Iron Harvest: When Farming Becomes Conquest-Chapter 306 - 12: Different Fates for Equals

Winter nights came early.

Roman had just stepped out when he saw Gwivelle playing in the manor’s open space.

"Gwivelle, come here."

The little witch was playing on the grass with her donkey, who was springing about energetically, and she bounded over in the same lively manner.

Roman looked at her complexion, then at the donkey, who was glossy, healthy, and spirited, and asked, "Did you secretly bless Ami again?"

"No, I didn’t." Gwivelle said guiltily.

She was somewhat willful, but Roman felt she was still within the bounds of tolerance.

After all, one donkey wasn’t much.

Roman simply reminded her, "Your power is very precious."

But it should be fine to spare a little for the donkey, Gwivelle thought; the donkey was only a few months old.

She had even blessed some young calves, foals, piglets, lambs, and chicks not long ago.

Each of these young animals had been carefully selected by Roman.

Healthy, well-proportioned, such juveniles generally had strong genetics, ideal for breeding purposes.

After Gwivelle’s blessing, these young animals became even healthier.

Every species had potential genetic variations, which could be benign or malignant.

Gwivelle knew Roman had told her that her blessings could somewhat induce the species’ genes to mutate in a benign direction.

She didn’t understand that, but that was okay.

Just keep casting spells, and leave the rest to destiny.

Success or failure would reveal itself.

This was true of plants, and of living beings as well.

It was only that Roman never allowed her to bless human infants.

One breeding pig or sheep could produce hundreds of offspring; humans didn’t have that capability—and even if they did, it wouldn’t be allowed for them, nor for him.

Moreover, the energy consumed in blessing animals was much greater than that used on plants.

Taking care of the calves, foals, piglets, and lambs in her spare time was the limit for Gwivelle, and to ensure the effects, she had to reapply the blessings monthly.

"Did you bless the wheat seedlings today?"

"Not yet." Her head bowed, she scuffed the toe of her right foot on the ground.

Unable to see her expression, Roman resignedly said, "Then I’ll accompany you."

Gwivelle’s face instantly lit up with a happy smile as she took his arm, "Then let’s go."

She greeted the two adult witches behind Roman with a smile as well.

Shasta showed a faint smile on her face.

Margaret remained silent.

Roman felt she was deliberately blocking his way, waiting for him to speak up.

It wasn’t an illusion; it had been like this for some time.

At the start of blessing the rice paddies, he needed to personally ensure Gwivelle’s condition and her limits, so he accompanied her.

He watched as Gwivelle blessed over ten acres, assessed the situation, and then turned to other matters.

After the onset of winter, he found himself with a bit of spare time and was promptly roped in.

This child could be somewhat clumsy at times but occasionally very shrewd.

She couldn’t be involved in his work, so she made him be a part of hers.

How cunning.

...

Gwivelle’s blessings were all beneficial.

It was impossible to let her rest.

At best, one could just avoid overexploiting her.

The fifty acres of rice paddies were rushed because the rice had a critical growing period, she had taken a magic potion in the summer, and the rice would be harvested in autumn, leaving her with little time.

Now in the lengthy winter, they could take things slow.

The four of them also called out Laisa. It just so happened to be a moonlit night.

The moon’s radiance was chilly, and the wheat field looked frosted over.

After casting her spell over an experimental acre of wheat, Gwivelle had completed her task for the day and could go back—that was the only reason she had called Roman out.

The main focus of the blessings was to quickly adapt to the climate and to increase the tillering rate, as the yield of wheat and its tillering rate were directly linked.

Gwivelle did her spells, leaving the rest to destiny.

"Your Highness, you really are amazing. We never thought a witch’s power could be used in other avenues," Laisa didn’t know how many times she had said this.

When she saw the rice yield per acre during the autumn harvest, she was completely dumbfounded.

Nearly three hundred catties per acre, one could say it was ridiculously high.

In this era, only those truly named Chosen Lands would have such yields, an acre of land producing enough to more than feed one person.

Most civilizations would breed crops from the beginning.

Because the foundation of agrarian society was to cultivate wild grass into grains, only breeding technology was immature, stretching the time span quite long.

To this day, the farmers outside Origin City had not learned how to use mud to sieve for good seeds.

Agricultural technology was remarkably backward—who knew what the essence of breeding was these days!

