The morning after The Great Accidental Flood of Damien Cross's Estate™, I found myself standing ankle-deep in what had once been my front yard.
The air was damp, the chickens were still side-eyeing me like I'd committed poultry war crimes, and Jorah was already in "This Is Going to Cost Us" mode.
"We'll need to drain the excess water before the next rainfall," he said grimly.
"I see," I replied, staring at the ripples. "And by 'drain,' you mean…?"
"Dig trenches. Redirect the water back to the river."
"Yes. Trench it. Very good. Simple."
Unfortunately, my available "repair crew" consisted of:
Old Man Garrick, who could out-grumble a thunderstorm and believed all modern innovations (including wheelbarrows) were witchcraft.
The Twins, two farmhands who looked identical, sounded identical, and somehow managed to dig in completely opposite directions no matter what instructions I gave.
Milo, who claimed to be "good with wood" but spent the entire morning poking the mud with a stick.
Jorah was supervising. Which meant glaring at me while I "helped" by standing around making sarcastic comments.
By midday, progress was… questionable. We had successfully dug three trenches. Two led back to the river. The third, thanks to the Twins, now emptied directly into the blacksmith's yard.
I considered this a form of irrigation for metal.
The blacksmith did not.
That's when inspiration struck. Or rather, desperation disguised as inspiration.
"Listen," I told the crew, "we're thinking too small. Trenches are fine, but what we need is a network. Mini-canals connecting the fields, letting us distribute water anywhere we want—on purpose this time."
"That's… not a bad idea, my lord," Jorah admitted, suspicious.
"Exactly. If we just make these trenches straighter, deeper, and more… uh… canal-y, the next rainfall will feed the crops directly."
"Or flood them again," Garrick muttered.
"Faith, Garrick. Faith in progress."
It turns out that "digging a precise, gently sloping canal" in medieval conditions is like trying to bake a perfect soufflé in a bonfire.
We had no surveying tools. No measuring sticks worth the name. Our "level" was me squinting at the dirt and going, "Yeah, that looks downhill."
By evening, the network was complete. Sort of. Some trenches were too shallow, others too deep, and one—thanks again to the Twins—looped back on itself like a confused snake.
Still, I stood proudly on the riverbank, hands on my hips. "There. The Damien Cross Precision Irrigation System. Patent pending."
We opened the river gate.
At first… success. The water flowed, filling the main trench, then splitting into the smaller canals.
Then the flow sped up. And sped up. And—
"Close it! Close it!" Jorah shouted.
Too late. One of the deeper trenches overflowed, creating a small inland sea in the carrot field. Another trench barely trickled at all, leaving the wheat bone-dry. The Twins' snake-trench formed a charming whirlpool that swallowed three spades and Milo's lunch.
Just as I was bracing for the "you ruined everything" speech from Jorah, something curious happened.
The carrot field—now a mud pit—was teeming with fish again. Villagers gathered to scoop them up, laughing and chattering about how they hadn't eaten this well in months.
Meanwhile, the flooded swamp area from last time had absorbed enough water to finally support rice seedlings. An elderly farmer approached me, grinning. "This soil's perfect for paddy farming now, my lord. Haven't seen land like this since I was a boy."
I blinked. So… I'd accidentally invented aquaculture and revitalized a forgotten crop zone.
By nightfall, the village was feasting on fresh fish stew, the farmers were talking about diversifying crops, and Jorah—while still glaring—had to admit that "some good" had come of my "reckless, water-based vandalism."
I, of course, took full credit.
"Gentlemen," I announced to the gathered workers, "this was all part of Phase Two. You just couldn't see the genius yet."
Garrick muttered something about "genius" and "idiot" being the same word where he came from, but I ignored him.
Because in the flickering firelight, I realized something important: Even when my plans failed, they… sort of didn't.