees and militiamen to rest and recuperate, and conserve their strength. We can resume work next spring when the land thaws, which will be much more efficient."

Although it would delay the harvest by a season, at least it would preserve the workforce and avoid unnecessary losses. Chris did not respond immediately, his gaze still fixed on the figures struggling to drag the iron plow in the cold wind. Their shouts sounded so thin in the empty fields, and his face remained so indifferent.

Seeing this, Crawford quickly offered his preferred second option:

"Secondly... Your Highness, perhaps we can seek the grace of the Mother Goddess."

He rubbed his hands together, forcing a hopeful smile onto his face.

“I can preside over a grand ‘fertile soil ceremony’ at the chosen site, praying for the Mother Goddess’s power to soften the land, dispel the stubborn roots and spirits of the pebbles, and make cultivation easier. As long as the ceremony is grand and devout enough, the Mother Goddess will surely have mercy…”

"What about the cost?"

Chris interrupted him, his tone flat, yet it felt like a slap of ice against Crawford's eager face.

"I don't recall any similar events being held in China?"

Crawford choked for a moment, and his voice unconsciously lowered.

"This actually happens every spring, but it's not a very grand event... because the bigger the ceremony, the more fine grains, newly brewed wine, precious spices, and a sufficient amount of sacrificial animals are needed... cattle and sheep are naturally the best, and the quantity must be considerable to show sincerity."

Furthermore, regarding the arrangements for the ceremony, the remuneration for the participating priests… since this is a good deed, I will persuade them that no payment is necessary…”

His voice trailed off as he spoke, because the faint smile on Chris's lips seemed to carry a hint of coldness.

"Crawford."

Chris finally turned his head and looked directly at the priest. His eyes were deep and unwavering.

"Stop clearing the land? What about the tens of thousands of mouths waiting to be fed in the refugee camps outside the fortress? Next spring, ha, no need to think that far ahead. As for your ceremony..."

He shook his head slightly, his tone resolute.

"There's no need..."

Chris could see through Crawford's ulterior motives. The so-called reward was this ceremony. If it could be successfully held, many of the refugees gathered here would definitely convert to the Earth Mother Goddess.

The sea god priests hidden among the crowd dared not show themselves or appear to stop the Earth Mother Goddess Church's harvest because of the presence of the Bagnia army.

Chris's words caused Crawford's face to fall instantly, a mixture of disappointment and confusion on his face.

“But Your Highness, without livestock or divine assistance, continuing like this will truly exhaust us! And the progress is too slow; we simply won't be able to cultivate enough land before the ground freezes solid…”

"Crawford."

Chris interrupted him again, his voice not loud, but carrying an undeniable force, as he pointed to the figures struggling in the mud and gravel.

You've missed the point.

The priest was taken aback.

"Your Highness?"

Chris's gaze sharpened, as if it could pierce through those weary bodies and look into the depths of their souls.

"How much land is reclaimed and how much black soil is turned over before winter is certainly important, but right now, that is not the primary goal."

He paused, then spoke each word clearly into Crawford's ears.

"Reclaiming wasteland is the goal itself."

Crawford was completely stunned, staring blankly at Chris.

"Let these Minisians pick up the hoes and shovels I provide, and let them brave the cold wind and exhaust their strength to fight against this land they once dared not approach."

Chris's gaze swept over the bent-over figures working, his eyes unchanged, still as harmonious as ever, but at this moment Crawford only felt a chill in them, which frightened him.

"Let them sweat and bleed, let them be exhausted, let them exert themselves together in the chants, let them rely on each other and on my organization and command for a common goal, even if it is just to dig out a small piece of land."

He withdrew his gaze and looked at Crawford, the smile on his lips finally becoming clearer, but without any warmth.

“This process, Crawford, is about ‘taming,’ using the most primitive and arduous labor to grind away their wildness and restlessness as refugees.”

Let them get used to obeying orders, to accepting my gifts, and to paying for 'our' fortress and 'our' land.

When they were so tired they didn't even want to move a finger, and all they thought about was the next hot soup and a sheltered hut, when they began to identify with the land they had painstakingly cultivated with their own hands, they were no longer 'Minesian refugees', but 'fortress pioneers', 'subjects' under my rule, Chris.

I will only allocate land to soldiers who obey me. If they want land, they must join the army, even as militiamen. If they don't want to join the army, they can become tenants of my soldiers. I will establish fair rents so that even farmers without land can survive by farming.

But beyond just survival, I need their obedience and loyalty.

Chris will not be merciful; he must clearly reward his loyal followers so that more people will follow and obey him.

He didn't do this before because it was unnecessary and he was tired of it, but the current situation doesn't allow Chris to continue being lazy and relaxed.

A cold wind swept across the earthen slope, making Crawford's priest's robes flutter loudly, and he couldn't help but swallow.

Crawford looked at Chris's calm yet unyielding profile and felt a chill rise from the bottom of his heart, colder than the autumn wind.

He finally understood. What His Highness needed was not land to be quickly cultivated, but to bring these Minisian refugees completely under his control through this arduous and almost cruel process of labor, turning them into the cornerstone of his stable rule over the Anvil Fortress.

Efficiency? Schedule? Both can be sacrificed in the face of the strategic goal of "domestication".

"so."

Chris concluded, his tone returning to its previous calmness, yet carrying an undeniable determination. The current Prince Chris was a completely different person from the former Dr. Chris of Neamané.

No ceremony or rest is needed; let them keep going.

Being tired is better than starving to death; obeying is better than freezing to death in the wilderness. Mother Earth may soften the soil, but only the axe and the hoe can tame the human heart.

Having said that, Chris looked away from Crawford, who was lost in shock and complex thoughts, turned his horse around, and slowly rode down the slope toward the fortress.

Behind him, the shouts of reclamation still drifted intermittently in the cold wind, carrying the heavy breaths and the smell of sweat, becoming the most authentic "taming" sound on this land.

Some things can be forgiven, but other times, we cannot be soft-hearted. Temporary weakness will only lead to more chaos and pain.

(End of this chapter)