Three days later, morning light fell across the desk in the Lord's Manor office.
Veylin was writing the "Baldur Dung Beetle Manure Conversion Steps."
A knock suddenly sounded at the door, and he lifted his gaze from the paper.
After receiving permission, Old Walker entered, his face etched with frustration and helplessness.
"My lord." Old Walker leaned on his cane, rubbing its shaft with his rough palm. "There's a small problem with the new batch of serfs."
Old Walker sighed and spread his hands, his cloudy eyes full of distress. "It's about clearing the land... They aren't causing trouble or resisting, they're just..." Unable to find the right word, he could only add lamely, "Something's just not right."
Veylin put his quill back in the inkwell and stood.
"Take me to have a look."
The group passed through the bustling town center and headed toward the vast stretch of wasteland west of town.
Although the townspeople had been enthusiastically clearing land for some time, the hundred-odd workers had only reclaimed five or six hundred mu. As far as the eye could see, broad expanses of gray-and-black saline-alkali soil still stretched out before them.
Along the way, Newborn Town's "old residents," whether settlers or villagers from Graymist Village, all displayed astonishing vitality.
They traveled in groups of three or five, tools over their shoulders, loudly discussing the day's tasks and the distribution of merit points. Sweat soaked their clothes, but fire burned in every pair of eyes.
Yet once the group crossed a temporary boundary marked by wooden stakes, the warmth in the air abruptly cooled.
This was the land-clearing area assigned to the new serfs.
Over a thousand newcomers were scattered across the broad fields, forming a stark contrast to the bustling activity on the other side.
It wasn't that