Sprouts Break Through
“Ugh, what the hell is this?”
Out of the twelve wagons, a foul stench poured from three of them. The men Isaac had summoned pinched their noses at his order.
“What else? It’s our daily rations from now on.”
“You want us to eat shit?”
Gunther recoiled in horror at Isaac’s words. The wagons were packed with sacks brimming with fermented excrement. So rotten that not only did the stench assault them, but flies and maggots swarmed in buzzing clouds.
“You idiot.”
One of the watching soldiers spoke up. He had a close-cropped head and thick, caterpillar-like eyebrows.
“It’s fertilizer.”
“Right.” Isaac nodded.
“What’re you planning to use it for?”
“What else? To make fields.”
“Fields?”
Caterpillar Brows scowled.
“Did you snag some land somewhere without telling us?”
“Nah. Right here.”
“……?”
Only then did the soldiers grasp why Isaac had called them. They exchanged uneasy glances. When Carlson had relayed Isaac’s orders, he’d gathered those with any farming experience or who’d lived as slash-and-burn settlers. And this was the reason. To create fields in Binvelt’s barren soil.
Anyone with even basic knowledge knew it was impossible. The soldiers nodded at one another, shoving the responsibility like hot potatoes. No one wanted to get on the Frost Devil’s bad side.
“Um… young master—no, my lord. This land’s been tainted by years of fighting monsters.”
“So?”
“There’s too much mana soaked into the soil for crops to grow. The monsters’ blood has rotted into poison, too. Binvelt’s the warmest spot in Goethe territory, sure, but dig even a little and you hit permafrost.”
Caterpillar Brows explained. Isaac stared him down, and the man averted his eyes.
“W-We’re not saying this ’cause we don’t wanna do it. We’re just worried you’ll waste effort on…”
“That all?”
“A-And… we didn’t want you to waste your precious time…”
“No. Is that the only reason you can’t make fields here?”
“Pardon?”
“You deaf?”
“Ah, y-yes. That’s the main reason.”
“Then get moving.”
Gunther shrugged and started hauling sacks at Isaac’s command. The young lord’s word was absolute, but the other soldiers didn’t look thrilled about slinging shit mounds over their shoulders.
“What’re you lot standing around for, you morons? The boss said haul it!”
Bessimer appeared out of nowhere, barging through the men and slinging two sacks over each shoulder.
“Boss?”
The soldiers blinked in confusion.
“Boss, where we haulin’ this?”
“What about supervising the camp repairs?”
“They’re handlin’ it fine without me. Won’t even let me lift a finger. I’m bored, so might as well do this.”
“Your wounds ain’t even healed yet.”
“Ah, my shoulders are gonna pop.”
“Over there.”
At Bessimer’s urging, Isaac reluctantly pointed out where to dump the fertilizer. As Bessimer lumbered off, the soldiers sighed and followed suit, shifting the sacks.
“Move your asses, you pigs!”
Bessimer strode ahead, bellowing. He grinned ear to ear, clearly delighted. Isaac smirked at the sight.
The sky was clear. The sun dipped from midday toward the west. A cool breeze blew. From the camp came Carlson drilling the soldiers, shouts and grunts echoing. Around the wagons, men bustled, carting food and supplies. A peaceful afternoon, all things considered.
“Here, here—spread it even!”
“Got it, got it. Quit your bitchin’, captain.”
“Got a problem? Let’s throw down.”
“Jeez.”
The soldiers shook their heads at Bessimer’s nagging.
“Captain on drugs or somethin’?”
As they scattered fertilizer at Isaac’s designated spots, the men grumbled. Combat tribes dulled their pain with hallucinogenic mushrooms, and Bessimer’s antics looked just like that. He hauled sacks without a break or grimace, face lit with joy. Even spreading stinking shit didn’t wipe the smile off. No way that was normal without drugs.
The work dragged on till sunset.
“That’s it for today.”
Carlson, fresh from training oversight, called an end to the day’s labor.
“Already?”
“Rest up.”
Bessimer eyed the stacked sacks wistfully. The soldiers, who’d hoped for lighter duty, rubbed their aching bodies.
In truth, at Isaac’s pace, it wasn’t harder than Carlson’s drills. But Bessimer’s endless pep talks had pushed them too far.
“Ugh, fuck, shit smell.”
They stripped off sweat-soaked tunics, griping. Even in the chill, their bodies glistened.
“Bessimer’s lost it, right?”
A shirtless soldier cooling off said. Bessimer showed no fatigue, ignoring Carlson’s call to keep hauling and spreading with his shovel. Clang-clang-clang!
A harsh metallic racket rang from the camp. Not clashing steel or hammering nails. The soldiers glanced at Carlson.
“Duty hours are over.”
They clustered and headed back. The noise was ladle-on-pot: dinner call.
The supply sheds had nearly burned, but Schiller’s wagons carried rations for fifty grown men—far lusher than Goethe’s standard fare. Fresh-baked biscuits with salt, tender dried meats, even rare dried fruits and nuts. The spiced stew was a godsend. No wonder they anticipated mealtime amid the grueling routine.
