Victor arrived in Akiron and inspected the village dedicated to salt mining. Unlike the rapidly evolving Ironwood, this village remained unchanged since his arrival.
Since the lord's tenure, changes were confined to street cleanliness and people's appearance. Residents became more active, and even in the coldest weather—when temperatures dipped below zero degrees Celsius—they worked tirelessly.
Most wore new clothes distributed as they became available. True, the garments were neither stylish nor size-perfect, but for ordinary folk, these improvements signified a drastic leap forward compared to the previous year.
Clothing was tailored by pattern—not individual order—as per the lord's directive, an uncommon practice in this world.
Victor had long observed that clothing was traditionally commissioned piece-by-piece, taxing tailors even with simplistic designs.
In his former world, garments were mass-produced in standardized sizes, streamlining production and slashing costs.
Custom-made clothing was prohibitively expensive for commoners, resulting in garments being worn to shreds, patched repeatedly, eventually transforming into patchwork quilts, making original colors indeterminable.
Surveying the villagers, Victor struggled to recall his reason for coming, but when the village elder Lyrco—responsible for salt production—approached, memory returned.
— My lord, what service can I perform for you? — Lyrco asked, bowing politely.
Remaining seated on his horse, Victor regarded the sturdy brown-haired man, whose appearance improved noticeably with each encounter.
— Are there tailors in the village? — he inquired.
— Yes, my lord, four talented women reside here, — Lyrco answered confidently.
Ordered to fetch them, Victor awaited their arrival. Ten minutes later, four women stood before him, visibly undernourished compared to Lyrco. Given the women's limited employment options, they subsisted on scraps from their husbands, supplemented by minimal castle provisions.
Victor displayed a parchment illustrating fishing nets.
Intent on utilizing the sea, he initially planned to commence this initiative in summer but found himself obligated to act now.
Deciding to construct compact fishing vessels carrying two crewmembers, he envisioned them sailing close to shore, corralling fish into shallow waters using nets.
Completely inept at fishing, he relied on logical reasoning.
Using nets to haul fish aboard would prove hazardous, especially considering few inhabitants could swim. Sending them to sea presented inherent risks, but he had no alternatives.
Had it been summer, he would teach them swimming, but winter compelled him to gamble.
First, he had to instruct the tailors in net-making. Having no expertise himself, he counted on their skill.
The women studied the diagram intently, while Victor mimed net dimensions with his hands. After transferring the design, he promised to supply materials.
In fact, he had none, opting instead to create mesh fabric coated with tree sap, skeptical of its durability but constrained by necessity.
Concluding his business in Akiron, Victor rode north to Rivenhall, where blacksmiths ceaselessly fashioned weaponry and domestic tools, while carpenters constructed specialized carts for military campaigns.
These carts featured oversized wheels facilitating easier navigation through muddy terrain and reinforced axles bolstered with iron bands to bear heavier loads.
Westerville housed a textile workshop—a spacious shed—where female tailors sewed uniforms and tents for soldiers.
Each tent was designed to accommodate ten soldiers and include a stove with ventilation hole.
These measures aimed to ensure soldiers' peak performance and minimize fatigue during marches, crucial given the gruelling battles awaiting them.
Blacksmiths additionally crafted field kitchens and cookware, employing chefs—a novelty in this world.
Typically, soldiers handled all tasks solo, camping exposed 90% of the time and lacking adequate culinary facilities.
Victor rejected this model, desiring his soldiers to achieve legendary-knight status. Recent upgrades to his Follower System kindled hopes of enhancing his soldiers collectively.
Integrating divine guidance, his legacy knowledge, and Earthly background, he pieced together clues.
Possession of such systems by anyone else would lead to misuse or fatal consequences.
Musing on this, Victor traversed frosted roads edged by snowfields ten centimeters thick, reassured by nature's cooperation.
He fretted less about seedlings succumbing to frost, focusing instead on his toilet-experiment results.
En route, he recalled the pigs he initiated breeding in summer. Concerned about inadequate nutrition, he diverted course to the castle's northern annex housing the pigpen.
Anticipating neglect, he spurred his horse faster, admiring steam billowing from its nostrils. Horses here amazed him; even ordinary breeds exhibited extraordinary resilience, capable of sustained rides while bearing armored riders.
Entering the pen, he detected its distinctive scent miles away.
Inspecting neat enclosures teeming with fattened pigs, Victor glowed with pride. Personally disliking pork, fried onions, and honey, he valued pigs' future role supplying meat to strengthen his soldiers.
Dismounting, he hastened to the pigkeeper's cottage. Knocking, he greeted a five-year-old boy fleeing back indoors.
Cheered by the child's healthy appearance—rare amidst poverty—he welcomed a change from gaunt faces.
Emerging behind the boy, a woman bowed deferentially, awaiting permission to rise. Unfamiliar with Victor, she presumed him a visiting dignitary, judging by his attire.
— How fareth your work? — he inquired.
— My lord, pigs devour immensely but yield rich yields, — she murmured, erroneously addressing him as a lesser figure.
Identifying himself corrected her error, inciting profuse apologies.
Errors in etiquette could cost serfs whippings or worse under tyrannical rule.
Ending the charade, Victor demanded a tour.
The woman, named Karra, diverged strikingly from fellow villagers. Her stout frame and cheerful features mirrored a tavern-maiden from Hitmor's inn, whom he hoped would eventually arrive.
Leading him to a bucket of pig feed, Victor reacted sharply.
— Impossible! You're mocking me! — he cried, kneeling beside the vessel, fingers trembling with excitement.
Karra, pallid and shaken, pleaded innocence.
— My lord, I swear! Provisions were supplied from Rivenhall; farmers claimed pigs relished it, though harmful to humans, — she tearfully explained.
— Cease weeping! You've rendered a tremendous service today, worthy of reward! — Victor exulted, discovering the contents: potatoes.
Viewing this windfall, he rejoiced. Divine intervention seemed imminent, delivering salvation.
"What difference does it make? Whether gods or fate, I must stockpile all the potatoes!"
Elated, he interrogated Karra about naming conventions.
— My lord, folks term it 'boarsbane', — she stammered nervously.
"Insanity! Henceforth, let's rename it potato."
Ecstatically shouting, he vaulted onto his horse.
Potatoes promised limitless food reserves, ensuring future generations forgot the word 'hunger'.
"This isn't just my domain—it's the continent-wide transformation! Imagine the industrial revolution, societal evolution, and modernization—but retaining magic, elves, dwarves, orcs, and countless races!"
Embracing these visions, he raced homeward, seeking his steward.
Spotted by Jinn, Victor conveyed urgent orders.
— Immediately distribute messages to all villages: the castle seeks 'boarsbane' at one copper coin per kilogram. Broadcast this to merchants, ensuring wide circulation! — jubilantly declaring, he mimicked ducal elevation.
Infected by enthusiasm, Jinn nodded assent.
Seated briefly, Victor remembered an impending crisis.
"Damn! The countess approaches! Where will I quarter them?"