Chapter 11: Scraping the Earth Bare
On the hillside, slaves hauled logs back and forth, laboring to construct Rhodes' manor.
He planned six wooden cabins in total: his own main residence, a dormitory for guards and servants, a guest house for Gunnar and his men, and two buildings for storage.
There were already three rooms within the original courtyard, but three more needed to be added—along with a cellar.
Under Lawrence's supervision, the slaves worked with unusual enthusiasm.
Not far away, in the open space outside the courtyard, a crowd of townspeople surrounded Otto. The noise rose and fell like boiling water.
They could not farm yet.
They could not forage.
They could not fish freely in the river.
Everyone in Frostleaf Town was idle—and anxious.
Even without much education, they understood one simple truth: if you sit and eat without producing, the bottom of the grain barrel will eventually appear.
When they heard that working would provide free breakfast and lunch, people rushed to sign up.
Reducing the household's grain consumption by half was far more appealing than earning abstract "work points."
As for whether the lord would ever return the grain he had collected in taxes—most didn't believe it.
Better to eat today.
"I'm stronger than your son!" shouted a burly farmer nearly six feet tall. "Why won't you take me?"
"You came too late," Otto replied carelessly. "We already have enough."
"That's unfair!"
"Of course your son got in first—you told him first!"
"He's shorter than the wall! If he can do it, so can I!"
"You've got plenty of grain yourself, Otto—don't hoard this chance!"
Voices rose in accusation.
Otto was no noble. Rhodes hadn't assigned guards to him this time, and the townspeople weren't afraid. Old grievances surfaced quickly.
To be fair, Otto had handled the matter poorly.
In this era, there were no written notices, no town criers trained in organization. Messages spread by word of mouth. Otto had told a few friends to pass along the order—but by the time it reached many households, the positions were filled.
The strongest men felt especially wronged.
As the shouting escalated and Otto's sons stepped forward aggressively, a fight seemed inevitable.
"What is this commotion?"
Durant's stern voice cut through the noise.
The crowd turned. Rhodes and Durant approached.
"Good day, my lord."
The townspeople bowed and stepped aside.
Rhodes looked at Otto coldly.
"You cannot manage such a small matter?"
Otto hurried forward and bowed deeply. "Forgive me, my lord. I did not expect so many to wish to serve you—"
"You mean my people hate me?"
"No! That's not what I meant—"
Rhodes ignored him and turned to the crowd.
"Do we have grievances between us?"
"No, my lord."
"No."
The answers came—but hesitantly.
"Then are you willing to work for me?"
"Yes!"
"Of course!"
"It's Otto blocking us!"
This time the response was loud and unified.
"Very well," Rhodes said calmly. "I need fifty strong men to till land, and ten women to cook. Same treatment as before."
Hands shot up instantly.
"Me!"
"I'm strong!"
"My cooking is the best!"
Rhodes raised a hand for silence.
"For digging and turning soil, select the strongest. For gathering leaves and brushwood, choose those quick on their feet and familiar with mountain paths."
He looked at Otto.
"Must I explain this to you?"
"No, my lord!"
"I will give you one more chance," Rhodes said quietly. "Fail again, and you will be punished."
He turned and walked away.
Behind him rose cheers:
"The lord is wise!"
"The lord is fair!"
Rhodes felt no pride.
These people were simple. A few meals and firm words were enough to redirect their anger—away from taxation and toward one another.
When he later bestowed further benefits, they would forget that he had taken sixty percent of their property.
In truth, the brutality of other nobles made him appear merciful by comparison.
---
The original farming method in Frostleaf Town was simple broadcasting—scattering seed across unprepared land.
In good years, one mu could yield around one hundred jin of rye. In poor years, fifty or sixty.
Pests, birds, and soil exhaustion all reduced output.
If crops were planted repeatedly without replenishing nutrients, the land turned barren.
Rhodes replaced broadcasting with structured cultivation.
After removing the poorest plots and applying fertilizer, irrigation, and weeding, he estimated yields could reach two hundred jin per mu.
By selecting the fullest and healthiest seeds, yields might climb to 250 or even 300 jin.
To achieve self-sufficiency, at least one thousand acres of high-quality farmland were required.
Thus, Rhodes decided to focus intensive cultivation on one thousand acres.
Other fields would still be planted—but without fertilizer.
He needed food reserves.
And he needed to fulfill the requirement for the next agricultural entry.
The problem remained fertilizer.
Even for one thousand acres, the required amount was staggering.
If manure was insufficient, everything organic would be used.
Withered grass.
Fallen leaves.
The humus-rich topsoil layer.
Before long, the entire town—children as young as ten, elders nearing sixty—joined the effort.
Frostleaf Town became a swarm of locusts, scraping the forest floor clean.
Rhodes even distributed all farm tools seized from the Goldsand Caravan.
The once vibrant forest now looked as though it were preparing for inspection—swept bare and stripped of debris.
During collection, the townspeople uncovered bird habitats. Piles of droppings were gathered eagerly.
Ponds and mud pits were dredged, layers of silt stripped away to reveal hardened soil beneath.
Rhodes almost regretted not having a swamp within his territory. That would have solved many problems.
According to knowledge granted by the system, he also ordered people to gather weathered granite fragments from valleys and river bends. These were crushed into fine powder and mixed into compost at a ratio of one hundred kilograms per ton.
Weathered granite contained potassium—far inferior to modern fertilizers, but still capable of improving soil quality.
While the townspeople collected materials, Rhodes personally supervised the first compost pits.
As soon as the cesspools were dug, composting began.
For this first batch, he remained on-site to instruct the process.
But as he stared at the thick yellow-black slurry slowly fermenting under layers of leaves and ash, Rhodes silently swore—
He would never mix it with his own hands again.
(End of Chapter)