Chapter 9
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Translator: volt
Chapter: 9
Chapter Title: Inventory Clearance
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Whiiiiiir!
Shuk shuk shuk.
Thud!
"Everyone, stand back! I can handle the logging myself!"
"No, how can we just mooch off you? We'll help too!"
I'd always thought chainsaw work was exhausting.
Sgggrrrk. Keeik. Sagagagak.
"...It's fine."
Seeing a few adults sweating buckets while gripping a single saw changed my mind instantly.
This thing cut through like a kitchen knife through butter. Come to think of it, I remembered reading online once that even a modern kitchen knife would be treated like a legendary sword in the past.
So, how big was the gap between that half-rusted, dull saw over there and the 18-inch chainsaw in my hands? The thought of doing this with axes and handsaws was horrifying.
I bet this chainsaw could slice through a knight's armor from this era. (It couldn't.)
"...Chainsaws are the best."
...Thanks. And thanks to the village head for selling me this used chainsaw for a neat 100,000 won.
Screw it, I'll forget about that 1 million won village development fund donation.
...On second thought, no, I won't.
You bastard.
Anyway, after shooing away the settlers and clearing the last 1,000 pyeong of forest by myself, the sun was high in the sky. Several days of work had finally wrapped up.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead and set down the chainsaw.
"This should be about 3 roods! More than enough for our farming!"
"...Right, Eleanor."
Since I used units like '1 pyeong = 3.3 square meters' myself, I decided to keep quiet about area measurements.
"Next, will you bring 'that thing' like last time?"
"...Yeah."
I nodded.
Kukukukung!
And soon dragged in the 10-ton forklift to uproot every last tree stump!
"Whoaaa!"
"That mechanical arm is so strong!"
Haha, hahaha! The omnipotence was no joke! The adults gawked with mouths agape, and the kids bounced around excitedly—it gave me an insane sense of superiority.
By the way, you might wonder how I knew how to operate a 3-ton-plus forklift, which requires excavator operator certification and a construction machinery license. Especially since I'm only in my mid-20s—when did I even get them?
I didn't!
The uncle next door, Mr. Choi, did! He borrowed it to clear trees from his hillside, forgot to return it, and it tripped here with me!
I didn't know small forklifts at first, but after a few tries, I got the hang of it. Sure, I broke a few things along the way... stayed up nights practicing for weeks... but whatever. It regenerates.
Problem? Where's the Korean Ministry of Land, Infrastructure and Transport to regulate me? Where's the Korean police to bust me for unlicensed driving?
Nothing can bind me. I'm free!
This is America!
Kukukukung!
"Waaah!"
Ah, truly America. A bold, free maneuver worthy of the land of liberty. In a flash, 1,000 pyeong of forest became freshly plowed field and cabin land.
The people rushed in with shovels and potato sacks, planting as I'd taught them.
Our settlement had grown quite a bit now.
Families of ten used to cram into one house, but now each household had its own. They were eager to build a church and workshops next.
And with enough farmland secured for everyone to eat, food worries eased.
"...Even so, we can't let our guard down."
The settlers had never seen potatoes before. It'd be weirder if they succeeded on the first try after one simple farming lesson.
So, I planned to use the empty plot in the farm for a separate 500-pyeong potato field.
No one even asked if it'd take too much labor.
Because behind me stood 21st-century agrotech and mechanical engineering.
The so-called cultivator.
Think mini-tractor. It did everything a tractor could.
Kukukukuku!
For example, it plowed the field, mounded the rows, and laid plastic mulch in seconds.
Hours of backbreaking work done in a blink.
That's what those black plastic sheets on fields in the countryside are. They retain moisture to prevent drying, suppress weeds, and stop soil erosion.
Puk! Puk! Puk! Puk!
The seeder punched holes through the plastic, digging 10-15 cm deep—perfect for potatoes.
Toss in the cut seed potatoes, cover with soil, and done. Potato planting complete.
...With just a hoe and shovel, this would've taken hours or days.
What is 21st-century farming tech?
It looks simple, but it's built on countless tiny advancements over hundreds or thousands of years.
Synthetic fertilizers, herbicides, tools galore...
'If only I could duplicate this stuff.'
Of course, duplication was impossible. At best, I could make life comfortable for myself and the 33 people around me.
But maybe later, disassemble and study? Skip hard-to-replicate parts like engines, power with animal or human force...
That'd be huge.
Felt like a breakthrough idea, so I jotted it in my notebook right away. Yeah. Later, when the settlement grows bigger...
'...Bigger?'
What then?
In real history, Roanoke failed. Jamestown and Plymouth became the true roots of American settlement.
But in 1590, about two years from now, when John White returns from England, everything changes.
This place becomes Britain's first North American colony.
And I become its founder.
"... "
What do I do?
Can I survive? How do I explain my resources, claim them as mine?
And after all that... what happens to me?
"Nemo!"
"...Ah, Eleanor."
For now, shelve the complicated thoughts. The English wouldn't want conflict with me anyway.
Thankfully, this era's primitive enough—no scientists to dissect me, no one to dig up my farm's secrets.
Hell, I could claim to be the last survivor of sunken Atlantis or an alien from the moon, and they'd have to believe it.
If my lies get exposed?
