Chapter 6 – Planting Hope
The next morning, Ashton rose early.
The village still looked lifeless—thin smoke from cookfires, gaunt faces, hollow eyes—but now those same eyes carried something else. Curiosity. Suspicion. The faintest spark of hope.
The elder walked at Ashton's side, leaning heavily on his cane. "You say these… potatoes will save us?"
Ashton smiled faintly, holding up the dirt-stained tubers. "If you're willing to learn. I'll show you how to plant them, how to grow them, and even how to cook them.
But you all have to do this together. I can't save you. You have to save yourselves."
The elder studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Very well. We will gather everyone.
Soon, the villagers assembled in the open field just beyond the crude wooden fence. The land was poor, dry, cracked in places. Farmers who had lost all hope stood with arms crossed, while mothers clutched their children close. Children, of course, looked at Ashton with wide-eyed wonder.
Ashton stepped forward, lifting one of the potatoes. "Everyone, listen closely. These don't look like much, I know. But this—" he raised it higher, letting the sun catch its rough skin "—is food. Real food.
If we plant it, water it, and care for it, it will multiply. One potato can give birth to many more."
The villagers muttered, doubtful.
"Planting food in the dirt?"
"Will this not poison us?"
"It looks like a stone…"
Ashton crouched down and pressed the potato into the soil, covering it gently with earth. His voice carried clearly. "This is the first step. Dig a small hole.
Place the potato in. Cover it with soil—but not too hard. It needs space to grow."
He looked up at the crowd.
"Spacing is important. If you plant them too close together, they will fight for food. Too far apart, and you waste space. Like people, they need balance."
He demonstrated again, digging another neat hole, carefully placing the potato, then patting the dirt.
"Now, who will try?"
Silence stretched, broken only by the rustling of wind. Then, timidly, a little girl stepped forward.
She carried one of the potatoes in both hands like it was treasure. Ashton's stern expression softened, and he knelt beside her.
"Here," he guided gently, helping her press the potato into the dirt. "Like this. Yes. Perfect."
The girl looked up at him, beaming. "Like that?"
Ashton smiled. "Exactly like that."
Encouraged, others began to step forward. Mothers with children. Men hardened by hunger but unwilling to look weak.
Soon, villagers were crouching side by side, pressing potatoes into the soil under Ashton's watchful eye.
"Not too deep. They need air."
"Good—now cover it softly. Don't crush it."
"Yes, perfect. You're learning fast."
Hours passed. Sweat dripped from brows, dirt clung to hands and faces, but slowly the barren field transformed.
Row upon row of carefully planted potatoes lay beneath the soil.
At last, Ashton straightened, wiping sweat from his forehead.
He looked over the villagers—tired, dirty, but alive with something new.
Pride."Good," he said, voice carrying across the field. "You've planted the seeds of your survival. If you care for them, in weeks you will see green shoots rise.
In months, you will harvest enough to feed everyone here. This is not a miracle.
This is work. But it will keep you alive."
The villagers murmured among themselves.
Some looked hopeful, others still doubtful. One man scoffed. "All this effort… for lumps of dirt? If they fail, we will have wasted precious strength."
Ashton's eyes narrowed.
He bent, pulled one potato from his basket, and raised it. "Then watch. This isn't just seed. It's food. Right here, right now."
He called for firewood.
Confused but obedient, the villagers brought him dry sticks and kindling. Ashton built a small fire in the center of the village.
He set a flat stone on top and placed the potato upon it.
The villagers gathered close, murmuring as the scent of roasting filled the air.
Slowly, the potato's skin blackened and cracked, steam hissing.
Ashton pulled it free with a stick, letting it cool.
He split it open. The villagers gasped as pale steam rose from the soft flesh inside. Ashton blew on it gently, then took a bite.
The warmth spread through him, familiar and comforting.
He swallowed, then looked at the villagers. "See? Food. Simple, filling, enough to keep you alive."
He handed the rest to the little girl who had helped him plant earlier.
She hesitated, then bit into it. Her eyes widened.
"It's… good," she whispered.
Then louder, with joy, "It's good!"
The crowd stirred. Mothers stepped forward eagerly, fathers pressed closer.
Soon more potatoes were roasting in the fire, villagers tasting them for the first time. Laughter rose—small, fragile, but real.
For the first time in years, they were eating not scraps, not stolen grain, but something of their own.
Something they could grow.
The elder's hands trembled as he accepted a piece from Ashton.
He chewed slowly, then tears welled in his tired eyes.
"…It has been so long since I have eaten without fear." He looked at Ashton, voice breaking. "You… you have given us more than food. You've given us hope."
Ashton looked around at the smiling faces, the laughter, the relief.
His chest tightened. This is it. The first step. Humanity doesn't need gods. They only need the will to stand on their own.
He clenched his fist, crimson eyes burning. If I can give them this, then maybe… I can lead them to more.
But as the villagers feasted, Ashton's gaze flicked to the treeline. In the shadows, unseen by all but him, eyes glowed faintly. Watching. Waiting.
His jaw tightened. They know. The demi-humans. They won't sit quietly while humans learn to feed themselves.
He forced a smile for the villagers, hiding his unease. Tonight, he would let them enjoy their small victory.
Tomorrow… tomorrow might bring war.
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