The Farming Emperor: I'll Raise My Empire from Fields

Chapter 10: The Market Scuffle and the Man with the Cane

🍅 The Hum of the Market

The town of Therrow wasn't much to look at on most days—a sleepy knot of stone-and-wood buildings slouched between dusty hills, with wind-chimes clacking lazily on porches and bored dogs dozing in alleys. But once a moon, Market Day came, and everything changed.

Banners were hoisted. Carts rumbled in from five neighboring hamlets. Perfumes fought with livestock scents. Vendors yelled louder than they needed, and children ran wild between bread stalls and wool piles.

Sylas rode on Bran's back this time, swaddled and hooded. Lira and Serra manned the family's produce stall: a wooden table with baskets of brightly polished squash, wild blueberries, velvet-furred peaches, and a mysterious red root Bud had helped grow. A little paper sign read:

"Farm Fresh. Grown with Gratitude. Ask about the Bloom Root!"

But no one was asking. The girls were young, and farmers didn't always trust young hands—even if their fruit gleamed under sunlight.

Still, they smiled and made soft calls.

"Three coppers a bundle!"

"Four peaches for two!"

"Try the root, it's good for the knees!"

Until—

⚔️ Trouble Over Turnips

Just across from their stall, two older vendors suddenly erupted into shouts.

"You stole my patch!"

"Liar! I had those turnips packed before dawn!"

"Your hands lie as much as your lips, Henrick!"

It was Henrick the sourbean seller and Old Mara the cheese witch, two village staples who'd been side-by-side for decades. But today, they were red-faced and close to throwing produce.

People paused, curious. Some laughed. Others circled.

Then it turned ugly.

Henrick grabbed Mara's basket and threw it down, smashing cheeses like eggs. Mara screamed and struck him with her walking stick.

A sudden crowd formed—shouting, pushing, heckling. Someone tried to stop them, but then others got pulled into the quarrel. Rival vendors joined in, arguing about stolen placement and spoiled deals. It became a swirl of chaos.

Bran stepped forward, eyes narrowing.

"We should help," he muttered.

"No," Lira whispered, gripping his sleeve. "Let someone bigger fix it. They won't listen to us."

Sylas simply stared.

And then...

🏇 The Man with the Cane

A click-click echoed across the cobbles.

From between the crowd, a tall figure strode forward—a man in a long forest-green coat with golden threading, a silver-chased walking cane tapping the stones rhythmically. His eyes were pale amber, and his hair tied back with a black ribbon.

He didn't shout.

He simply stood between the vendors.

His gaze alone was enough.

Silence followed.

"Henrick. Mara." His voice was rich, clipped, and quietly commanding. "My name is Lord Eddric Vale. I suggest you stop acting like goats in a lion's court."

Mara blinked.

Henrick scowled. "You're... from the capital."

"I am from sense, Henrick," the man said without missing a beat. "And in my lands, the punishment for market riots includes peeling potatoes for children with no teeth. Shall I recommend you both?"

Someone snorted.

The tension broke like frost under sunlight.

Henrick mumbled. Mara grumbled. Both backed off.

The noble tipped his head, not smiling.

"Good. Let commerce resume, and pride rest where it belongs: beneath humility."

Then he turned—and began browsing.

🍏 The Children's Stall

Lord Eddric strolled the stalls with calm calculation, brushing his fingers over velvet cloth, dried mushrooms, and jars of honey. He passed half a dozen carts before stopping—not at the loudest vendors, nor the fanciest—but at the Varenthor children's table.

He looked at the produce, not the sellers.

Squash. Berries. Bloom root.

He picked one peach and rolled it in his palm. His gloved fingers paused.

"This peach," he said, voice low, "was not grown with common soil."

Bran blinked. "Sir?"

"You used no saltpeter. No lye. No rot compost. I see no grain-fed insects. And yet—look at the color. Feel the tension in its skin. This fruit has... memory."

He set the peach down and tapped his cane once on the ground.

"Who grew these?"

Lira stepped forward nervously. "My mother, sir. Maelis. And my little brother. Sylas."

The noble turned to Sylas, who stared back with unblinking, one-year-old calm.

"That child?" he said. "He has your farm's soil under his fingernails."

Bran shifted protectively.

"He crawls. And listens," Eddric murmured, more to himself. "He carries something old."

The moment passed.

He reached into his satchel and pulled out a silver-etched coin.

"Five nobles," he said, placing the coin gently on the table. "For the Bloom Root. And three peaches. And a word of advice."

The children waited.

"Guard the quiet ones. They hear what the world forgets."

And with that, he turned and walked away.

🍂 End of Day Reflections

Back home, Bran told Maelis about the noble.

"He said Sylas carried something old."

Maelis nodded slowly. "He does."

Lira polished the silver coin. "Do you think he'll come back?"

Serra leaned on the doorway, eyes thoughtful. "He wasn't just a noble. I think he was... searching."

Sylas lay in his cradle, one hand wrapped around Bud, the other still smeared with a smudge of market soil.

In his sleep, he whispered:

"Root. Seed. Cane. Memory."