Flowers in Bloom - Back Then, There Was No Other Choice
In his previous life, the losing life. With the underground vault door between them, Yonas had said to Isaac:
"To avoid being dragged around by the power struggles of various factions, the Goethe had to become a self-sufficient city-state."
Even with a blade plunged into his gut, Yonas's voice still burned with passion.
"A noble's power ultimately comes from the land. From fertile soil and what grows there."
The foundation of the power that nobles wield, as Yonas had said. The land that would grant that power.
And now, that land lay right before their eyes.
It occupied a quarter of the territory, rich black soil teeming with fertility. But as it bordered the Black Forest, battles with hell wolves broke out incessantly. Contaminated by monster blood, nothing could grow there.
Scholars from all over whom Goethe Count had sought out tried to solve the problem, but none found a viable method.
In the end, after twists and turns, it was an unexpected figure who discovered the solution.
Lady Goethe, Adel. Isaac's mother.
The blue flower she had brought from the Demon Realm to check on her son's unique constitution had purified Binvelt's soil.
"Crazy..."
"Fuck. Did I drink too much yesterday? Is this still the hangover?"
The drowsy soldiers couldn't tell if it was a dream or reality.
Just three days after spreading the manure. The landscape around their camp was nothing short of fantastical.
Dew-kissed green grass blades catching the faint light of dawn sprouting everywhere.
"What are you all doing? Get in formation..."
Carlson, rubbing his stiff neck from a poor night's sleep, was struck speechless.
It was an astonishing sight.
Countless sprouts had emerged from what had been barren wasteland in Binvelt. It was utterly absurd.
And what made it even more ridiculous was the giant dancing innocently among them.
Singing at the top of his lungs in some tribal tongue only his kind would understand, performing a ridiculous jig. A spectacle.
"Men."
The soldiers focused at Carlson's command.
"Did your captain chug booze the moment he woke up, by any chance?"
The soldiers shook their heads.
"Or has that musclehead finally lost it?"
The soldiers nodded quietly.
"Look at that! It worked, it fucking worked!"
And then another madman joined in. It was Hans.
Two days ago, he'd gotten into a scuffle with a veteran soldier, leaving one eye black and blue. Yet he grinned ear to ear, dancing alongside Bessimer.
"Sprouts! We got sprouts, you little shits!"
"Told ya it works, you shits! If the young master says it, it happens!"
The baseless jig continued.
"Men. Clear out those idiots. They're disrupting training."
Carlson scowled as he spoke.
Thanks to Hans and Bessimer's antics, the dawn jog was delayed a bit.
Bam!
"What's that? The sprouts finally came up, and you're gonna plow 'em all under?"
"My desk is splintering. Sigh."
Isaac scratched his messy hair and yawned hugely.
He still had the air of a noble son, but he was filthy, reeking of body odor.
Not as bad as the soldiers, but the difference was only in degree—they all stank from not washing.
It had been over a month since he'd properly bathed. Duty soldiers hauled water from afar in carts every day, but using it beyond drinking and cooking was a luxury.
He'd barely slept, researching the wolf king's magic stone day and night.
He should have paced himself, but his passion for magical studies had reignited after so long.
Just as he'd usefully employed the frost magic stone from the winter queen spider, surely something could be gained from the wolf king's stone too.
But its utility remained a mystery.
The oddly warm magic stone revealed nothing to Isaac.
"It sprouted just as brother intended, didn't it? That proves something can grow here. So why plow under all those grasses?"
"Those aren't just grass."
"?"
"Flowers from the Demon Realm."
"What're you talkin' about?"
"Exactly what I said. They grow feeding on the mana in the soil."
What Schrader had brought after great pains wasn't mere manure.
Seeds within the manure. From plants of the Demon Realm.
"Those sprouts will grow, bloom, and suck up all the mana seeped into this soil, thriving wildly. Then we'll use them as green manure."
"...Green manure?"
"Once growth ends, those flowers are no different from ordinary plants. Plow them under, let them rot, and they'll enrich the soil with nutrients."
"...When'd you come up with that?"
Bessimer blinked in surprise.
"Who knows."
Isaac shrugged.
"Then why haven't the tribes here, or Goethe, tried this before?"
"Wolf King. Hell wolves. Virpier. Witchcraft. And the notion that nothing grows in Binvelt."
"...!"
"Something like that."
Even when Lady Goethe, Adel proposed purifying Binvelt with the blue flower, she'd faced massive opposition.
With forces already stretched thin, why waste manpower subjugating Binvelt's beasts?
The wolf king, hell wolves, other monsters. Rumors of men turning into wolves. Skeptics scoffed it was absurd, impossible.
In the end, if Adel hadn't risked her life to lead the subjugation, they wouldn't have even tried.
Thanks to that, Goethe survived a while longer.
And because of it, Adel was wounded and weakened.
Her frail body couldn't withstand the endemic disease from the White Snake Mountains monster subjugation.
The New Faith priests praised her selfless love for her son as having saved the Goethe brothers, calling her a saint, blessed one, martyr, servant of God.
It was laughable for the great chieftain's daughter to bear such titles, and Goethe Count disliked the praise for Adel.
It had saved Goethe, but taken her life.
"So when do we plow the fields?"
"Whew. Let's watch for now. They haven't fully grown yet."
Isaac shook off the painful memory and replied.
