Darren stood in the small bakery, the warm, sweet air a stark contrast to the world outside. Martha, the baker, was practically beaming as she served a line of eager villagers, her coin pouch growing steadily heavier. The success was undeniable, a small island of prosperity in a sea of subsistence. Yet, for Darren, it felt like a gilded cage. His baking enterprise, as profitable as it was, relied entirely on the meagre resources of the village. He was limited by the flour he could buy, the fruits he could procure, and the palates he could sell to. The truth of his situation was a hard, unyielding wall: the village economy was a closed loop.
The only break in this monotonous cycle was the quarterly arrival of a merchant caravan. These traders were the sole artery connecting this forgotten hamlet to the wider world, bringing exotic goods and carrying away whatever meagre surplus the village produced. But that was a rare event, a brief festival of exchange in a long season of insularity. The primary reason for this isolation was fear. The roads to other towns were long and fraught with peril; tales of savage beasts and ruthless bandits were enough to keep most folk tethered to their homes. To truly grow, to effect the kind of change he envisioned, Darren knew he couldn't just create a successful business within the village—he had to find a way to break it open.
An even more pressing concern was his own body. Kael's frail constitution was a constant, frustrating anchor. He now understood that it wasn't just bad luck; it was a product of this environment. The food, even at its best, was for survival, not vitality. The unappetizing porridge and watery soups offered little in the way of true nutrition. The water, drawn from a central well, was of questionable purity, and the local remedies, administered by the village herbalist, seemed more grounded in tradition than efficacy. His own persistent weakness, the general weariness he saw in the eyes of the villagers, the frequent coughs among the other children—it all traced back to a fundamental lack of proper health and hygiene. He had the knowledge to fix it, but knowledge was useless without application.
He decided to begin where he had first found success: the earth. His small, experimental garden had been a triumph, but it was time to scale up. Baking was profitable, but true, sustainable wealth and health came from the land. He would expand his agricultural operations, starting with the orphanage's own communal garden.
For several days, he used a portion of his baking earnings to wander the village, purchasing what seeds he could find. He traded with villagers, offering a few copper coins for a handful of seeds from a particularly robust-looking plant in their garden. He collected seeds from the wilder edges of the village, carefully identifying edible plants with the AI's help. Lily, his first and most loyal convert, was his constant companion. Her genuine enthusiasm and physical strength were a perfect complement to his knowledge and frail body.
"What are we planting so much of this for?" Lily asked one afternoon, her hands dusty from sorting wheat grains. "We have so many other vegetables."
"This is wheat," Darren explained, holding up a single grain. "We can make porridge with it, but more importantly, we can grind it into flour. The best flour. The kind that makes the best bread." The kind that would make him independent of the village's inconsistent supply.
Planting was the simple part. The harvest, he knew, would be an immense undertaking, requiring far more hands than just his and Lily's. He needed a workforce.
He approached Sister Marta that evening, finding her mending a child's tunic by the fading light. He laid out his proposal carefully, his voice steady despite the nerves churning in his gut. He asked for permission to take over the management of the entire communal garden, promising to improve its yield and provide more than enough food for the orphanage.
Sister Marta's needle paused mid-stitch. She looked at him, her expression a mixture of pride and apprehension. "Kael, what you did with your little plot was wonderful, a true blessing. But the main garden… that is the food for all twenty children. If it fails, we will all go hungry this winter."
"It won't fail," Darren said with a confidence he didn't entirely feel. "I know what I'm doing. We can grow more food, and better food, than ever before."
"He'll ruin it," a sharp voice cut in from the doorway. Sister Agnes stood there, her arms crossed, her face a mask of disapproval. "You saw him, Marta. He collapsed after a few hours of simple weeding. Now you want to put our entire food supply in his hands? It's foolishness. He will only cause problems." [cite: 269-270]
[cite_start]"Agnes, his vegetables sold for a good price at the market," Sister Marta countered, though her voice lacked conviction.
"That was a small patch of luck! Not a plan for survival!"
"I will help him," Darren insisted, turning to face the sterner of the two sisters. "I will guide the other children. I won't be doing the heavy work myself, I'll be directing it. Please, just give me a chance."
Sister Marta looked from Darren's earnest face to Sister Agnes's stony glare. She sighed, a deep, weary sound. "Very well, Kael. You may try. But I will be watching over the work myself to ensure everything is done properly."
