This is the first ti Mai Lang Territory has implented a three-shift operation system since the start of spring plowing.
The days never stop, and neither do the nights.
Every village has its own work period, each linked in a chain, allowing no errors, like a misaligned gear in a precise machine, which could affect the entire schedule.
And behind this seemingly day-to-day labor is the earliest large-scale agricultural scheduling experint under the entire Red Tide system.
If Mai Lang succeeds, the future spring plowing across the Northern Territory could follow this model.
To ensure this grand spring plowing is truly implented, Louis also specially ordered the promotion of a brand new managent chanism.
Each village is assigned an agricultural record officer.
This is not an idle position but is specifically responsible for daily summary work in asuring, sowing, fertilizing, and shanty repairs.
All data will be compiled before nightfall and submitted to the General Affairs Hall for registration and archiving.
And outside the temporary Governnt Hall in the center of Mai Lang Territory, a large wooden bulletin board has also been erected, painted with striking red letters: "Cultivation Leaderboard."
The leaderboard is updated daily, densely recording the acres sown by each village that day, the progress of shanty repairs, fertilization, and irrigation, even "tardiness" is not overlooked.
Around lunchti is the most bustling ti for the cultivation leaderboard.
Every afternoon, record officers would replace the board in front of the General Affairs Hall with a new leaderboard.
Thick parchnt unfolds, displaying the latest sowing progress, acres plowed, and fertilization records, with village rankings clear at a glance.
"Hey! Our ’Village Five, Group Two’ made it! We’re ranked sixth!"
"Look here, look here, ’Village Three, Group One’ is still at the top! Three consecutive days as number one, incredible!"
Children chatter as they run around the leaderboard in circles, unable to understand the numbers, just listening to adults read them out loud.
But they also rember which column belongs to their village group.
Youths aged slightly older regard it as a leaderboard of achievents, standing taller when their fathers or brothers rank higher.
"My dad plowed ten acres today!"
"Heh, our ox pulling the plow doesn’t need steering, it can drift on its own!"
Nearby, a farm woman smiles and shakes her head, her eyes shining with pride, a pride that cos from the heart.
The older laborers, village chiefs, and settlent leaders often stand in front of the leaderboard, nodding to each other:
"Your settlent plowed six more acres today; I need to urge old Zhao on our side."
"No rush, our few plots here are on slopes, sowing is slow, but the canal construction is fast; we’ll catch up next week."
That drive to outdo each other wasn’t forced by orders but inspired by the tangible sense of honor invoked by the leaderboard.
And these honors are not just for good nas.
After the propaganda, villagers all know that by year-end, the General Affairs Hall will nominate an "Agricultural King" based on the annual data on the cultivation leaderboard.
This person not only gets the permanent cultivation rights to a whole acre of high-quality land but also receives grain as a reward.
People from families selected as the "Top Ten" could even receive material aid priority for the next season and be invited to join the village council, participating in policy-making as agricultural advisors.
Who wouldn’t be tempted?
"As long as our family strives this year, we can get that plot by the river next year!"
"I heard the Agricultural King’s land doesn’t even have to pay land tax; it truly becos your own land!"
Their mouths speak of land, grain, leaderboards, yet in their hearts, they understand that these are all given by that young lord in a white shirt, plowing and opening furrows.
Not charity, not pity, but a path, a selection system where "if you do well, you can stand tall."
An elderly person carrying tools stands before the board for a long ti, finally just murmuring: "Lord Louis... may he live a long life."
On this Northern Territory wasteland that has been overrun by snow disasters and pestilence countless tis, people understand for the first ti what it ans to earn their future with their own hands.
So, early the next morning, before the leaderboard could be updated, the villagers were already on their way.
Shoulder carrying, hand pushing, plow driving, spade swinging.
They toil not only for their als but also for a place on that leaderboard, for the pride on their families’ faces, and for that young lord, Louis Calvin, who never deceived them.
......
Several consecutive days of sunshine, sunlight filtering through thin clouds, spilling over the valley, as spring plowing progresses, fields in each village community start to take shape.
The whole Mai Lang Valley, viewed from a high place, is neatly divided like a chessboard, with each channel, field number, and shanty silhouette unfolding orderly under the carving of systems and sweat.
Louis walks slowly at the edge of a third village’s field, accompanied only by a record officer and an attendant.
On the ridge, a few young boys run with buckets, laughing, sounds of singing from female workers float from a distance in a shanty.
There are farrs rolling up their sleeves, turning the soil, fertilizing, and covering the ground with mbranes under the warm vapor in the fields, with traces of resilience and diligence on their brows.
He pauses, standing in front of a semi-transparent greenhouse.
Inside, steam rises, the ground finely tilled; the first batch of young wheat sprouts has quietly erged from the soil, tender green like jade, with slightly curled branches and veins.
"The temperature is well maintained."
Louis crouches down, lightly touching the soil beneath the greenhouse with his fingertips, feeling a slight warmth, soft yet dry, with good fertility.
The record officer reports softly: "Five tenth of the area has been tilled, seventy percent of the seedbeds are complete, and the stability rate of shanties has reached eighty percent. If there is no late spring cold spell, we can uniformly sow the second batch of main crops in five days."
Louis nods, his gaze sweeping across the bustling land.
Amidst those silhouettes, so are driving the ox to plow, so carrying manure buckets, an old farr leads his grandson carrying a hoe, explaining while gesturing, and a mother feeds water by the shanty, her child clings to seeds nearby, face full of seriousness.
He suddenly whispers: "...It’s a bit like when Red Tide Territory was first established."
Though this is only the beginning, and there will be more land, more people, perhaps more storms and snow in the future.
But at least this spring, he personally sowed the first batch of hope in the Northern Territory.
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