The morning after the Baron's inspection, Damien awoke with the smug self-satisfaction of a man who had gotten away with murder. Well, irrigation-fraud murder. Same thing.
"Ha! Who's the genius now?" I whispered to myself while brushing my teeth with a twig that looked like it had been chewed on by goats. "Damien Cross, you absolute visionary. You turned a mudslide into an economic miracle."
The truth? The canal was still half-finished, the swamp had expanded, and my workers were threatening to unionize. But the Baron had left impressed—or, at the very least, confused enough not to laugh in my face. In medieval politics, that was as good as a standing ovation.
Of course, life couldn't let me enjoy one victory in peace.
A messenger arrived just as I was practicing my "benevolent lord" pose in the cracked mirror of the manor. The young man bowed so low he nearly toppled forward.
"Sir Damien! The Baron sends his regards. He was most impressed with your… vision."
"Oh, was he?" I smirked, tugging on my tattered coat like I was royalty.
"Yes. In fact, he has sent you a gift. It should arrive shortly."
A gift? This could only mean one of two things:
The Baron respected me enough to support my project.
The Baron hated me enough to send something that would kill me slowly.
Both seemed equally likely.
When the wagon rolled up an hour later, I leaned forward eagerly, expecting maybe sacks of grain, tools, or—dare I dream—money.
Instead, four massive oxen stared back at me, chewing lazily. Behind them? Two barrels.
"Oxen," the messenger announced proudly. "And premium fertilizer."
I blinked. Then blinked again. "Fertilizer?"
"Yes! From the Baron's finest stockyards. Quite potent. Extremely effective for barren soil."
Translation: the Baron had gifted me barrels of manure.
When the barrels were cracked open, my nostrils were assaulted with the stench of death and despair. My retainers gagged. A maid fainted.
"It's… fragrant," I muttered, trying to sound diplomatic while covering my nose.
Sir Aldric, my knight, pinched his nose and gave me a look. "My lord, this is not a gift. It is an insult."
Old Bernard, the steward, shook his head. "No, no. Fertilizer is vital for farming. This could turn our fortunes around."
"Yes," I said, dryly. "By killing us all before we plant anything."
But the truth was, Bernard was right. If my modern knowledge counted for anything, fertilizer—even of the nose-destroying medieval kind—was a step forward.
"Fine," I declared. "We'll use it. Spread it across the worst of the fields."
Cue disaster.
Within hours, the oxen had broken loose, trampling half the barley seedlings into paste. Workers, unused to handling animals this size, were dragged across fields like rag dolls in a tug-of-war. One unlucky man ended up in the swamp.
As for the manure—someone got overzealous. Instead of spreading it thin, they dumped entire cartloads onto one patch of land. By evening, the field looked like a steaming volcano.
I stared at the mess, clutching my head. "Oh yes, Damien. This is exactly how civilizations are built. Rome? Manure. The pyramids? Also manure. The modern skyscraper? Powered by pure, unfiltered poop."
But the next morning, something strange happened.
The swampy patch nearest the manure volcano started… drying.
Apparently, the soil had absorbed so much nitrogen and waste that it began sucking moisture like a sponge. By pure accident, we'd discovered a way to reclaim swamp land.
"Brilliant!" Bernard exclaimed, clapping his hands. "Truly, my lord, you are a visionary. To use fertilizer as a swamp-drainage method—genius!"
I looked at him, deadpan. "Yes. Absolutely intentional. I, Damien Cross, lord of foresight, planned this entirely. Not dumb luck. Nope."
Of course, success came with consequences. News of my "swamp-draining technique" spread faster than lice in a medieval orphanage.
By evening, neighboring farmers were knocking at my gates, demanding I teach them the method. One man even offered a goat as payment.
I hadn't even figured out how not to kill my workers with oxen yet, and now I was apparently a professor of advanced agriculture.
Inside my head, alarms blared. "Oh God, they're going to find out I'm winging this entire thing. I need more fake confidence. I need charts. Medieval people love charts."
And so, standing on a manure barrel with mud on my boots and oxen chewing behind me, I raised a hand dramatically.
"People of Cross Territory! Fear not. For this is but the beginning. Soon, we shall not only drain swamps… but grow crops that will make the Baron himself kneel in awe!"
The crowd roared. My workers cheered. Bernard nearly cried tears of joy.
Meanwhile, I silently prayed no one asked me how we were actually going to do that.
Because if they did? Well, let's just say I hoped manure could fertilize excuses as well as fields.