As the weather ward, spring plowing began.
Only a day had passed since the mobilization eting, and the sky above Wheat Wave Territory still drifted with scattered snowflakes. The frost from the night before hadn't fully lted, yet the entire valley was already bustling with activity.
The sound of assembly drums from each village rose and fell, and asuring ropes spread across the fields like a weaving net. Hamrs pounded continuously, and wooden stakes were driven into the soil one after another.
Everywhere there were busy figures, marking ropes, and shouting voices.
"Another foot north! The terrain there is higher, and drainage is better."
"Write down the number clearly. This is 'Village Three, Field Seven.' Don't forget to leave two steps of empty space for convenient canal construction."
The surveying team was composed of the Agricultural Affairs Officer, the village chiefs, and experienced old farrs familiar with the terrain.
They trod on wet mud, their faces showing the drive left by long periods of reconstruction. They spoke crisply and worked efficiently.
Notice boards were erected at the edge of the fields, displaying drawings and text: village boundaries, canal lines, field numbers, soil grades, and uses.
It was clear at a glance; although most villagers were illiterate, they could all understand it.
Each household also queued at the registration point to report their numbers, all of which had to be recorded in a ledger.
On the other side, the construction of large greenhouses also began at the sa ti.
Unlike other scattered camps that were still clearing land and turning soil shovel by shovel for spring plowing, the initial positioning of Mai Lang Valley destined it to be different.
This was the core hub of Red Tide Territory's "large-scale spring plowing strategy" and would be one of the largest grain-producing granaries in the entire Northern Region in the future.
Therefore, from the land demarcation onwards, every step was no longer a fragnted attempt but the beginning of an organized agricultural engineering project.
The valley possessed unique shallow geothermal resources; the continuous heat flow released from the underground rock veins was a natural warm bed.
That ant that as long as windbreaks were set up and drainage pipe networks were properly managed, the internal temperature of the greenhouses could be stably maintained at the temperature of a late autumn afternoon, which was already a miracle in the Northern Region.
Thus, the skeletons of the large greenhouses slowly rose in the morning light.
"Main beams, hurry up! Five-inch spacing, no deviation allowed!"
"Female worker team! Pull the covering film out three feet, and rember to nail it tightly in the direction of the wind; it's easy to tear if the wind is strong!"
The artisan team was responsible for erecting the main components, while the young adults from the villages assisted by delivering materials and fixing them.
Boys carried charcoal bags and fire bricks, while female workers, in the cold wind, climbed ladders to stretch the thick, translucent film.
Rows of white greenhouse roofs spread across the grayish-brown earth, like waves crashing towards the distant mountain shadows.
Beneath each greenhouse, a heated kang system was pre-laid, with geothermal conduits extending from the edge of the greenhouse inward, connecting to a central fire chamber. This was Red Tide Territory's original "geothermal heated bed" structure.
Thus, greenhouses rose one after another, and the translucent windbreak film shimred with a faint silver light under the sun,
like warm, feathered wings covering the land.
These structures, called "geothermal greenhouses," were not just simple shelters against wind and snow but fortresses that nurtured a whole season's hope.
"Now is the right ti to turn the soil," Mick said, bending down to touch the ground beneath his feet. "The heat pipes are operating normally, and the temperature is concentrated and stable, perfect for sowing."
As Red Tide Territory's Agricultural Affairs Officer, Mick was the most experienced and had the keenest eye.
He knew at a glance which plot should be planted with green wheat and which soil needed ash mixed in.
The situation in Wheat Wave Territory concerned the grain planting plan for the entire Northern Region. When Lord Louis decided to focus on this area, he imdiately transferred Mick from Red Tide Territory.
As soon as Mick spoke, the surrounding farrs breathed a sigh of relief and began to call for hoes and rakes to be moved into the greenhouses, preparing to start work.
Louis also nodded.
Only after the greenhouses were built could the geothermal pipelines be thoroughly tested to ensure no leaks or blockages. Only when the temperature was evenly delivered to the soil layer would the wheat seeds not freeze to death in the soil during the cold nights.
In addition, irrigation canals, wind direction, and slope drainage were all considered in the greenhouse planning.
Farming was not about rushing in and grabbing a hoe; it was a battle planned step by step.
"As you said, it's a good thing we didn't rush to plow first and then build the greenhouses. Otherwise, the tilled soil would have been trampled over and over again. Not only would it require rework, but it would also compact the loosened soil, preventing the seedling roots from taking hold," Mick remarked to Louis Calvin with admiration.
