Chapter 447 - 414: Golden Frenzy

Chapter 447: Chapter 414: Golden Frenzy

The end of July was scorched yellow by the blazing sun.

The cicadas buzzed themselves hoarse as heat waves rolled over every inch of land in the White Tower Territory.

But on the vast tidal flats reclaimed from the sea, another, even more fervent emotion was spreading.

CLANG.

A shovel struck hard earth.

The soil turned over.

A cluster of plump tubers, caked in moist soil, rolled out. Their skin was rough, dotted with grayish-white salt crystals, and each was the size of a grown man’s fist.

"We’ve got a crop!"

A farmer yelled at the top of his lungs.

That shout was like lighting a fuse.

The entire field erupted.

A middle-aged scribe in a mud-spattered robe stood on a ridge, holding one of the freshly dug "Sea Salt Potatoes." Its heavy weight settled into his palm, a weight more reassuring than gold.

"Can you really eat this stuff?"

A newly recruited refugee standing nearby swallowed hard, staring at the dusty clod of earth.

"Can you eat it?" The middle-aged scribe pushed up the monocle on his nose and snorted. He pinched the potato’s skin with a fingernail, and a pale yellow liquid seeped out. "This is a treasure that grows with seawater for fertilizer. Whether you boil it, roast it, or grind it into flour for cakes, it’s a hundred times better than that tooth-breaking rye bread."

He turned and waved at the young recorder behind him, who was holding a charcoal pencil and a sheet of parchment.

"Don’t just stand there. Weigh it."

A huge wooden balance scale was set up at the edge of the field.

Basket after basket of Sea Salt Potatoes were poured onto the weighing pan.

The counterweights kept being added.

The recorder’s hand trembled. His pen tip scratched across the parchment, and the final calculated number made him feel dizzy.

"The number," the middle-aged scribe’s voice was perfectly calm.

The recorder looked up, his voice trembling with relief.

"The yield per acre... is two hundred and ten pounds."

After a brief silence, a messy but heartfelt cheer erupted.

"We’re saved! We’re really going to live!"

"We’ve grown food on the seabed!"

Although this number was only two-thirds of the wheat yield from fertile inland farms, this was saline land from which the seawater had just been drained—what all farmers considered "dead land." To be able to grow anything edible here was already a blessing of immense grace to them all.

"Quiet!"

The scribe suddenly raised his voice, silencing the crowd. He looked at the laborers, who were smugly pleased with themselves for having saved their own skins, and shook his head.

"You think this is a reason to celebrate? Just because it grew on dead land?"

He closed his ledger and strode to higher ground.

"Two hundred pounds makes you this happy..."

He spun around, sweeping his arm toward the vast expanse behind him that was once the ocean.

"Lift your heads! Look at how many acres we truly have!"

Everyone instinctively followed his finger.

A series of massive dikes cut the former seabed into magnificent terraces, stretching from their feet to the horizon. And on those tiers of black earth that climbed toward the sky, lush green waves rippled in the wind.

It wasn’t a few acres, or even a few hundred.

It was a boundless sea of potato fields, enough to swallow the horizon!

Between the fields, heavy wheels rumbled over the dirt road to the city.

Carts, loaded with the dusty tubers, formed a long procession. The convoy, fragrant with the smell of earth, snaked like a dragon through the busy city gates, finally stopping at the place that held the entire city’s attention—the central square.

In the square, several huge iron cauldrons were set over bonfires. Oil roiled inside, making a SIZZLING sound.

It was the savory aroma of starch and hot oil, a scent that drifted on the wind and found its way into everyone’s nostrils.

Although the shadow of the plague had begun to lift, rumors from the outside world about a "food crisis" were growing more intense. The citizens, tormented by the fear of running out of food, were now gathered around the square, craning their necks to stare at the big cauldrons as if their last hope were cooking inside.

"Make way, make way! Don’t block the path!"

Several guards maintained order.

Velin stood on a high platform, looking down at the dense crowd below.

’Now that the situation had stabilized, rumors were spreading like wildfire that the territory was about to run out of food. This invisible panic was more destructive than the plague itself.’

’Words alone weren’t enough to dispel rumors.’

’Only a mountain of food could truly put people’s minds at ease.’

"An order from the Lord!" a herald shouted. "Today is a ’New Food Tasting,’ intended to crush the rumors of a famine! All registered citizens may receive a free portion by showing their identification tokens! We will show everyone that Minas Tirith does not lack food!"

No nonsense.

No long-winded speeches.

Just the most direct form of proof and provision.

Anton stood in line with his wife and daughter. He held a serving of freshly received french fries, golden and crisp, sprinkled with a little precious sea salt.

"Papa, these are hot."

His daughter, Lina, blew on one before taking a careful bite.

CRUNCH.

The crisp exterior shattered, and the soft interior melted on her tongue.

Lina’s eyes lit up.

"Yummy!"

Anton tried one too.

Calories.

Pure, substantial warmth slid down his throat and into his stomach, the feeling of fullness instantly dispelling the anxiety that had plagued him for days.

’We... we really won’t have to go hungry.’

Anton looked at the small paper bag in his hands, then at the mountains of Sea Salt Potatoes piled in the center of the square.

’As long as we have these...’

’Even if the plague rages outside, even if Hector blockades every trade route...’

’The White Tower Territory won’t fall!’

...

「Night fell.」

The revelry on the surface did not disturb the tranquility below ground.