Roman hummed lightly, "Your vision is narrow, but I don’t blame you."

Ah, here we go again.

Laisa had a headache. She was trying to foster a good relationship with Roman, her lord after all.

He was wise, enlightened, and full of vigor, understanding farming, winemaking, animal husbandry, architecture, medicine, water conservancy, and most importantly, invention and creation—simply a freak of nature.

No one knew where his knowledge came from.

This land was a thorny, endless Dark Forest; people crawled within, struggling for a long time. Thorns overran, piercing their skin. They hurt but, unable to voice it, they long became one with the spiny thorns after enduring pain for so long.

Until suddenly, someone appeared.

Radiant and with flames burning in his eyes, his figure lit up a corner of the Dark Forest, wielding a Light Sword to cut through the thorns. When the creatures crawling on the ground looked up in surprise, they realized they weren’t in pain anymore.

They couldn’t understand this phenomenon. Pain had entwined them for hundreds of years; they never questioned, only blindly followed.

Wherever he went, they followed.

The path he trod, the dark thorns quickly caught fire, turning into ashes and nourishment, falling into the soil to enrich a broad and warm farmland.

That was good—of course, that was good.

Who wouldn’t want such a person to appear?

But Laisa thought he should behave a bit better, like curbing his temper a notch, arrogant and conceited, if not scolding this fool, then disparaging that idiot.

He didn’t act like a Noble—uninterested in dueling, not hosting banquets, not greedy or fond of alcohol, not indulging in hunting for entertainment. He was always busy, leaving early in the morning, sometimes returning very late, and at times not seen for several days. It was actually better when he wasn’t seen; it was problematic when he was.

He had such a high opinion of himself, but only in this regard did he surpass all Nobles—completely unlikable, as if he was the Black Iron King to the face—or rather, even the Black Iron King would adhere to social etiquettes.

She said just one sentence, and he accused her of narrow vision, then said he didn’t blame them. So they were supposed to be blamed all along? She was both shocked and innocent; everyone came through this way, she did everything you told us, but why do you get to scold us?

Laisa forced a laugh, "After all, we are not as good as you."

"That is natural!"

She was so blocked up she couldn’t speak, desperately reciting the order that Nobles should adhere to: humility, tolerance, honor, compassion...

Could this man uphold these noble virtues and respect them a little bit? Laisa asked herself; isn’t this a true descendent of Riptide? Could it be that the virtues proclaimed by the Conqueror have vanished in the Duke’s house after centuries?

"Roman, I’m cold," Gwivelle huddled her neck, the temperature at night was even lower than during the day.

"Why don’t you wear more?"

"I forgot," the little witch said shyly.

Roman wanted to slap her, then tell her that even in the cold night wind, a witch must maintain a strong and graceful demeanor; Shasta and Margaret wore less than you, but their poise is far more dignified. He thought this, but couldn’t bring himself to do it—after all, she was the mother of Origin City’s grain. Who would be responsible if she was hurt?

He took off his own cloak and draped it on Gwivelle’s back. The fur cloak felt so soft and smooth, light and warm.

Nobles generally owned such clothes.

A cloak in the cold, a cape in the warmth.

Only, his cape was a bit large, enwrapping her whole body, "So warm." She squinted her eyes, nearly crescent-shaped, "I’ll tell Sanna."

"What for?" Roman asked.

"She will be envious of me." Gwivelle buried her face in the cloak and snickered.

"She’s already envious of you."

Roman spoke of the child who was now out in the cold with the Battle Witches.

Sanna’s expertise was different from Gwivelle’s.

Could a construction worker toiling under the sun be the same as a programmer in an air-conditioned office?

The former just needs to work hard, while the latter needs to consider many things.

Moreover, Gwivelle needed to drink Magic Potions, transforming in a shake from a Low-level Witch to a Middle Rank one, nothing like Sanna’s steady, step-by-step progress.

To summarize, Sanna wins, wins, wins!

Ah, witches of different fates, each with their own troubles.

Roman and Gwivelle walked and talked, the cold Moonlight streaming down, making the winter night seem not so cold and dark.

Laisa looked at Gwivelle with some envy; he was nice to Gwivelle, but not so with others. How to gain his respect? She was too late, was she supposed to get into his bed? Not to mention it would violate noble etiquette, but more likely, would she just get kicked out by him?