Free Web NovelUnder the warm autumn sun, wagon wheels rumbled along the Cangqian Avenue.
The entire grain route was choked with fully loaded convoys, horse hooves and shouts rising and falling, yet without chaos.
A temporary registration point was set up at the front of the procession, where dozens of scribes wrote furiously, cataloging bags of grain into ledgers and attaching numbered cloth tags.
Each number corresponded to a village, a plot of land, a name of labor.
Green stood before the granary, directing and coordinating loudly: "North section of the fourth # Nоvеlight # granary is full, divert to the fifth granary. Group three, use the western ramp — make sure they write the numbers clearly."
He personally checked if the cloth tags were securely fastened, clearly written, correctly categorized, and even confirmed with his own eyes that anti-moisture cloths were laid at each granary entrance before leaving.
Just then, a clear voice came from down the slope: "Green."
Green paused, then immediately turned and descended the platform, hurrying to meet Lord Louis.
"Lord Louis," he bowed, a rare hint of relief on his face, "The autumn harvest is progressing smoothly. Four-tenths have been stored so far, and we expect to complete over seven-tenths of the storage task today."
Lord Louis dismounted, surveying the busy yet orderly granary path: "You've done very well."
"This way, Lord Louis," Green immediately led the way, guiding him through the granary gate corridor while providing a brief report.
"The three newly constructed granaries are now in use. The fourth and fifth have adjustable temperature structures, and combined with the forced-air drying system and sealed grain bags, they can store staple grains for at least two seasons, with a spoilage rate controlled below two-tenths.
The forced-air system is maintained day and night by workshop artisans, ensuring two daily inspections."
They walked along the inner second-floor corridor, where mountains of stacked grain bags stretched as far as the eye could see.
Sunlight streamed through the top ventilation windows, and dust particles floated in the light beams, as if the entire warehouse was permeated with the scent of harvest.
"Once storage is complete, we will collectively tally and publicly announce the figures," Green glanced at Lord Louis. "This year's numbers will be enough to shock the entire North."
Lord Louis nodded slightly, his gaze sweeping over the busy porters, registrars, and patrolling knights inside the granary. He smiled, "Then I eagerly await the final results of this autumn harvest."
His tone was relaxed, yet it felt like an affirmation for the entire Wheat Wave Territory.
Then Lord Louis's tone shifted: "Are the celebration preparations all in order?"
Green's expression straightened, and he immediately replied: "Reporting to Lord Louis, all supplies are in place.
The wine for tonight's Harvest Celebration has been transported from the main city to Wheatwave: eight hundred bottles of specially selected mountain grape wine and three hundred jars of red wheat wine. Meats include cured beef and lamb, smoked ham, and dried salted fish, totaling over six hundred catties.
Ninety-six separate pots for hot soup have been set up, with over two hundred chefs in charge of cooking, working in shifts to prepare ingredients, ensuring the feast never runs out of food.
Additionally, medals, rosters, and public announcements have been printed and will be delivered to the venue's setup points in advance."
"You've done very well," Lord Louis interrupted him, with a hint of a smile. "You've all worked incredibly hard this year. Tomorrow night, let's celebrate properly."
Green's expression tightened, and he bowed his head in response: "As you command."
The next evening, the previously overgrown open space in the center of the valley had long been compacted and leveled, the entire ground gleaming with a pale golden luster, like sun-dried wheat flakes.
The main stage stood in the middle, a temporarily erected platform, with the golden flag bearing the wheat-ear sun emblem, symbolizing the Wheat Wave Territory, fluttering in the wind from its four tall corner posts.
Below the stage, laborers and artisans were busy with the final arrangements.
Several Red Tide Knights had also removed their shoulder armor and rolled up their sleeves, helping to carry wooden stands.
Influenced by Lord Louis, they did not view this ceremony as a commoner's affair, but instinctively participated in it, and were happy to do so.
This was a festival belonging to the entire territory.