Sister Agnes let out a frustrated huff but said no more, turning and disappearing back into the main room.
The next morning, Darren stood before the assembled orphans in the communal garden. It was a scraggly, disorganized plot. He began by issuing his first order. "Everything that looks sick or weak, we're pulling it out."
He directed them to a shallow pit he had dug nearby. "Put it all in here. It will break down and become food for the new plants."
Next, he had the children, under his specific instructions, re-work the entire plot. Using sticks and string, they created a precise grid. "We're not just throwing seeds in the ground," he explained. "Every plant needs its own space to grow." They planted wheat, corn, tomatoes, onions, and even a small section for grape vines and apple saplings he had purchased at a premium. The first day was a success, a flurry of organized activity that left the garden looking orderly and purposeful for the first time.
On the second day, after the last of the seeds were in the ground, Darren approached the dreaded toilet pits. He took a deep breath. "Alright, now for the most important part."
He explained his intention to use the human waste from the pits as fertilizer.
The reaction was immediate and universal. The children stared at him, their faces a mixture of shock and disgust.
"You want us to touch… that?" one of the older boys exclaimed, wrinkling his nose.
"It's unclean!" another girl cried out.
They all refused, backing away from the pits as if he'd asked them to handle poison.
"It's the best way to get the best produce!" Darren argued, his frustration mounting. "It's how I made my own plants grow so well!"
Sister Marta, who had been observing from the edge of the garden, walked over, her expression deeply skeptical. "Kael, are you certain about this? It doesn't seem… right."
"I am absolutely certain," Darren said, looking her in the eye. "This is the secret. It's what will make the difference between a small harvest and a great one."
She hesitated, her gaze drifting from Darren's unwavering face to the disgusted looks of the children, and then to the foul-smelling pits. She seemed to weigh her deep-seated revulsion against the memory of the incredible vegetables he had produced before. With a grimace and a heavy sigh, she picked up a shovel. "Then we shall do it."
While the other children watched from a safe distance, their faces pale, Darren and Sister Marta spent the next hour carefully layering the nutrient-rich fertilizer over their newly planted garden. It was foul, unpleasant work, but as he toiled, Darren felt a grim sense of satisfaction. This was a necessary step.
With the garden project underway, Darren turned his attention to his other goal: medicine. Later that afternoon, after washing thoroughly, he walked to the edge of the village and up a small, winding path on a hill. There, set away from the other houses, was a hut with smoke curling from a chimney and various herbs hanging from the eaves to dry. This was the home of Maida, the village herbalist.
He found her outside, grinding something in a stone mortar. She was a woman in her fifties, her face lined with the wisdom of her years, her hands stained with the colours of various plants. Playing nearby with a collection of smooth stones was a young girl, perhaps a year or two older than Kael's body, with bright, curious eyes and Maida's same dark hair. This must be her granddaughter.
"Good day," Darren said, his voice polite.
Maida looked up, her gaze sharp and assessing. "And to you, child. You are one of the orphans, are you not? Kael?"
"Yes, ma'am," Darren replied. He took a steadying breath. "I came to ask if… if I might become your apprentice."
The grinding stopped. Maida stared at him, her expression shifting from mild curiosity to genuine surprise. Even the granddaughter paused her game to look at him. "My apprentice?" she repeated, a hint of disbelief in her tone. "Why on earth would a boy like you want to learn the herbalist's trade? It is a quiet craft. Most find it dull. The boys, they would rather hunt or learn to smith."
Darren had prepared his answer. He gestured to his own small frame. "As you can see, I am not strong. The kind of work other boys do, the heavy labor, my body is not suited for it." He looked at her with all the earnestness he could muster. "Medicine interests me. It heals people. It makes them strong. I have been frail my entire life," he said, channeling a truth that was both Kael's and his own in a strange way. "I wish to learn so that I might find a way to cure myself, and to help others. And," he added, pulling out a small cloth pouch from his pocket, "I can pay for your lessons."
The sight of the coins, a tangible promise of payment, made Maida's eyebrows rise. She looked from the money to the small, serious boy standing before her, a boy who spoke of healing and weakness with a gravity that seemed far beyond his years. Her skepticism remained, but it was now tinged with a flicker of intrigue.