“Phew.”
“Take a break already?”
As camp clamor rose, Isaac spoke to the catching-his-breath Bessimer.
“You should eat proper, boss. Growin’ age and all.”
“I’m the lord. I’ll have Hans or Schiller bring it if I want.”
“That so?”
Bessimer plopped down. Sweat and shit stench wafted off him.
“Heh.”
“You lost your marbles?”
Isaac eyed the sudden laugh.
“Feels good.”
“Spreading shit feels good?”
“Better’n spreading blood.”
Bessimer grinned. They silently surveyed the manure-covered wasteland.
“Ain’t a single blade of grass grows proper here. Think it’ll work?”
“It will.”
Isaac nodded casually, like it was nothing.
“Then I trust ya, boss.”
“Can’t you drop the ‘boss’ bit?”
“What’s wrong with callin’ boss ‘boss’?”
“You’re twice my age.”
“We got a word in tribal tongue: Prater. No direct common equivalent. Means someone worthy of respect, honor, service—like that. Explained it to my eldest bro, and he said just call ya ‘boss.’”
“Eldest bro?”
“Goethe Count.”
“My father?”
“Counts as your bro too.”
“Heh.”
Isaac chuckled at the twisted family tree.
“Oh, this. Forgot.”
Bessimer pulled a cloth pouch from his bosom.
“What’s that?”
“From Father—no, Wolf King’s body. Magic stone, looks like. Figured it’d help you more’n me.”
Flies buzzed at the manure-smeared pouch. Isaac took it. Inside gleamed a deep blue magic stone.
“……?”
It felt oddly warm to the touch—not from Bessimer’s body heat, but inherent to the stone.
“You sure about givin’ this to me?”
“Father left me Binvelt. I’m doin’ what’s best to honor that.”
“……”
“Don’t get it twisted, boss. If Binvelt goes south, I’ll cut ya loose myself.”
“Harsh.”
“That right? Then do good.”
Bessimer bared his teeth in a grin. Isaac grinned back.
Two days passed.
“Don’t step on it, you bastards!”
“Argh, damn…”
From predawn run, Bessimer’s roars furrowed brows.
“What’s with the guard dog? Fucks up the whole run.”
“Nobody passes here! Step on it, taste my axe!”
Bessimer guarded the fertilized plot fiercely.
“You there! Your life’s in danger! Watch it!”
“Fuck, captain really eat somethin’ bad?”
Any deviation from path during jog brought thunder. Carlson’s brutal PT plus Bessimer’s bellows tormented them.
“Jog ends here. Rest, then weapon drills.”
Carlson announced, face dry as bone. A monster in human skin. Soldiers sensed it each training. The men collapsed, sprawling limp. Thick sweat soaked the dark soil.
“Hah, hah, fuck.”
“Heh, fuck, heh.”
Groans echoed, unchecked—even by Carlson. Intensity justified it. Those groaning were top-tier endurance; most lagged or puked mid-run, like Hans clutching the palisade.
Yet no complaints. The hell-wolf fight taught them strength’s necessity. Compared to dead comrades, this pain was nothing.
“Hey, think that’ll work?”
During break, rested soldiers eyed the fertilizer crew.
“Work? Bullshit.”
No half-belief even. Decades here, no plants slept through. At best, tough shrubs withered or rotted. Fertilizer wouldn’t change that.
“It’ll work. Hack, hack.”
Hans wiped bile from lips with his sleeve.
“What’s the kid sayin’?”
“It’ll work. It will.”
Hans glared, eyes bulging at the sneering soldier.
When his son Peter wandered feverish delirium, Isaac didn’t fire or punish Hans for late arrival. Instead, he sent the steward with medicine. Evicted that winter, his family would’ve frozen and starved; no meds, Peter would’ve died of flu.
At nine, Isaac saved Hans’s family. Mercy. A saint. Since, Isaac was Hans’s faith.
“Oh yeah? Half-pint who can’t swing a sword wants to go?”
“Everything our young master does succeeds.”
Hans repeated, unyielding.
“Break’s over! Move!”
Carlson barked.
“You, you’re gettin’ some from me today.”
A veteran growled at the cocky rookie.
Two more days passed.
“Young master! Young master!”
Too early for dawn jog. In pitch dark, Isaac stirred at the voice outside his tent. He’d slept late studying the Wolf King’s magic stone Bessimer gave him.
“Young master!”
“……”
“You must rise.”
Hans burst in, shaking him awake. After barely two hours, Isaac sat up groggy.
“What… is it?”
“Sprouts! Sprouts from the fertilizer!”
“……”
“Young master! It’s no dream! I saw with my own eyes!”
Isaac eyed the frantic Hans through half-lidded, bleary gaze.
Then he spoke.
“Get out.”
“Pardon?”
“Don’t wake me.”
Sprouts in Binvelt’s dead soil? To Isaac, utterly expected.