In Wheatwave Valley, the winter snow had only just begun to melt, and the muddy ground had yet to dry, but a hint of life's warmth was already seeping through the earth.
As the remains of the last Frost Giant were cleared out of the valley, Louis stood on a small hill, gazing over the basin plain gradually being reclaimed, and slowly breathed out.
The giants were dead, the threat eliminated. The real battle had only just begun.
Under the orderly guidance of the Red Tide Fief Lord's Administration Hall, large numbers of refugees entered the valley once occupied by ice, snow, and monsters.
Ox carts laden with all their worldly possessions rolled in alongside one group of refugees after another. Cooking smoke rose at the valley entrance, and the cries of children, the rhythmic ringing of blacksmiths' hammers, and the crisp bite of hoes into earth came together in a new rhythm of life.
This would no longer be a dead land.
Louis named it "Wheatwave Fief."
It was more than a name. It was a promise of hope.
He hoped that one day, this basin would produce enough grain to feed all his territories and become the largest granary beneath the Red Tide banner.
Most of those entering Wheatwave Fief this time were refugees whom Red Tide Fief had taken in during the bitter winter after the insect plague. They had had no choice.
Back then, Louis had opened the granaries during the coldest months, built shelters, and provided relief through paid work, keeping them from freezing or starving to death.
Some still carried their "Red Tide Fief registration tags," made from scraps of cloth, tucked against their chests like charms that could save their lives.
So when the spring plowing recruitment order was issued, they followed the