novelAlta Chapter 133 : Chapter 133
Chapter 133 : Chapter 133
Chapter 133. Divination Spellwork
The wind in Winter City had never been reasonable. When it struck the face, it felt like countless tiny blades scraping across the skin.
Yet this experimental field, located on a leeward slope outside the city, had been forcibly turned into a small pocket of warmth by several erected magitech heating pillars.
Even so, the air here still sent a chill down one’s spine.
It was not only because the semi-transparent thermal barrier muted all sound, leaving the place eerily quiet, but also because of the figure crouching by the ridge of the field.
Iowen—once a proud bard, now the Chief Agricultural Technical Advisor of the Northern Territory—was squatting in the mud, curled into himself.
His once-refined bard’s attire was now splattered with dirt, and his handsome face bore two uneven bruises, as if it had recently come into “close contact” with a sword sheath or some blunt object.
Hearing footsteps, Iowen shuddered, nearly dropping the shovel in his hand onto his own foot.
“Seems like your adjustment period has been quite fulfilling.”
Logaris’s polished leather boots stopped by the ridge.
“Extremely fulfilling.”
The one who answered was not Iowen, but Lilith, who was sitting on a nearby rock.
The half-elf assassin was idly spinning a gleaming dagger in her hand. Seeing her employer arrive, she hopped down from the rock and casually slid the blade back into the sheath strapped to her thigh.
“This guy tried to lecture me about ‘elven human rights’ and ‘the dignity of an artist’ at the start.”
Lilith brushed the dust off her hands and pointed at the still-swollen bruise on Iowen’s face, her tone carrying a hint of pride. “So I gave him a little lesson on the basics—like ‘the proper conduct of a defeated captive’ and ‘the client is always right.’”
“Effective.” Logaris glanced at Iowen, who was practically trying to bury his head in the soil, and nodded in approval at Lilith’s efficiency. “As long as he does not run or slack off, the specific ‘management methods’ are up to you.”
“Do not worry, boss.” Lilith grinned, revealing a small, sharp canine tooth. Her gaze flicked toward Iowen. “With skin this delicate, I am more than happy to take my time.”
Iowen trembled even more violently.
Logaris had no interest in meddling in the grievances between these two long-eared individuals. He was here for business.
“Stop playing dead.” Logaris lightly kicked the mound of dirt beneath Iowen. “Report your progress. If you tell me you have just been playing in the mud these past few days, you can go fight Winter City’s stray dogs for leftovers tonight.”
Iowen sprang to his feet and hurriedly pulled out a crumpled notebook from his chest, offering it with both hands.
“I—I have not been playing in the mud! I have been working!” His voice was hoarse, clearly worn down by the “treatment” of that female devil. Yet when it came to his professional field, a trace of elven pride and arrogance could not help but surface.
He pointed at the rows of crops in the field, where tender green sprouts had just emerged, his eyes lighting up slightly.
“This is the crop you wanted to modify… that one.” Iowen had originally intended to say “pig feed,” but seeing Logaris’s unfriendly expression, he swallowed the word. “The life structure of the Stoneheart Potato is too stable—like a rock. To alter its taste while preserving its cold resistance, conventional methods simply will not work.”
“So?” Logaris flipped through the notebook. It was filled with dense observation logs written in Elven script, the handwriting neat and refined. It was clear that despite his complaints, Iowen had not been slacking.
“So I used ‘Life Grafting.’”
Iowen straightened his back, a hint of pride entering his voice. “This is an advanced technique mastered only by high-level horticulturists among the natural elves. I extracted sugar-rich life fragments from the ‘Sweetroot Vegetable’ imported from the south and attempted to weave them into the embryo of the Stoneheart Potato.”
As he spoke, he crouched down. A faint green glow lit up at his fingertips as he gently touched one of the seedlings.
The previously wilted sprout suddenly perked up as if injected with a stimulant, its two leaves spreading open. Faint reddish veins shimmered within them.
“Look! The fusion is very successful!” Iowen said excitedly. “According to my calculations, this improved variety will have significantly increased sugar and moisture content. While it may not reach the level of fruit, at least when cooked it will no longer taste like chewing wood chips. It might even have a hint of sweetness!”
Logaris raised an eyebrow. That was indeed somewhat interesting.
“And the yield?” he asked, cutting straight to the most critical issue. “What I need is not a new dish for noble tables, but something to feed hundreds of thousands of people.”
“That is the problem.”
The excitement on Iowen’s face faded like a receding tide, replaced by a strained expression. He spread his hands helplessly and sighed.
“Natural mutation is inherently probabilistic—and the probability is extremely low. I forcibly fused the life fragments of two plants, but whether they will integrate perfectly, and whether the result will be high-yield or a complete failure, depends entirely on luck.”
He gestured toward the experimental field, which spanned several acres.
“There are about three thousand samples planted here. To select a stable, high-yield, and palatable parent strain, we must observe a full growth cycle. Then collect seeds, plant again, and repeat the selection. Even with elven magic to accelerate growth, it will take at least three cycles, which means…”
Iowen raised two fingers and waved them in front of Logaris.
“Two years.”
The air suddenly fell silent.
Lilith, who had been watching with interest, twitched slightly upon hearing that timeframe. The look she gave Iowen practically screamed, “Do you hear the nonsense coming out of your own mouth?”
“Two years?” Logaris closed the notebook with a sharp snap, making Iowen jump.
“That is too long.” He shook his head. “I do not have the patience to watch you play a plant-breeding game here for two years—or longer.”
“But there is no other way!” Iowen protested anxiously. “This is the law of nature! The principle of life itself! I have three thousand samples—I cannot possibly force-grow each one individually! Even if the Goddess of Life descended, she could not violate the fundamental logic of plant growth. Until it grows, who can tell whether this seedling will yield a basket of potatoes or a pile of rotten roots?”
“That is the method of ordinary farmers.”
Logaris casually tossed the notebook back to him and took out a velvet pouch from his coat.
He opened it.
Inside were over a dozen perfectly cut transparent crystal plates, neatly arranged. Each crystal was engraved with extremely complex runes in mithril. In the dim light, the runes flowed with a faint golden glow.
Iowen’s eyes widened instantly.
“This is… a divination-type magitech device?!”
“Who told you that you have to wait for it to grow before knowing what it will become?”
Logaris picked up one of the crystals. Without chanting any spell, he simply rubbed his fingers together lightly. The priceless magitech crystal disintegrated in midair, turning into countless specks of golden dust.
“Divination spellwork—activate.”