The Baron had a smile plastered across his face that was far too wide for comfort.
"My son! You must be ready. Today is the day the Cross family shows the world our genius!"
…Correction: His son was not ready. His son wanted to crawl under the nearest rock and stay there.
"Father," Damien said through gritted teeth, "I don't recall ever volunteering for a… what is this again?"
"A public demonstration," the Baron said proudly, slapping Damien's shoulder with so much force he almost went flying into the manure pile nearby. "You will show all the nobles and peasants the miracle you have devised!"
"Miracle," Damien muttered, staring at the rickety canal, the hastily dumped manure, and the oxen that were currently munching on their own rope harnesses. "Yes, of course. Nothing says miracle quite like cow poop and mud soup."
The Baron either didn't hear him or chose to ignore it. "The neighboring lords are coming. Merchants, too! Do you know what this means?"
"Yes," Damien replied darkly. "It means they'll be present to witness my public execution when this inevitably fails."
By noon, the estate courtyard was packed. Peasants clustered in rough groups, muttering skepticism. A few minor nobles arrived in polished carriages, their expressions already screaming 'let's watch the fool fail.'
Damien stood at the center, trying very hard not to sweat through his doublet.
His retainers had assembled like a parody of a work crew:
Gerald the steward was muttering about the manure ratio, holding a ladle like it was a holy relic.
The cook had shown up with a frying pan "in case the crops grew immediately and needed to be sautéed."
The guard captain was loudly betting with peasants on whether Damien would trip before or after starting.
And overseeing it all, the Baron waved to the crowd like a carnival barker.
"Behold! My son Damien Cross, visionary of agriculture! He shall show you the future of farming!"
Damien swallowed hard. "Visionary? Dad, I'm more like a man on death row."
Damien raised his hand dramatically. If he was going to fail, he might as well look stylish doing it.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, adopting the tone of a man introducing a TED Talk instead of a mud pit. "What you see before you is not failure. It is innovation. We shall transform barren land into fertile wealth using…"
He hesitated. "…the power of poop."
Gasps. A few horrified nobles. The peasants snorted. Someone in the back yelled, "He's gone mad!"
But the Baron clapped vigorously. "Brilliant! Continue, my boy!"
Damien motioned to the workers. The manure carts were dumped into the tilled fields. The oxen, half-asleep, were prodded forward to trample the mixture into the soil. The irrigation canal gates creaked open, and muddy water flowed sluggishly.
For one shining moment, it almost looked convincing.
And then the rain started.
At first it was a drizzle. Then, a downpour. The freshly dug canal swelled dangerously. Water overflowed, mud splattered everywhere, peasants scrambled for cover. The oxen panicked, snapping their ropes and charging through the crowd, leaving steaming piles of "extra fertilizer" in their wake.
"Gods above, this is a circus!" a noblewoman shrieked, lifting her skirts out of the muck.
Damien stood rooted to the spot, drenched, hair plastered to his face. Perfect. Just perfect. Today, I have achieved clownhood. Where's my red nose?
The Baron, somehow, was still clapping. "Magnificent! The boy is in complete control!"
"Control?!" Damien sputtered, slipping in the mud as an ox barreled past. "I'm about as in control as a chicken in a tornado!"
And then, just as quickly, something strange happened.
The runoff from the canal didn't destroy the fields. Instead, it spread evenly, soaking into the soil exactly where it needed to. The manure, trampled deep by the oxen, mixed perfectly with the rain. The muck settled, forming a rich, dark earth that practically smelled fertile.
The peasants stared. Seeds that had been scattered earlier began to swell and sprout almost instantly in the soaked, nutrient-rich soil.
"…It's… working?" Gerald whispered in awe.
One of the peasants gasped. "The land—look at the land!"
Another fell to their knees. "It's a miracle!"
Damien blinked. "Wait. No. No, no, no. This was supposed to fail. I was supposed to learn a lesson, not accidentally become the local Messiah of Mud."
But the crowd didn't care. They surged forward, eyes wide with reverence.
"A genius!" "Lord Damien is truly blessed!" "He turned filth into food!"
The Baron wept openly, grabbing his son in a bear hug. "My boy! You've done it! You've secured the future of House Cross!"
Meanwhile, Damien just stood there, dripping, smelling like manure, wondering what cosmic joke had cursed him to succeed every time he failed.
As the crowd dispersed, peasants began repeating his words like scripture.
"The power of poop!" "Fertile wealth!" "Transform barren land!"
Damien buried his face in his hands. I was being sarcastic. Sarcasm. And now they're quoting me like I'm the Prophet of Fertilizer.
He looked up at the stormy sky. "If there's a god up there, I hope you're laughing, because I'm not."
The Baron clasped his shoulders. "Damien, my boy, this is only the beginning. Tomorrow, the whole region will know of your genius!"
Damien gave the wet, steaming field one last look. Then sighed.
"…This world is doomed."