The dirt road narrowed as we left the last cluster of huts behind. The faint sound of coughing and creaking doors faded until only the wind and the crunch of our boots remained.
A few minutes later, the land opened up into what could barely be called farmland.
It stretched out before us — flat, colorless, lifeless. A few patches near the village still showed some green — small vegetable plots, wilted and struggling under the sun. But farther out, the ground turned hard and cracked, like scorched parchment.
No birds. No scent of growth. Just the heavy stillness of a place long abandoned by hope.
I stopped walking, my shoes kicking up dust that didn't even stick together. "So this… this is it?" I muttered.
Henry rubbed the back of his neck. "Yes, my lord. These are the Duskmoor fields."
I stared across the barren plain, throat tightening. "This could hardly be called farmland," I said quietly.
The man looked down, ashamed. "The soil's gone bad, my lord. Can't hold moisture anymore. The seeds… they won't sprout properly. And even when they do, the crops come out weak or withered."
"And water?" I asked.
He shook his head. "The rain's been poor for years. The old river to the north dried halfway. We dug ditches, tried to draw from the wells, but…" He sighed, voice thin. "We can't fill a bucket with wishes."
I crouched and scooped up a handful of soil. It felt wrong — dry but heavy, clumping like clay. When I let it fall, it scattered to dust before reaching the ground.
This wasn't just neglect. It was exhaustion.
"What crops have you been growing?" I asked, standing again.
"The usual," Henry said. "Wheat, barley, a little rye. We tried turnips near the riverbank once, and beans… but nothing takes anymore. Used to be fine when my father worked these lands. But a few years back, the yield started dropping. Less each season, until it all went bad."
He looked toward the horizon, eyes dull with memory. "We've planted the same seeds, tended the same way, prayed to the same gods. Didn't matter."
I frowned. "What about fertilizer? Do you use manure or compost—anything to replenish the soil?"
Henry blinked. "Manure?"
"Yes," I said. "Animal waste, mixed with soil to restore nutrients."
He looked horrified. "How can we use that where we grow food? It's filthy! The gods would curse us for feeding from filth."
Even Lena looked confused. "Fertilizer?" she asked softly. "What is that, my lord?"
I straightened slowly, a chill running down my spine — not from the wind, but from realization.
They really had no idea.
They've been farming the same land, the same way, for generations… never replenishing it.
No manure, no minerals, no crop rotation.
It's not cursed—it's drained.
The land wasn't dead by fate. It was murdered by ignorance.
My mind raced with half-remembered snippets of documentaries and games: crop rotation, composting, soil balance, fallow cycles.
Back on Earth, this would be basic farming knowledge. Here, it was heresy.
I dusted my hands off and exhaled. "...No wonder the land's barren," I muttered.
"My lord?" Lena asked, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Nothing," I said, shaking my head. "Just thinking."
I turned away from the fields. My head was already spinning with ideas—simple, practical steps. Nothing grand yet, but it was something.
"Let's go back," I said finally.
Lena hesitated. "Shall I call the carriage?"
"No need," I said, walking ahead. "I need the walk."
Henry fell silent behind us. He didn't understand, but he didn't need to—not yet.
The sky had begun to turn orange by the time we left the dead fields behind.
I didn't look back. My mind was already moving ahead—toward fixing this, somehow.
****
I spent half the night staring at the parchment.
The plan for soil restoration was fine on paper — manure, compost, crop rotation, irrigation — but the real problem was time. Even if everything went perfectly, it would take months before the land showed any sign of life.
And the mission's deadline? It wasn't going to wait for months.
I leaned back in my chair, tapping the quill against my temple. "There has to be a faster way…"
[Host's impatience is noted.]
"Not impatience — urgency," I corrected. "If we can't feed people soon, they'll either leave or starve. Fertilizer won't save corpses."
[Valid assessment. Proceed.]
I rubbed my jaw, staring at the crude map of the barony. "I need a crop that can survive poor soil. Something hardy, low maintenance, fast-growing, and edible. Doesn't have to be glamorous, just something."
[Searching memory fragments… based on Host's Earth knowledge.]
A faint list flickered before me.
[Options: Millet. Sweet potatoes. Cassava. Barley (low-yield variant).]
I leaned forward. "Cassava, huh? Root crop. Grows in rough soil, even sand. High calorie yield… yeah, that could work."
[Nutritional value acceptable. Growth period shorter than traditional grain crops.]
"Perfect. If we can get something like that to take root, we can stabilize the famine faster."
[However, seeds or cuttings are unavailable within your current inventory.]
"I know," I said, grimacing. "We'll have to improvise. Or find something similar in this world."
[Cross-referencing local agricultural database…]
[Confirmed: equivalents to millet, sweet potatoes, and cassava exist in Astraea's crop records. Cultivation regions: southern deserts and tribal lands.]
I blinked. "You're telling me they already have these here? Then why the hell isn't anyone planting them?"
[Cultural stagnation detected. Current agricultural practices are tradition-bound. Crop diversification nearly nonexistent.]
"Of course," I muttered. "Generational farming — same crop, same soil, until it dies. Brilliant."
I drummed my fingers on the desk, the spark of an idea forming. Fast-growing, low-water, resilient crops. If I could convince them to switch temporarily, the food shortage could be eased before the fertilizer plan kicked in.
"Alright," I said, standing up and stretching. "We'll change the crop. Let's see how much convincing it takes to get medieval minds to listen."