Being a knight is not easy

Chapter 218 Purple Melon
In the private council chamber of the Marquis of Sonata in the western border region.

Heavy velvet curtains blocked out the light, and candlelight flickered on silver candlesticks, illuminating the dozen or so somber faces sitting around the long table.

They were the most powerful nobles in the Western Territory, but now they resembled wild beasts driven to the brink of despair, their eyes flashing with anger and unease.

“The Viscount of Wilke—no, now we should call them the Wilke family—has utterly trampled on the bottom line of nobility!” An old earl with a goatee slammed his fist on the table, the red wine in his glass sloshing violently with his movement, just like his furious emotions at that moment.

"They dare to teach breathing techniques to slave soldiers! To make those lowly bastards knights! This is a desecration of a thousand-year-old tradition!"

“Not only that,” another marquis, dressed in a magnificent mink coat, added coldly, “According to intelligence from our spies, there are at least thirty newly recruited knights in Wilke’s territory who were originally slave soldiers, including that monster called Ironjaw, who killed two of our knights the moment he appeared!”

Mentioning Ironjaw's name immediately triggered a chorus of gritted teeth in the council chamber.

That warrior with the hideous scars on his face has now become the nightmare of the Western Knights.

All eyes turned to the end of the long table.

Marquis Sonata was silently stroking the jade ring, the firelight casting flickering shadows in his deep-set eyes.

This former commander of the West, who once fought alongside Robin, is now at the heart of the conspiracy.

“Lord Sonata!” Earl with the goatee lowered his voice, “You had dealings with that Allen Wilke. Didn’t you realize back then that he was a complete madman?”

The jade ring suddenly made a crisp sound when it was tapped on the table.

“What I see is a chess player who is more clear-headed than all of us.” Sonata finally spoke, his voice like a blade chilled by ice. “While you are all arguing about taxes and subjects, Eileen Wilke has already used breathing techniques and freedom to build an army capable of overthrowing order.”

The council chamber fell into dead silence.

The Marquis of Mink suddenly laughed hysterically: "So you want us to sit idly by? To wait for those descendants of slave soldiers to stand on equal footing with our own? To wait for them to trample our ancestral coat of arms with their muddy boots?"

“Of course not.” Sonata slowly unfurled a parchment map marked with dozens of arrows in red ink. “But confronting Wilke’s territory head-on is futile, and the Bauhinia Organization won’t allow it. We need new collaborators.”

When he pointed his finger to the north on the map, several nobles gasped.

There, marked with black wolf heads, was the infamous barbarian tribe of the Ice Plains.

"You're insane! Those barbarians just plundered the land last year—"

“That’s why they crave revenge more than we do.” Sonata smiled for the first time that evening, but it sent chills down everyone’s spine. “Besides, when wolves are tearing apart their prey, who cares about the pieces of meat offered by a shepherd?”

The candlelight suddenly flickered violently, casting distorted shadows onto the stone wall covered with portraits of ancestors.

It was as if those ancient faces wearing crowns were gazing upon this conspiracy that was about to ignite a war on the continent.

Marquis Sonata's jade ring gleamed with a ghostly green light in the candlelight. He slowly rose and plunged a dagger inlaid with ice crystals into the location of Viscount Wilke's territory on the map.

The knife tip pierced through the parchment and embedded itself deeply into the oak tabletop.

"Since you have all agreed," his voice was like the north wind sweeping across an icy plain, "then let the wrath of the Frostwolf Sons tear this rebel who has destroyed tradition to shreds for us."

The goatee-bearded count grinned, revealing yellowed teeth, and pulled a frozen wolf ear from his pocket.

Those were spoils left over from last year's barbarian raid, now serving as tokens of their power. "My caravan will 'accidentally' lose the keys to the border outpost, and the third watchtower on the Northern Wall will just happen to fail to light."

The Marquis in Mink Fur toyed with his dragon-bone wine cup, the crimson liquid reflecting his sinister eyes. "I've prepared five hundred sets of fine steel chainmail on the black market. Just say they were stolen; of course, they'll 'coincidentally' appear on the barbarian's marching route." ………………

A cold wind swept across the newly cultivated farmland, stirring up layers of gray-brown soil.

Robin stood on the edge of the field, his fingertips tracing the glossy purple melon vine.

The vines danced in his palm, as if he could feel the vibrant life deep in the soil.

The key to the Viscount Wilke’s ability to support such rapid population growth lies in a special crop – purple melon.

It was bred by the Viscountess, a witch, and was improved through many years of painstaking effort.

Ordinary wheat yields only two to three hundred catties per mu, while purple melon can yield up to 1000 catties per mu. It is also cold-resistant, drought-resistant, and has a short growth cycle.

Purple gourds have a wide range of uses. They can be ground into powder to make staple foods, fermented to make wine, and even extracted to produce medicinal liquids with mild healing effects.

This is why Viscount Wilke was able to support a large increase in population in a short period of time, without having to rely on external food imports like other noble territories.

"How's the third phase of land reclamation progressing?" he asked without turning his head.

The clerk behind him hurriedly unfurled the parchment scroll: "All four hundred acres on the north slope have been planted with purple melons, and the irrigation canal was just opened yesterday... but the frozen soil is too hard, and three iron plows have broken."

Robin chuckled softly.

What's so special about permafrost?
Compared to the insidious provocations of the Middle-earth nobles, this soil was as docile as a lamb.

He bent down and grabbed a handful of soil. Tiny blue light shimmered among the dark brown particles. It was the crystallization of magic left over from his mother's soil improvement, which allowed crops to sprout and grow leaves even in the cold winter.

Conversely, it is fertilizer.

“Tell the blacksmith to reforge the plowshare with freshly melted cold iron.” He flicked the dirt from between his fingers. “Also, have the crossbowmen on duty help the farmers—a bowstring will break if it’s too taut, and so will a person.”

Suddenly, a unified shout came from afar.

Robin squinted and saw the newly trained battle battalion conducting drills.

Two hundred long spears pierced the morning mist, the newly carved blood grooves on their blades gleaming dark red in the sunlight.

Those slave soldiers who used to hunch over now stand tall, and the sound of their thrusts blends into a single, continuous gust of wind.

“Interesting.” Robin’s fingertips tapped unconsciously on the hilt of his sword.

Three months ago, these people trembled under the whip, but now they can swing their battle halberds with a whooshing sound.

As a great man once said, a dog will only guard the house if it is fed bones, and a person will only fight hard if they are given dignity.

In addition to their daily training, another important task for the soldiers of Viscount Wilke's territory is to reclaim wasteland.

Robin knew that the output of his original territory was simply not enough to support such a large army.

Therefore, he ordered that the soldiers be divided into three groups for rotational farming: one group for training, one group for garrison duty, and one group for land reclamation, to ensure the continuous expansion of farmland.

(End of this chapter)