Seeds Without Life

Aurelian rode George to the front. Hume and Master exchanged glances, both utterly puzzled.

Since when had the duke cared so much about his territory?

Still, this was not a bad thing for them, and they quickly followed.

George's hooves struck the dirt road running through the town.

Perhaps because people had only recently begun moving in, Frost Town struck Aurelian as crude and disorderly even beneath the dim daylight.

The streets were deserted, and Aurelian saw few people. Round huts built from stones and wild grass lined both sides of the road.

A foul stench assailed his nostrils, and Aurelian covered his mouth and nose.

He knew what was causing that smell. In this medieval-like world,

only nobles built toilets.

Aurelian could not tolerate it. He urged George onward, eager to leave this place as quickly as possible.

But he thought to himself that Frost Town had to change. For instance, it needed toilets.

After all, he did not want to be tortured by that stench every time he came down to inspect the place. That would be unbearable.

Once outside the town, Aurelian's view opened up.

He could see the green grasslands, the distant Spruce Forest, and, at the northernmost edge, the faint outline of the Abif Mountains.

Not far ahead lay vast stretches of newly reclaimed farmland.

The farmers who had followed him to Winter City were using crude tools to clear plot after plot of wasteland across the plains.

They were called farmers, but most of them were actually serfs.

They had sold themselves to the nobility and were considered Aurelian's private property.

They labored for Aurelian, surrendering nearly all their harvest, with only enough rations left to keep themselves alive.

Serfs who starved to death were everywhere.

"Hume, these lands are covered in weeds. Even if the soil here is not as fertile as it is back home, simple crops should still grow here. So why do the seeds die so quickly after being planted?"

Aurelian voiced his question. It went against the common sense in his memories. No matter how barren the land was, surely something could be grown on it.

Hume's face twitched. He had thought this noble lord knew nothing at all, but his opinion of Aurelian improved slightly as he said,

"At first, I had the same question. I thought perhaps the reclaimed land was the problem, so I had the serfs clear another plot on the other side of the plains. But the result was the same. The wheat seeds quickly withered and became as hard as stones."

"This is what I found in one of the fields."

As he spoke, Hume took out a handful of black, gravel-like objects.

He handed them to Aurelian.

Aurelian accepted the wheat seeds from Hume and studied them closely.

They were black as ink. There was no trace of the healthy color wheat seeds should have had.

"They look as if they've been burned. They've already carbonized."

He muttered to himself.

"When you planted the wheat seeds, did you notice anything unusual?"

Aurelian asked again, the doubts in his heart growing ever deeper.

"No. Once the seeds were covered by the soil, they became like this without a sound."

Hume answered decisively, entirely unlike his usual habit of speaking only half a sentence.

"Take me there."

There was no use thinking about it here. A great man from his previous life had been right: practice was the sole criterion for testing truth.

Aurelian decided to inspect the fields himself.

They rode past one newly reclaimed field after another.

The farmland was desolate. There was nothing there except great swaths of overturned earth.

Crude farming tools had been discarded all over the fields.

How could such primitive tools be used for farming? They had to be improved. His knowledge ensured that he would never be content with the status quo.

Although this was a world with magic, the memories he had inherited told him that mages were exceedingly rare. The only person Aurelian currently knew who could use magic was Metatron, court mage to Otto, king of the Star Empire, but he had only seen him a few times.

So, for Aurelian as he was now, science remained the primary productive force!

On both sides of the dirt road, serfs dressed in ragged linen clothes trembled as they prostrated themselves on the ground.

They were private property Otto had granted to Aurelian, and they had followed him to these northern lands.

Aurelian did not look at them, because the more he looked, the worse he felt. These people barely seemed human!

For now, he could not change any of this. These people depended on him to survive.

Without him, they would truly have nowhere to go and could only wait for death.

Led by Hume, Aurelian and Master arrived at the field where the wheat seeds had carbonized.

Aurelian jumped down from George's tall back.

The instant his feet touched the soil, an intense chill surged up from below and spread through his entire body.

His body stiffened from it.

It came quickly and vanished just as quickly.

The sensation soon disappeared, as though it had never happened.

Aurelian turned to look at Hume and the others. They had all dismounted, their feet planted on the soil.

Yet their expressions were calm, unchanged from before.

"Did any of you feel anything unusual just now?"

He asked the two of them.

Hume and Master stared at each other, unable to understand what their duke meant.

"No, my lord."

"Is that so?"

Aurelian fell into thought.

Though the cold sensation had been brief, he was certain of it.

It was absolutely not an illusion!

Looking at the black soil, Aurelian's eyes suddenly widened.

He suddenly recalled something his teacher, a priestess, had once taught him.

"The stronger the bloodline, the more sensitive it is to magic!"