Winter Lord: Starting with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 255 Spring Plowing

As the weather warms up, spring plowing has begun.

Just one day after the mobilization meeting, some scattered snowflakes were still falling in the sky over the wheat field basin, and the frost that had formed overnight had not yet completely melted, but the entire valley was already in an uproar.

The drums of assemblies from village to village rose and fell, measuring ropes were spread out across the fields like a net, hammers pounded incessantly, and wooden stakes were driven into the soil one after another.

Everywhere there were busy figures, lines drawn on the ground, and shouts.

“Go one foot further north! The terrain there is higher and the drainage is better.”

"Write down the number. This is 'Field No. 7, Village No. 3.' Don't forget to leave two steps of space for easy irrigation canal construction."

The surveying team consisted of agricultural officials, village chiefs, and experienced farmers familiar with the terrain.

Their feet were treading on wet mud, their faces radiating the energy left by long-term reconstruction; they spoke crisply and worked efficiently.

A banner was erected along the edge of the field, displaying the village boundaries, irrigation canal lines, field numbers, soil grades, and intended uses.

It was easy to understand; although most villagers were illiterate, they could all read it.

Each farmer lined up at the registration point to report their numbers, which would all be recorded.

Meanwhile, the construction of large-scale shantytowns also began at the same time.

Unlike other scattered camps that are still engaged in pioneering spring plowing by shoveling mud one shovel at a time, the initial positioning of Wheat Valley destined it to be different.

This is the core hub of the Red Tide Territory's "large-scale spring planting strategy" and will be one of the largest grain-producing areas in the entire Northern Territory in the future.

Thus, starting with land marking, each step was no longer a piecemeal experiment, but the beginning of an organized agricultural project.

The valley possesses unique shallow geothermal resources; the heat flow constantly released from the underground rock veins forms a natural warm bed.

That means that as long as windbreaks are set up and drainage pipes are properly managed, the interior of the shantytown can maintain a stable temperature in the late autumn afternoon, which is a miracle in the North.

So the framework of the greenhouse was slowly erected in the morning light.

"Move the main beam up quickly! Five-inch gap, no deviation allowed!"

"Women workers! Pull the masking film outwards three feet, and remember to fasten it tightly in the direction of the wind, as it can easily tear in a strong wind!"

The skilled craftsmen were responsible for assembling the main components, while the able-bodied men in the village helped by passing materials to secure them.

The boys carried charcoal bags and fire bricks, while the female workers stretched thick, translucent membranes on ladders in the cold wind.

Rows of white rooftops spread across the gray-brown earth, like waves crashing against the distant mountain shadows.

Each shed is pre-installed with a heated kang system underneath, with geothermal pipes extending from the side of the shed into the central fire chamber. This is the "geothermal heated bed" structure pioneered by Chichao.

So shantytowns sprang up one after another, their translucent windproof membranes gleaming faintly silver in the sunlight, like greenhouse wings covering the land.

These structures, known as "geothermal sheds," are not just simple shelters from wind and snow, but fortresses that nurture hope throughout the season.

“Now is the time to turn the soil.” Mick looked down and touched the ground beneath his feet. “The heat pipes are working properly, the temperature is concentrated and stable, just right for sowing and planting.”

As the agricultural official of the Red Tide Territory, Mick is the most experienced and has the best judgment.

He could tell at a glance which plot of land was suitable for planting wheat and which soil needed to be mixed with ash.

The Wheatfield Territory is crucial to the grain production plan for the entire Northern Territory, and when Louis decided to focus his efforts there, he immediately transferred him from Red Tide Territory.

Upon hearing this, the surrounding farmers breathed a sigh of relief and began calling out to move their hoes and rakes into the shed, ready to start work.

Louis nodded as well.

Only after the sheds are built can the geothermal pipelines be thoroughly tested to ensure there are no leaks or blockages. Only when the temperature is evenly delivered into the soil can the wheat seeds not freeze to death in the cold night.

In addition, irrigation canals, wind direction, and slope drainage are all taken into account in the shantytown planning.

Farming is not just about diving headfirst into the ground and swinging a hoe; it's a battle that requires careful planning at every step.

"Just as you said, it's a good thing we didn't rush to plow the land before building the shed. Otherwise, the soil we turned over would have been trampled on again, requiring us to redo the work and compact the soil so the seedlings wouldn't be able to take root," Mick said to Louis in admiration.

