The Heavy Smoker and the Reaper of the Wheat Field (3)
"The elves of Tatarnia don't trust the words of those who don't act."
Tatarnia? I tilted my head at the unfamiliar place name. Was it some kind of elf country? The elf who had confidently introduced this backwater village I'd never heard of in my life turned to the man standing beside him.
"Rodrigo, bring the scythe."
"Yes, master."
The man bowed his head. From the way he called him master, it was clear he was a slave. I hadn't realized because he was dressed in farmer's clothes.
'Holy shit, the guy even has a secretary slave. What is this, the CEO of some shitty small business?'
Still, the slave's appearance was quite decent. He had a robust build and a healthy complexion. Since he was a farm slave who needed to work hard, it seemed his master fed him properly.
—Shing.
The farm slave named Rodrigo brought a large scythe from one of the carts. It was an agricultural scythe with a sharp blade attached to a long pole like a spear.
"Use this scythe to harvest the wheat in front of me."
Hotulusil took the scythe and spoke.
"I'll assign harvesting to those with outstanding skill. Those who can't will be put on collecting the harvested wheat and threshing. That's all."
Our party exchanged glances at the sight of the straw-hat elf who shut his mouth after saying exactly that much.
The first to step forward was the middle-aged adventurer, the oldest among us.
"Alright, hand it over. I'm from a farming family."
He said as he loosened the belt at his waist. Wait, fuck, why was this crazy bastard suddenly trying to take off his pants?
Franc and I recoiled in shock at the sudden exhibitionist reveal, but the middle-aged adventurer wasn't undoing his pants belt. He was removing his sword sheath belt.
Clack.
Whoosh—.
The middle-aged man who had tossed his sheath aside walked over to Rodrigo and took the scythe. Fuck, thank god. It wasn't an exhibitionist pervert uncle; he had simply removed the sheath because it would get in the way while working.
"Ptui!"
But that uneducated bastard spat on his hand and rubbed it in. Hey, you fucker! If you do that shit, the next person has to use a scythe covered in your spit!
When the startled me tried to protest, the straw-hat fucker who had been watching frowned before I could say anything.
"Hey. Don't spit on the scythe. It's dirty."
"Huh? Well. Elf sir, you must not know, but this is how you make the tool stick properly to your hand."
"Not my concern. If you can't work without spitting, you'll be assigned a different task."
"Tsk. Got it."
The uncle who wiped his spit on his pants grabbed the scythe again. It was still dirty, but better than before. It was a relief that this elf had some sense of hygiene. My favorability toward Hotulusil went up a notch.
'Yeah. Not all elves are pieces of shit.'
I slightly reflected on my own prejudiced preconceptions. Just because I'd been burned by Chinese people before didn't mean I should treat every Chinese person like a bastard. How was that any different from racism? You couldn't tell if the other party was decent or a total asshole until you observed the result. This was the famous Schrödinger's asshole theory. I decided to introduce this theory to the other world. The so-called Schrödinger's shit-elf.
Depending on my observation, Hotulusil could turn out to be a shit-elf or a good elf. I wouldn't know until I experienced it for myself. Even old Gentric had evaluated this elf positively. I wasn't expecting a saint, so I simply hoped he would turn out to be a proper elf.
"Hup—!!"
At that moment, the middle-aged man holding the scythe let out a vigorous shout and swung his arm.
Whoosh!!
Swish!!
The roughly swung scythe butchered the wheat stalks. It left most of the stalk from the root upward and barely cut only the grains. Fuck, could this even be called harvesting? Wasn't this closer to beheading? The wheat had basically been turned into weeds.
"Failed."
Hotulusil spoke in a completely serious voice.
"You can move the harvested wheat. Do not thresh it. Absolutely not."
"Damn. It's all because I didn't spit on my hand."
The middle-aged man grumbled but didn't protest. Even he seemed to realize it had been a bit much. He might lack hygiene, but he had a conscience.
"I'll go next."
The young adventurer who had stayed silent quickly stepped forward. What a quick-witted bastard. Since he would be compared to that uncle, it would be easy for him to look good.
The young adventurer who received the scythe began his work. He must have been from a farming family too; his form was quite decent.
Swoosh— Swoosh—.
The wheat was cut cleanly. Hotulusil watched the young man swing the scythe for a while before speaking.
"Stop. That's enough. I'll assign you to harvesting. Then next is…."
The straw-hat elf who took the scythe back from the young man turned toward me but suddenly paused. His gaze had stopped on Franc.
'What? Does he dislike dwarves because he's an elf?'
Even though both races started with the letter F, elves and dwarves were always at each other's throats. It felt roughly like Korea-Japan relations. Normal people got along fine, but the serious ones treated each other like mortal enemies of their parents.
"...Dwarf. Can you swing a scythe?"
