Wizard: I Have a Cultivation System

It was the same land, yet it was as if several decades had passed.

The sky was grim, with leaden clouds hanging low.

The once-neat fields were mostly desolate and overgrown with weeds. The few plots that were still farmed looked barren and lifeless.

The new brick and stone houses were mostly dilapidated, with broken windows and peeling walls. No smoke rose from their chimneys.

In the center of the estate, the waterwheel—once a symbol of new technology and hope—was now completely destroyed. It had collapsed, half-submerged in the murky creek, its gears rusted.

Beside the fields where the Lord and the Priest once demonstrated new farming tools, a large crowd of tenants had now gathered. Their faces were sallow, their expressions agitated, some even ferocious.

Dressed in rags, they held crude farming tools and even clubs, shouting something with great agitation. Anger and disappointment were etched on every face.

And at the center of the encirclement was the Glamorgan Count—or rather, the man he would be twenty years later.

He was so much older now. His hair was almost completely white, his face etched with deep lines of exhaustion. His once-gentle and wise eyes now held only bewilderment and pain.

His simple linen clothes were covered in dirt, with even a few tears.

"...We’ve had enough, Lord Count!" a tenant brandished a pitchfork, his voice hoarse. "The mutual aid granary has been empty for ages! The review council has become a rubber stamp for your relatives! What happened to the sharing you promised? The equality? We’re working harder than ever, but the harvests are smaller, and what we get isn’t even enough to fill our stomachs!"

"That’s right! Look! Just look!" another old woman cried out, pointing at the desolate fields in the distance. "It wasn’t like this when Father Anderson was here! Now... now everything’s a mess! Everything’s a complete mess!"

"After the Priest left, you stopped listening to us! All you know is how to give the best land and the best things to your relatives who act as stewards!" a younger man with bloodshot eyes roared. "How is this any different from being bullied by the great lords of the past! No, it’s worse! We put so much trust in you!"

The aged Glamorgan Count’s lips trembled. He wanted to explain, to placate them, but found his throat was parched, unable to produce a proper sound.

He tried to raise his hand, but his arm felt as heavy as lead.

He looked around at the faces that had once been filled with trust for him, now contorted with anger and disappointment. His heart felt as if it were being squeezed by a cold, tight fist.

’It wasn’t intentional.’

’I never wanted it to turn out like this.’

The accounts of the mutual aid fund grew more and more complex, and there were always people trying to take a little more for themselves.

The arguments in the review council became more and more heated, until finally, the people he relied on had to force decisions through just to get anything done.

The domain’s harvests were hit by several natural disasters, depleting their reserves.

The spread of new technology from the Holy City seemed to have stalled as well...

And he himself, as he grew older and his energy waned, found it increasingly difficult to handle the endless conflicts and trivial matters, and became more and more reliant on a few seemingly capable relatives.

He remembered Father Anderson, just before he passed away, gripping his hand, his grey-blue eyes filled with deep worry. "Lord Count... you must be vigilant... The fire we have lit can warm people, but it can also... burn them, and even consume ourselves..."

At the time, he had thought the Priest was simply old and overly anxious.

Only now did he understand that it wasn’t anxiety. It was a prophecy.

"I..." he finally managed to say, his voice feeble and weak. "I’ll find a way... I’ll start over..."

His words were drowned out by a surging wave of shouts.

In the chaos, someone shoved him.

The scene instantly spiraled out of control.

The furious tenants surged forward. Someone ripped away the sash that symbolized his status; others beat his body with their clubs.

The elderly Count was pushed to the ground amidst the chaos. He curled into a ball, enduring the kicks, blows, and curses. The last light in his eyes was the reflection of the homeland he had poured his heart into, now desolate and ruined.

In his last moments of fading consciousness, he seemed to see that sunny afternoon from so many years ago. He and the old Priest stood side-by-side on a ridge between fields, teaching the young people how to use new farm tools, the air filled with hopeful laughter...

The Ironspine Duke’s voice slowly rose from amidst the bleak scene, tinged with a sort of pity:

"Do you see, Murphy? This is the Path you hold so dear. This is the outcome it leads to in the river of time, when left to its own devices, guided only by the limitations of mortals themselves."

"The Glamorgan Count was not born evil. In fact, he possessed more sincere goodwill and loftier ideals than most Lords. But he overestimated himself and underestimated human nature and reality."

"The ideal of mutual aid and sharing quickly soured under the strain of scarce resources, unequal distribution, internal corruption, and external pressure. He was powerless to maintain that fragile balance, and was ultimately consumed by his own ideals, destroyed by the very people he sought to protect."

"If he had followed the way of balance, perhaps he would have realized the great chasm between his ideals and reality much sooner, before the domain had spun completely out of control and the conflicts had become so acute. It might have led him to abandon his impractical experiments and settle back into being a traditional Lord, one who understands how to balance the interests of all parties."

"Then, his tenants would never have conceived of hopes that were doomed to fail. They would not have fallen into deeper despair when those hopes were shattered. And he would not have been caught between his ideals and reality, only to be ruined and disgraced, dying alone. His life would have been mediocre, but he would have lived longer. The domain would have maintained basic order and sustenance. Is that not a better outcome than the bloody end that follows the shattering of an illusory ideal?"