The morning sun climbed slowly above the distant hills.Thin beams of gold cut through the lingering chill as faint puffs of breath escaped from every villager's mouth, beginning another day's labor.
Today, I was to join my father in the fields.
Lina skipped ahead, her light steps raising tiny clouds of dust as she joined a group of children gathering near the well.Erwin walked beside me in silence, a bundle of tools slung over his shoulder.
The farmland spread just beyond the village's edge.No fences, no proper divisions—only open strips of land, where each family tended their small portion.
The fields were crude.Uneven rows.Poorly turned soil.Shallow drainage, almost nonexistent.The harvests they produced were barely enough—fragile against the whims of nature.
My eyes studied everything carefully, layering what I saw with what I remembered from my previous life.
The soil here is decent.They could rotate crops. Use cover crops. Compost properly. But they don't.They plant the same grain year after year. No proper fertilization. No irrigation beyond the mercy of rain.
Father noticed my gaze lingering.
"You're thinking hard again, son," Erwin said, glancing at me.
I blinked, pulling myself from my internal analysis.
"Just... observing," I answered carefully."It seems like a lot of work for not much return."
He chuckled—a deep, warm sound.
"That's farming, Torren," he said with a tired smile. "Always more labor than harvest. We thank the gods when there's enough to survive the winter."
I nodded quietly, pretending to accept his explanation like any boy would.
But inside, my mind kept turning.
There's so much waste here. So many simple changes that could double their yields… if only they knew.
Yet I couldn't simply say such things aloud.Not now.Not yet.
As we worked the soil, I observed every tool with care.
Wooden plows with crude iron heads, pulled by a pair of thin, tired oxen.No understanding of blade angles, depth control, or proper furrowing.The seeds were scattered almost by hand, uneven and shallow.
Even the way Father swung his hoe wasted strength.More effort than necessary.Generations of tradition passed down without ever questioning why.
At midday, we paused under a small tree at the edge of the fields.
Father handed me a piece of hard bread and some cheese.We ate in silence, the wind rustling softly through distant trees.
After a while, he spoke again.
"You've been... different lately," he said quietly.
I looked at him, cautious.
"Different?"
He smiled gently, not unkindly.
"More thoughtful. More serious. Like something inside you shifted after your birthday."
I lowered my gaze, choosing my words carefully.
"Maybe... I've just started paying more attention."
He laughed softly, patting my shoulder.
"That's not a bad thing, Torren. A man should learn to see the world around him."
I returned the smile, though my stomach tightened inside.
If only he knew just how much I was seeing.
As we gathered the tools, my eyes swept across the fields once more.
The children were still playing in the distance, running and laughing across the grass.But I noticed Laris wasn't with them.
Further away, she sat alone under a tree, drawing something into the dirt with a stick.Her head was lowered, focused on whatever she was scribbling.
I glanced for a moment, then returned to my task.
It wasn't uncommon for children to wander off at times.There were more pressing matters in my mind.
As the sun dipped low, painting the sky in soft amber, I carried the tools back home.
One day at a time, I would learn this world.Understand it.And, perhaps in time—Shape it.