Chapter 552: Spring

The weather warmed, and the snow began to melt.

On the northwestern highlands, the ice and snow thawed into trickling streams. These streams converged into river channels, then split into several smaller branches in the lowlands south of the Great Timber Pass. Following the terrain, the waters flowed southeast. The network of waterways crisscrossing the lowlands near the pass irrigated a fertile stretch of land, making it one of the largest grain-producing areas on the Holy Spirit Plain. This also made it a strategic hotspot fiercely contested by the Eastern Rebellion and the Kingdom’s forces.

The flames of war had drawn dangerously close. Though briefly extinguished during winter, as the weather warmed, the shadow of conflict returned with the rising river waters to this land.

Sam, his hair streaked with gray, came with his children to the river’s upper reaches. The stones piled last year on the “Harvest Stone” still remained, though a few had been scattered—likely kicked aside by animals stopping to drink. Beneath the remaining stones, faint, roughly carved marks could still be seen—crude depictions of the sacred emblems of the Three Goddesses of Plenty.

Sam stepped forward, his expression almost reverent, and carefully cleared away the stones from the Harvest Stone. Then he took out some red ginger grass he carried with him, squeezed out its juice, and painted the emblems of the Three Goddesses with it. His two sons gathered new stones of suitable size from the nearby riverbank and placed them atop the flat surface of the Harvest Stone, stacking them into a small pile. Only after this was done did his youngest daughter approach and gently insert a tender green sprig into the center of the stone pile.

Sam bowed his head and murmured softly, “Goddess of Spring, you are the first messenger of the month of awakening. May the red ginger dye your skirts and guide you to this land…”

His children lowered their heads in unison, joining their father in prayer.

In human belief, the God of Plenty was composed of three distinct goddesses. The eldest was Gaia, the Earth Mother, also called the Goddess of Life and Mother of the Land. She ruled over the entire earth and all plants growing upon it. The Harvest Goddess, Eve, was Gaia’s younger sister, overseeing cultivated crops and protecting mortal harvests. The youngest and most lively was Flora, the Goddess of Spring.

The Ansu people believed that when the month of awakening arrived and the earth’s ice and snow melted, Flora would be the first to leave her palace, seeking signs that winter had ended. The red ginger grass would catch her attention, and the earliest green sprigs of the awakening month would delight her. She would remember the location of each green sprig, and upon returning to her palace at the end of spring, she would report all that had happened on earth to the Harvest Goddess—thus ensuring the farmers’ harvest for the year.

Almost all farmers worshipped the Three Goddesses of Plenty—even if they also followed the Holy Light or the Blood God, they never neglected the annual spring offerings to the Goddesses of Plenty.

But could simply gaining a few extra pounds of grain really guarantee their survival?

After the brief prayer, Sam lifted his head and exhaled softly as he watched the green sprig in the stone pile slowly crumble to dust and scatter in the wind. “The goddess has accepted our offering. This year’s harvest will not be poor.”

“Last year’s harvest wasn’t bad either, but we still went hungry,” his eldest son muttered quietly. “The goddess can only bless the harvest; she can’t stop us from starving.”

“Don’t speak nonsense in front of the gods!” Sam snapped, turning to glare at his son. “That’s because the noble lords are at war. Of course, we have to send grain to them!”

The two sons exchanged glances, then the younger one spoke up. “Father, I saw soldiers again today. They passed along the northern road, heading east.”

“That’s Count Sorin’s cavalry,” Sam said, shaking his head. Having been a farmer all his life, he dared not get involved with noble soldiers. “You didn’t provoke them, did you?”

“I stayed far away!” the younger son shook his head vigorously. “They’re scary—they all carry swords I’ve never seen before, wear armor I’ve never seen, ride tall horses, and look fierce as demons.”

“…The weather’s getting warmer by the day. Looks like the fighting’s about to start again.”

Sam muttered to himself. He understood what his son meant by unfamiliar swords and armor—just a few days ago, he’d seen a squad of knights pass north of the village, all clad in gear different from last year’s. Rumor had it these weapons and armor came from the south. Count Sorin seemed confident that these southern-forged arms would help him reclaim his lands and fortress. But for simple folk who scratched out a living in the fields, these things were hard to understand—and they had no interest in understanding them.

He only hoped the war would end soon, or at least stop dragging on here. Either the Kingdom’s army would drive out the Eastern rebels, or the Eastern rebels would push the Kingdom’s forces away. Who won or lost didn’t matter.

Last year, the Eastern army had advanced to the Great Timber Pass. Count Sorin tried to organize a defense and collected grain from nearby villages. But in the end, he failed to hold the pass, and the Eastern forces broke through.

Afterward, Prince Edmond didn’t seize grain but conscripted a third of the village’s able-bodied men to build roads. Several died out there.

Halfway through the roadwork, the Kingdom and the Holy Church’s forces counterattacked and drove the Eastern rebels out of the pass. But that wasn’t good news—Count Sorin then collected another round of grain to support the knights and priests of the Holy Church.

Last year had been a bumper harvest—unprecedentedly so—with every household gaining 20 to 30 percent more. Yet ten villagers starved to death, and eight died from exhaustion on the roads.

So it was no wonder his son dared speak so boldly before the gods.

“Let’s go home. Don’t stay out late, or you might run into water spirits or evil ghosts,” Sam shook his head, grabbing his tattered hat and pulling it down. “Too many have died recently. The wilds aren’t safe at night.”

