Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 363

Chapter 363: The money of the land(1) Chapter 363: The money of the land(1) While, hundreds of kilometers away, men toiled in grim silence, stacking bodies into mass pyres-a monument to the night’s bloody harvest-the man for whom they fought, bled, and would, at least for many, willingly die engaged in a pursuit far removed from the grim realities of war.  Alpheo, the prince they revered, a man perched at the pinnacle of feudal hierarchy, was knelt upon the ground as if he were no different from a humble peasant.

His fine garments bore the smudges of earth, his fingers caked with soil as he worked with an unusual focus.

It was a strange sight -a man who commanded armies and carried the weight of a princedom upon his shoulders, crouching low and utterly absorbed, at looking while sniffing at the dirt upon his hand, checking to see how deep the worms were and how brown it was.

Among the members of the court, Alpheo was the most knowledgeable about agriculture-a strange claim to fame for a prince, perhaps, but one rooted in the peculiar circumstances of his origins.

He had spent the first fourteen years of his life in a remote small town nestled deep in the mountains of southern Italy.

It was a place as far removed from grandeur as one could imagine, where life revolved around the relentless grind of tilling rocky soil, raising livestock, and agriculture.

By every measure, Alpheo hated it.

If there was one thing he had no stomach for, it was backbreaking, repetitive labor.

He often felt like a misfit among his family, all of whom seemed resigned to their lot and well-suited to the demands of rural life.

Alpheo, on the other hand, found joy not in the sweat of toil but in the pages of books.

When he finally managed to enroll in university, it felt like stepping into a world where he truly belonged.

There, he excelled.

It was a golden time in his life, where any person he met was somehow cultured.

Still, just because he hated it didn’t mean he hadn’t learned anything from it.

In fact, it was precisely that lifestyle that had taught him the kind of practical knowledge that basically made him the richest man among the southern princes.

He knew how to make cider from a harvest of apples, distill potent alcohol, which of course were unfit for consumption, repurposed instead as a quick and effective disinfectant.

 Of course, it wasn’t practical for use across the entire army-producing enough to meet such a demand would require vast resources and an endless supply of ingredients.

For most situations, large cauldrons of boiling water served well enough for sanitization.

However, the alcohol found its purpose on the battlefield, reserved for those dire moments when wounded soldiers required immediate attention and couldn’t be transported back to the safety of the camp.  Alpheo stood outside the court, away from the polished marbles and gilded halls, immersed in one of his many side experiments.

His fingers sifted through the soil, assessing its fertility with an intentness that made even his close guard exchange bemused glances.

Behind him stood Captain Vrosk, the grim-faced leader of his personal guard, ever watchful, his hand never far from the hilt of his sword.

The quiet of the moment was broken by the arrival of a man.

He approached hesitantly, his steps slow and measured as though unsure if he should interrupt.

His simple attire and sun-weathered skin marked him as a farmer.

As he drew closer, he pulled off his straw hat and dropped to his knees, lowering his forehead to the ground in an exaggerated gesture of reverence.

Alpheo, sensing the presence, straightened from his crouch and glanced over his shoulder.

He rose, brushing dirt off his elaborately embroidered tunic, smearing it with streaks of brown without the faintest concern.

His hands, still dusted with soil, moved to wave the man upright.

“Rise, Baren,” Alpheo said, his tone as casual as though he were addressing an equal.

“There’s no need for all that groveling.

We talked about that last time.” Alpheo stretched his back and gestured casually to the farmer before speaking, his voice steady but laced with a trace of exasperation.

“I’m here to see the results of my little experiment,” he said, brushing the remaining dirt off his hands with a faint smile, “to see if this land is as cooperative as I was told.” Baren nodded enthusiastically, his eyes lighting up as though the prince’s mere presence were a divine gift.

“Of course, your grace!

We’ve been waiting for this day-blessed, truly blessed, to finally have your gaze upon our humble efforts.” He clutched his hat tighter, his voice trembling with reverence.

Alpheo sighed, a small, almost amused breath escaping his lips as he regarded the farmer with a raised eyebrow.

“No need for all the feet-licking” he said, waving off the man’s obsequious tone.

“Show me the results.

Lead the way.” Baren scrambled to his feet, bowing his head once more before turning to guide the prince.

Alpheo fell into step behind him, hands clasped loosely behind his back, while his guards followed close.

Baren was no one of note-a simple farmer like countless others, who had spent his days toiling under the sun and rain to coax life from the stubborn soil.

For years, he had known nothing else, working the same land his father had worked before him, harvesting just enough to see his family through the seasons.

His life was as predictable as the rising and setting of the sun-until last fall.

It was then that a pair of men from the court arrived in his village, their presence as out of place as a jewel in the dirt.

They sought him out , offering silver for a curious bargain.

The proposition was clear work his land, in the way they told him.

Baren had hesitated at first, but the glint of silver in their hands was undeniable.He accepted, nodding eagerly, even as a gnawing unease settled in the pit of his stomach.

What followed was unlike anything he could have imagined.

The instructions they left him with seemed…

strange, bordering on madness.

He was told to gather animal feces-piles of it-and spread it across the very fields that fed his family for generations.

It went against every instinct, every piece of wisdom handed down through his family.

Such acts, he had always believed, were the work of witches, curses meant to blight the land and ruin crops.

And yet, here he was, doing it with his own hands.

Baren had tried not to think too deeply about it, burying his doubts beneath the promise of coin.

After all, silver was silver, and the courtmen had assured him that whatever the result , the coin in his purse wouldn’t disappear.

Alpheo stood on the edge of the field.In his hand, he held the key to revolutionize agriculture itself.

The entirety of the agricultural output could increase by half, perhaps even double, if the techniques he was testing here bore fruit.

Alpheo thought back to his early years in that remote mountain town, where the soil was rocky and the crops stubborn.

One of the few things his town had to import from the city was fertilizer-expensive and yet effective His thoughts wandered to his grandfather, a man as stubborn as the soil they worked.

Unlike most of his neighbors, who had readily embraced chemical fertilizers, his grandfather had clung fiercely to the old ways.

“Chemicals poison the land,” the old man would say, his voice gruff but resolute.

Instead, he insisted on creating his own fertilizer, a process that fascinated and horrified young Alpheo in equal measure.

He remembered the pungent stench of compost heaps and the meticulous care his grandfather took in mixing organic matter to feed the soil.

“This is how you respect the land, boy,” his grandfather had said, “and the land will reward you.” Now, years later, standing as a prince rather than a farmer’s grandson, those memories seemed prophetic.

His grandfather’s methods, once dismissed as outdated and unnecessary, formed the foundation of what Alpheo was trying to implement on a national scale.  Baren cleared his throat awkwardly, shuffling his feet in the dirt as he adjusted the straw hat in his hands.

“Your Grace,” he began hesitantly, his voice tinged with deference, “we’re nearly there.

If I might ask… which one of the fields would you like to see first?” Alpheo, still lost in his thoughts about the potential of the land, glanced at Baren with a faint smile, brushing off some lingering dirt from his ornate sleeves.

“It’s all the same to me, no use playing favorites” he said with an air of nonchalance.

“Just point out the closest one.

That’ll do.” Baren nodded quickly, his movements a little too eager to please.

“Of course, Your Grace.

Right this way.” He turned, gesturing toward a path that wound gently downhill toward a field bordered by rough wooden fencing.

The field was green and lush, the crops swaying lightly in the breeze as though beckoning them closer.

Baren adjusted his pace to ensure he stayed ahead, glancing back every few steps to ensure Alpheo was following, ready to show his year’s work to the prince behind his new lifestyle.