Iron Harvest: When Farming Becomes Conquest-Chapter 340 - 13: Long Winter Night

Fertile City was involved in infrastructure development during the winter, which didn’t require special attention from Roman.

But one cannot just focus on infrastructure for multi-faceted development.

Roman then began to dispatch fleets and started recruiting population.

These people could be transported from the Northern area or from other Nobles’ territories.

It was certain that some Nobles’ lands harbored destitute commoners who wouldn’t survive the winter. Instead of letting them freeze to death outside, it was better to bring them to Fertile City to shine and emit heat.

Roman used agricultural tools for the exchange.

The Nobles had no need to refuse.

The independence of the Nobles was strong; as long as the fire did not burn them, they did not care, and when the fire did kill them, they would care even less.

The entire political system of Black Iron Land ensured they were not united.

Based on this, not all Nobles were adversarial toward the River Valley King; Roman’s title was personally bestowed by the Black Iron King, and although he was an enemy of the Church Court, he had no conflict of interest with most Nobles—except for those knighted under the Riptide lineage.

Secondly, some Nobles had beneficial cooperations with Roman.

For instance, those who had obtained cheap salt and steel.

The price of salt was unimportant.

Other Nobles only needed to extract their own profits from the salt, and the cheap salt would create broader profit margins for them. Roman might have trade privileges, but if the Nobles bought all the salt and resold it to the low-class farmers, they could benefit, provided enough was transported.

Those who suffered were the other saltworks owners who could not compete unless they engaged in commercial or price wars, but that was another discussion.

Steel agricultural tools were very important.

They simply did not understand how to develop, not that they were resisting development.

Steel tools could improve labor efficiency, support more Conquest Knights, and posed no threat to the Nobility class; all gain and no harm, nobody would dislike it.

Using steel tools in exchange for population was feasible, especially so for the Northern Front.

The drawback was Roman’s notorious reputation; the farmers might not accept the fact that their Nobles were selling them to the River Valley King, and there would certainly be much resistance.

But as long as there was profit, difficulties could be overcome.

Roman wasn’t asking for much, just to transport another ten thousand slaves before the year’s end to increase Fertile City’s population to eighty thousand.

The carrying capacity of the land in Fertile City was much stronger than in Origin City.

The only drawback was its lack of natural defenses, leaving it wide open, and thus compelled to fight hard battles.

But that was precisely what he feared least.

Roman sat next to the fireplace, where the blazing flames provided warmth, and the entire hall was his office.

He opened up the system interface, calculating whom to level up or which dungeon to run today.

At that time, Shasta came over and placed a cup of hot tea next to Roman’s hand, "Your Highness, you’re still working. Won’t you rest for a bit?"

"I’m preparing for next year’s plans," Roman said.

Dealing in the slave trade was really troublesome, yielding too few people; it would be better to plunder the surroundings entirely.

As long as everyone was killed, all would be his.

"But by now, it is still a long way till next year, and the people in the North always say winter nights are long and Winter is Coming."

"Oh, is that so?" Roman casually asked.

Shasta sat next to Roman on a chair. She said, "The Northern Land is more vast and mysterious than the Black Iron Land. There is a saying that no one knows the origin of: ’The people of Wandong are prisoners of that land, and the Winter King is the biggest prisoner among them.’ I have been to the Northern Land. The Prophet commanded me to find a special witch, one who possesses the power to change the destiny of all witches. I found her and brought her out of the North, but now her life hangs in the balance. Her kin are trying to save her slowly fading life..." ƒrēewebnoѵёl.cσm

...

Military barracks.

Neat dormitories. Flat parade grounds.

A sergeant of two years was conducting basic training with the new recruits.

Depending on the time of enlistment, the training varied.

The first batch of recruits followed the Squad Leader for basic training.

"One two one! One two one!... Attention!"

Gerry, the Squad Leader of the twentieth squad, looked at the somewhat disarrayed formation in front of him. It had started out as a neat line, but after just a hundred meters, the formation was on the verge of collapse, and the soldiers’ military posture had reverted back to slouching, hunchbacked, and uneven footing typical of old farmers.

The platoon leaders who were following the formation stepped into the ranks, waving teaching sticks, and correcting one by one.

"Stand up straight!" "Puff out your chest!" "Tuck your feet in!" "I’m talking to you!" "Lift your head up!" "Where do your hands go!" "Trying to dodge?! I’ll make you dodge!!"

A succession of harsh scoldings echoed intermittently. By the end, all the new recruits had been beaten, even those who hadn’t made mistakes received a symbolic two lashes.

The teaching sticks heavily lashed against the unsatisfactory parts of their bodies, making a dull noise.

The recruits all felt heartache, not for themselves, but for their uniforms.

It was their first time wearing such good, thick clothes.

But no matter how thick, they couldn’t withstand being thrashed every day. It didn’t matter if they were ruined, but what about the uniforms? Those were a gift from His Highness for enlisting and belonged to them.

If they had been wearing their previous thin and light linen clothes, a few lashes would have torn them apart.

The quality military uniforms showed no signs of damage. However, new recruits, prone to worrying, instinctively protected the uniforms.

As a result, the recruits who made the most mistakes or tried to dodge received the most beatings.

None of these stern-faced sergeants were soft-handed, they deliberately whipped towards the uniforms, and one recruit who tried to take his uniform off before being beaten had it immediately sliced in two by his platoon leader’s knife. The fine uniform was nearly ruined and had to be stitched back together, leaving an unsightly seam, far from its pristine appearance.

The faces of the recruits were bitter, and they could only try desperately to reduce mistakes in their postures and formations to avoid such fates.

Squad Leader Gerry observed coldly from the sidelines. Once the recruits’ postures were corrected, he immediately shouted, "All turn back!"

After waiting five seconds and seeing the recruits clumsily turn around, their newly corrected postures started to slacken again.

"March! One two one! One two one!"

Only a dozen steps in, the neat formation of recruits visibly crumbled.

Gerry kept shouting the count, marching in step, continuing to lead the battalion of new recruits forward.

Seeing this, his heart sighed, but he couldn’t say anything.

Who could blame these men, who had been recruits for less than two months?

He himself had trained for two years before achieving a military posture that His Highness barely approved.

A single infantry battalion had only 275 new recruits, assisted by 25 platoon leaders who had been enlisted for over a year. The training process was not too difficult.

But this was just a glimpse of one corner of the military camp; there were also 12 other new battalions undergoing various training tasks — some stood at attention, some ran drills, some new recruits were led by veterans in logistical rotations...

Day after day, he trained the recruits. Suddenly, he felt a slight chill on his cheeks and instinctively looked up to see thin snowflakes falling from the vast sky.

...