By then, I'd have lived lavishly under the British Empire and died happy. Who cares?
-'Immortal one, will you become the pioneer of the New World under infinite blessings? Or a slave to fate?'
Well, if that eye potion really makes me immortal, who knows...
...Future me can deal with it.
"Eleanor, what is it?"
Right now, worry about food.
Hunting, gathering, and small gardens wouldn't last till potato harvest. Might have to eat some chickens, but their eggs...
"The Savage tribes..."
"'Natives'."
"Ah, sorry. The Native tribes are here."
"What?"
"They say it's a thank-you gift for the grapes last time. Can we let them in?"
"... "
I glanced at the gate. Faintly, I saw about a dozen people loitering with burdens.
Mostly shirtless, covered in intricate tattoos showing status and identity.
Should I let them in? Showing them my resources raw... Nah, they wouldn't understand anyway.
"Let them in. It's their land originally."
"Got it! I'll bring them in!"
Eleanor, dirt on her face, peeked at her reflection in a nearby puddle and smoothed her hair like an official diplomat.
Then she strode to the gate with exaggerated noble steps and opened it. I shut off the cultivator and followed.
Tong. Tong. Tong.
She tapped the iron fence, and the tense, scanning Natives turned to us.
One man dressed like a European stepped forward as representative. Eleanor had spoken to him.
"...'He' permits entry to the domain."
"Eleanor, why'd you waddle so weirdly? And your voice is lower than usual..."
"Ah, hahaha..."
"So where is 'He'? His name..."
"Nemo."
"... "
"Pleased to meet you. You're Manteo, right? I heard you brought gifts—come on in."
"... "
I paused, seeing Manteo's expression subtly stiffen.
What? Did I mess up? I just greeted and offered a handshake.
Only after pondering a while did I realize.
"...You're remarkably fluent in our language. Which tribe are you from?"
Ah.
I hadn't spoken English.
Looks like the language cheat worked beyond English.
"So where is 'He'? His name..."
"Nemo."
"... "
"Pleased to meet you. You're Manteo, right? I heard you brought gifts—come on in."
"... "
Manteo was shocked twice in this short exchange.
He'd seen it himself.
London, England's wealth and power. For a full year.
The English built mountain-like structures, crafted clocks that ticked the seconds.
They made stained glass that shattered light into rainbows, assembled ships carrying hundreds across oceans.
He'd seen the queen and nobles in jewel-encrusted finery, muskets that felled man or beast in an instant.
Cannons hurling boulders too.
That pure splendor, that raw power!
And it came from those alien-looking people: high noses, pale faces, deep-set eyes.
Envious, Manteo dressed like them. Envious, he took their baptism.
-"So where is 'He'? His name..."
-"Nemo."
But the man before him... resembled them less than the Europeans.
Manteo easily read the awe in Eleanor's eyes.
He saw the vast house and farm behind her. Built in just 1-2 weeks...?
That was his first shock.
And the second.
-"Pleased to meet you. You're Manteo, right? I heard you brought gifts—come on in."
He was too fluent in Algonquin.
So... Manteo had to ask.
"...Which tribe are you from?"
The man's aura shifted.
He gazed skyward with distant eyes and whispered.
"...A place you can never reach. That far east... or perhaps west. Where all spirits' traces vanish.
A place I can never return to."
"... "
"Ah... lost in hometown memories. Sorry."
"N-No."
In that moment, the man looked noble. His odd clothes seemed sturdy and well-crafted; the sword at his waist, heavy and solid.
"Eleanor, let's welcome the guests inside."
"Ah, yes!"
Above all, he wielded English and Algonquin flawlessly.
And commanded people effortlessly.
A very high-ranking man... or
"...A god."
"What was that?"
"Nothing."
As Manteo entered, the iron gate slid shut behind. Far off, some huge-armed machine idled—weapon?
Tense, a tribesman poked his side. Right, forgot the errand from nerves.
"Ahem, we're here to repay your kindness with those grapes."
"No need."
"No, such food is precious."
"... "
Manteo saw the man's face briefly tense then relax. Why?
He didn't know the vast farm behind was all that 'precious' stuff.
"Ahem, anyway, as thanks, our tribe brings welcome gifts. Hope they please you."
With that, his tribesmen dropped their loads: corn, peas, various fruits.
"It's little, but accept our sincerity..."
"Not little at all!"
The man's voice rose. His face brightened noticeably.
"No need to eat the chickens... I mean."
"... "
"But for one bunch of grapes, this seems too much."
"Actually... we have a request."
It was tough, so Manteo hesitated, bowed politely, and asked.
"Could you perhaps give more of those precious grapes...?"
"Of course!"
"...Pardon?"
Again.
The man's voice louder, face brighter. Why...?
"Uh..."
"Come more often! Let's trade like this weekly, Manteo!"
"Th-Thank... you, but I haven't said how many..."
"Take as much as you want!"
"Then... 100 bunches. For nearby kin tribes."
"Of course! 200, 300 even!"
300 bunches! Of those sweet grapes?
Manteo felt victorious in the trade.
He'd have panicked if he knew the man's thoughts.
Finally.
Finally, a buyer for those damn 10,000 grapevines.
13 weeks into grape trade.
Manteo receives 500 bunches and realizes something's wrong.