"Miss Beatrice, will this really boost the wheat yield?"
"Yeah, seriously! Fields are fields, pastures are pastures. Mixing them up to increase production? Sounds like something out of a fairy tale!"
Outside the town of Ratvench, in the sprawling farmlands, a group of men dressed in rough burlap tunics—serfs, by the look of them—clustered around a girl of about thirteen or fourteen. She wore a goose-yellow gown, her rose-red hair cropped short, and the group was buzzing with chatter.
The girl, Beatrice, was the daughter of Ratvench's lord, a noble baron. She was a bookworm, always diving into odd bits of knowledge, and her visit to the farm seemed like just another of her whims.
"Uncle Brudo, it's not about mixing them," Beatrice corrected, her tone earnest. "It's crop rotation. Our fields have been worked for over a decade straight, and the soil's fertility is shot. So, we move the wheat to the pastures and grasslands, where the soil's richer from ash and animal manure."
"But what about the livestock? What'll they eat?" another man piped up.
"Grass doesn't need much fertility, so we plant it in the current wheat fields instead."
This idea had hit Beatrice like a lightning bolt while she was reading. If it worked, it could turn around the estate's dwindling harvests.
"Sounds like a hassle," someone muttered.
"It is a hassle," Beatrice admitted, "but if we pull it off, next year's harvest will be bigger, I promise!"
She hopped onto a rock, unfurling a parchment scroll for all to see. "Look, I've done the math. If we reorganize the pastures, grasslands, and fields like this, we won't lose any land, and we'll use the soil's fertility way more efficiently!"
The farmers exchanged glances. Most of them weren't educated, and the details flew over their heads, but they knew ash and manure could enrich the soil. If Miss Beatrice's plan checked out, the estate's yield might actually improve.
There was just one problem—
"Will… will the lord agree to this?"
The question hung in the air, and silence fell.
It wasn't that they thought the lord was unreasonable, but he was a stickler for tradition. Sure, he was approachable, devout, and kind, but convincing him to overhaul the land's layout? That was a tall order.
Beatrice lowered her scroll, forcing a smile. "It's… it's fine, everyone. I'll talk my father into it."
Even she didn't quite believe her own words. Her father thought Beatrice, as the younger daughter, was wasting her time with all this studying. He'd rather she focus on cozying up to countesses' daughters in the big cities. Getting him to back her radical plan? Yeah, that was a pipe dream.
This year's wheat was already ripe, and harvest was coming soon. After that, they'd need to prep for winter wheat. If she couldn't convince her father before then, it'd be too late.
"Sorry for taking up your time," she said, bowing her head slightly. "I should head back."
The farmers dispersed, leaving Beatrice alone. She rolled up her scroll, gave her cheeks a quick pat, and hopped off the rock.
As she turned to leave, she spotted a strange figure in the distance.
It was a girl, a bit older than Beatrice. Her golden hair flowed like silk, and her lake-blue eyes sparkled like stars. She wore black trousers paired with a top that reminded Beatrice of a "robe" dress she'd seen once—both had deep V-necks adorned with lace and embroidery, cinched at the waist.
The difference was the sleeves. This girl's vivid red top had long, slender sleeves that flared at the cuffs, layered with intricate lace, giving it a flashy, almost regal flair.
The girl stood there, watching, like she'd been observing for a while. Beatrice's gut told her the stranger was waiting for her, but her head said that made no sense.
The girl's clothes, though odd in style, were made of fine fabric, vibrant and unmistakable in quality. A pure gold feather ornament gleamed at her chest. Beatrice could tell at a glance—this girl's status was leagues above her own, maybe even her father's.
Why would someone like that show up in a backwater like Ratvench?
Swallowing hard, Beatrice straightened her posture and approached, her steps measured. She stopped at a respectful distance and curtsied, lifting her skirt.
It was proper etiquette for greeting someone of higher rank. Beatrice didn't know the girl's identity, but she trusted her instincts.
"Hello," she said.
"No need for all that formality," the girl replied with a laugh. "I'm just an orphan. You, on the other hand, must be a noble lady, right?"
Beatrice wasn't buying it. An orphan? That's what bastards often called themselves. It didn't add up.
"I'm Nero," the girl said. "And you are?"
"Beatrice. My father's the Baron of Ratvench."
Nero glanced around, her eyes settling on the town in the distance. "So this is Ratvench, huh?"
"That's right."
Was she lost? Beatrice wondered.
Nero fell quiet for a moment before speaking again. "Okay, this might sound weird…
"What year is it?"
The year? Beatrice blinked, completely thrown. If she'd asked for the date, maybe she'd been lost in the woods too long, though her pristine clothes didn't scream "lost traveler." But the year?
What was she, a vampire who'd slept for centuries? Beatrice glanced at the sun, still high but dipping west, and answered, "It's August, 1348."
Nero pressed a hand to her forehead and sighed. "Yeah, figures."
Figures? Then why ask? Beatrice eyed her, growing more convinced this girl was outright bizarre.
A moment later, Nero dropped her hand, shook her head, her golden hair swaying, and fixed her gaze on Beatrice. "Bet you're dying to know who I am, huh?"
Beatrice nodded. No point denying it.
"Then I'll let you in on it." Nero leaned in close, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I'm a demon hunter."
"Demons? Those are real?"
"I tracked one here. It's probably still lurking nearby."
Nero's words sent a chill through Beatrice. She could tell Nero wasn't ordinary, and if she was telling the truth…
Nero straightened, closing her eyes as if sensing something. "Yup, I can still feel its presence. You'd better head home. Once night falls, this place is gonna get dangerous."