The autumn sun was mildly warm, and the wheels rolled steadily on the main road in front of the warehouse.
The entire grain road was congested with loaded convoys, the sounds of hooves and shouts rose and fell, yet it was not chaotic.
At the front of the queue, there was a temporary registration point where dozens of clerks swiftly recorded the bags of grain into ledgers, attaching numbered cloth tags.
Each number corresponded to a village, a field, a laborer's name.
Green stood in front of the granary, loudly directing the logistics: "The northern area of Warehouse Four is full, move to Warehouse Five. Group Three should use the west slope... Make sure they write the numbers clearly."
He personally checked whether the cloth tags were securely attached, clearly written, and correctly categorized, and even confirmed whether moisture-proof mats were laid at each warehouse entrance before leaving.
Just then, a clear voice came from the bottom of the slope: "Green."
