Eren didn't sleep that night.
He tried. Gods knew he tried. He lay on the straw mattress with his hands folded on his stomach like a medieval corpse, staring up at the warped ceiling. But the moment he closed his eyes, all he could see was a giant banner reading "FAILURE TO PRODUCE INFLATABLE SQUASH = PUBLIC SHAMING" in bold red letters.
Sleep was not happening.
So by dawn, he sat outside with a mug of something pretending to be coffee, watching the mist roll across his fields. Dew glistened on the tips of his onion stalks, and somewhere far off, a rooster screamed like it had just lost a custody battle.
"Thirteen days," Eren muttered.
He had accepted the competition quest. That meant pressure. Expectations. Judgments from sweaty old men who'd grown up massaging their carrots with jazz music and moonlight. He, meanwhile, was still trying to figure out how to rotate crops without turning them into demon bait.
"Lira," he said without looking. "Pull up the growth logs. I want a breakdown of all current crops, soil ratings, and potential harvest yields."
She materialized next to him with an unsettling silence. Her heels didn't even crunch the gravel.
"Morning, Master Eren," she said in that perfectly neutral AI voice that sounded like Siri if she'd been raised by stern librarians. "Displaying your request."
A blue projection opened in the air beside her, pixelating into neat boxes.
[Current Crops:
Lettuce (Healthy – 87% Growth)
Tomatoes (Stable – 71%)
Onions (Excellent – 92%)
Wild Herbs (Unstable – Varies)
Experimental Squash (??? – Possibly Sentient)]
Eren stared at the last entry.
"…Possibly sentient?"
"The squash has shown resistance to pruning and attempted to climb the barn last night."
He took a slow sip. "That's fine. I need winners, not obedient houseplants."
Lira continued, "Soil Quality is Tier 2 across 85% of the plot. Your composting experiment has increased nitrogen levels. However, potassium remains low."
"I can fix that." Eren stood up, stretching his arms. "Time to compost even harder."
"But," Lira added, "you will require strategic improvements to meet competition-level yield in thirteen days."
Eren walked toward the shed. "We need a plan."
He didn't even realize how serious he was until he entered the dusty, unused side room in the barn. This space had been full of cobwebs and broken tools. But now, it would become something else.
Something sacred.
A war room.
He spent the next few hours cleaning it out like a man possessed. He dragged in barrels to use as makeshift tables, nailed old wooden planks across the walls to create shelf space, and even repurposed a broken rake as a chalkboard holder. Sweat soaked his shirt, dirt streaked his face, and when he stepped back and saw the result, he nodded with pride.
"Behold," he whispered, "The Bureau of Aggressive Farming."
Lira blinked. "...You drew a smiley face next to the lettuce."
"That's motivational imagery."
Now armed with chalk, string, and more ambition than actual expertise, Eren began mapping out his "battlefield." He scribbled charts, notes, expected harvest windows, estimated growth acceleration percentages—he even started categorizing his tools by aggression level. (The hoe was Tier S. The watering can? A gentle B+.)
Hours passed.
He barely noticed.
Midday came and went, and by the time Lira interrupted him with a gentle, "Master Eren, your lunch is currently burning," he had created a board covered in what looked like serial killer notes, except about carrots.
Eren stared at the mess of paper, string, and math. He felt… proud.
Maybe he was actually getting good at this.
But his pride lasted exactly three minutes, until another knock came from the front door.
This one wasn't casual.
It was urgent.
Eren frowned. "I swear, if this is another elf in heat, I'm installing landmines."
He opened the door, only to find a young man in leather overalls, panting and red-faced from running.
"You're Eren, right?" the guy gasped.
"I might be. Depends on if you're here to rob me or recruit me into a cult."
"Neither!" The man handed him a rolled-up parchment. "Mayor Rhun sent me. Said you needed this."
Eren opened it and scanned the content.
It was a map—detailed, hand-drawn, and marked with red ink. Alongside it were notes about competitors: names, villages, previous wins, crop types. It was a dossier.
"Oh," Eren murmured. "I'm getting a scouting report now. We're really doing this."
The courier wiped his brow. "Good luck. Everyone's betting against you, by the way."
Then he left.
Eren narrowed his eyes and turned to Lira. "Alright. Let's see what we're up against."
They spread the scroll across the war table.
[Competitor Breakdown – Regional Plant Competition]
1. Cael the Rootmaster – From Westvale. 6-time champion. Known for absurdly large carrots and emotionally manipulative potatoes. Soil Tier 3.
2. Helena of Hearthglen – A noblewoman who breeds magical herbs that glow under moonlight. Rumored to have "charmed fertilizer."
3. Brudo the Beardless – Dwarf, angry, smells like cabbage. No one knows what he grows, but it usually wins something.
4. Mila of Suntrail – Specializes in vertical farming and crop-dance techniques. Once won a prize for choreographed lettuce.
5. You – Eren the New Guy – Unproven. Suspected to be mad or cursed. Known for compost pile that growls.
Eren folded his arms. "Alright. We're the underdog."
Lira nodded. "Statistically, you are the least likely to succeed."
"Thanks, Lira."
"You're welcome."
But as the list burned into his brain, something strange bubbled up inside him—not dread. Not anxiety.
Excitement.
For once in his utterly absurd isekai life, he wasn't just reacting to chaos. He was planning. He had purpose. And god help him, he was enjoying it.
"We're going to win this."
Lira cocked her head. "Define 'win.'"
"Crush Cael, outgrow Helena, outclass cabbage-man, and embarrass the lettuce ballerina."
She nodded once. "Ambitious."
Eren smirked. "Let's start with upgrades. Compost is working, but we need more. What else do we have?"
Lira pulled up a glowing chart.
[Available Systems Boosts:
Growth Enhancer Spray (Requires mana crystal)
Soil Stabilizer Drone (Requires calibration)
Crop Mood Music (Raises yield by 4% if played regularly)
Forbidden Fertilizer (Redacted effects – Not recommended)]
"Wait," Eren said. "Go back. Mood music?"
Lira's eyes lit slightly. "It uses sonic frequency manipulation to encourage cellular rhythm in plant fibers."
"You're telling me I can serenade my lettuce into greatness?"
"Effectiveness increases if lyrics are hopeful and rhythmic."
He stared at her for a long moment.
"…Fetch me my lute."
By evening, the farm was alive with activity.
Eren had divided the plots into focus zones, where he personally tested different watering patterns. He sang while spraying tomatoes—badly, but passionately. Lira deployed the drone with a strict no-sarcasm protocol. Even the squash stopped climbing the barn, as if curious about the chaos.
Villagers started to peek from the distance. Whispers floated across the hedges.
"That's the new guy?"
"What's he doing with that tambourine?"
"I heard his compost growled at the mayor."
Eren didn't care.
He was in the zone.
Covered in dirt, sweat, and pride.
By the time the sun dipped below the hills, painting the sky in oranges and purples, he collapsed in the middle of the field. Not from exhaustion—but from satisfaction.
"This is it," he muttered to Lira, who stood beside him holding a clipboard like a war general. "This is how we win."
She adjusted her glasses. "Do you wish to begin the next growth acceleration protocol, Master?"
"Not yet." He stared at the stars peeking out above. "Tonight, we rest."
She tilted her head. "Should I play lullabies for the lettuce?"
"…Yes."