The sound of horse hooves grew clearer.
From the far end of the dirt road, a simple horse-drawn carriage appeared. Not luxurious, but well maintained. The horse was guided at a slow pace, clearly made to reduce speed as it approached the field.
Lucas turned his head, then walked toward the carriage.
Silvara glanced over as well, her expression neutral. She did not move from her spot, staying beside Anya, who continued muttering the word "Observee."
The carriage stopped not far from the edge of the field.
Two people stepped down.
The first—Berrin.
A middle-aged man with a woven apron still tied around his waist.
The second—
neatly dressed, wearing a dark coat, a single-lens monocle reflecting the morning light.
He stepped forward half a pace first.
"Good morning," he said calmly.
"My na is Silas, from the rchants’ Guild."
His tone was polite. Formal. asured.
Lucas turned his head. rchants’ Guild? he thought briefly. He definitely didn’t co here without an agenda.
Berrin quickly followed up, a little flustered.
"T–the basket order, Young Master. I’ve delivered it."
Lucas gave a short nod.
"Put them there." He pointed toward the edge of the field.
Berrin moved imdiately. He opened the back of the carriage and unloaded the large baskets—neatly woven, sturdy, clearly made for a large harvest. The number matched the order.
"Then I’ll take my leave," Berrin said once he was done. "Thank you very much, Young Master."
He did not linger.
He climbed back onto the carriage, pulled the reins, and left without looking back.
But Silas—
did not leave.
His steps stopped.
His eyes were fixed on the field.
Rows of tomatoes stretched out neatly.
The red was uniform.
The skins were smooth, unblemished, not pale.
In a world where tomatoes were a high-value commodity—
this sight was not normal.
Silas stood still.
His chest felt tight.
Not from emotion—but from calculation.
Size.
Color.
Plant density.
Row spacing.
"...This," he murmured very softly, almost like a breath. "They’re all ripening almost at the sa ti."
The rchant’s instinct inside him writhed.
This was not a village field.
This was a field of gold.
Silvara watched from the corner of her eye. A sly man from the rchants’ Guild? What is he planning to do here?
Lucas, on the other hand, remained relaxed.
He stood up, brushed the dirt from his hands, and turned.
"Silas, right?" he said flatly.
Silas flinched slightly, then straightened his posture and put on a professional smile.
"That’s right. Silas, from the rchants’ Guild."
Their gazes t.
Lucas explained nothing.
Silas did not ask imdiately.
But Silas’s eyes flicked back to the tomatoes once more—just a glance—enough to confirm one thing:
This was not a small harvest.
And it was not a coincidence.
"...Young Master," he finally said, his tone still polite, but far more cautious than before.
"May I... take a closer look?"
Lucas stared at him for a few seconds.
Then gave a slight nod.
"Go ahead."
Silas stepped into the field—
and every step felt like he was treading on opportunity.
Silas walked slowly between the rows of plants.
After only a few steps—
he stopped.
A trench.
A shallow trench surrounded the field, forming a clear boundary between the cultivated area and the outer soil. It wasn’t dug carelessly. The depth was consistent, the channel neat, and the flow direction made sense.
"...Hm?"
Silas bent down, examining it more closely.
A trench... surrounding the field? For what purpose?
"...An agricultural technique?" he muttered.
He took another step forward, his gaze dropping to the ground between the rows.
Each row of tomatoes had a small, slightly sloped depression. Not deep, but consistent. The spacing was uniform, the gradient gentle—enough to retain water without causing it to pool.
Silas stopped again.
"...Not a coincidence."
Up ahead, an old man was crouching, burying a pile of dry leaves into the soil. His movents were efficient, clearly practiced.
Silas approached.
"Hello," he greeted politely.
"I’m Silas. Are you the one taking care of this field?"
Geralt turned quickly.
"Oh! E–eh, hello, sir." He half-bowed as he stood. "I’m Geralt."
He pointed toward the field with pride.
"I take care of it together with the Young Master."
Silas blinked.
...Young Master?
That stupid lad—did he do this?
His expression remained calm, but there was a fractional pause before he spoke again.
"I see," he said. "Then... this trench. What is it for?"
"Oh, that?" Geralt replied quickly, clearly pleased to be asked.
"It was the Young Master’s idea. He said it’s to keep pests like rats from getting into the field."
Silas nodded slowly.
"And the sloped depressions in each row?"
Geralt nodded even more enthusiastically.
"That too. He said it’s an old agriculture technique. So water won’t pool when it rains."
His tone shifted.
Prouder.
More... confident.
"Honestly, sir," Geralt continued, his chest puffing slightly, "the Young Master is a genius alchemist. Even the tomato seedlings are all high quality. Just look—uniform red, all the sa size."
Silas gave a thin smile.
He acknowledged it without comnt.
"I see."
He stepped toward the nearest row.
Stopped.
Bent down slightly.
His hand extended.
His fingers touched a single tomato.
And froze.
The red was uniform.
The sheen was perfect.
The skin was firm—neither too hard nor soft.
Silas’s hand trembled faintly.
...An alchemist?
He swallowed.
Is that young master really—
Or—
"...Cheap magic?" he murmured.
His hand rose to his single-lens glasses.
He touched the fra with two fingers.
"Let’s see."
A small sigil lit up on the surface of the lens.
A thin glow.
Layered symbols.
Silas froze.
His eyes widened.
"...What?"
The sigil stopped spinning.
The numbers stabilized.
Silas stiffened.
"...Nutrient content," he murmured. "Too high."
Not just one aspect.
All of them.
He swallowed.
This was already several tis higher than ordinary tomatoes.
His thoughts imdiately jumped to a single na.
Central Cathedral.
If they were the ones to discover this first—
the rchants’ Guild would lose its chance to dance on the value of these tomatoes.
Silas let out a slow breath.
"I have to make a move—right now!!!"
The glow of the sigil faded from his glasses.
He straightened up, then turned to face the field—more precisely, toward Lucas.
His steps were asured, his expression returning to that of a professional guild rchant.
He stopped in front of Lucas and gave a light bow.
"Young Master," he said politely, without preamble.
"May I ask for a mont of your ti?"
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