He would never allow such tragedy again.
[May your long night end someday. May you find peace.]
He'd ensure he never had to write or read that final letter from his mother again.
"I miss Mother."
Isaac murmured the sudden thought.
"Kids gonna be kids, eh."
"What. You miss your dad too."
"...Yeah, reckon I do."
Bessimer scratched his bald head, his massive frame wearing a sulky expression unfit for his size.
"Balaka's watchin' from up there. Let's do our best."
Isaac stood and patted Bessimer's arm.
"That what you call motivation? Of course. Don't just talk. If need be, I'll uproot every ancient tree in the Black Forest."
Fire sparked in Bessimer's eyes.
"Calm down. No need for that."
Isaac waved him off.
Three days passed.
As Isaac foresaw, the flowers bloomed.
Only then did the soldiers realize the flowers atop the manure weren't mere wildflowers.
The grasses reached the soldiers' waists. Not to the horizon's hills, but the camp surroundings pulsed with eerie vitality from the fresh green and blue blooms.
The soldiers made a fuss, calling it sorcery or miracle, but to Isaac, it was just the beginning.
"Bessimer. Plow it under."
"As you command."
Per Isaac's order, training turned to fieldwork for the time being.
All except on-duty soldiers were mobilized to till the soil.
"Haaah!"
Crack- Crack- Crack-
Bessimer gripped an axe in each hand, mercilessly hacking the earth.
Soil and uprooted blue flowers flew everywhere.
"Fuck, watch it!"
Soldiers splattered with dirt and manure cursed, but Bessimer paid no mind.
Bathing in sweat, he worked tirelessly.
But most soldiers had lost their zeal.
"Huff, huff, huff. Fuck, this ain't like hammerin' iron."
The frozen tundra lived up to its name.
The long-frozen ground soon revealed itself, dulling shovels, swords, axes in no time.
"Fuckin' hell. What now?"
Frustrated soldiers looked ready to hurl their tools, but held back.
Carlson glared, but more than that, the novel scene before their eyes stirred unfamiliar sensations.
Veterans who'd lingered here longest felt it strongest.
Vivid green they'd never seen in 13 years.
It felt less like listlessly awaiting a bleak future, more like taking a step forward.
Something was happening.
Palms stung, wrists tingled, shoulders ached, bodies throbbed—yet they couldn't voice complaints of hardship.
It was hope, seen for the first time.
"Hand it over."
Carlson approached a soldier wrestling a stubborn shovel.
"Uh, yes?"
"The shovel."
The soldier handed it over reflexively.
"Watch."
Carlson shoveled ordinarily.
"...Huh?"
The frozen mound that wouldn't yield even a scratch now gaped in chunks.
Soldiers gawked dumbly at Carlson's digging.
Even full-force swings barely scratched before—more gnawing than plowing—yet Carlson was literally scooping up the frozen earth.
Soldiers watched, entranced.
"Monster."
"How the hell does he do that?"
About half a watch later.
Suddenly, Carlson tossed the shovel.
"Can't do it."
He squinted toward Bessimer.
"Hraaah!"
Compared to Carlson's neatly excavated square yard at even depth, Bessimer's side was a mess.
"Hah, hah—"
Even for Bessimer, stamina had limits; his breaths grew ragged, axe swings slowed.
After half a watch, Carlson realized it was futile.
He strode into the camp.
Soldiers stared, baffled at his back.
"Young master. May I enter? Young master?"
Carlson called outside the tent, but no reply.
"I'm coming in."
He lifted the flap and entered.
For a noble and guard, it was presumptuous, but Carlson didn't care.
Their relationship was closer to equal partners in a deal than vertical lord-vassal.
"Hmmm."
"Ugh—"
Carlson pinched his nose upon entering.
A fresh wave of piss and shit stench filled the tent.
He quickly spotted the source: a chamber pot in the corner.
With Hans in training and fieldwork, no time to tend Isaac, who apparently hadn't emptied it himself—or even considered it.
"You haven't left the tent much lately. What're you doing?"
"It's clearly resonating with my mana, yet..."
Isaac murmured cryptically instead of answering.
"Plowing like this is impossible. Ground's fully frozen. No progress without me or Bessimer."
Isaac's benchmark was 2 meters deep.
Only then could they mix in sand and gravel for artificial soil where wheat or barley could root properly.
But practically, only Bessimer and Carlson could work.
Even with their prowess, turning hundreds of square paces of manured land 2 meters deep would take ages.
And even if successful after months, Isaac aimed not for hundreds, but tens of thousands of paces.
They needed a solution beforehand.
"Schrader?"
"No word yet. But as I said, don't expect much."
Isaac had sent Schrader to procure draft animals—horses, oxen, donkeys, whatever.
But as Carlson said, hopes were low.
Oxen and donkeys couldn't endure Goethe's cold; frostbite, hypothermia, respiratory issues felled them quick.
Horses fared better in cold, but the royals limited Goethe's horse numbers, fearing military use.
"Stuck between a rock and a hard place."
Isaac sighed, placing the wolf king's magic stone on the desk.
"Lord, may I enter?"
While Isaac pondered, Gunther's voice came from outside.
"Come in."
Gunther entered at permission and bowed.
"You should come see."
"What is it?"
"Tribal folk from the village. At least thirty of 'em."
Isaac and Carlson exchanged puzzled glances at Gunther's words.