His children followed his lead, walking along the smoother stone banks toward the village. The youngest daughter, trailing behind her two brothers, suddenly asked, “I heard John next door was drafted. The knight lord rewarded his family with two sacks of wheat, and they don’t have to pay taxes this year…”

“Don’t even think about it!” Sam snapped, turning to glare at her. “This is real war now. Soldiers have to fight the Eastern rebels to the death. One careless step and you’re dead out there—and with your two useless brothers, look at their skinny arms and legs. Do you think the knight lord would want them?”

The youngest daughter shrank back, too frightened to say another word.

Smoke rose ahead, and the wooden fence at the village entrance came into view.

A cavalryman rode a tall horse, clad in strange armor inscribed with runes, a black longsword hanging at his side. Seeing Sam and his children, the rider immediately cracked his whip and called out, “You lot, come here!”

Sam’s heart tightened.

More grain collection? Winter just ended… where would they find any grain at home?!

Still, he dared not delay. He hurried with his children to the cavalryman, stopping at a safe distance to avoid being kicked or whipped, and bowed deeply. “Knight lord.”

This was just a mounted soldier, fully armored but likely only a squad leader at best. He was certainly not a noble “knight lord.” But Sam knew better than to show that. Calling him “knight lord” was a way to curry favor with mounted soldiers—and if anyone questioned it, he could always claim ignorance and lack of manners.

The cavalryman seemed pleased, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He nodded approvingly, then pointed his whip at Sam’s two sons. “You have two sons?”

“Yes… yes,” Sam nodded repeatedly. “They’re honest, hardworking young men…”

“Honest and hardworking is what we want,” the cavalryman said, chin raised. “Pick one. Your son has been conscripted.”

“Ah… what?” Sam looked up in shock. After a moment of stunned silence, panic set in. “My lord, they can’t fight! Look at their arms and legs, and how they can barely stand straight. If they go to the battlefield, it won’t just be death—they won’t even be able to hold a weapon. They’d disgrace their lord!”

“Fight on the battlefield? They’re not for that,” the cavalryman snapped his whip impatiently. “They’re for work.”

Sam flinched at the whip’s crack but mustered courage to ask, “Work… what kind of work?”

“Road construction,” the cavalryman said loudly. “By order of the Regency Duke Victoria Vild, Bertram Franklin, and Prince of Wales, the Kingdom’s main road is to be repaired. Loyal Viscount Hancock has placed your family on the list. You must comply!”

With that, the cavalryman rode off.

It was the 15th day of the month of awakening—the traditional Ansu festival of Renewal. On this day, the Kingdom’s main road, abandoned for a century, finally began to be repaired.

Also on this day, after intense preparations, the “White Sand Mining Company,” led by Minister of Commerce Patrick, selected its first mining site in the Eastern White Sand Hills.

Young knight Belcrolden stood atop a high watchtower, watching the Cecilians busily working among the distant rocky hills. As the Eastern-Southern liaison and Prince Edmond’s appointed “representative,” the young man diligently fulfilled his duties, closely monitoring the Cecilians’ activities on this land. Observing the opening of their first mining site was naturally part of his job.

Belcrolden maintained a cautious trust—three parts suspicion to seven parts trust—toward the Cecilians from the southwest. He knew what the founding duke had done in the south: a man who destroyed the entire southern nobility by force within a year and stormed the Rock Fortress in three days could hardly be benevolent. He had sent the “White Sand Mining Company” here, ostensibly just for mining, but who knew if the Cecilians would infiltrate, gradually swallowing the land around the White Sand Hills?

After all, only a river and a small forest separated this place from the Grant territory on the Cecilian border.

Below the watchtower lay the temporary mining camp. The Cecilians had transported a large array of strange equipment through Grant, laid down magic nets, built prefabricated houses, and cleared a simple road. Though their tools and construction plans were unusual, so far, everything they had done was necessary preparation for mining.

“Marquis Belcrolden, I hope this mine satisfies your curiosity,” a voice spoke beside him. “There’s not much scenery to see in this barren wilderness.”

The man speaking was thin and dark-skinned, named Holm. Belk knew this young man—who didn’t even have a surname—was the head of the White Sand Mining Company, sent by Cecil as a “mining expert.” He couldn’t understand why someone of common birth would be put in charge of managing such a vast operation and commanding hundreds of workers, but he still nodded politely to Holm.

“I’m not here just to sightsee,” Belk said. “I came to inspect your mine. Please forgive my bluntness, but I must stress this: although you’ve been granted the mining rights, this land still belongs to the Eastern Territory. I am responsible for every inch of land beyond the mine itself.”

Holm nodded. “Of course, Marquis. We only mine. We have no interest in any land outside the mine and the roads.”

In the distance, the Cecil workers bustling among the rocky cliffs finally finished some kind of preparation. With a sharp whistle and a few clear flute notes, the miners in coarse work clothes suddenly sprinted far away from the cliffs, taking cover behind a cluster of huge boulders.

Belk stared in astonishment. In every mining method he knew, he had never seen anything like this. “What are they doing?”

Holm laughed—a radiant smile that this former slave laborer had never shown before. “Mining.”

On the far side of the mine, someone waved a bright flag from a high point. Then, all the miners near the cliffs covered their ears.

Belk’s curiosity deepened. “Mining?”

A deafening explosion thundered from afar.

Then another, and another, each crashing one after the other like rolling thunder.

The entire watchtower trembled slightly under the relentless barrage, the shockwaves far more terrifying than any fireball or earthquake spell. The massive rock face, which would have taken hundreds of men a whole month to carve through, suddenly collapsed with a thunderous roar.

Belk nearly drew his sword, ears ringing, when he heard the voice of the White Sand Mining Company’s head beside him:

“Yes, mining. We only mine, Marquis.”

(End of chapter)