Farming Skeletons

[You have received experience from your vassal, Orestes the Soul Lamenter.] [You gained 1,500 XP.] [You gained 1,300 XP.] [You gained 1,200 XP.] ... Inside the Steel Dragonwing Palace, Cassius sat upon his throne and watched the notifications scrolling across his interface, nodding in satisfaction. Recently, the silver dragon Olivia had moved to Isdalia, the heart of the empire. She claimed she needed to fulfill her duties as a councilor and help make the Cinder Empire a more just and peaceful realm. Meanwhile, the white dragon Tinia had been dragged off for intensive tutoring in history and statecraft, forbidden from returning until she met her academic quotas. The blue dragon Christina seemed to have dropped out of sight lately. Following the coronation ceremony, House Falia’s stance toward the Cinder Empire had grown complicated. With the coronation over, internal and external threats resolved, and the Cinder Empire's unification of the Great Anzetta Waste complete, life had grown exceptionally dull for Cassius, the "Cinder Emperor." Every day was just eating, sleeping, researching spells, and watching the experience pool on his interface climb steadily while mountains of gold coins accumulated in his treasury. *What a monotonous life.* Cassius couldn't help but sigh inwardly. *The players' enthusiasm is even higher than I imagined. Just a few weeks in, and they've already generated over fifty thousand experience points for me.* *Heh, dragging that lich out personally was definitely worth the effort. The results are phenomenal.* *Right, then there’s Matora. I wonder how...* Before Cassius could finish his train of thought, a magical communication request rang through the hall. "Your Majesty, our trials have succeeded! These undead can indeed serve as farmhands!" The excited voice of Alif Levi, the imperial agricultural officer, echoed through the chamber. Cassius turned toward a mirror set into the wall. Within its surface stretched a boundless expanse of flat, open fields, their dark soil so rich and loamy it seemed practically dripping with grease. This was the Great Matora Plain, once blanketed in permafrost and perpetual snow—a "barren wasteland" that northern nobles had cast aside like worthless rubbish. After the red dragon reshaped the climate and melted away the centuries of snowpack, it had transformed overnight into the largest, most fertile agricultural region in all of Anzeta: the Great Matora Farmland. The plain possessed forty-three million mu of arable land, perfectly flat and immensely fertile. Properly cultivated, it was more than capable of sustaining the entire empire’s food supply. "*Auuugh...*" A low, guttural rasp echoed across the plain. Across the expanse of earth, lines of stark-white skeletons were arrayed in orderly rows, walking stiffly through the soil and rhythmically swinging hoes with vigorous effort. They were actually... tilling the soil? Indeed, they were farming. These skeletons possessed no autonomous will, yet they could be commanded to carry out basic physical routines. Further out in the fields, hundreds more skeletons could be seen sowing seeds under the direction of an agricultural officer. Anzeta had always been a vast and sparsely populated land, with fewer than ten million people scattered thinly across nearly three million square kilometers. The empire did not lack land; it lacked people. Under Trump's development initiative, factories in every city were actively recruiting labor. Siphoning off a portion of their scarce, precious human population just to serve as farmhands would have been an inefficient waste of resources. Yet industrial expansion required a sufficient non-agricultural population, which in turn required an abundant food supply to support it. Furthermore, the empire had not yet developed large-scale mechanized agricultural equipment. And so, Trump had proposed a new imperial institution: the Department of Agriculture. Most of the agricultural officers were druids well-versed in the ways of nature, nearly all of them players. Each agricultural officer led several hundred inexpensive skeletons to conduct massive, centralized farming operations under the cover of night. During the day, most of these skeletons remained on standby inside coffins or were put to work mining underground. Furthermore, the department cooperated closely with the empire's Department of Technology. Genetors from the Machine Cult were tasked with breeding superior seed strains, researching crops that yielded more produce and showed greater adaptability to the environment. At the same time, the druids utilized their magic to cast all manner of unnatural growth-acceleration spells, making the crops flourish with unnatural vigor. One player, whose username was Wobuchijinkela, had even struck out on an unconventional path. He bought and hoarded human waste from various cities, founding the "Jinkela Organic Fertilizer Company." By partnering with the Department of Agriculture, he had become one of the wealthiest players in the community within a matter of weeks. Perhaps it was an instinct etched deep into their very bloodlines, but when it came to farming, the players' progress was remarkably swift. It was estimated that following this harvest, the crops yielded by the Great Matora Farmland would be enough to feed the entire nation. One could foresee that once the "skeleton agricultural system" fully matured, the empire would face no shortage of food for a very long time. Cassius gazed out over the boundless farmland, already envisioning the golden seas of wheat soon to rise from the soil. Yet his gaze also drifted toward the distant cities, picturing the countless citizens who would soon toil and sweat before monstrous, hulking machinery, like living gears grafted onto those iron beasts. *Heh...* *Farming, is it? You ought to thank me. At the very least, you will have food in your bellies, won't you?* The red dragon couldn't suppress a yawn. He was beginning to feel a creeping drowsiness. Perhaps it was almost time for his next slumber. ... Night fell, and stars flickered across the sky. Across the vast expanse of the Great Matora Farmland, a druid drove several hundred skeletons forward, laboring diligently through the soil. The username floating above his head was none other than the illustrious Wings of Liberty—better known among the player base as "Holy Light Bro." Holy Light Bro wiped the sweat from his brow. His burly torso remained completely bare, with only select regions obscured by a glare of piercing holy light, gleaming like a radiant star in the dead of night. He gazed out into the distance, a rugged and rustic smile spreading across his face. "*Ahhh—* "What a breathtaking wilderness! I can feel the breath of nature itself—" He sighed wistfully. "A pity that all mortals are blind fools, blind to the beauty of the natural way, insisting on wrapping their magnificent bodies in crude cloth." Holy Light Bro patted the skeleton in front of him on the shoulder. "You guys are so much better. Though you're dead, you don't wear a stitch either. We face one another in complete and utter honesty. "Praise freedom!" Holy Light Bro dropped to all fours and transformed into a brown bear. Fluorescent green waves of primal energy radiated from his body, pouring vitality into the seeds buried in the soil. "*Auuugh...*" The skeletons let out suppressed, guttural groans, endlessly swinging their hoes back and forth, seemingly incapable of exhaustion. In truth, Holy Light Bro was talking absolute nonsense. Undead and druids were natural adversaries; druids who revered the path of nature thoroughly detested such abominations that defied the cycle of death. Yet players couldn't care less about such lore constraints. He was merely looking for an excuse to indulge his peculiar exhibitionist tendencies.