When Damien Cross woke up the next morning, he expected the usual: a hangover, an empty coin pouch, and at least two retainers begging him to pay the baker's tab.
Instead, he woke to the sight of a cracked ceiling beam sagging dangerously above his bed.
"...Right," Damien muttered, rubbing his temples. "Still not a dream. Still in medieval bankruptcy simulator."
He dressed quickly—well, "quickly" was generous. Half his wardrobe was moth-eaten, and the only boots without holes were two different colors. But he wasn't going outside to impress anyone. Not when he had a kingdom of mud to manage.
The Welcome Committee
When he stepped into the main hall, three people stood waiting for him.
Three… unique people.
First was Gerald, the steward. A man who looked like he'd been carved out of wrinkles, with a voice so slow and deliberate you could grow crops in the pauses. Second was Brenna, the cook—if "cook" meant "woman who could turn a boiled potato into a war crime." And finally Harlan, the guard captain, a man built like a tree trunk but with the strategic mind of a loaf of bread.
"Your lordship," Gerald said with a solemn bow. "We have gathered to discuss the most urgent matters of the estate."
"Finally," Damien said, forcing some enthusiasm. "We'll address the farming disaster, the supply shortages, the collapsed barn—"
"Our urgent matter," Gerald interrupted, "is that the goose has gone missing."
Damien blinked. "The… goose."
"Yes, my lord," Brenna said gravely. "The one that lays the biggest eggs. We can't have breakfast without her."
"Forgive me if I sound crazy," Damien said slowly, "but isn't the bigger problem the fact that our fields are about as fertile as a salted biscuit?"
Gerald nodded. "Indeed, my lord. But the goose is a more immediate tragedy."
Harlan, the guard captain, slammed a fist to his chest. "I'll track it down personally, my lord! No poultry thief shall escape me!"
Damien pinched the bridge of his nose. I can't work with these people.
The Grand Tour of Misery
Still, he needed to see the state of the land firsthand. So he ordered the three to follow him on a walk of the estate.
It was worse than he'd imagined.
The fields were cracked and dry, weeds thriving where wheat should be. A few bent, starving farmhands were trying to dig irrigation channels with shovels so rusty they looked like relics from an archaeological dig.
"Why are the irrigation ditches so shallow?" Damien asked.
"We used to make them deeper," Gerald explained, "but then we lost the shovel with the good handle."
"And you didn't… get another handle?"
Gerald looked at him as if he'd suggested buying a palace. "Handles are expensive, my lord."
Brenna chimed in, "Besides, deeper ditches just mean more water for weeds."
Damien felt an unholy urge to scream.
Brainstorming… Sort Of
Back at the hall, Damien tried to rally them for a plan.
"We need to revive the farmland," he said. "That means tilling the soil, improving irrigation, and planting something that will actually grow in this dirt."
Gerald raised a hand. "We could pray for rain, my lord."
"Or," Brenna added, "we could cook the weeds. At least they'd be something to eat."
Harlan slammed the table. "I say we train the farmhands like soldiers! Whip them into shape!"
"Yes," Damien said flatly, "because nothing says good harvest like forcing farmers to march in formation."
Damien's Decision
He was starting to understand why the estate was in ruins. It wasn't just bad soil—it was bad management. And until now, he'd been the worst offender.
"All right," Damien said, standing. "Enough of this. I'm taking over the farming project personally."
Gerald looked alarmed. "But, my lord, you've never held a hoe in your life."
"That's true," Damien said. "Which puts me ahead of all of you—because at least I know I'm clueless. And unlike you lot, I'm willing to learn."
He marched toward the storage shed. It was dark, dusty, and smelled faintly of despair. But in one corner, buried under a pile of junk, he found it: a half-rotted sack of seeds.
Gerald peeked in behind him. "Those are years old, my lord. No one's planted them because they're probably dead."
Damien grinned. "Then it's time to prove them wrong."
The First Step
That afternoon, Damien gathered every farmhand still strong enough to hold a shovel. He had them start clearing weeds, turning the soil, and—most importantly—digging deeper irrigation trenches.
He got dirt under his fingernails. He sweat. He cursed. But he also noticed something: the workers, seeing their lord actually working, started to put in more effort themselves.
Gerald whispered to Brenna, "Do you think he's gone mad?"
Brenna nodded. "Definitely. But… maybe the good kind?"
Damien ignored them. For the first time since waking up here, he felt a spark of purpose.
This place is a mess, he thought, but it's my mess. And I'll make it work.
Somewhere in the distance, the missing goose honked.