Iron Harvest: When Farming Becomes Conquest-Chapter 321 - 27: Choose None

Several thousand trackers all had to be of better physical constitution.

The water of the early spring was ice-cold, and if they couldn’t muster the energy, going there would be fruitless.

Roman offered labor subsidies to this group of trackers.

He didn’t give money, but provided honeycomb coal and other supplies.

As long as the task was completed, each tracker could receive a promissory note afterwards, which could be exchanged for 100 pieces of honeycomb coal, or equivalent amounts of salt, meat, soybean oil, furniture, and other living necessities.

During this time, the quality of their meals increased accordingly, rations were canceled, and they were well-fed for three meals a day.

He really had no choice in the matter.

Unless he cut through the mountain, Roman’s need for trackers would always be there, and without improving their treatment, no one would be willing to do it.

Now, everything was prioritized for spring cultivation and sowing.

He himself was also busy, going out every day to measure the area of the cultivated land.

The land in Fertile City was fragmented, scattered into dozens of pieces here and there—an innumerable count at the edges and corners. freewebnøvel.coɱ

Every day, Roman staked out territories on horseback, planting a flag every few hundred meters.

These flags, connected by lines, formed the shape of square, diamond, and triangular fields.

Although this layout abandoned a lot of cultivable land, the standardized plots could increase the efficiency of plowing with heavy ploughs, allowing one to move straight ahead for a kilometer without turning around.

Whatever was abandoned, was abandoned.

They couldn’t plant that much anyway.

This task was very important, and only Roman could do it.

He had no choice but to run around everywhere, planting flags all over the place.

He also had to warn those fools not to pull out the flags—Roman planted flags one day, only to find that the troublemakers had pulled them all out the next. Could he tolerate this?

He executed them directly, and his propagandistic slogan was, "The flag you pull is your own head."

...

One day in mid-February.

Roman returned to Fertile Castle, his body aching and his mood very sour.

He had ridden on horseback the entire day, and his whole skeleton damn near fell apart.

Then, a spring shower came at noon, the dense rain pouring down on his head, drenching him like a drowned rat.

Margaret and Shasta had it tough too, but they were used to running around, so this bit of wind and rain was nothing to them.

"Your Highness, His Majesty the King’s minister will arrive tomorrow," reported Roman’s former manservant from Origin Manor, now the temporary steward of Fertile Castle.

"I know..." Roman’s face was sullen as he handed his soaked fine woolen black cape to a maid.

He didn’t want to see anyone at the moment and just wished to focus on development in solitude.

The production tasks of Fertile City were already at full capacity, and any mishap could disrupt the established development plans.

But offending the Black Iron minister was also not an option; when someone came to visit you, telling them to roll out and slamming the door was somewhat impolite.

Roman took a hot bath, ate dinner, and immediately went to bed with his head covered.

The next day, Roman did not go to measure the land for cultivation; he waited in the castle for half a day.

By noon,

Ten Royal Knights clad in pitch-black armor led the way at the front, with banners fluttering, embroidered with the pattern of the Black Iron Throne.

The entire convoy, grand and impressive, made its way through the fields, attracting the curious gazes of the lower-class farmers, who quickly ducked their heads back to their own tasks.

The new lord was a taskmaster from hell, withhold food if you worked too little, beat you to death if you dared to slack off—after a few bloody lessons, no one dared to not put their heart into their work anymore—even if they had no idea what they were working for.

The vehicle that carried the Black Iron Minister was a luxurious coach made of oak and metal, with silver-white curtains and golden trim, pulled by more than a dozen fine horses.

Roman was seeing the Black Iron Minister’s grandeur for the first time.

The delegation used to take a boat to Sige Town; the coach couldn’t make it, so now he supposed he was being shown up.

"Lord Roman, we meet again," Damian entered the castle.

"You’ve made me wait too long," Roman said coldly.

"I represent His Majesty the King, you know. A grand procession is necessary to demonstrate the King’s majesty. You also know the grander the affair, the more likely it is to be delayed."

Even so, the lord in front of him hadn’t come out to greet him, showing no respect for his status.

Well, who told him to be a lord?

Roman snorted with laughter.

"Ah, it seems Lord Roman is not in a good mood."

"Get to the point."

"Alright then. Lord Roman, His Majesty the King has sent me to discuss a marriage proposal with you, or rather, His Majesty himself wishes to discuss a marriage proposal with you."

Roman frowned, "You came here just for this matter?"

"Just? Lord, this concerns a significant event in your life."

"Did I agree to it?"

Damian was taken aback, "This is the match His Majesty has arranged for you."

Roman crossed his fingers and placed them on his abdomen, leaning back in his chair, his facial muscles utterly still. Since the minister was here, he might as well hear what nonsense he intended to spout.

"To my knowledge, you have not wed, yet you have managed to build such a vast enterprise with empty hands. Surely, there is no one on this land more outstanding than you. In the Capital, there are countless beautiful girls who admire you, but they all pale in comparison to the two most outstanding ladies.

"You know, our King is in his prime, handsome and dashing. In his youth, he was only slightly less so than you, but at your age, he already took our Queen as his wife, and she bore him six children — sadly, our Crown Prince died young, the Second Prince is a womanizer, the Third Prince is disabled, and the youngest prince is still nursing from the Queen. There are several illegitimate children, but they can hardly be presented in the main hall, lacking in deeds and honors; His Majesty doesn’t know who to appoint as the Crown Prince.

"However, our Elder Princess and the Second Princess are extraordinary. So, you see, whose gentlewoman could compare to the two brightest jewels in the hand of the Black Iron King? His Majesty the King wishes to enter into marital ties with you."

The minister before him vividly and eloquently described the valiant grace of Elder Princess Tashina and the exquisite beauty of Princess Sofia, but Roman was uninterested.

In conclusion, the minister said, "His Majesty the King has great respect for your opinion. Who do you choose?"

Roman replied indifferently, "I choose neither."

Damian’s round face immediately fell, "Lord Roman, this is not a time for jokes. Our Elder Princess is battle-worthy; the Second Princess is as smart as ice and snow. From the moment of their birth, His Majesty declared that only those who can stand alive under his sword may have the privilege to court the princesses — and that’s just the privilege, it’s another matter if the princesses are willing or not. Now His Majesty is giving you the choice."

Pressed into a corner with nowhere to turn, the situation was unstable; the Black Iron King needed powerful allies, and the River Valley King was exceptional in many aspects.

For now, they were on the same side, but the relationship between sovereign and vassal was not stable.

The River Valley King represented a rising power, having just overthrown Riptide the year before last; no one could guarantee his loyalty.

Forming marital ties was universally acknowledged as the most reliable and intimate of relationships, and thus a de facto political alliance.

"I don’t want to say it a second time," Roman said coldly.

Marriage? To hell with that! Could those rotten fish and shrimp be worthy of him? Such silly women would only make him laugh!