By the next morning, Damien awoke to the sound of shouting outside his window.
He cracked one eye open, hair still smelling faintly of yesterday's "success."
"Lord Damien!" someone bellowed from the courtyard. "Bless us with your miracle once more!"
He sat up, groaning. "Oh no. It's starting."
Within hours of the demonstration, the story had spread like wildfire. By the time Damien stumbled into the great hall for breakfast, the estate was already crowded with people.
Merchants, peasants, even minor nobles—all demanding an audience.
"Lord Damien turned mud into gold!" "They say he can summon rain on command!" "His secret technique involves… cow dung enlightenment?"
Damien stopped mid-step. "…Cow what now?"
Gerald, looking as though he hadn't slept all night, approached with a trembling stack of papers. "Reports, my lord. It appears your words have been… ah… recorded by the people."
Damien snatched one up and read aloud.
"The soil shall be reborn through filth; thus spoke Damien Cross."
He lowered the paper very slowly. "…They made me sound like a cult leader."
Gerald nodded gravely. "Several villages are already chanting your slogans. One group has started calling themselves 'The Fertile Faith.'"
Damien dropped the paper. "Great. I've invented agriculture, and somehow, a religion."
The Baron, on the other hand, was practically glowing. He swept into the hall, arms open wide.
"My son! You've done it! You've secured our future! Do you know how many nobles are offering partnerships already?!"
Damien rubbed his temple. "Yes, Father, I can tell from the horde outside our gates."
"One even called you the Messiah of Manure!"
"…I want to die."
But the Baron was unstoppable. "This is our chance, Damien! The Cross family will rise again, and all because of your brilliance!"
Damien gave him a long look. "Father, do you actually understand how this works? Or are you just enjoying the free praise?"
"Both!"
By midday, the first envoys arrived. Neighboring lords who once looked down on the Cross family now came with polite smiles and probing questions.
One, a sharp-eyed marquess, leaned across the table. "Tell me, Lord Damien. How do you… control the rain?"
Damien choked on his drink. "Excuse me?"
"The reports say you summoned a storm to bless the fields."
"That wasn't me! That was the weather!"
But the marquess only nodded sagely. "Ah, so humble. A true genius hides his secrets."
Damien slammed his head into the table. This is how cults start, isn't it?
Later, a group of peasants was ushered in, clutching worn hats.
"Lord Damien, please," their spokesman begged. "Our village fields are barren. Come perform your sacred technique!"
Damien pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's not sacred. It's not even a technique. It's just manure and mud—"
"We shall provide all the manure you need!" they cried.
"…That's not comforting."
By evening, Damien was slumped in his chair, surrounded by piles of requests. Merchants wanted contracts. Nobles wanted alliances. Peasants wanted miracles. His father wanted expansion.
And all Damien wanted… was a nap.
"Why," he muttered, "does every sarcastic word that comes out of my mouth turn into gospel in this world?"
Gerald cleared his throat. "Perhaps, my lord, it is destiny."
Damien glared at him. "Gerald, if you ever use the word 'destiny' again, I'll personally throw you into the next manure pit."
The steward wisely said nothing.
As the estate settled for the night, Damien leaned against the window, staring out at the moonlit fields.
The "miracle" had worked once. But how long before people realized it was just dumb luck?
This is spiraling out of control, he thought grimly. If I don't manage expectations soon, I'll either be hailed as a saint… or burned as a fraud.
Behind him, the Baron's voice boomed from the hall:
"Tomorrow, we announce our new agricultural plan! My son shall revolutionize the entire province!"
Damien groaned. "…This family is going to kill me faster than any dungeon monster."