The enemy was no longer the design of the tool; it was the biology of the user.
Ronan stood on the low rise of the Southern Fields, his boots caked in thick, grey mud. Below him, the scene looked like a battlefield. Twelve teams of oxen dragged the heavy wooden plows through the earth, leaving behind deep, dark furrows. Men shouted, whips cracked, and the beasts groaned.
But they were moving too slowly.
Ronan brought up the overlay. It flickered against the grey sky.
[Project Status: The Hunger of the Soil]
• Progress: 142 / 500 Acres Plowed.
• Time Remaining: 4 Days until Heavy Rain.
• Current Pace: 3.8 Acres / Hour.
• Required Pace: 5.2 Acres / Hour.
They were failing.
If the rains came before the seed was in the ground, the heavy clay would turn into an impassable swamp. The seed would rot. The yield bonus from the Mouldboard Plow would be negated by the [Mud Penalty].
Ronan focused his gaze on Team 4. The plowman, a burly peasant named Kael, was stumbling. He leaned heavily on the handles, letting the plow drift left, ruining the furrow. The oxen stopped, sensing the lack of direction.
A red icon pulsed over Kael's head.
[Status: Exhausted]
[Stamina: 12/100]
[Efficiency Penalty: -60%]
Ronan scanned the rest of the field. It was a sea of red icons. The men weren't lazy; they were empty. They had been working since dawn on a breakfast of cold oat-gruel.
"Varrick!" Ronan barked.
The steward appeared at his elbow, holding a parasol to shield himself from the drizzle. "My Lord? The men are breaking. Hareth says the oxen need to rest. He says the earth is too heavy."
"The earth is fine. The fuel is wrong." Ronan turned and began walking down the hill toward the field edge, where the workers were taking their midday break.
They sat on the wet grass, huddled in cloaks. They were chewing on hard, black bread and drinking water from a communal barrel.
Ronan's eyes narrowed as the interface analyzed the "meal."
[Item: Stale Rye Bread]
• Caloric Density: Low.
• Digestion Time: Slow.
• Morale Effect: -5.
• Stamina Recovery: +2 per hour.
It was mathematically impossible for them to work a twelve-hour shift on this fuel. He was asking for diesel performance while feeding them sawdust.
Ronan kicked the barrel of water. It sloshed, drawing the angry, tired stares of fifty men.
"Stop eating," Ronan ordered.
Hareth, the oldest of the plowmen, stood up. He was shaking with fatigue. "Lord Ronan, we must eat. We cannot pull your cursed machines on air."
"You call this eating?" Ronan snatched a piece of black bread from a younger man's hand and crushed it. It crumbled into dry dust. "This is why you are stumbling. This is why the lines are crooked."
He turned to Varrick. "Open the smokehouse."
Varrick blanched. "The... the smokehouse? My Lord, the salted pork is for the Winter Solstice feast. It is the reserve for the castle guard. We have only six barrels of—"
"Bring three barrels. Now." Ronan cut him off. "And bring the cauldron. The big iron one from the scullery. And salt. A sack of salt."
"Salt?" Varrick whispered, horrified. Salt was currency. "My Lord, the cost..."
"The cost of failure is starvation," Ronan said, his voice dropping to a dangerous chill. "Do it, Varrick. Or I will strap you to a plow and see how far you get on rye crusts."
Varrick ran.
An hour later, the field smelled different. It didn't smell of wet dog and sweat anymore. It smelled of fat and salt.
Ronan had set up the cauldron over a roaring fire right on the field's edge. He had bullied the castle cook into chopping the precious salted pork into chunks, tossing them into the boiling water with cabbages, onions, and a heavy pour of expensive salt.
He wasn't making a gourmet meal. He was making an energy potion.
[Crafting: High-Calorie Stew]
• Ingredients: Salted Pork (Protein/Fat), Cabbage (Filler), Salt (Electrolytes).
• Effect: [Satiated], [Rapid Stamina Regen], [Morale Boost].
"Line up!" Ronan shouted.
The men approached warily. They hadn't seen meat in months, certainly not in a midday meal. Hareth was the first to take a wooden bowl. He looked at the thick layer of fat glistening on the surface, then at Ronan.
"Eat," Ronan commanded. "Then work."
Hareth took a bite. He blinked. The salt hit his tongue; the fat hit his stomach. It was immediate.
Ronan watched the numbers.
[Stamina Regeneration: +15 / tick]
The men ate like wolves. Silence fell over the group, broken only by the scraping of spoons. They drank the broth to the dregs.
"Listen to me," Ronan addressed them as they finished. "We have four days to beat the rain. If we beat the rain, we eat like this every week. If we fail, we starve."
He pointed to the plows. "The energy is in your blood now. Burn it."
The change was mechanical.
When Kael grabbed the handles of the plow again, he didn't lean on them. He gripped them. The salt had replenished their electrolytes; the fat was providing sustained burn.
[Current Pace: 5.4 Acres / Hour]
[Efficiency: 110%]
The afternoon wore on, but the pace didn't slacken. The "field kitchen"—a concept Ronan had just unlocked in his mental tech tree—kept a steady supply of hot broth available.
Ronan stood by the fire, watching the progress bar fill.
[150 Acres... 165 Acres... 180 Acres...]
They were going to make it. It was costly—he was burning through his winter luxury reserves—but he was converting stored capital (pork) into production assets (plowed fields). It was basic economics, yet to Varrick, it looked like madness.
As the sun began to set, painting the sky in angry crimson, a horn blew from the northern road.
The rhythm of the plows faltered. Ronan looked up.
A single rider was approaching the keep. The horse was lathered in white foam, stumbling with exhaustion. The rider wore the grey and green livery of the King's Messenger.
The rider didn't slow down for the gate guards. He galloped straight into the muddy courtyard, nearly trampling a chicken, and slid off his horse before it had fully stopped.
Ronan left the fire and walked to meet him. Varrick was already there, looking pale.
The messenger looked at Ronan, seeing the mud on the Lord's clothes, the smell of pork stew clinging to him. He sneered slightly, adjusting his tunic.
"Lord Ronan of Blackwood?" the messenger asked, breathless.
"Speak," Ronan said.
The messenger reached into a leather tube and pulled out a parchment sealed with black wax.
"Tax assessment," the messenger said, thrusting the scroll at him. "The Crown has heard reports of... increased activity in this region. The King's Levy has been adjusted."
Ronan took the scroll. He didn't break the seal yet. He just looked at the interface overlay that popped up over the parchment.
[External Threat Detected]
[Event: The King's Greed]
[Logic:] The System detects your increased production value. The world is reacting.
[New Objective:] Pay the Levy or Declare Rebellion.
Ronan looked at the exhausted plow teams in the distance, then back at the messenger.
"Varrick," Ronan said calmly. "Feed this man some stew. He looks tired."
"And the tax, my Lord?" Varrick asked nervously.
Ronan broke the wax. He scanned the numbers. They wanted double the grain. They wanted iron.
"We will pay it," Ronan said, his eyes cold. "For now."
He rolled the parchment tight.
"Get back to the fields," Ronan ordered, turning his back on the messenger. "We have twenty acres left to hit today's quota. The King can wait. The rain won't."