Green held the heavy ceremonial process book in one hand, while the other continuously circled and annotated with a pen.
He had to ensure that this celebration for tens of thousands of people proceeded without a single error.
Someone whispered, "This supervisor hasn't closed his eyes since last night and started moving between sites early this morning."
Another village woman responded, "He works so hard. I heard Lord Louis personally ordered him to oversee the entire process."
And more villagers quietly discussed the figure who had not yet appeared:
"Do you think—will Lord Louis personally ascend the stage to speak tonight?"
"Oh, his words last year were so touching."
"We harvested nearly two hundred thousand tons of grain this year!" The old farmer's eyes shone. "If he could personally talk about next year's arrangements, it would be even more reassuring."
On the low slope of the valley on the other side, cooking smoke and the aroma of soup intertwined into a flowing golden line.
Stewed beef pots, salted lamb soup pots, mushroom stew pots...
Large iron pots, each two meters in diameter, were uniformly transported to the "Hot Soup Area" constructed from wooden sheds.
Signs and cloth tags hung from the shed roofs, clearly dividing areas like "Green Wheat Vegetable Pot," "Elderly Warm Soup," and "Knight's Exclusive."
Beside the pots, rich soups bubbled, their enticing aroma making people involuntarily swallow.
Children ran back and forth carrying firewood, some moving charcoal, others running errands to deliver messages, chattering like a scattered nest of hamsters, yet quickly returning to their places under the scolding of the village women.
The housewives rolled up their sleeves, skillfully stirring the bottom of the pots, carefully sprinkling in salt, sauce, and herbal powders for seasoning, as the surface of the soup gradually developed a thick, golden, oily sheen.
Pushing through the crowd, a slightly stooped figure squeezed between the soup sheds.
It was Mick, giving instructions as he walked, muttering to himself.
"Remember, the first round of soup must go to the elderly households and the children," he told a girl by a stew pot. "The second round is for the able-bodied. Workers can wait, but the elderly and children cannot go hungry."
The girl smiled and nodded: "Understood, Uncle Mick."
He then bent down to check the heat: "Don't blow the fire too fiercely; a low, steady simmer brings out the flavor—don't add salt to the mushroom soup too early, it can make it bitter."
No sooner had he spoken than a commotion erupted nearby.
A group of children gathered around a pot, pointing. A chubby boy secretly reached out with a wooden spoon, took a mouthful of scalding hot soup, and as soon as it reached his lips, he let out a shriek: "Hot, hot, hot, hot, hot!"
Mick picked him up with one hand, patting the back of his head: "Trying to sneak a drink before it's even cooked through?"
The boy, startled, nodded repeatedly, covered his mouth, and ran back into the crowd, drawing a burst of laughter from those around.
"The children are practically starving," a village woman said with a laugh. "No wonder, we never saw so many pots last year."
Meanwhile, on a distant slope, Ferran stood quietly watching it all.
As the commander of the most important knight order in the North, he had attended countless banquets in his lifetime.
If he wished, by title and reputation alone, he could enter noble ballrooms almost every night.
But he had never seen a scene like this, and it was astonishing.
There were no opulent crystal chandeliers, nor elegant orchestras.
Instead, there were bubbling, rich soups, mothers seasoning, children running errands, and elders sitting on straw mats waiting for a bowl of hot soup—the scent of everyday life.
This was not the Imperial Capital, not a royal celebration, nor a noble gathering.
It was a celebration of the people.
And such a large gathering, was this truly organized by a newly developed territory in the North?
As night slowly fell, the temperature in the valley plummeted, and the chill of the autumn night swept down from the distant mountains.
But at that very moment, a blazing fire suddenly pierced the darkness.
"Light the fires!" Green's brief command rang out.
Three wheat-pillar fire towers were lit simultaneously. Flames shot up along the entwined wheat stalks, instantly transforming the entire square into a world of golden-red warm light.