Louis nodded without saying a word, his gaze sweeping lightly over the soft soil beneath his feet.

A slight mist rose inside the shed, and a warm feeling swept over us. The geothermal heating was on, the ground was cleared, and all that remained was to begin plowing.

…………

The morning mist over the wheat fields had not yet dissipated, and wisps of geothermal steam rose from the fields, merging into the golden light of the transparent greenhouse roof, as if the seedling shed was enveloped by gentle light and cooking smoke.

This is a crucial time for spring plowing. All greenhouses have been erected and the soil for seedling cultivation has been adjusted.

Today is the day to "start plowing".

In front of the largest greenhouse in Mailangling, the village chief, seedling officials, craftsmen representatives, militia leaders, and elderly farmers from various villages had already lined up, dressed differently but all looking very serious.

The farmers outside gathered around early, silently watching the shed door.

As everyone waited expectantly, Louis arrived, having removed his black cloak and wearing only a simple white shirt with the cuffs rolled up, his steps steady and unhurried.

He said nothing and walked straight into the seedling shed. The light from the ceiling shone on him, like a beam of holy light falling straight down, making him appear very sacred.

Two knights were slowly carrying a specially made iron plow into the shed, the iron plowshare gleaming coldly under the lamplight.

Two strong, black oxen were already in place, their bodies bound with newly replaced plow handles and iron rings, occasionally panting in the silence.

Mick stepped forward and said in a low voice, "This, this... this is a plow, it's all about 'a steady start and a straight line.' You have to do it yourself."

After saying that, he gently handed over the reins, his eyes filled with solemnity: "Whether our Wheat Ridge has a good year or not depends entirely on this."

Louis took the reins, and the moment the plow handle touched his hand, he took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, the cold air dissipating into a light mist in the steam.

He glanced at the untouched black soil in front of him and seemed to see countless waves of wheat, countless rations, and countless families with enough to eat.

“…Then let me set a good tone for this year,” he said softly.

The ox's hooves moved steadily and powerfully.

The iron plow slowly broke through the soil, turning over the thick layer of mud and spreading out a straight, dark brown furrow.

The rising steam, accompanied by the plowshare, swirls upwards like warm mist emerging from the depths of the earth, appearing and disappearing in the golden light, much like the smoke from a summer kitchen.

Louis gripped the plow and moved forward steadily, inch by inch.

All around was silent; no one spoke, but every pair of eyes followed the furrow closely, watching it come into existence from nothing, from illusion to reality, as if witnessing a year's worth of hope being planted in the soil.

Finally, someone started clapping.

Then applause came from the village chief in the front row and quickly spread outside the tent to the crowd of villagers watching the spectacle.

When the applause rang out, it brought a sense of reassurance that spread throughout the crowd.

Louis knew, of course, that the “plowing” ceremony was merely a symbolic formality, and that the actual spring plowing had already begun in an orderly manner according to plan.

He doesn't need to personally plow the plow; the precise scheduling, detailed procedures, and professional agricultural officials are the guarantee of efficiency.

But he also knew that some things couldn't be accomplished by efficiency alone.

The gazes directed at him were not those of a lord tilling the land, but rather of those seeking confidence, seeking assurance that their lives would improve.

The villagers' most basic hope never comes from cold, hard commands, but from seeing you personally complete the first plowing of spring.

Louis slowly stopped, gently patted the cow's back, then turned to look at Mick, revealing a relaxed smile.

"Then it's up to you."

Mick nodded emphatically, an uncontrollable smile on his face.

The next morning, the work of turning over the seedbeds was first carried out in various villages.

The fields have been frosty for many days. If we sow seeds rashly, they will freeze to death in the soil before they even sprout.

Therefore, the Agriculture Department coordinated the implementation of geothermal preheating-based plowing in various villages.

The tillage sequence strictly follows the priority of the geothermal pipeline network distribution.

In all geothermal areas where the geothermal activity is stable, labor is mobilized a day in advance to loosen the soil and expel the cold. The soil turned out by each shovel still emits heat, and ice shards crack softly in the morning breeze.

The village chiefs patrolled the hot mud, recording temperature differences in preparation for drawing up a heat map of spring planting.

The next step is the application of base fertilizer.

"The mixed compost is here, quick! Mix one bucket of straw ash with half a bucket of dry manure, and spread three buckets on average per acre!"

