The next morning, Damien barely had time to finish his bread before a delegation of nobles barged into the manor.
"Lord Damien Cross!" one of them cried, bowing as if greeting royalty. "We humbly request you bring your divine agricultural technique to our estates."
Damien blinked, a mouthful of bread still stuck in his throat. "My what?"
"The technique of soil rebirth!" another chimed in. "The one that makes barren land flourish overnight!"
Oh, fantastic. They want me to perform stage magic with cow dung.
And so, against his will, Damien was dragged in a procession of horses, carts, and noble entourages toward their lands.
The scene was ridiculous: banners waving, trumpets blaring, peasants cheering.
Why does this look like a royal parade? I literally smell like manure.
Gerald leaned in, whispering as the peasants tossed flowers at Damien's cart. "You've become a symbol of hope, my lord."
Damien muttered back, "Hope smells like horse crap and unrealistic expectations."
When they arrived, Damien was presented with… well, calling it a "field" was generous.
It was a swamp. A literal swamp.
Dead cattails, murky water, frogs croaking like they were mocking him.
Damien stared. "…You've got to be kidding me. You dragged me halfway across the province for this?"
The noble in charge puffed his chest proudly. "It is our most promising land!"
Damien turned to Gerald. "Promising what? Malaria?"
Gerald coughed politely. "…At least there are no tree stumps this time."
Damien glared at the swamp. "Give it a week. I'm sure tree stumps will sprout out of the mud just to spite me."
The crowd waited expectantly. Nobles, peasants, and even clergy had gathered to witness the miracle.
Damien stepped forward, raising his hands dramatically.
"First!" he announced. "We must… dig!"
Dozens of peasants blinked. "…Dig, my lord?"
"Yes. Trenches. Channels. A mighty canal to drain the swamp and feed the fields."
The crowd gasped as if he'd declared divine scripture.
In reality, Damien was just winging it.
Okay, Lloyd-style bluffing. If it looks insane but sounds confident, they'll eat it up.
And so, hundreds of peasants began digging.
Hours later, Damien surveyed the result: a crooked, shallow ditch filled with more swamp water than before.
It looked less like an irrigation system and more like a drunken snake had carved a mudslide across the field.
"Beautiful!" the noble cried, tears in his eyes. "Truly visionary!"
Damien pinched the bridge of his nose. "This is not beautiful. This is mud spaghetti."
But the peasants were already praising him.
"Lord Damien has brought water to the land!" "He channels the earth's veins itself!" "Praise be to the Fertile Faith!"
Damien muttered, "Praise be to my impending aneurysm."
Just as Damien was about to declare the project a total disaster, something strange happened.
The ditch overflowed—then drained—leaving behind a patch of land that was surprisingly fertile.
Within days, sprouts appeared where nothing had grown before.
The nobles were dumbstruck.
"A miracle…" one whispered. "He truly is the Prophet of Fertilizer."
Damien stared at the sprouts, jaw slack.
"…No. No way. That wasn't supposed to work."
Gerald smirked. "Congratulations, my lord. Once again, your genius has prevailed."
Damien grabbed him by the collar. "Don't you dare call that genius! That was a complete accident!"
But it was too late. The legend of Damien's divine canal had just begun.