Chapter 336: The Countryside

"I'm such a fool, really." Dominic leaned against the haystack, lifeless, clutching his cane as he watched the hired farmers and craftsmen bustle back and forth. "I knew driving would be difficult, but I never imagined things would get this bad."

"Mr. Kraft must be furious. We'll be stuck planting this land till we die. Hopefully he'll remember someday that we're useful for something."

Field dared not speak, shoving a wild berry into his mouth. The long-abandoned wasteland scattered small, natural surprises—orange-red skins, plump and warm, enclosing a slightly tart sweetness, perfectly ideal.

Though he disagreed with the current arrangement, it was best to keep quiet while his companion was still angry.

After that accident, the two were swiftly dispatched to the foot of the mountain to oversee the hired farmers and craftsmen rebuilding the monastery's affiliated manor.

Brother Lei Mengde, who delivered the order, called it "a weighty task, vital to the future foundation of the Knightly Order," requiring careful planning: before the next planting season, they must prepare storage zones for staple and auxiliary crops, medicinal herb gardens, stables, workshops, and allocate upstream-downstream positions according to water needs and contamination levels.

The preliminary draft alone spanned several pages, including several blank areas specially marked by Kraft, explicitly requiring them to be kept far from flowing water or production/living zones—with no additional annotations.

At first glance, it seemed a heavy responsibility—but once they took it on, they realized it was nothing of the sort.

They were still in the initial phase of repairing infrastructure and re-clearing wasteland.

The locally recruited farmers couldn't immediately abandon their nearly ripe wheat fields to work here, and most of the abandoned facilities—neglected for over twenty years—could only be rebuilt from scratch. Everything moved painfully slow.

As outsiders, they couldn't instruct locals on farming, nor offer technical guidance to professional craftsmen. Their daily work, politely put, was overseeing the whole operation and monitoring progress; bluntly, they were just decorations on the construction site.

Both spent their days rotting with idleness; achieving anything seemed impossible.

"Honestly, I think Mr. Kraft hasn't intended to marginalize us—he still requires us to submit written reports every three days." Field, being fair, believed a man constantly busy wouldn't bother spending time every three days reading meaningless reports.

They'd even been explicitly told that if any special circumstances arose—including personal issues—they could send a messenger orally the same day, without waiting.

Honestly, he was puzzled: what could possibly be worth noting in this soil? For weeks, besides daydreaming, he'd strained his mind to cobble together enough content for his reports, handing them to those who came down the mountain for supplies.

While Dominic was still wallowing in self-pity, Field had already grown accustomed to rural life. If you didn't consider the future, staying here indefinitely wasn't a bad choice—it allowed him to devote more energy to pursuing personal interests.

He tasted another berry, its hue redder, and sighed contentedly. A few more days of this leisurely life would be quite nice.

If only there were sugar. Berry season was always short; boiling them with sugar into jam would let them savor this flavor during the barren winter.

He passed the wooden tray of fruit to the side. Dominic didn't respond. Perhaps the trauma from the accident hadn't faded—his already quiet personality had grown even quieter.

Occasionally, he'd stare blankly into space, as if lost in thought—but when asked, he never spoke.

"Want to read some books? I brought my own copied collection of stories. Interested?"

"What?" Dominic paused a moment, then realized Field was speaking to him. "Oh, no thanks. I've read all of them at least three times."

"What's wrong with you? Did you hurt your brain?" Field knew he'd just spaced out again. He hoped it wasn't a post-accident aftereffect—that would be unbearable guilt.

But doing nothing all day wasn't good either. He should find some activity to help his friend recover soon.

"Feel like a walk?"

Dominic's vision suddenly went black, cutting off his drifting gaze and thoughts.

He pulled the object off his face—a straw hat, thick with bristles, woven from common broad-leaf wild grass, but with the sharp tips removed, the top twisted into a strange, spiral-like shape.

The craftsmanship was mediocre, but certainly not Field's.

"Where'd you get this?"

"Someone gave it to me." Field nodded toward the fields, where a young girl followed an older woman gathering and tying hay.

"Her father's unwell. I prayed for him. This is her thanks."

Then the hat was casually placed atop Dominic's head.

"You should treat a believer's gift more seriously—whether it's a straw hat or a gold coin, before the Lord, they're equal."

"Got it, got it." Field waved dismissively, standing to brush straw stubble from his back, stretching his arms.

Dominic's injured leg had improved well; Kraft had diagnosed at worst a hairline fracture—he could now bear slight weight and walk a few steps with his cane.

"By the way, are their hats only this weird, or…"

…are they all like this? Dominic looked toward the laborers, most wearing straw hats for shade—and got his answer.

Indeed, perhaps a local custom: every handmade hat bore a slightly clumsy, heavy spiral, resembling the curling white foam formed when oars or fish stirred the water around settlements.

"Oh, I asked. She said this hat protects and blesses me—something like a talisman?"

"Really? This area's been a parish for ages. Shouldn't they wear holy symbols?"

"Not strange. Holy symbols can't be worn on the head. Every place has its own customs; no need to meddle in idle curiosity." Field reached out, lending a hand to help Dominic stand. "According to their elders, this hat's shape resembles clouds—it makes whatever's up in the sky think you're just another drifting cloud, so you're safe."

"Never heard of that."

Field patted the thick straw spiral on the hat. "Neither have I. But at least it blocks falling pebbles and branches from the mountain. Maybe that's the reason."

"So, want to wander around? To the village, or those gentler slopes I found?"

"Good idea. I'm practically rusted shut." Dominic readily agreed. Too much idleness bred near-panic; vague thoughts kept surfacing in his haze, occasionally tugging at his over-sensitive nerves.

He should walk around, find something to do. Considering the monastery's written records were utterly destroyed, perhaps compiling a fresh overview of the surrounding region's culture and people would enrich his reports—and make Kraft take notice.