Hotulusil asked. I had worried he was about to be racist, but it was a purely curious look.
Franc looked up at the scythe that was nearly twice her height and asked with a cold gaze.
"You want me to swing this...? Me...?"
Ah, right. Franc had strength on par with mine, but she was under 160cm tall. That scythe was far too big for her. It was practically an assembled clothes hanger.
At Franc's reaction, Hotulusil seemed to understand and answered.
"My mistake. I didn't bring a smaller scythe."
"No. I'll just carry the cart. I've done that kind of work before. Is that okay with you, Nord?"
When she glanced at me and asked, I nodded. Throwing a tantrum about wanting to stay together with my lover even while working would be going too far.
"If that's what you want, I don't mind. Do that."
Hotulusil answered indifferently, as if it didn't matter to him. What a dry guy who only said what was necessary. Still, a boss who only talked business was a pretty good type. The kind who didn't bother you privately and just handled work cleanly without micromanaging. It was the type that employees suffering under evil bosses would desperately wish for.
Thinking that way, Hotulusil started to look somewhat decent in my eyes. It seemed my expectations for elves' personalities had been greatly lowered because of Yerna. If I witnessed an elf kicking a kitten that was getting rained on, I'd probably think 'You're good at kicking, my friend!' and let it slide. That kind of feeling.
"Now, it's your turn."
Hotulusil held the scythe out to me. I took it and gripped it tightly in my hand.
—Thud.
Squeeze….
The lukewarm, firm feel of the wood. It was a familiar sensation.
"Heh heh."
A low chuckle escaped me. Despite how I looked, I had experience with farm work back on Earth. My relatives had a farm, and since my military unit was a rear-echelon outfit, we often went out for civilian support.
Our regiment was notorious for slacking off, as expected of a rear unit. It was even worse because our company commander had given up on promotion. Thanks to that, whenever there was a flood, we would round up soldiers, cancel their leave, and send them to help farms.
While doing civilian support, there were occasional opportunities to help with harvesting. Back then, the scrawny private first class Kang Bukho had to compensate for his lack of strength with technique.
The face of the farmer uncle I met while working had already faded from my memory, but── my hands still remembered the sensation from that time.
Shwaaaaaak—.
Beast Regression, activated without a chant, enveloped my body. I'd received confirmation there would be no side effects. I had to use it whenever I had the chance if I wanted my mana pool to grow.
With the buff active, I lightly swung the scythe.
—Swish!
With a sharp, satisfying sensation, a wide radius of wheat was cleanly cut down. The sound effect was different from the others. It was only natural. I, Kang Bukho, was the man who even used a scythe for mowing grass on flat ground during my military days. Something like this harvest was child's play.
Shwaaaaaaaa—.
At that moment the wind blew and the wheat field shook.
──No, that wasn't it. It wasn't because the wind blew. The wheat grains that had witnessed my scythe work instinctively sensed their death and trembled in fear. If you disagree, you're right.
"Are you afraid?"
I asked the wheat.
"I'm afraid too. Of my own power."
The farming scythe was shaped like something that reaped life. Pulling the scythe, I muttered lowly.
"From now on── I am your Grim Reaper."
The image of the scythe-wielding reaper in the West was born from personifying death that harvests life. Therefore, I, who harvested the lives of wheat, could be called the reaper of the wheat field.
Thousand Farm Scythe - Eom Bok-dong
Swish! Swish! Swish! Cut. Cut. Cut and cut again. Every time my scythe danced, countless stalks of wheat lost their lives. I fully utilized my outstanding strength and technique to unleash continuous attacks left and right without rest. Yes── right now I was literally a human tractor!! The wheat-flour butcher Nord, that was me!!
Shwaaaaaaaaack!!
—Thud.
With a big finishing swing that mowed down all the wheat in the area, I stopped the flurry. Not a single wheat grain stood before me now. In less than five seconds, I had achieved a result far surpassing the two before me. From this moment on, this place was the Battle of Jangpan in the harvesting industry.
"Excellent."
Clap clap clap!
Hotulusil applauded after seeing my Bankai. It was a dry clap, but his face looked genuinely satisfied.
"I'll assign you to harvesting as well. But can you maintain that magic continuously?"
"Even without it, I can keep up with the others."
The strengthening effect of mana was passive. If the scrawny Kang Bukho could do it, there was no way the isekai version of me—with a muscular body and mana buff—couldn't. Saying more would just be a waste of breath.
"You're full of confidence. Still, your posture looks reliable. ...By any chance, would you consider working at our farm? I promise to treat you like family."
"No thanks."
If you need family, get married or have a kid, you bastard.
"Too bad. Come find me anytime if you change your mind."
When I firmly refused, the straw-hat shit-elf clicked his tongue. Then he spoke bluntly to our group.
"Then work hard. I hope you do a good job."