Louis Calvin nodded without speaking, his gaze calmly sweeping over the soft field soil beneath his feet.
A slight mist rose inside the greenhouse, and a wave of warmth enveloped them. The geothermal heat was connected, the boundaries were clear, and it was only waiting for the plowing to begin.
The morning mist in Wheat Wave Territory had not yet fully dispersed, and wisps of geothermal steam rose from the fields, rging into the golden light of the transparent greenhouse roofs, as if this nursery was enveloped by gentle light and cooking smoke.
This was a critical juncture for spring plowing. All the greenhouses in the territory had been completed, and the seedling soil layers were debugged.
Today was the day for "first plowing."
In front of the largest greenhouse in Wheat Wave Territory, village chiefs, nursery officials, artisan representatives, militia leaders, and old farrs from various villages had already lined up, dressed differently but all very serious.
The farrs outside had gathered early, silently watching the greenhouse entrance.
And just as everyone anticipated, Louis Calvin arrived. He had shed his black cloak, wearing only a simple white shirt with his sleeves rolled up, his steps steady and unhurried.
He said nothing, walking directly into the nursery greenhouse. The light from the greenhouse roof shone on him, like a straight beam of holy light descending, making him appear very sacred.
Two knights were slowly carrying a specially made iron plow into the greenhouse. The iron plowshare glead coldly under the light.
Two robust oxen with dark fur were already in position, their bodies bound with newly replaced plow iron rings, occasionally breathing in the silence.
Mick stepped forward and whispered, "Th-th-this is the first plow. The emphasis is on a 'steady start and a straight line.' It needs to be done by you, Lord Louis."
After speaking, he gently offered the reins, his eyes solemn: "How well this year begins for our Wheat Wave Territory depends entirely on this one act."
Louis Calvin took the reins. The mont the plow handle entered his hand, he took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, the cold breath dispersing into a light mist in the steam.
He looked at the untouched black soil ahead, as if seeing countless wheat waves, countless food supplies, and countless well-fed families.
"...Then let , start this year off right," he murmured.
The ox hooves moved, steady and powerful.
The iron plow slowly broke through the soil, turning over the thick layer of mud, and a straight, deep brown furrow unfolded.
Rising steam accompanied the turning plowshare, like warm mist erging from the depths of the earth, faintly visible under the golden light, remarkably resembling early sumr cooking smoke.
Louis Calvin held the plow, moving steadily forward, inch by inch.
A profound silence enveloped them. No one spoke, but every pair of eyes closely followed the furrow, watching it form from nothing to sothing, from intangible to tangible, as if witnessing a whole year of hope being planted in the soil.
Finally, soone started clapping.
Then applause ca from the village chiefs in the front row, quickly spreading to outside the greenhouse, to the crowd of curious villagers.
When the applause began, it was a feeling of reassurance that continuously spread among everyone.
Louis Calvin knew, of course, that this "first plowing" ceremony was rely a symbolic gesture. The actual spring plowing had already begun in an orderly fashion according to the plan.
He did not need to personally guide the plow; those precise scheduling tables, detailed procedures, and professional Agricultural Affairs Officers were the guarantees of efficiency.
But he also knew that so things could not be accomplished by efficiency alone.
The gazes fixed on him were not looking at a lord plowing the land, but searching for confidence, for evidence that their lives would improve.
The villagers' simplest hopes never ca from cold commands, but from seeing him personally complete the first plow of spring.
Louis Calvin slowly stopped, gently patted the ox's back, then turned to Mick, a relaxed smile on his face.
"The rest is up to you all."
Mick nodded heavily, an uncontrollable smile on his face.
The next morning, seedbed preparation work began first in all villages.
The fields had been frosty for many days. If seeds were sown rashly, they would freeze to death in the soil before sprouting.
Therefore, under the overall coordination of the Agricultural Affairs Departnt, each village began geothermal preheating tillage.
The tillage order strictly followed the priority of the geothermal pipe network distribution.
In all hot zones where geothermal operation was stable, labor was mobilized a day in advance to loosen the soil and expel cold. Shovels of turned earth still stead, and ice shards lightly cracked in the morning breeze.
Village chiefs patrolled, stepping on the warm mud, recording temperature differences, and preparing to draw a spring sowing heat map.
