The Farming Tool Improvement Contest (1)
Regardless of the noise, Old Man Faber was lost in thought even as he swung his pickaxe.
What kind of completely new farming tool could he propose to revolutionize the abysmal agricultural environment of the North? What would it take to escape this godforsaken life as a prisoner and return to being a free blacksmith once more?
"Hey, old man. Give it up. Do you really think the acting lord is going to release a convict who ruined the territorial war just because you bring him some fancy gadget?"
A fellow prisoner, busy shoveling iron ore into a cart nearby, said with a sneer.
"I didn't 'ruin' the territorial war. I acted for the greater good, you hear?!"
"Even so, in the eyes of the higher-ups, you're a criminal who deserves to be beaten to death."
"A crime that deserves death can be offset by an even greater contribution."
"The world doesn't just work like simple math where minus one plus one equals zero."
With that, the man pulled his cart and left. He clearly regretted wasting his breath.
"Hmph!"
Regardless, various ideas began to surface in Old Man Faber’s mind for the first time in a long while.
'They say the Northern soil freezes solid every winter. That means when you try to till the land in spring, the melted ice turns into mud, only to freeze again beneath the surface.'
'If that’s the case, a standard plow or pickaxe would struggle to break through that frozen subsoil. And if you can't turn it all over—yes, once summer comes and the weather warms, the crops' roots will just rot!'
'I need a blade made of iron, something hard and deep. ...But if I do that, the shoulders and back will ache after just a little use. Is this even practical?'
Countless ideas rose and sank, repeating over and over. Naturally, his pickaxe swings slowed down as his thoughts deepened.
"Hey! Prisoner 114! You're getting slower!"
The guard’s thunderous roar echoed immediately, but—
CLANG—!
THUD-THUD-THUD.
"...Ah. Well, carry on as you were."
With a single strike of his pickaxe against the wall, the firmly embedded iron ore fell away like ripe apples. Seeing this, the guard instinctively switched to polite speech, told him to keep up the good work, and walked away.
"That old man has a lot of energy."
"It’s not energy, it’s technique. Old man, how do you do that? Can you teach me? No matter how hard I hit, the ore won't budge."
"Please teach me too, sir! No matter how much I swing this pickaxe, I’m nowhere near meeting today’s quota! If I get a slice of cheese with my next meal, I’ll give it all to you. Can’t you help me out?"
Once the guards were gone, the prisoners struggling nearby rushed over, competing for his attention. Each prisoner had a daily quota, and for beginners who had never even seen a mine before, meeting that quota was no easy feat.
"You, the last one. You’ve got some manners. Come here. I’ll teach you, as a special favor."
"Oh, thank you, sir!"
The saying that "kind words bring kind replies" wasn't limited to just the Korean peninsula.
"This iron mine is full of scrap iron."
"Scrap iron?"
"It means it’s full of impurities. It’s not productive enough to pay miners to dig it, so they use free labor like us. If they don't have to pay wages, they might just barely turn a profit."
"Oh, is that so?"
"But this scrap iron falls away easily if you know where to strike. Look here. See this whitish part? Here—."
"Like this?"
"No, not there, here! If you hit the center like this—."
It wasn't that he was greedy for a piece of cheese; he was just training an apprentice of sorts.
'I need someone to fill my quota while I’m busy brainstorming.'
That polite young man could fill his quota without much effort, and he himself could take a great step toward freedom. That was a win-win situation for everyone.
"But you really have to give me that cheese, okay?"
"Oh, of course! I don't really like cheese anyway, sir!"
It was a deeply satisfying arrangement.
"Because the prize is so significant, there are quite a few people who want to participate in the contest. Here are the applications."
"And no prototypes, as expected?"
"That’s right."
Aiden had worried that since so few people possessed technical skills, it might turn into a 'league of their own.' It seemed his decision to explicitly state that prototypes were not mandatory had helped avoid that disaster.
The longing for better farming tools was an old dream for farmers, regardless of their technical knowledge, and applications were flooding into the Lord's Castle.
However, as expected, almost no one had actually built and submitted a prototype.
'Well, there are hardly any proper blacksmiths around, so I suppose that’s unavoidable.'
The only place in the entire North with a blacksmith shop that had even a semblance of proper equipment was the village near the Lord's Castle. And even that was so pathetic that other territories would laugh at it.
"Still, it seems more people are literate than I thought."
"Oh, no, Administrative Officer. If you look closely at those applications, the handwriting is all similar, isn't it?"
"Hmm?"
"Most of them were written by people in the villages who know how to read and write. Or they grabbed the administrators and had them write it down."
At Jamie's words, Aiden thought, 'I knew it,' and decided to add one more step to the process.
"Can't be helped. First, filter out the decent ones to advance to the finals, and summon everyone who submitted those ideas to the Lord's Castle. I need them to do a presentation."
"A presenta-?"
"A public announcement. Without prototypes and with applications written by other people's hands, it’s hard to know their true intentions."
"Ah, yes! I’ll prepare it right away."
"And make sure the judges are chosen fairly."
"Judges? Aren't we the ones doing that?"
Jamie tilted his head. Kalisa, who had been working at her desk, did the same. They seemed to be wondering what kind of judges were needed besides the three of them in the leadership team for a contest held at the Lord's Castle.
"Seriously. Have you guys ever farmed?"
"No?"
"I haven’t either."
"?"