After Hotulusil left, we began the harvest in earnest. Other people took care of collecting the harvested wheat or rice. I could just comfortably send the wheat to the guillotine at a moderate speed.
Swish! Swish!
The lives in the wheat field meeting their end like fallen leaves before my Death Farm-scythe. I swung the scythe with the feeling of pulling weeds in Animal Crossing.
Simple labor wasn't that tough for someone with the physical ability to do it easily. To me, enhanced by Beast Regression, mere wheat was no different from threads. The only sensation at my fingertips from harvesting wheat was like snapping spider webs.
The scythe itself must have been quite a good item. Out of curiosity, I stopped and looked at the manufacturer's name on the scythe.
Made by Clara
Fuck, it was Clara. The maker of the scythe was the married blacksmith lady who had sold me the leather armor pants. The young auntie who had been surprised by my dick size, thought I was confessing, and rejected me.
She really liked iron, so she made farming tools too. It wasn't surprising since the main income for blacksmiths was making and repairing farming tools. Adventurers buying expensive weapons or armor was like hitting the jackpot, while they usually made a living by repairing rusty and broken farm tools.
I felt a strange, mixed feeling seeing an acquaintance's name in an unexpected place. Then I focused again and devoted myself to harvesting.
Swish! Swish!
I continued the harvest with appropriate pacing. Doing more of this work didn't give extra pay. It was the way of the world that those who worked well received more work as a gift. I worked leisurely while having random thoughts.
And there was only one thing I thought about at times like this.
'Ah—I want to touch Franc's tits—.'
While swinging the scythe, in my head I recalled our cute Franc's violent breasts. Franc's tits, king tits.... The softest tits in the world.... The best tits in Britannia.... Franc's big breasts were the best. I could touch Franc's breasts all day long. The soft sensation of brushing against them was like an angel's silk clothes. When linking arms, when being hugged, when she came close, Franc's massive breasts that touched without reservation. Every time, I was busy calming my raging boner and suppressing my drooling.
Fuck stem cells. The greatest cells were breasts. Even the Skynet minions who indiscriminately hated blood and flesh creatures would surrender to the human liberation army if they touched big breasts once. As such, big breasts were always right.
The old saying goes that a wife's beauty lasts three years and her wisdom thirty. But that was wrong. The longest lasting love was breasts. Breasts were eternal. It was an impossible assumption, but even if Franc did something wrong and we fought, the moment a ban on her breasts was issued, that fight would end in my defeat. It was a kind of trade retaliation. In the Three Kingdoms, Guan Yu endured having his shoulder cut by Hua Tuo while playing Go, but if Franc put her breasts on my face, I probably wouldn't even notice if she pried open my ribs and replaced my heart. This was the true truth of the world.
Just as no one but flat-earthers disputed that 1+1=2, the fact that people had two breasts was a principle of the three thousand worlds equal to the universe's truth. And if they were the same 1, you should choose the bigger 1. Was 500ml cola 1+1 the same price as 1.5L cola 1+1? Then of course choosing the 1.5L was the scientific choice. To deliberately choose the 500ml can at the same price! That was the thinking of a pedophile. Summary execution would be not guilty. You say canned cola is cooler and the carbonation lasts longer? You dull liberal arts fools. Leave your excuses at the National Institute of Korean Language.
—Stop.
After swinging the scythe like that for a long time, I straightened my back once. It wasn't because I was tired, but because thinking about Franc made me newly realize the preciousness of my waist. After all, my body was no longer just mine.
Since that full moon night, my body was also Franc's. Fuck, thinking about it was really amazing. Until now, the only one who had owned my body besides me was the fucking South Korean Army.
Anyway, the harvest had progressed quite a bit. Looking back at the wheat field I'd passed, I'd harvested about half a sports field's worth of wheat. Had thinking about Franc's breast shape made my work speed incredibly fast?
Swish— Swish— Swish—!
Another surprising thing. Quite a lot of time seemed to have passed, but Beast Regression showed no sign of wearing off. Had my mana pool grown that much? Since I couldn't measure the time accurately, I had no idea how much it had increased. I really wanted a pocket watch at times like this. Next time I should go with Franc and get a watch. But fuck, buying only for myself seemed wrong. Shouldn't I get one for Franc too? How much would two watches cost? I wasn't sure if I could buy them with my savings.
The total money I'd saved up until today was 5 silver. It was a fucking small amount, but please understand. During my slave days I didn't get a separate salary, and the money I received before getting my master's degree was 1 silver per month. The fact that I'd saved up as much as 5 silver in three and a half years meant I should be praised instead.
'Maybe I should ask her out on a date next time.'
I should look up the price of watches and ask Franc if she had time. Come to think of it, I still didn't know Franc's birthday or hobbies well. I'd ask her one by one when I had time later. Thinking that, I resumed the harvest.