To be honest, he didn’t find wine particularly tasty. He didn’t like any kind of alcohol, only enjoyed eating fermented rice. His body, inherited from his predecessor, had a certain ability to appreciate alcohol and could adapt well to various flavors of drinks.

So, when in Rome, he would have a drink now and then.

Anyway, without high-proof distilled spirits, it was hard to get drunk.

“By the way, Henry Clark sir, is there something wrong with the peanuts in Peanut Hamlet?” He suddenly remembered his new task. His battle aura had already sublimated, and he was eager for the new reward.

“Hmm, that’s right. Maybe the climate isn’t good this year—Peanut Hamlet is probably facing a total crop failure. I sent people to check, and the peanut fields are withering on a large scale. In a few days, they’ll probably all die... Poor serfs, winter hasn’t even come and they’ll already be starving.” Though he spoke of pity, Henry Clark didn’t show a trace of sympathy.

He put down his wine cup.

Edward Thompson said firmly, “Tomorrow, come with me to Peanut Hamlet for an on-site inspection. We’ll study how to resolve the crisis there.”

Chapter 9: The Barren Land of Peanut Hamlet

The chestnut-red fire dragon horse carried the earth knight Edward Thompson across muddy ground to Peanut Hamlet. Peanut Hamlet was a settlement much smaller than a village, with only seven or eight thatched huts scattered sparsely.

“What are you all standing around for? The lord has arrived—why aren’t you kneeling and paying your respects?” The town’s scribe, nimble on his feet, knocked on every peasant’s door.

All the residents here were serfs.

They came out of their drafty houses, faces numb from the oppression of life, standing woodenly at their doors, at a loss. Only after the scribe shouted at them did they kneel one by one, bowing in the direction of Edward Thompson.

The adults’ actions were all mechanical.

Only a few naked children occasionally looked up, their dirty but bright eyes sizing up Edward Thompson. Then an adult would smack their heads down, making them kneel just like the others, their foreheads nearly touching the ground.

“Who’s in charge of Peanut Hamlet?” Edward Thompson asked.

Henry Clark, riding his own horse, looked unconcerned—he didn’t know who was in charge here. A scribe spoke up: “Reporting to my lord, it’s the lame Old George.”

“Bring him here.”

The scribe quickly dragged over an old man with a lame leg, who walked with difficulty. The old man’s patched clothes and withered body looked as if he might collapse at any moment.

“My lord, Old George is here.”

The scribe shoved the old man, seemingly urging him to pay his respects, but the old man was so nervous he just stood there, not knowing what to do.

Edward Thompson waved his hand, signaling the scribe to step back, and said gently, “Old George, don’t be nervous. I am Edward Thompson, Baron of Tulip and lord of Flower Town. I heard there’s a problem with the peanuts in Peanut Hamlet. Take us to the fields to see if we can solve it.”

“Ah, oh, Baron... my lord...” Old George stammered nervously, “I’ll lead the way right now... Thank heavens... Peanut Hamlet is saved... the lord has come to rescue us!”

Excited, Old George even managed to walk briskly.

Edward Thompson had inspected the fields before, but only from the outside with a quick glance. Now he was taking a closer look. Since these were serf fields, there were no ridges between them; each long strip of field was separated only by a single ditch, and different serfs farmed different plots.

Almost ninety percent of the fields’ yield belonged to the nobility—that is, to Edward Thompson.

The remaining ten percent was their own food.

At this moment—

The peanut fields, which should have been lush green, were patchy with green and yellow, all the plants wilted and half-dead, sprawling on the ground. The soil was damp, clearly the serfs had watered them plenty, but watering alone couldn’t revive the peanuts.

Old George, wiping his tears, said emotionally, “My lord, we haven’t been lazy at all—we fetch water and irrigate three times a day, but the peanuts are still dying. Only the field planted by Archie hasn’t wilted yet, but it’s barely holding on—some of the leaves are starting to yellow.”

Following Old George’s pointing finger, Edward Thompson saw the long field in the center of Peanut Hamlet’s farmland.

The central part of the long field was green, looking much more vigorous than the surrounding yellowing peanuts.

Edward Thompson dismounted, walked into the field, bent down, and pulled up a yellowing peanut seedling to examine it. Just as he was about to take a closer look, Henry Clark suddenly said, “Edward Thompson, you shouldn’t be touching this dirty work. If you need anything, just have the serfs do it.” Though he was a down-and-out landed knight, his attitude toward commoners was even more disdainful than most nobles.

Edward Thompson ignored him.

Instead, he carefully examined the peanut seedling in his hand, trying to determine the cause.

He wasn’t an agronomist, but he’d farmed as a child and was no stranger to agriculture. The peanuts in both worlds were similar in some ways and different in others. But he could basically tell that the seedling in his hand was suffering from malnutrition.

“Have you used plant ash or manure to fertilize the fields?”