If the bustling construction site of the city walls was a grand and vigorous "Symphony of Hot Blood" being played at Blackwood Fortress...
Then, outside the city wall planning area, another movement, equally grand but more filled with the fragrance of soil and the hope of life, was quietly beginning at the same time.
Reclaiming fertile soil.
For Colin's vast imperial blueprint, the sturdy city walls were the bones to resist foreign enemies, while sufficient food was the fresh blood and flesh that allowed this empire to breathe and grow. Bones and flesh—neither could be missing.
This vital task was entrusted by Colin to Woodhoof, the one among his subordinates who understood the land best.
When the first rays of morning light had just crested the distant ridge, casting a warm glow over this vast expanse of black earth, Woodhoof was already standing alone in the center of the fields about to be reclaimed.
He didn't look at the planning blueprints, nor did he issue any orders.
He simply bent down and, with his calloused palms, scooped up a handful of moist, dark soil from the ground.
He brought the soil to his nose, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.
The complex and mellow scent, a mix of decaying grass roots, melted snow, and unknown mineral aromas, traveled thru his nasal passages and deep into his lungs.
To other races, this might just be an ordinary earthy smell. But to him, this scent contained countless pieces of information.
"The humus is rich, the moisture is just right, and the earth dragons are starting to stir..." Woodhoof muttered to himself. His honest and rugged face revealed a satisfied smile that only an old farmer would have when facing a piece of peerless farmland.
He opened his palm, letting the black soil slide thru his fingers.
"It's good land. This year, there will surely be a good harvest."
He straightened up and turned around, letting out a roar like muffled thunder toward the slightly chaotic group that had begun to assemble behind him.
"Get your Spirit up! Bring the gear over to me! The sun is hitting your backsides; do you still want to eat or not!"
With his command, the protagonists of today's grand play were finally brought to the center of the stage, albeit somewhat reluctantly.
They were a group of formidable "plow oxen."
They were the Giant-Horned Oxen that had been initially tamed. These big fellows were half again as tall as ordinary plow oxen, with muscles bulging high on their shoulders, full of explosive power. Their massive, scimitar-like horns glinted with a dangerous light in the morning sun.
Although they had undergone a winter of domestication, the wildness in their bones had not been completely erased. Facing the impending, unfamiliar labor, they appeared restless, constantly pawing the ground with their hooves and snorting thick, white steam from their nostrils.
On the other side of the group was the "ace army" composed of twenty Mountain Bison.
Responsible for driving these Giant-Horned Oxen were the strongest Boar-folk and Werewolf Warriors, also carefully selected.
They looked at these restless giants before them, their faces filled with solemnity.
This job was much harder than hacking people down on the battlefield.
Soon, the "ultimate weapons" specially custom-made for these giants by the dwarf Berg's blacksmith shop were carried up.
Heavy iron plows.
These were by no means the flimsy wooden plows used by human farmers. These plows were cast almost entirely of iron. The moldboards and plowshares were heavy and smooth, presenting a cold industrial esthetic. The most critical part, the plowhead, was forged from refined steel and was incredibly sharp, enough to easily slice thru any hard earth or tangled grass roots.
Connected to the plow body was not an ordinary wooden beam, but a thick hardwood beam reinforced with iron plating. This beam could be fitted directly onto the giants' shoulders, most efficiently converting their terrifying brute strength into the force needed to break the soil.
"Come! Harness 'Iron Head' first!" a Boar-folk Centurion shouted to his subordinates.
The "Iron Head" he spoke of was an exceptionally strong and particularly rebellious Giant-Horned bull managed by their squad.
It took four Boar-folk warriors using all their strength to carry the heavy iron plow to Iron Head's side.
The Giant-Horned Ox seemed to sense danger and suddenly tossed its head. Its massive horns, accompanied by the sound of whistling wind, brushed past a warrior's cheek. If he hadn't dodged quickly, half his head would have been sliced off.
"Damn it! You beast, you dare make a move!" The Boar-folk Centurion flew into a rage. He lunged forward, using his race's characteristic brute strength to grab Iron Head's horns, attempting to subdue it thru a contest of power.
One man and one ox thus engaged in a pure duel of strength on the field ridge.
The Boar-folk Centurion's face turned beet red, the muscles on his armsm the distant human kingdoms to take root and sprout in this land full of hope.