The flames danced, reflecting the patterns of the Wheatwave flag with dazzling brilliance. The installed blowers also activated at the same moment,
exhaling gusts of white, misty hot air that completely dispelled the cold.
In an instant, a warm, dawn-like glow enveloped the surroundings, and the valley seemed to transform into a temple of harvest.
Immediately after, drums began to beat: "Dong! Dong dong!"
Dozens of Red Tide drummers simultaneously struck their mallets, the rhythm quickening, echoing through the valley.
This signaled the official start of the banquet, and the crowd began to move.
Elders walked slowly, children bounced forward, and housewives held their children's hands.
Young men and women sat in twos and threes further back, their laughter, anticipation, and shouts merging into a single chorus amidst the drumbeats.
Old farmers, who had traveled from distant villages, wrapped in blankets and simply dressed, had eyes that sparkled.
"First ten village communities, prepare to enter," Green commanded, and the ceremony officially began.
As the drumbeat rhythm changed, representatives from ten village communities lined up to enter and receive their commendations.
Each person held high a wooden staff adorned with a wheat-ear carving, draped in a representative shawl sewn by their village's female workers, either with a green wheat base or red-edged trim, crude yet embodying a simple solemnity.
"This is not my honor alone," one man, nearing fifty, said with a trembling but loud voice, "This is what our village community tilled out, one hoe at a time, one drop of sweat at a time!"
A burst of applause and laughter erupted, and the villagers' cheers rose and fell.
"Thirteen Village! Thirteen Village!"
"Our Four Village isn't bad either!"
"Next year, the top spot will be ours, Twenty-One Village!"
On stage, the villagers were too nervous to speak, but below the stage, it was as lively as a bursting mountain flood.
Amidst this clamor, behind the high platform, a familiar red and black cloak slowly appeared.
Knights stood to his left and right, their long shadows cast by the flames.
"It's Lord Louis!"
Suddenly, a shout spread, and the crowd fell silent.
Then came a roar like a mountain tsunami, drowning out all rhythm and the sound of the fire:
"Lord Louis!!!"
"Louis!!!"
"Our Lord Louis has arrived!!!"
But after Lord Louis ascended the high platform, he merely raised his hand, gently pressing down with his palm.
The drumbeats slowly ceased, the valley fell silent, with only the sound of the flames dancing.
"...My people," Lord Louis's voice was not loud, but it was clearly carried by magic throughout the entire valley. "From last autumn until now, a full year has passed.
"In this year, we cleared wasteland, dug irrigation channels, planted vegetables, raised cattle, and harvested wheat together.
Some lit lamps at night to plant seedlings, some carried fertilizer to the fields in wind and snow, some slipped into irrigation channels while watering the fields—
I couldn't remember every name, but your efforts are all reflected in the land."
Lord Louis paused, his gaze slowly sweeping over the eyes looking at him, some excited, some nervous.
"I am honored to announce to you all, this year's total harvest—"
He raised the handwritten paper in his hand and declared loudly: "Two hundred seven thousand tons. Exactly double last year's harvest."
"Whoosh!!!"
Applause and screams erupted almost instantly. Countless people looked up, pumping their arms. Some cried with laughter, some held their children and sobbed aloud.
This was the fruit of their year's sweat, their most direct and tangible glory.
But Lord Louis's voice still steadily commanded the entire scene: "This year's rewards will be distributed according to the 'Cultivation Roster' and spring farming performance.
Outstanding village communities will receive tool supplies, tax reductions, and excellent households will be prioritized for promotion into management ranks.
The King of Cultivation will be granted high-quality private land, and the children of model workers will receive education exemptions and conscription exemptions."
He looked out at the crowd, his final words the most fervent: "Every single one of you, every drop of your sweat, Red Tide will not forget, and the entire North will not forget."
For half a second, the entire valley fell silent, then erupted into an even more fervent, extreme roar:
"Lord Louis!!!"
"Long live Louis!!!"