"If we, who have never farmed, just say 'this looks good' or 'that looks good,' it’s just a clown show. How could that be a proper evaluation? Huh?"
"But it’s a bit strange to bring in other people as judges when you, the Administrative Officer, are clearly here. There’s also the issue of honor—."
"Honor, my foot. Whatever wins this contest will be mass-produced with tax money and spread everywhere. I don't want to waste money on useless things, so go find proper judges."
"But if they are to be proper judges—."
"Compose the panel with people who have knowledge of farming tools, regardless of gender, age, or social status. It’s fine if they have low status. If necessary, huh? Foreigners or Beast-folk are all fine."
"Oh... Understood! I will take responsibility and compose a proper panel of judges!"
"Do it right. Properly."
"Oh, come on, you can trust me! Aren't I your right-hand man? If you don't trust your right-hand man, who are you going to trust?"
"......"
Aiden was speechless at the sudden appearance of a right-hand man larger than his own body, but—
'Still, he’s more familiar with the local situation than I am.'
He had said that much, so he had no choice but to nod, hoping he wouldn't do anything strange. In fact, composing a proper panel of judges when holding a contest for citizens had been one of Aiden’s dreams.
He had experience running countless contests in his past life, but the results were often things that made him wonder, 'What is this?' This was usually the result of three factors aligning:
A pool of applicants limited to those in the know because of poor promotion.
Higher-ups who practiced nepotism, saying, "We’re all family!"
And finally, a panel of judges who acted dignified, saying, "I’m the one who decided this," but whose expertise remained questionable.
'At least here in the North, I won't let that happen.'
This wasn't a metaphor; it was a contest literally paid for by the blood and sweat of the residents' taxes. He could never waste that money.
BUUU— BUUU—.
The sound of a trumpet echoed. It was the signal that the curtain was rising on the farming tool contest.
Because it overlapped with market day, the final presentation of the contest was so packed with residents who had come to watch that there wasn't an inch of space left.
And, behind the stage.
"...You’re joking, right? Tell me you’re joking, please."
"Hey. But you need to be sitting there firmly for the authority of the Administrative Officer to hold weight! Hehe-."
Aiden thought about hanging Jamie from the castle gate, then was surprised by his own thought. It seemed he had become quite assimilated into the Northern way of thinking.
"Then change the chair at least! What is that!"
Five chairs were placed on a makeshift platform. They were, without a doubt, the judges' seats. And the one chair that caught his eye, placed one step higher than the judges' seats, made Aiden grab the back of his neck.
"It’s a chair that expresses the authority and honor of the Administrative Officer-."
"You’re just mocking me!"
"No, other lords would have loved it."
"I’m not a lord! I’m an acting lord!"
"Isn't that the same thing? The residents are already calling you 'Lord' anyway."
"That’s why I said it’s not!"
And, huh?
If you were going to make it, make it properly.
A bear skin was draped over the chair, which was finished with bright red velvet. Perhaps because the Northern craftsmanship was a bit crude, rather than feeling magnificent and dignified, it felt...
'...Temu?'
It felt like a knock-off.
"Can’t you just say I’m sick and sit in my place instead?"
"That would be insubordination."
"I’ll turn a blind eye."
"A Northern man doesn't do such cowardly things."
"Haa-."
While Aiden was bickering with Jamie, the judges seemed to have found their seats.
"Hurry up. It’s your turn to go out now."
"I’m going, I’m going."
Stripped of all motivation, Aiden trudged toward the knock-off throne. Whether they knew his feelings or not, cheers erupted from the audience once again.
WHOOO-!
"Our Administrative Officer is so cool!"
"He’s the best, the best!"
"Thank you for taking an interest in farming tools!"
But Aiden’s expression showed no signs of softening.
'So I have to sit in that chair like this?'
Aiden felt his face burning as if the situation were forcing him to strike a pose in front of a crowd that worshipped him. In any case, the contest presentation had to proceed.
"First, we will introduce the judges."
Jamie began to introduce the judges one by one. Two elderly farmers who had given generous advice on the planting calendar. One merchant who manufactured and handled farming tools. And an official serving as the head of the Technical Labor Department.
"And, uh. We went to great lengths to invite our final judge. He operated a large blacksmith shop in the Wilhelm territory and is a craftsman who carries the blood of a dwarf! Old Man Faber!"
"WOOOO-!"
The appearance of a proper blacksmith drew cheers from the audience once again.
'We had a blacksmith like that in our territory?'
Aiden pulled Jamie aside, who was soaking in the applause, and asked.
"What is this? Where did you find a guy like that?"
"Ah. It was quite a struggle to call him from the mine."
"Mine? What mine?"
"Is there any other mine in our North besides the one managed by the Miao tribe?"
"...What was he doing there?"
Aiden desperately hoped that a title like 'technical advisor' or something similar would come out of Jamie’s mouth. Truly.
But reality is always cold.
"He was a prisoner, wasn't he?"
"......?"
"Ah, of course, he’s still a prisoner now, though. Hehe."
Seeing Aiden’s face crumple, Jamie added one more word as an excuse.
"No, you were the one who told me to bring a proper judge regardless of gender, age, or social status."
Behind the mumbling Jamie, Aiden heard the sub-host announcing for the first participant to come out.
And then,
The prisoner from the judges' seat—no, the judge—walked down to the stage.
"Ahem. I am the very first participant!"
"XX."
Give me back my righteous and fair contest!