Iron Harvest: When Farming Becomes Conquest

Chapter 38 - 38 9 Pacification

?38: Chapter 9: Pacification 38: Chapter 9: Pacification His gaze swept across the crowd, causing everyone to lower their heads in unison.

But not a single person retreated.

They were as stubborn as chunks of hard rock.

“Lord,” he began, “you have reclaimed all the lands, breaking all past agreements…

We have no idea how to survive now.

You should know that peasants cannot live without land, just as you and your knights cannot live without white bread.”

Roman was just as stubborn, “Henceforth, you need not pay any land taxes, you will have no worries about food and clothing, for I have the means to sustain you.

You only need to obey me!

That’s the only thing you need to do!”

The old farmer shook his head, “I cannot believe what you are saying.

How can you feed us all with just those two thousand acres?”

Roman frowned, “Can I not promise that no resident will starve, starting this year, next year, until the last day of my rule?

You would not believe that either?”

The old farmer at the forefront of the crowd considered and deliberated repeatedly.

Finally, he nodded, “Yes.”

Roman barked harshly, “You are questioning me!

You are destroying yourself!

Get out now, I pardon your impudence.”

“We cannot leave!

We know how much a single acre yields, and how much two thousand acres yield.

Lord, you had the blacksmith make heavy plows, but their effectiveness remains an unknown.

Those heavy plows cannot create miracles of All Gods.

Compared to that, we trust our own hands, to feed you, to feed us all—if only you would kindly grant us a means to survive.”

“Do you think I want you to starve?”

“No, Lord, certainly not.

You are willing to give us barley soup and bread, just a meal at noon each day and we wouldn’t need to eat for the rest of the day.

This demonstrates your kindness, and you even labor yourself—your cultivation skills surpass all of us, and even the slaves said they have never seen a lord like you…

But the total amount of food is limited, and sooner or later we will end up eating tree bark and dirt.”

The old farmer continued, “If all the food is consumed, you can leave this land anytime, but can all of us leave like you can?”

They had no choice; missing a season’s harvest meant they’d be starving for half a year.

The duration was despairing.

Even the Agricultural Officer Moor could not lend food to everyone.

Two thousand acres, feeding two thousand people?

Utterly unimaginable!

These lands alone could not sustain them.

This Lord, who was willing to give them barley soup and imposed no explicit taxes, only promised to distribute food after the summer harvest.

This meant they might end up with nothing.

This was scarier than a sixty percent tax!

Roman’s expression turned cold, “So you refuse to obey?”

The old farmer said, “Lord, we just want divided lands; you cannot trap us on those two thousand acres.”

“Even if I say these lands are sufficient to ensure you won’t starve?”

The old farmer shook his head, “That’s like saying we will never have to worry about food again.

I can’t imagine what that would be like.

My opposition stems from the unrealism of your promises.”

Roman said, “Very well, those who oppose me, step forward.”

The old farmer hesitated a second before moving forward.

Others moved as well, each taking a step.

Many did not move, behind Lord stood two knights, observing and secretly hoping in their hearts that the Lord would compromise.

But Roman would not compromise.

He knew changing traditional production methods would meet with resistance.

He had long been psychologically prepared.

Roman drew out the big sword mixed with mountain copper from Green, single-handedly spinning the two-handed greatsword that weighed over ten pounds.

The cold gleam of the blade was piercing, reflecting the dozens of deeply furrowed old faces.

Their ages were quite advanced, likely around forty or fifty, far more sensitive to land than anyone.

They wouldn’t make any changes, because they feared Roman’s actions would lead them into a dire situation, so they rallied the masses to beg Roman to distribute land.

Two thousand acres might sustain everyone, but it was an extremely unlikely event.

Not sustaining everyone was a highly likely event.

The old farmer opposed this, because he saw it not as a matter of probability, but a matter of a miracle.

Thus, as long as the old farmer lived, he would hinder Roman, always requesting land distribution—even if the cost of this request was their lives.

Stubborn?

Ignorant?

It could only be said that this was a choice few would make, believing themselves to be doing the right thing, their acts considered as pleading on behalf of the people, perhaps still harboring the fantasy that if one person stood up, countless others would follow, standing up against the tyrannical Lord.

But this kind of simple understanding only made Roman laugh.

Ignorance blinded their eyes, and no one was to blame.

Tragedy of the times!

Persuasion was futile.

The conflict of ideologies couldn’t be smoothed over with words.

Imprisonment was also useless.

The uprising had been quelled, but as long as these people were around, in a mere ten days or a fortnight, once the other fools were incited again, it would only delay more labor time.

Roman looked at him indifferently.

The old farmer’s body trembled, his lifelong skill in reading situations made him acutely aware of what was coming.

But he still managed to straighten his stooped back firmly in front of Roman.

Puff!

Roman lifted the big sword and pierced through his chest, the deep red blood flowing down the blade without much effort.

Then, Roman, with one stroke at a time, slaughtered all those who dared to defy him, those who stepped forward.

Those people didn’t put up much of a fight either, submissive like old cattle, at most letting out a cry of pain right before death.

Thirteen corpses blood-stained the land.

A dark-skinned young farmer squeezed out from the crowd, holding the old farmer who had died first, his face filled with sorrow, sobbing uncontrollably.

“What’s your name?” Roman squinted his eyes, looking at the young man in front of him.

Choking, he said, “Balrog, this is my father, Matthew.”

Holding the gradually cooling body, he had advised his father, but the latter was resolute, claiming someone had to stand up, even if only bloodshed lay ahead, they had to make their voices heard by the Lord.

Now he had succeeded, at the cost of life.

“Alright, Balrog, my One-Star Angel Envoy, I now promote you to Agricultural Manager.

From now on, you will work with Agricultural Officer Moor to cultivate that land, you have to for your father, to see a sight in the future he never dared to imagine in his life.”

“As long as you obey me, support me, adore me, offer up your humble lives for me, then I will protect you forever.

If in this year, next year, any year hence, until the last day of my reign, I let any of you starve to death, you can pull out this sword, and thrust it into my chest!”

Roman casually loosened his grip, and the blood-stained big sword fell freely, heavy and unmatched, the blade’s force piercing the grass like slicing through bamboo.