Following closely was the application of base fertilizer.
"The mixed compost is here, quick! One bucket of plant ash mixed with half a bucket of dried manure, average three buckets per ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) acre!"
Fertilizer teams moved through the field ridges. Every plot about to be sown needed at least a palm's depth of fertilized soil raked in.
For barren plots, special additions of Krall powder and fish bone powder transported from Red Tide were required to supplent trace elents.
The water used for fertilizing was also carefully chosen.
The geothermal water drawn from the well was warm and suitable. Sprinkling it not only helped the fertilizer decompose but also further softened the frozen soil.
Each village has a fertilization log, ticulously recording how many buckets were applied, how many tis it was watered, and everything else.
The General Affairs Office dispatches people daily to verify if the "acreage and applied amount" match, and even a difference of one peck will result in a negative mark.
anwhile, the greenhouses, which simultaneously turn soil, fertilize, and cultivate seedlings, operate ceaselessly day and night.
The seeds for green wheat and potatoes had already entered the germination phase ten days prior, guarded in shifts by the Agricultural Affairs Officer and female workers, with temperature and humidity checked every two hours, making the air inside the sheds feel like a steaming hot spring.
The seed distribution system is also exceptionally strict.
Each village must register uniformly on a designated day, and the Agricultural Affairs Office personally dispatches people for distribution.
"Press your handprint, confirm with your signature."
"The village chief must personally supervise, and there will be random checks tomorrow."
"Those who resell will have their cultivation qualifications revoked and be permanently expelled from Wheat Wave Territory."
These are ironclad rules, and no one dares to violate them.
From seeds to soil, from heat to fertilizer, everything seems to have been pulled into a precise set of gears.
Slowly and steadily turning, it laid the most solid foundation for the entire Wheat Wave Territory's spring plowing.
Every field, every shed, every village found its proper place in this operation.
And the first sounds to break the silence each day were the gongs and assembly whistles from each village.
As soon as dawn broke, and before the thin mist in the fields had fully dissipated, the first batch of main laborers from the morning plowing villages were already setting off, hoes on shoulders, pushing plows, treading on the newly thawed ground.
Their task was the most arduous yet crucial: large-scale soil turning, fertilizing, and sowing, setting the pace for an entire day of spring plowing in one go.
Following this, as the midday sun shone down, the able-bodied youth, female workers, and teenagers from the midday plowing villages set out.
They were responsible for repairing sheds, checking ground film, and ticulous work on the seedbeds.
"The angle of the film on the sixth shed is wrong; wind will get in!"
"The heat from the heated kang is too far west; it needs to be adjusted by an inch!"
On the seedbeds, steam rose, and technical workers and seedling cultivation officers held record sheets, checking every detail in shifts.
When the sun set, it was the night plowing villages' turn to take over.
Militian and village guards changed into short armor, carrying lanterns, patrolling irrigation canals, greenhouses, and material piles in the increasingly cold night.
The light revealed the faint steam within the greenhouses, and footsteps, dripping water, and occasional soft whispers and laughter intertwined in the silence.
This was the first ti Wheat Wave Territory implented a three-shift work system since the start of spring plowing.
Unceasing by day, relentless by night.
Each village had its own work period, and each period was interconnected, allowing no room for error; like a single misplaced gear in a precise chanism, it could affect the entire progress.
And behind this seemingly day-to-day labor was the earliest large-scale agricultural dispatch experint within the entire Red Tide system.
If Mai Lang succeeds, then the entire Northern Territory's spring plowing in the future can follow this model.
To ensure this grand spring plowing truly took effect, Louis also specifically ordered the implentation of a completely new managent chanism.
Each village was assigned a Cultivation Record Officer.
This was not an easy job; it was specifically responsible for the daily compilation of tasks such as asuring, sowing, fertilizing, and shed repair.
All data would be organized before nightfall and submitted to the General Affairs Office for registration and archiving.
Outside the temporary administrative office in the central area of Wheat Wave Territory, a large wooden billboard was also erected, painted with striking red characters: "Cultivation Ranking."
The list was updated daily, densely recording each village's acreage sown that day, shed repair progress, fertilization and irrigation status, and even a "late once" would not be missed.
Around lunchti was the busiest ti for the Cultivation Ranking.
Every afternoon, the large wooden board in front of the General Affairs Office would be updated with a new list by the record officer.
