The 20th day of summer.
Like dawn, Evangelin’s calm tone opened the day.
The morning meal, etched with a sense of something special, was splendid.
As usual, I stepped outside, but the landscape before me was very different from yesterday.
10 days.
Slowly growing, life being woven, and finally bearing fruit until…
The day to reap the harvest had arrived.
Summer’s first harvest.
Ironically harvesting the first crop on the 20th day, but since the first spade went into the ground on the 10th day, there was nothing to be done.
Thanks to various help, the growth period was shortened by about 2-3 days, resulting in a bountiful array of crops that ripened right around 10-11 days.
Harvesting these lush growths creates empty land, which is then filled with seeds.
Again, crops grow, and empty land appears.
A routine of harvesting and sowing throughout the summer has been established.
Rainbow mango, red emperor mango.
Seedless watermelon.
Flat peach, yellow peach, white peach.
Sticky corn, super sweet corn.
Shine muscat.
Cherry tomato.
10 types of summer crops.
Judging by price, the seedless watermelon was the most expensive.
By efficiency, mangoes provided the best profitability.
After making rounds through the greenhouse, just as I was finishing up the morning…
A dazzling procession of golden carriages arrived at the front of the house.
Knights clad in silver armor.
Neatly dressed drivers.
An official in gold-plated regalia stepped down from the golden carriage—someone who clearly came from the Royal Palace.
*
“Are you the farmer who contracted with the princess?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“As promised. I’ve come to honor our agreement.”
Gasman Garim.
The person handling this transaction wasn’t the one originally assigned but someone else sent out of curiosity.
What strange alchemy had this farmer used to create a short-lived trend among the nobility?
A leading luxury item, awakening the pleasure of cuisine.
To meet the creator of such marvels, the designated handler had swapped places and personally traveled here.
Whether by chance or design…
Had the crops played a major role?
Or was it the farmer’s ability fully unleashed?
For the sake of verifying facts and satisfying curiosity, they’d personally descended to the countryside.
Before Gasman stood a sharp and handsome man—not someone meant to linger in the country.
With a bit more grooming, he could easily pass for the offspring of a noble household. It was hard to see the simplicity of a rural farmer in such striking features.
At first glance, the calluses on his hands and the short muscles peeking through his clothes suggested some physical labor. However, it was difficult to call these traits those of a farmer.
“Do you want me to hand over the supplies directly?”
“The knights will move the prepared supplies.”
“They’re in a magic bag. If you tell me the location, I’ll handle the transfer.”
“Climb onto the back of the carriage. Two knights will count the items beside you.”
He understands etiquette—or rather, knows how to maintain decorum.
Unlike an ignorant farmer, there was a certain politeness in his speech and an air of knowing how to match the solemn atmosphere.
It seemed like something ingrained in him, not something learned in a single meeting with the princess.
Perhaps he was the offspring of a learned household—or someone accustomed to such manners.
Subtly evaluating the farmer without drawing attention…
Indeed, this was no ordinary farmer.
After all, it was already abnormal for a mere farmer to lead culinary trends with just melons and strawberries—something even a noble might find difficult.
As the farmer ascended the carriage to unload the goods, the fact that he possessed a magic bag already set him apart.
The knights’ expressions brightened slightly—a reduction in labor that was easy enough to understand.
The sum was 8 million gold.
The farmer’s face slowly lit up.
If word got out about earning such a fortune, one would need the ability to protect it.
Bandits and thieves—did this farmer have the strength to defend himself against them?
Curiosity bubbled up.
Of course, that wasn’t Gasman’s concern. If the farmer met an untimely end, that was simply his fate.
Being crushed under the weight of self-invited misfortune meant his destiny wasn’t strong enough to bear it.
There was no reason to confront someone with such small destiny.
“Is there anything you wish to say?”
“I’ve grown a few summer crops. Would it be possible to offer them as tribute?”
Oh ho.
Gasman’s eyes gleamed momentarily.
Offering tribute to the royal family wasn’t something seen often. Did this farmer truly understand the weight behind the term “tribute”?
Submitting to the royal court—it was a form of promotion, creating a brand effect.
Success brought great rewards, but failure carried equally large repercussions.
“Tribute…”
Gasman was absolutely sure the farmer didn’t grasp the full implications when he made this suggestion.
Having partially understood the hidden meaning, did he lack the ability to retract his words?
Gasman halted his movement to board the carriage, approached the farmer, locked eyes, and spoke in a low, cold voice.
“Are you confident?”
“Huh?”
“Things offered to the royal court typically go through competition. While some do so with pure intentions, most don’t.”
No change in the farmer’s expression.
Was this confidence or recklessness born of ignorance?
“If you fail the competition, you’ll be regarded as inferior. You’ll be discarded. All your achievements, possibilities, everything—you risk forgetting them entirely. Are you confident?”
“So, only after my tribute wins the competition does it officially become an offering?”
“That’s correct.”
“I’m confident.”
“Hmph.”
Surprising.
Gasman couldn’t help but smile faintly.
“A decisive answer pleases me. If you’re confident, I’ll gladly take it. Restricting choices is my small measure of conscience, but making the choice is always the individual’s responsibility.”
“I’ll offer ten tributes.”
“Ho? Ten. Remember, if even one falls short, the value of the entire set diminishes. If you’re resolved, load them onto the back of the carriage.”
“Understood.”
No hesitation.
Indeed.
Would he display the same attitude before the princess?