The fertilization team moved back and forth along the field ridges, raking in at least a palm's width of fertile soil into each plot of land about to be planted.

For barren plots, it is also necessary to add caramel powder and fish bone powder transported from red tides to supplement trace elements.

The water used for fertilizing is also important.

The geothermal water drawn from the well is warm and suitable; when sprinkled on it, it not only aids in fertilizer decomposition but also softens the frozen soil again. Each village keeps a fertilizer application log, recording exactly how many buckets were applied and how many times it was watered.

The General Affairs Office sends people every day to check whether the "acreage and application amount" match. Even a difference of one bushel will be recorded as a bad record.

Meanwhile, the greenhouses, which were simultaneously turning the soil and fertilizing while cultivating seedlings, were operating day and night.

The seeds of green wheat and potatoes entered the germination stage ten days ago. Agricultural officials and female workers took turns guarding them, checking the temperature and humidity every two hours. The air inside the shed was like a steaming hot spring.

The seed distribution system is also extremely strict.

Each village must register on a designated day, and the Agriculture Department will personally send personnel to distribute the certificates.

"Press your fingerprint and sign to confirm."

"The village chief will personally supervise, and there will be a spot check tomorrow."

"The reseller will have their farmland eligibility revoked and will be permanently expelled from Wheatfield Territory."

These are ironclad rules, and no one dares to disobey them.

From seeds to soil, from heat to fertilizer, everything seems to be pulled into some kind of precise gear.

The slow but steady rotation laid the most solid foundation for spring plowing in the entire wheat field.

Every field, every shantytown, and every village has found its proper place to function.

The first sounds each day are the gongs and assembly whistles from each village.

As dawn broke and the thin mist in the fields had not yet completely dissipated, the first batch of main laborers from Chaogeng Village set off, carrying hoes on their shoulders and pushing plows, stepping onto the land where the frozen soil had just thawed.

Their task was the most arduous yet crucial: large-scale tilling, fertilizing, and sowing, setting the pace for a whole day of spring plowing.

As the midday sun shone down, the able-bodied men, women, and children of Wugeng Village set out.

They are responsible for repairing the sheds, inspecting the plastic film, and meticulous work on the seedbeds.

"The angle of the sixth greenhouse film is wrong; the wind will blow in!"

"The heat from the kang (heated brick bed) is too far to the west; it needs to be adjusted by one inch!"

On the seedbed, steam rises, and technicians and seedling supervisors, holding record sheets, take turns checking every detail.

As the sun sets, it's time for Yegeng Village to take the stage.

The militiamen and villagers put on short armor, carried torches, and patrolled irrigation canals, greenhouses, and stockpiles of supplies in the increasingly chilly night.

The lamplight illuminated the faint steam inside the greenhouse, and the sounds of footsteps, dripping water, and occasional soft whispers and laughter mingled in the silence.

This marks the first time that MaiLangLing has implemented a three-stage operation system since the start of spring plowing.

Daylight never stops, nor does night.

Each village has its own work schedule, and each segment is interconnected and cannot afford any mistakes. Just like a misaligned gear in a precision gear system, it can affect the entire progress.

Behind these seemingly repetitive tasks lies the earliest large-scale agricultural scheduling experiment within the entire red tide system.

If the wheat harvest is successful, then spring planting throughout the entire Northern Territory can follow this model.

To ensure that this vigorous spring plowing campaign was truly implemented, Louis also specifically ordered the implementation of a completely new management mechanism.

Each village was assigned a farming recorder.

This is not an easy job; it involves daily summarizing tasks related to measurement, sowing, fertilization, and shed repair.

All data will be compiled and submitted to the General Affairs Department for registration and filing before nightfall.

Outside the temporary government hall in the heart of the Mai Lang territory, a huge wooden notice board was erected, with the words "Cultivation List" painted in striking red.

The list is updated daily, meticulously recording the acreage sown in each village that day, the progress of shed repairs, fertilization and irrigation, and even a single instance of being "late" is not missed.

Around lunchtime is the busiest time of day for the farming team.

Every afternoon, the recorder would replace the large wooden board in front of the General Affairs Office with a new one.

The large parchment was unfurled, displaying the latest sowing progress, acreage of land tilled, and fertilization records, making the rankings of villages clear at a glance.

"Hey! We've made it up from 'Village 5, Group 2'! We're sixth in line!"

