Fortunately, every seed could be used both inside and outside the Spatial Farm.
As long as she purified the land beyond the castle, she could sow the same crops there.
The implications were staggering.
As that realization settled in her mind, Sienna stood and strode toward the door, her steps quickening with renewed purpose.
The moment she stepped outside, she saw Wood and Stone standing where she had left them, broad and motionless as ancient guardians carved from granite.
She nodded to them.
“Wood, fetch rope and measuring rulers.
We’re going to survey the land.”
Neither man questioned her.
Wood bowed and turned to obey.
Then, after taking only a few steps, he paused and turned back.
“Young Miss,” he said, using the title he still hadn’t broken the habit of using, “it is nearly lunchtime.
Madam Mirella has already returned to prepare your meal.
We can measure the land after you eat.”
Sienna blinked and looked toward the high windows.
Only then did she notice that the sun had climbed to its midday height, and as if her body had been waiting for permission, hunger stirred in her stomach.
She smiled.
“Very well.
We’ll eat first.”
***
When the three of them entered the dining room, they found Mirella and Tiara arranging the table.
The scent of warm bread and cooked vegetables drifted through the air, mingling with the earthy smell of stone and the faint smoke from the kitchen hearth.
Mirella looked up and smiled.
“Young Miss, you are just in time.
I was about to send Tiara to call you.”
Sienna returned the smile, then said before sitting down, “Grandma Mirella, tell the slaves to stop cleaning the mine this afternoon.
The blue-eyed rabbits won’t arrive today, and there is no need to exhaust everyone.
Instead, prepare ropes and measuring tools.
We need to divide the black land outside into plots of 5000 sq.
meters each and mark them.”
Mirella’s expression changed at once.
The smile vanished, replaced by concern.
“Young Miss,” she said carefully, “that land cannot be cultivated.
No matter how many seeds we purchased, if they are planted in the black wasteland, they will only be wasted.
Measuring it serves no purpose.”
Sienna smiled, calm and confident.
“Do not worry.
I have a method to restore the black land and turn it into fertile soil.
You only need to make sure the plots are properly measured.”
For a heartbeat, Mirella did not move.
Then her eyes widened.
Her lips trembled.
“Young Miss…” she whispered, her voice shaking like a candle flame caught in a sudden wind.
“Is what you say true?
Can you truly make that land cultivable?”
The question carried far more than simple curiosity.
It carried hope.
The Black Soil Wasteland covered nearly a third of the Arcana Empire.
Vast, flat, and rich in appearance, it had been abandoned for generations because nothing would grow there.
It was a dead kingdom of black earth stretching to the horizon.
But if that dead land could be revived…
Then House Vale would not merely survive.
It would possess the greatest agricultural territory on the continent.
And because the Arcana Empire, under the authority of Theodore Garcia and witnessed by the temple and foreign envoys, had granted the Black Soil Wasteland to House Vale as a permanent hereditary fief, that land would belong to them forever.
Not to the emperor.
Not to the temple.
Not to any future kingdom.
Forever.
Mirella’s breath became uneven as she stared at Sienna, and in her eyes, hope rose like the first light of dawn after a long and merciless night.
If Sienna truly could restore that land, then House Vale would one day stand not as exiles clinging to survival, but as the richest and most powerful family on the Ark Continent.
*
A thousand years earlier, when the Ark Continent was still in an age where great magicians were spoken of with the same reverence that kings reserved for gods and sages, a famous wood-element archmage had once stood upon the edge of the Black Soil Wasteland and looked over that endless sea of dark earth with the same hunger that a conqueror feels when he sees an unclaimed kingdom.
He was not alone.
Beside him stood several powerful water mages and a number of elves whose understanding of plants was so profound that they could tell the condition of a tree merely by touching its bark and listening to the whisper of its leaves.
Together, they had believed that if they could unravel the secret of this cursed land, they would transform it into the greatest granary on the entire continent, a place where wheat would sway like golden oceans and vegetables would rise from the earth in such abundance that famine would become nothing more than a story told to frighten children.
