As the weather warmed, spring plowing began.
Only a day had passed since the mobilization meeting. Scattered snowflakes still drifted through the skies over Wheatwave Basin, and the overnight frost had yet to melt completely, but the entire valley was already buzzing.
Assembly drums sounded from village after village. Measuring ropes spread across the fields like a woven net, and hammers rang out as wooden stakes were driven into the soil one after another.
Everywhere were busy figures, boundary ropes, and shouted instructions.
"Another foot north! The ground is higher there, so it drains better."
"Write down the number. This is 'Village Three, Field Seven.' Don't forget to leave a two-pace strip clear for digging the channel."
The surveying teams consisted of Agricultural Officers, village chiefs, and old farmers familiar with the terrain.
Their boots sank into wet mud, their faces full of the drive honed through long years of rebuilding. They spoke briskly and worked efficiently.
Cloth notices were erected beside the fields, marked with drawings and labels showing village boundaries, channel routes, field numbers, soil grades, and intended uses.
Everything was clear at a glance. Though most villagers were illiterate, they could still understand them.
Farming households also lined up at registration points to report their numbers, all of which had to be entered into the records.
Elsewhere, greenhouse construction began at the same time.
Unlike the scattered settlements elsewhere, where spring plowing still meant breaking new ground one shovelful at a time, Wheatwave Valley had been destined to be different from the outset.
This was the central hub of the Red Tide Fief's "large-scale spring plowing strategy," and one of the future Northern Frontier's largest grain-producing regions.
Thus, starting with marking the land, every step was no longer a piecemeal experiment, but the opening stage of an