"Look here, look here! 'Three Villages Group 1' is still at the top of the list. They've been number one for three days straight, that's incredible!"

The children chattered and ran around the list, unable to read the numbers, so they just listened to the adults read them aloud.

But I do remember which column is my family's village/group.

Older teenagers treated it as a leaderboard, and if their fathers or brothers were ranked higher, they could stand up straight when they went home for dinner.

"My dad plowed ten acres of land today!"

"Pshaw, our ox pulls the plow without anyone driving it, it can drift by itself!"

The peasant woman standing nearby smiled and shook her head, but her eyes shone with a pride that came from the bottom of her heart.

The older laborers, village chiefs, and hamlet leaders often stood in front of the list and nodded to each other in greeting.
“Your village plowed another six acres today, I need to urge Old Jack over there.”

"Don't worry, these plots of land are on slopes, so planting is slow, but the irrigation ditches are being built quickly, and we'll catch up next week."

That competitive spirit wasn't driven by orders, but rather by a tangible sense of honor evoked by the list itself.

And these honors are not just nice-sounding titles.

After being publicized, the villagers all know that at the end of each year, the General Affairs Office will select a "King of Farming" based on the year's data on the farming ranking.

This person will not only receive the permanent right to cultivate a whole acre of high-quality land, but will also receive grain as a reward.

Those selected as the "Top Ten Households" will receive priority in receiving material subsidies for the next season and may even be invited to the village council to participate in the formulation of policies as agricultural advisors.

Who wouldn’t be tempted?

"If our family does our best this year, we can get that piece of land by the river next year!"

"I heard that the King of Farming doesn't even have to pay land tax on his land, so it's really like his own land!"

They talked about land, grain, and rations, but they all knew in their hearts that these were all given by the young lord in the white shirt who was plowing and digging furrows.

It's not charity, it's not pity; it's a path, a selection process, a system where "if you do well, you can stand firm."

An old man carrying tools stood in front of the list for a long time without moving, and finally whispered, "Lord Louis...may you live a long and healthy life."

In this desolate northern land that had been ravaged countless times by snowstorms and insect plagues, people understood for the first time what it meant to earn a future with their own hands.

So the next morning, before the list was updated, the villagers were already on their way again.

Shoulder carrying, hand pushing, plowing, shoveling.

They weren't just after a job; they were after a place on the list, the prestige of their families, and the young lord who had never lied to them—Louis Calvin.

…………

After several days of sunny weather, sunlight shone through the thin clouds onto the valley floor, and as spring plowing progressed, the fields in each village and community began to take shape.

The entire wheat valley, when viewed from above, is neatly divided like a chessboard. Every irrigation canal, every field marker, and every shed is meticulously laid out under the guidance of systems and the sweat of labor.

Louis walked slowly across a field of three villages, accompanied only by a recorder and a servant.

Several teenagers were running along the ridges of the fields, dragging buckets of water, their laughter echoing. Further away, the singing of female workers could be heard from under the sheds.

Other farmers rolled up their sleeves and worked in the warm, heated fields, turning the soil, fertilizing, and covering it with mulch, their brows bearing the marks of hardship and dedication.

He paused, standing in front of a semi-transparent shed.

Inside the shed, steam rises and the ground is turned over very finely. The first batch of green wheat seedlings can already be seen quietly emerging from the soil, tender green like jade, with slightly curled veins.

"The temperature is well maintained."

Louis crouched down, his fingertips lightly touching the soil under the shed. It was warm, soft but not wet, and had good fertility.

The recorder whispered a report from the side: "Currently, 50% of the plowing and 70% of the seedbeds in the entire area have been completed, and the stabilization rate of the sheds has reached 80%. If there is no cold snap in spring, the second batch of staple grains can be sown in five days."

Louis nodded, his gaze sweeping across the bustling land.

Among those figures, some were driving oxen to plow, some were carrying manure buckets on their shoulders, some were old farmers leading their grandsons to carry hoes, talking and gesturing as they spoke, and some were mothers feeding water by the shed, with their children holding seeds and standing by with serious expressions.

He suddenly said softly, "...It's a bit like the year when the Red Tide Territory was first established."

Although this is just the beginning, there will be more land, more people, and perhaps more snowstorms in the future.

But at least this spring, he personally sowed the first seeds of hope in the North.

(End of this chapter)