"Red Tide!! Red Tide!! Red Tide!!!"
Every face illuminated by the firelight, whether laughing or crying, all looked up at the person standing on the high platform.
Not because Lord Louis was so powerful, but because they knew he would always hang over the territory like the sun.
After the cheers, night fully descended, but the light from the fire towers burned even brighter.
In the soup shed area on the south side of the square, a long, winding queue had already formed.
Each large pot simmered with a different flavored hot soup: green wheat beef soup, salted lamb mushroom pot, milky vegetable stew...
The aromas wafted through the air, constantly enticing everyone's stomachs. freēwēbnovel.com
"Line up this way! Children can cut the line, old men come over here!"
"Add another scoop! No saving tonight, plenty for everyone!"
Villagers held wooden bowls and ceramic cups, laughing and shouting, sweat and smiles intertwined.
On the other side, more than a dozen large tables were already laden with hot stewed beef bones, roasted lamb legs, and freshly baked green wheat biscuits. Red Tide soldiers were responsible for patrolling and maintaining order, ensuring organized distribution.
Initially, not everyone could fully relax, such as the commoners who had just joined the Red Tide Territory this year.
A middle-aged man stood by a pot, looking at the large chunks of beef bubbling, somewhat hesitant to step forward.
"This—this is really for us to eat?" he murmured softly. "And no charge?"
His elderly mother behind him whispered, "Such a big pot, so much meat, this wine, this food—we never saw such things given to us common folk before.
"It just feels—too extravagant," he said. After saying this, the image of his family surviving on moss soup during last year's snow disaster suddenly appeared before his eyes.
"If not for Lord Louis, where would we be this year?"
Then, recalling the village chief's words, he shook his head abruptly, casting away that extravagant thought.
"We can afford to eat this! This isn't given for free; this is what we earned with every sickle and every spade!"
With that, he tilted his head back and drank the beef soup, hot and savory, almost bringing tears to his eyes. ƒree𝑤ebnσvel.com
On the high platform, representatives from the top ten village communities were performing a unique toast ceremony.
They held wine bowls, filed up one by one, and bowed to present Lord Louis with gifts woven by their village women: golden wheat-ear wreaths, red-edged shawls, and woven sashes. Though simple in design, each item was filled with sincerity.
"This is what our village made ourselves—it's not luxurious, but we hope you'll accept it."
"We are full, and our children are full."
Lord Louis accepted each gift without refusal, as these were all from the villagers' hearts.
He then drank a cup of green wheat wine with each representative, draining it in one go.
Another loud cheer erupted from below the stage.
Just then, several children excitedly jumped onto the main stage, tender yet fearless, and began to perform a small play they directed themselves, titled "Lord Louis Feeds Us All."
They sang and danced, their movements exaggerated and comical, their lyrics naive but full of innocence:
"Lord Louis leads us to farm~ Beef stew has mushroom slices~ Children aren't hungry, elders are warm~ Red Tide Territory is truly a treasure~ Lord Louis has fed us all~!"
The firelight illuminated their joyful faces, and their voices echoed through the valley, accompanied by the aroma of hot soup and the lingering scent of wheat.
The audience below burst into laughter, even the knights couldn't help but smile.
Lord Louis watched the children's earnest performance, a rare relaxed smile on his face.
At first, only a few children sang playfully. Then, someone joined in, and soon more and more people began to hum along.
Although the tunes were off and the rhythm uneven, the lyrics were simple and the melody catchy, gradually spreading throughout the entire valley square.
"—Red Tide Territory is truly a treasure~ Lord Louis has fed us all~!"
In the firelight, some raised their cups, some danced, children ran in circles, and elders nodded gently, swaying their shoulders to the beat.
Even the Red Tide Knights were infected, clapping along to the rhythm.
This was not a noble's ball, nor a church's blessing ceremony.
This was a true festival of the people, a feast of the land, a carnival of hard work.