Bold, brimming with confidence, young, and energetic.
Was this reckless bravado stemming from ignorance?
Or genuine confidence built from experience?
Secretly, Gasman hoped for the latter.
Witnessing an ownerless star bloom brilliantly with talent was always entertaining.
“My name is Garim Gasman.”
“Ah…my name is…”
“That’s enough. I’ll learn your name when I return.”
Returning means…
That the ten tributes retain their full value.
That the previously established trend of melons and strawberries remains unchanged.
Proof of worth, a promising individual capable of shining brightly.
Yes.
Only then, upon hearing and remembering the name, would there be no regret.
Even if limited to farming, who could belittle the value of labor?
“Understood.”
“Hopefully, I can return here in two weeks.”
No room for reversal.
His face overflowed with confidence.
A man unshaken at any moment, steadfast and patient.
“Good confidence. I hope it isn’t arrogance.”
Gasman extended his hand.
The calloused grip, the firm strength felt in the palm, seemed to embody the farmer’s integrity.
“You seem to be awaited by your mistress. This foreigner shall take his leave.”
Following Gasman’s wave, the carriage door closed. The knights guarded the carriage with disciplined movements while the driver spurred the horses onward. The golden carriage disappeared into the horizon, leaving faint dust and hoofprints behind.
“Hmm.”
I wanted to taste the tributes, but meddling with offerings to the royal court wasn’t wise.
Had it not been for that, I’d have likely taken a bite already.
It wouldn’t be proper for a servant to partake before the princess herself had tasted it.
Despite the apparent abundance, I refrained from asking for some due to this reason.
Unknowingly smiling, Gasman leaned his chin on his hand, gazing out the window at the passing rural scenery.
“Isn’t this presumptuous?”
“What is?”
“To think that a mere farmer, having received opportunity, would greedily seek more.”
“Did it appear that way to you?”
“Yes.”
“Shane.”
“Your orders?”
“Draw your blade.”
Gasman slowly drew a thin dagger and lightly grazed Shane’s cheek.
The knight, Shane, watched as blood trickled down his face, staining it crimson.
The faint droplet of blood clung to the edge of the dagger before falling to the carriage floor with a soft thud. Only then did Gasman speak.
“Shane.”
“Your orders?”
“Was that remark born of jealousy or a rational conclusion drawn from gathered information?”
“…”
“Speak.”
“I apologize. I made a hasty judgment based on insufficient information.”
“Did you?”
“Yes. My apologies.”
Gasman wiped the dagger and placed it back in its holder.
“Shane.”
“Yes, your orders?”
“I prefer honor. I favor statements that don’t invite rebuttal. I expect the same from my knights.”
“…”
“Does my knight feel slighted because a mere farmer earned 8 million gold?”
“No.”
“Blinded by the wealth?”
“No.”
“Then are you deliberately spreading words to tarnish my reputation?”
“No.”
“Be mindful of your words. Even if we’re alone, habitual speech becomes conduct eventually revealed.”
“I shall take heed.”
“You, Shane, my sword.”
“Yes, your orders?”
“You are my protector, the visible force. Should an upright sword be distracted by trivial matters?”
“I was foolish.”
“Have your wound treated in the capital. Should the farmer’s produce lose value and plummet, remember this—”
Gasman smiled faintly.
“In that case, Shane, your assessment would prove accurate. I’ll personally treat your wound, transforming what seemed like ugly jealousy into a keen instinct validated by results. Then, the punishment I inflicted would require personal treatment from me.”
“It’s an honor.”
“Yes. Leave the wound for now. It’s my penalty. I somehow feel the farmer’s crops will succeed. Perhaps next time, I’ll hear his name.”
Smiling, Gasman quietly gazed at the retreating Valley of Starwind.
Truly talented farmer.
Garim thought it an ill-fitting term.
*
End of the deal.
Evangelin’s figure appeared, peering through the slightly opened door.
Mistress.
Living under the same roof, one might mistakenly assume such a relationship. Though not actually true, perceptions often differ from reality.
Evangelin’s cheeks were flushed red.
Did she hear the word ‘mistress’?
How long had she been peeking outside the door?
“Lunchtime…”
“I’ll come in soon.”
“Okay…”
Her emotionless tone began fading. She oddly prolonged her sentences and stumbled over words, making one question if this was the same person known for precise restraint.
She had this side too.
Just thinking that, I ate the lunch she prepared.
The afternoon schedule was light—inviting people to a housewarming party planned for tomorrow noon. Thanks to previous efforts cultivating goodwill, most responded positively.
In the evening, preparations for the housewarming focused on cooking. Exchanging opinions on various dishes, we completed the groundwork for the day’s events.
Thus ended the day.
Money accumulating brought newfound leisure.
The royal family’s generosity was undeniable, casually handing out tens of millions of gold—who could argue otherwise?
So, I flexed.
Three modes unlocked:
Professor – 7 million G
Industrialization – 20 million G
Work speed upgrade – 2.5 million G
Everything else was fully unlocked.
Additional crops, magic, equipment, equipment slots, and cooking.
The UI cluttered with numerous new options.
Finally, various magics became available.
New equipment at the crafting table.
Countless things rising and falling, making reality feel gamified.
Or perhaps,
Reality itself becoming more real since this is where I live.
Remaining funds were invested in cooking materials.
Ingredients unobtainable via crops.
And, naturally, rice.
Gradually, consciousness faded.
Finding peace in rest.
Thus ended the day.
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