The rarest thing in this world… is simply the will to do something.
—Asa Konder
Rosha's worries had been completely unnecessary. For common folk, if life could be made even slightly better, they didn't care what changed their way of living.
Early the next morning, the village elder, old man Kunta, brought a few other white-bearded elders to Asa's home. They sat eating and drinking for half the day, yet never said their true purpose.
Asa went inside and dragged a still-sleeping Rosha out of bed. Half-dazed, Rosha opened his eyes, saw a house full of old men, and jumped up in fright. "Did Riven cause trouble again?"
A slap landed on the back of his head—Shava's hand. "Daida went out to see the waterwheel. She's a good girl!"
"I didn't cause trouble either…" Rosha muttered, turning to look at his foster mother. Suddenly his face changed. "Don't tell me Lulu stole something again?"
A tree branch smacked him on the head. Lulu, perched at the window, clearly understood, and waved her little fists angrily at him.
"Rosha, we… we've come for you," Elder Kunta stammered, as if the words were hard to say.
"Then just say it, we're all from the same village," Rosha spread his hands. "Don't make me guess. You've seen what happens when I guess—I just get hit."
"Hahaha…" the old men burst into laughter. Kunta finally calmed himself. "It's about the waterwheel… Originally, we shouldn't trouble you, but this year the soil is too dry. Many families need water for their fields, so…"
"Oh, that?" Rosha yawned. "No problem. Build as many as you like. I finished drawing the blueprints last night."
"Ah…" the elders froze, surprised at how easily he agreed.
"If the harvest improves, everyone's life gets better. That's a good thing. I've no reason to refuse," Rosha said seriously. "The richer the village, the richer our family too."
"Wonderful," Kunta stood up, almost bowing. Rosha quickly stopped him. "I'll need a bit of help too. Gather whatever books we have on farming, and as many kinds of seeds as possible."
"No problem. I'll send people right away," Kunta promised eagerly.
With matters settled, Rosha left the house to his parents to entertain the guests. He wanted to see the state of farming in the village. Since he had decided to act, he first needed to understand.
After washing his face, holding a yunbing fruit in his hand and setting Lulu on his shoulder, he went out.
Strangely, no children mobbed him at the door. But once he left the village, he found them—all gathered around the waterwheel, watching it spin.
"Hey! Rosha!" one boy spotted him and waved. Immediately, the whole group swarmed over.
A flood of questions, endless chatter. Rosha's head throbbed, and in the end, not even knowing what he'd agreed to, he found the children gone in a blur.
Riven had been watching from the side, a faint smile at her lips. But when Rosha looked over, she returned to her usual cold mask.
"Is that from your world?" she asked, pointing at the waterwheel.
"Yes, a very old invention," Rosha nodded. "My world is nothing like this one. Technology was everywhere."
"Like Piltover's Hextech?" Riven asked after a pause.
"No, a different path. Piltover's Hextech depends on crystals, magical energy. My world drew power from the sun," he pointed upward, "though not directly."
Riven frowned, thinking long. "Solar energy? That doesn't sound dangerous."
Rosha let out a strained laugh, shaking his head. "They built a weapon using that principle, one that could kill every living thing—more lives than all of Runeterra holds."
Riven's eyes widened in shock, stunned into silence. "…That's the power of the gods!"
"Oh, right. The power doesn't come from the sun itself, but the principle does." He quickly shifted the subject. "I'm going to study the state of farming here. Want to come?"
"Of course," Riven answered without hesitation.
Ionian agriculture wasn't entirely simple. Their staple crop was reed-grain, its seeds smaller than corn kernels, wrapped in a brown husk, and yielding decently.
In form, it resembled wheat, another grass. They also had two auxiliary grains and eight types of vegetables. Oils came from both plants and animals—the plant oil being made by scraping resin from a tree called the Fula and boiling it down.
The meats were the same as across Valoran—and not far from Earth either. The animals looked different, but Rosha thought of them as chickens, pigs, and cows.
There were also fish and shrimp, and many kinds of birds, though not domesticated—hunted instead.
The village produced no fruit; those came from traders. Trade remained primitive, mostly barter.
Rosha returned home and shut himself in for three days, compiling his observations and ideas.
In his past life as a special forces soldier, survival under extreme conditions had been essential training. His old instructor had recommended a book—"The Soldier–Farmer's Companion"—filled with practical knowledge on farming, herding, and smithing.
Perhaps because of the crossing, he remembered every word clearly.
Now he would adapt it, devising a plan so these people could not only eat enough but eat well.
Animal husbandry violated "balance," but this village's extreme beliefs weren't so rigid. They had seen war and now lived poorly; faith was important, but hunger came first.
So Rosha drafted a plan integrating farming, forestry, livestock, by-products, and fishing. He even stole a name for it—"ecological agriculture." With "ecology" in the name, who could claim it disrupted nature's balance?
In essence, it was a cycle: carnivores penned and fed, their manure and plant stalks fermented into biogas, fueling farms and homes. The residue could feed animals, the rest as organic fertilizer. The liquid waste, treated by algae ponds, fed fish and poultry. Pond water and mud fertilized fields. The grain harvested was milled into flour, restarting the cycle.
Reed-grain flour could be ground with water-mills powered by waterwheels. And thanks to books the elders found, Rosha knew which algae could do the job. It was feasible.
Whether his world's system would adapt here, he didn't know. Biogas would be easy—there was seafloor clay identical to cement, no need to fire kilns. Blacksmiths could forge pipes and seals.
Magic could also grow plants fast, light homes, conjure flame—but it required mages, and mages were rare. They were people, not machines. In truth, what sustained this world's nations were always the toiling masses.
When the plan was ready, Rosha held a family meeting, explaining every step, from idea to feasibility, process, and result.
"Can this really work?" Asa's lips trembled. To cook without wood, to have endless flame, food and meat…
"I don't know. That's why I'll start small, just at home," Rosha scratched his head. "A pilot project. But we must be ready to go hungry if it fails."
"I'll fetch more firestone from the mountains and trade it for food," Asa said firmly, supporting his foster son.
"I'll help you," Riven said quietly. Whether to Asa or Rosha, it wasn't clear.
Thus began the agricultural reform of a magical world.
"What a fantastical age," Rosha murmured, standing atop a hill, gazing over the village.
But wonder aside, there was work to do. Gathering the children, he led them to begin their revolution in farming.
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