For two full years, they labored.
They studied the soil.
They tested spells.
They altered the water.
They planted seeds gathered from every kingdom and every forest.
They poured their knowledge, their magic, and their pride into the black earth.
Yet when those two years ended, the result was as barren as when they began.
Not a single blade of grass grew.
The black land remained as silent as a corpse.
In the end, even those great masters lowered their heads and admitted defeat.
And when a mountain remains unmoved after giants push against it, ordinary men no longer bother to lay a hand upon it.
From that day onward, no one wasted time researching the Black Soil Wasteland.
To most people on the continent, trying to reclaim it was like trying to fill the sea with a bucket.
It was effort without reward, hope without harvest.
The truth was simple.
The Ark Continent was not lacking in fertile land.
There were vast plains, river valleys, and rolling fields that already produced more than enough food for the major powers.
Granaries were full, markets were busy, and nobles were far more interested in mines, magic crystals, and political games than in a cursed wasteland that seemed determined to reject life itself.
So the Black Soil Wasteland remained forgotten.
In recent years, however, the continent has enjoyed a long period of peace.
Large-scale wars had become rare, trade flourished, and populations grew steadily.
Villages expanded into towns, towns swelled into cities, and in some smaller kingdoms, the number of mouths to feed had begun to exceed the grain that their fields could provide.
The signs of a food shortage had begun to appear.
But because those shortages had not yet threatened the five great empires, no one treated them as a pressing concern.
And in truth, even when food became scarce, the suffering was rarely felt by those who held power.
The nobles had slaves.
Slaves were as cheap as long-grain wheat and, in the eyes of many lords, almost as replaceable.
If food became short, the answer was simple: reduce the slaves’ portions.
The masters would continue drinking fine wine under moonlit balconies, discussing poetry and admiring beautiful women, while the hands that tilled their fields went to sleep with empty stomachs.
Few people cared enough to notice the storm gathering on the horizon.
The continent appeared prosperous, but prosperity is like a silk robe draped over a starving body.
It may look splendid from afar, but it does not change what lies underneath.
Prices rose.
The cost of grain increased.
Yet the wages of commoners did not.
More and more families found themselves trapped between hunger and debt, and many had no choice but to sell themselves into slavery simply to survive.
Mirella knew nothing of the larger economic currents shaping the continent.
She was not a merchant counting grain prices, nor a minister studying national ledgers.
She only knew one thing.
Food was becoming more expensive.
And if Sienna truly possessed the ability to transform the Black Soil Wasteland into fertile farmland, then it would be almost impossible for House Vale not to rise again.
*
Sienna saw the excitement blazing in Mirella’s eyes and could not help but chuckle softly.
“Yes, Grandma Mirella,” she said, her voice calm though her own heart beat with the same fierce anticipation, “this is indeed part of the power I received.
But there is a limit.
At present, I can only transform 5000 sq.
meters of land each day.
So this afternoon, arrange for the slaves to measure the land.”
Mirella nodded so quickly that the silver strands in her hair trembled.
“Yes, Young Miss.
I will make the arrangements immediately.”
She turned to leave, her skirts rustling against the stone floor, but before she had taken more than two steps, Sienna called out.
“Grandma Mirella.”
Mirella stopped and turned back.
Sienna’s expression grew serious.
“Remember this well.
Not a single outsider can learn of my ability.
House Vale is like a lamp flickering in a storm.
If others discover that our lamp can become a blazing sun, many might not admire the light.
They will try to snuff it out before dawn.”
Mirella’s excitement cooled at once.
She had lived long enough to understand the cruelty hidden beneath noble smiles.
Her face tightened, and she nodded solemnly.
“I understand, Young Miss.
Leave it to me.”
Neither woman noticed the quiet figure standing behind them.
Tiara stood near the doorway with her hands clasped before her apron, and for once her eyes were not lowered in avoidance.
She was looking directly at Sienna.
And in those clear eyes, something warm and complicated was taking root.