Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

"Isn't this meticulous? There's a vanguard, a central unit, and a rearguard, just like marching into battle," Winters solemnly appraised, "It's more interesting than slaughtering pigs."

"Normally, farming isn't done this way; one only does one task at a time. First, plow the field, and for more careful work, plow it three times. Then rake, seed, and compress. Finally, water it thoroughly," Bard patiently explained, "We're doing it like this now because we're short on time and we have plenty of manpower."

When Winters returned to Wolf Town, Bard took him to see the results at the farm.

There were several farmers near Winters, digging and trenching.

Looking around, he could see an additional three sets of plows. They were far off, small like ants crawling on the ground, yet they were also moving slowly but steadfastly forward.

[First Harvest Farm], the number "First" was assigned by Bard, while the name "Harvest" was chosen by the refugees themselves, bearing their deepest hopes.

"What are they doing over there?" Winters asked, looking at the nearby diggers.

"Digging drainage ditches to prevent waterlogging in the fields."

The farmers digging the drainage ditches mostly had wooden tools, with only one pickaxe and one spade made of iron; some even used ox scapulae—as shovels.

Winters sighed, "It would be nice if we had more iron tools."

"So you brought me thirty more heavy plows?" Bard's smile hid a tease.

"Didn't I also bring a hundred axes?" Winters' cheeks turned slightly red, "There's still some iron left in Forging Village, but now there's a shortage of blacksmiths. Rather than recasting the iron which is time-consuming and laborious, it's better to make new tools. Besides, they're already made, it would be a pity to melt them down. If they're not needed this year, we'll keep them for next year. Plows are items that will eventually come in handy..."

Bard nodded slightly, without saying a word.

Feeling increasingly sheepish, Winters added, "I'm working on reopening Iron Peak Mine. Don't worry, there will be pickaxes and spades. In the future, everyone will have two, toss one and keep the other."

Bard continued to smile and nod.

"Alright," Winters let out a long sigh, "I'm an idiot."

Upon hearing this, Little Lion burst into raucous laughter, nearly falling over the fence.

"What are you laughing about? Do you understand farming?" Winters fumed.

"I actually do." Little Lion's eyes curved like crescents—bearing a resemblance to his sister, "I grew sugarcane on Red Sulfur Island for seven years and received awards every year."

Winters felt his anger rebounding back into his chest, almost to the point of spitting blood.

It wasn't just working in the fields; Kosha's darling nephew hadn't even planted flowers. Before coming to Wolf Town last year, he had never even touched a plow. Back then, he was only slightly smarter than those who believed "flour grows out of bags."

Bard, swinging a leg, spoke leisurely, "Actually, I know nothing about farming myself."

"What?!"

"Of course," Bard said matter-of-factly, "I entered the Monastery of Greenheart to serve when I was very young and never did a day's farm work. I know a bit about herding sheep and raising horses, but I'm clueless about fieldwork."

Winters felt truly on the verge of spitting blood, "Then how come you speak with such authority?"

"I don't understand," Bard replied seriously, "But I ask questions."

He pointed toward an old man in an open shirt handling a plow in the distance, "Everything I know about farming, I learned from that old man. And he has known you longer than he has known me."

Winters remembered the old man who had explained to him "what a farming season is" in the square of Wolf Town.

With a sentence, Winters understood what Bard wanted to say and he, too, composed himself, regaining his seriousness.

"There's no need to be so solemn," Bard chuckled, "To be honest, no one else could've done it better than you. I just wanted to have a casual chat; didn't we use to talk for ages in the past?"

"Sure," Winters smiled, but he felt a tinge of sadness because he felt distanced from Bard.

Little Lion pricked up his ears to listen.

"You see, it's normal that you don't understand farm work," Bard said sincerely, "But could it be that not a single person in Revodan has a clue? The blacksmiths in Forging Village have been supporting their families by making farming tools for decades; surely they understand, don't they?"

The more Bard spoke, the more earnest he became, "But what about them? Everyone watched you use materials, manpower, and time to build plows, and not one person spoke up to say, 'That's wrong, you should be making smaller farming tools like hoes and rakes.' Not one person."

Listening to Bard's voice, Winters recalled the words Anna had said to him.

That day, after Anna indicated Winters should dismiss the blacksmith Shosha and come find her, she too had seriously told him in the garden, "When you slightly frowned just now, Mr. Blacksmith was trembling with fright—did you notice? They're already frightened enough of you, don't make them more so. I don't understand politics, but if a company's employees only fear their employer, the business won't last."

At that time, Winters wanted to explain to his wife that he wasn't angry, nor did he intend to intimidate anyone.

"I know, of course, I know," Anna shook her head, her fingertips gently smoothing the furrows on her husband's brow, "You were just unconsciously frowning; of course, I know you didn't mean to get angry. But others don't know that, to outsiders—to the blacksmith, for example—you appear to be angry. Look, you're unconsciously frowning again."

"Am I?" Winters was surprised.

"Yes. And even with a neutral expression, you look angry. So the first lesson my mother taught me was to smile; a good businessperson must always smile." Anna said with a smile, gently pulling at Winters' cheeks, "Don't frown or look stern; smile!"