Chapter 341: Nagrand’s Autumn

For Vaughn, chieftain of the Broken Horn Clan, the changes in Nagrand were almost too much to process.

Even sixty li away from the city, he could already see rows of maple trees, their slender trunks lining the vast fields as natural barriers.

With autumn’s arrival, the leaves had begun to change color, turning shades of red and gold. Under the northern wind, they flickered like flames, adding a rare splash of vibrancy to the otherwise monotonous plains.

Vaughn had never seen such trees around the Icy Sea before. They typically grew on the far-off rolling bison plateau to the west. He had no idea how the people of Nagrand had managed to transplant them from hundreds of miles away and make them thrive here.

Though the trees were still relatively young, the sight of them stretching endlessly along the roads was enough to leave the tauren deeply impressed.

But what shocked them even more were the fields sheltered by these trees.

Nagrand had also sent priests to the Broken Horn Clan, teaching them how to dig deep wells, draw water, cultivate land, and plant what Nagrand called golden alfalfa—essentially a type of dragonroot grass. However, since the tauren stubbornly refused to convert to the Xuanyuan Church, the priests weren’t particularly enthusiastic in their efforts.

Moreover, tauren were never skilled in agriculture, nor did they truly believe in the crop’s yield. So, they simply followed the priests’ instructions, half-heartedly tilling the land, burying some selected golden alfalfa root stalks—or at best, scattering seeds—watering once, and then, as per tradition, migrating north to the tundra for food.

When they returned months later, much of the neglected golden alfalfa had died. But surprisingly, a great deal of it had flourished, bringing them an unexpected and bountiful harvest.

Beyond its lush leaves, the thick, starchy roots of the golden alfalfa became a delicacy for the Broken Horn Clan that autumn. This prompted Vaughn to travel to Nagrand himself, hoping to obtain more seeds and further guidance from the priests.

Yet, even before reaching the city, the sight of Nagrand’s fields left them utterly speechless.

The golden alfalfa they had haphazardly planted had already far surpassed ordinary dragonroot grass, delighting them immensely. But compared to the crops growing in these fields, theirs looked no different from the contrast between mousekin and tauren.

“They must have kept the best seeds for themselves!” This was the immediate thought among many young tauren accompanying Vaughn. “The ones they gave us clearly aren’t the same!”

How else could there be such a vast difference in growth, despite using the same land and the same crop?

If not for the patrol of hounds guiding them, they might have voiced their suspicions more openly.

The houndman leading them was particularly perceptive. Though the tauren spoke in hushed tones, he caught their words. Pretending not to notice, he casually pointed toward the middle of the fields and asked, “Chieftain Vaughn, do you see those mousekin?”

“What about them?” Vaughn replied.

The small figures were moving through the fields, carrying thin wooden planks and frames, their actions appearing quite strange.

“Those are small irrigation channels made by the mousekin. They elevate them with frames, connecting them together to draw water from the wells,” the houndman said, shaking his head. “I have to admit, I admire their dedication. Whenever the weather is clear, they’re out here every day, adjusting their wooden channels, making sure their fields get the right amount of water. Not only that, they also collect fertilizer, pick pests off the plants, and never rest for a moment.”

He glanced at the younger tauren, speaking with apparent indifference. “Even Lord Tagraedi praised their efforts. You see, whether a crop is cared for or left unattended, whether one puts in effort or neglects it, the results will always be different.”

Vaughn had no idea who Lord Tagraedi was, nor did he care, but he listened nonetheless.

Though some doubts lingered, the notion that they had been given inferior seeds had already begun to fade.

Not far from them, a group of mousekin emerged from beneath the tall golden alfalfa leaves. They warily glanced at the tauren before inspecting the plants, carefully plucking older leaves and excess growth that blocked sunlight. They bundled them up and carried them away.

“What are they doing?” Vaughn asked.

“Taking food back home,” the hound replied.

“They don’t eat the roots?”

“They probably don’t want to waste them. As long as the roots stay in the ground, the plants keep growing. Digging them up now would be a loss,” the houndman said. “They mostly eat insects, weeds, and harvested leaves. Otherwise, they rely on last year’s stored foliage. These little guys aren’t picky.”

Vaughn was curious about how last year’s stored leaves were still edible, but the houndman was just a patrolman—not someone involved in agriculture—so he had no answers. Vaughn kept his questions to himself and quickened his pace.

However, the journey was too long to finish in a single day, so they had to rest along the roadside for the night.

The rest area had been specially arranged with trees acting as windbreaks, providing shelter for setting up tents—far more comfortable than sleeping in the open plains. There was even a supply of dry branches and coal for making fire, as well as a well with a wooden bucket and rope for drawing water.

The tauren warriors praised these thoughtful details, but for Vaughn, they only deepened his unease.

He had seen coal before, in the northeast of the Icy Sea, but it had never occurred to him that it could be burned—let alone that it would be so much better than wood.

If Nagrand was transporting coal from such a distant place, then their reach and influence had already far exceeded any previous dominant clan in this land.

The houndman fetched fresh golden alfalfa leaves and thick root stalks for them from a nearby village. As for himself, he ate dried fish. Ever since the first fishing boats were launched, and with Wu Qingsong’s guidance on how to trawl with two vessels, fish had become the hounds’ staple food.

The Icy Sea was vast, untouched by large-scale fishing for centuries. Every haul yielded an abundant catch.

Mousekin could also eat fish, but they were only allowed to do so after attending the weekly sermon. As a result, their enthusiasm for attending services was higher than ever. Even elderly mousekin, unable to walk, insisted on being carried to the temple to claim their share.

Vaughn continued to observe the fields, confirming that, just as the hound had said, the mousekin were constantly working. They labored tirelessly until nightfall, disappearing from view only when darkness fully set in.

This convinced him—the effort they put into their crops was extraordinary. If, after all that, their harvest had been poor, then that would have been truly unfair.

But he could only sigh.

His people would never work as hard as the mousekin.

For the Broken Horn Clan, tilling the land, planting seeds, and watering once was already the absolute limit of what they were willing to do.