Large pieces of parchnt would be unfurled, displaying the latest sowing progress, acres tilled, and fertilization records.
The rankings between villages were clear at a glance.
"Hey! Our 'Fifth Village, Second Group' has moved up! We're in sixth place!"
"Look here, look here, 'Third Village, First Group' is still at the top, first place for three days straight, they're too fierce!"
Children chirped and ran circles around the list; those who couldn't read numbers listened to the adults read them.
But they rembered which column belonged to their own village group.
Older teenagers treated it like a battle record; whose father or brother was higher up, they walked with their chests puffed out when they went ho for dinner.
"My dad tilled ten acres today!"
"Hmph, our ox can pull the plow without being driven, it can drift by itself!"
The peasant won nearby smiled and shook their heads, yet their eyes glead with a deep-seated pride.
Older laborers, village chiefs, and hamlet chiefs often stood before the list, nodding to each other in greeting:
"Your hamlet tilled another six acres today; I need to urge old Jack on our side."
"Don't worry, these few plots of ours are sloped, so sowing is slower, but the irrigation canals are being repaired quickly, we'll catch up next week."
That competitive spirit wasn't forced by orders, but rather a visible sense of honor evoked by the list itself.
And these honors were not just empty titles.
Through publicity, the villagers all knew that at the end of each year, the General Affairs Office would evaluate the full year's data from the Cultivation Ranking.
A "Cultivation King" would be chosen.
This person would not only receive permanent cultivation rights to a full acre of high-quality land but would also receive grain as a reward.
And households selected as "Excellent Households" would receive priority for material subsidies in the next cycle, and even be invited to join the village council as agricultural advisors to participate in policy formulation.
Who wouldn't be tempted?
"If our family works hard this year, we'll be able to get that plot by the river next year!"
"I heard the Cultivation King's land doesn't even pay land tax; it truly becos their own land!"
They spoke of land, grain, and rankings, but in their hearts, they all knew that these were given by the young lord who wore a shirt and guided the plow to furrow the land.
It wasn't charity, it wasn't pity; it was a path, a selection, a system of "if you do well, you can stand firm."
An old man, carrying his tools, stood before the list for a long ti, finally just muttering, "Lord Louis—may he live a long life."
In this barren land of the Northern Territory, which had been ravaged by snow disasters and insect plagues multiple tis, people for the first ti understood what it ant to fight for a future with their own hands.
So, on the second morning, before the list was updated, the villagers set out again.
Shoulder-carrying, hand-pushing, plow-driving, shovel-swinging.
They were not only working for their livelihoods but also for their place on that list, for the honor of their families, and for the young lord who had never deceived them—Louis Calvin.
Several days of clear weather, with sunlight filtering through thin clouds onto the valley, and as spring plowing progressed, the fields of various villages began to take shape.
The entire Mai Lang Valley, when viewed from above, was neatly divided like a chessboard; every irrigation line, every field number, every shed shadow, all unfolded orderly under the carving of system and sweat.
Louis walked slowly along a field in the Third Village, accompanied only by a record keeper and an attendant.
On the field ridges, several teenagers ran with buckets, their laughter constant, and from further away, won's songs drifted from under the sheds.
There were also farrs with sleeves rolled up, turning soil, fertilizing, and covering with film in the warm, steaming furrows, their brows marked by the elents and a sense of groundedness.
He paused, stopping in front of a translucent large shed.
Inside the shed, steam rose, the ground was finely tilled, and the first batch of green wheat seedlings could faintly be seen pushing through the soil, tender green like jade, with slightly curled veins.
"The temperature is well maintained."
Louis knelt down, his fingertips lightly touching the soil beneath the shed; it was slightly warm, soft but not wet, and the fertility was good.
The record keeper reported softly beside him, "Currently, we have completed 50% of the area's plowing, 70% of the seedbeds, and the shed stability rate has reached 80%. If there is no late spring cold, we can begin unified sowing of the second batch of staple crops in five days."
Louis nodded, his gaze sweeping across the entire busy land.
Among the figures, so were driving oxen to plow, so carried manure buckets on their shoulders, an old farr led his grandson, carrying a hoe, explaining and gesturing, and mothers fed water by the sheds, while children held seeds, watching intently.
He suddenly whispered, "...It's a bit like the year Red Tide Territory was just established."
Although this was just the beginning, there would be more land, more people, and perhaps more wind 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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