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

Chapter 13: Seeds of a New Dawn

The sun had just begun to rise, scattering golden strands across the fields like threads of woven fortune. Sylas sat on a rock beneath the shade of the apricot tree, small hands tugging gently at the vine of a ripe goldenroot. It came loose with a satisfying pop, dirt still clinging to its skin.

Around him, the garden breathed with life. The vegetables shimmered with an inner warmth, and fruits plumped themselves without rotting. The miracle of their farm wasn't loud—it was quiet and enduring, just like Sylas.

He looked down at the root. Then to the fruit basket beside him, already half-full with their harvest. He wasn't gathering for supper. Not today.

His small lips moved, forming quiet syllables. But words still came to him slowly.

A small girl with wheat-blonde hair in two wild braids ran up the path, clutching a stuffed cloth chicken. Mira, his youngest sister, dropped to her knees beside him, puffing.

"You done picking, Sylas?" she asked, her voice high and breathy.

Sylas nodded slowly, eyes steady. "Mi… Mira."

She tilted her head. "You want me to tell them again? What you said?"

Another nod.

She grinned, missing a front tooth. "Okay! Say it slow like last time."

Sylas drew in a breath, gaze distant but focused.

"Tell them…" he began slowly, "we won't sell. But… we can share."

Mira blinked. "You mean like… play-ners?"

"Partners," Sylas corrected softly, his tone patient. "He was kind… Lord Eddric. But if we wait… bad people will come. We sell to them. Just them. No one else."

"To the fancy guy's house?" Mira asked, squinting up at him.

He nodded again. "Our crops. They cook, trade… make rich food. But we still own our land. Always."

Mira nodded, her little brow furrowed in concentration. "You think they'll say yes?"

"If they say no," Sylas said, placing the goldenroot in the basket, "we say no too."

At supper that evening, the Hargrove family sat in silence as Mira, seated on two stacked pillows, repeated every word Sylas had told her.

Alric listened intently, arms crossed, jaw tight with thought. Across from him, Kaelen narrowed his eyes.

"Partnering with nobles?" Kaelen muttered. "That's like letting a fox sleep in the henhouse."

"It's better than selling the henhouse to wolves," Alric replied flatly.

He looked at Sylas—not his heir Kaelen, but the toddler whose eyes shimmered with green-gold certainty.

"This is your idea?" Alric asked.

Sylas nodded.

"I've worked this land for thirty years. I know its moods better than my own temper," Alric said. "But maybe… you see something deeper."

He turned to Kaelen. "You'll run the farm while I'm gone."

Kaelen blinked. "Gone?"

"I'm taking Sylas and Mira," Alric said. "To the Capital. If this deal's going to happen, we do it our way. With our terms."

Kaelen frowned, looking to his little siblings. Mira was busy sticking carrots into her mashed potatoes like tower walls. Sylas just met his eyes and smiled gently.

"I trust you," Sylas said.

Kaelen snorted softly, ruffling his brother's hair. "Better teach that talking goat of yours to pull a plow."

Three days later, they stood before the gates of Farsend Capital.

High white-stone walls rose before them, etched with dragons, harvest gods, and ancient kings. Banners of crimson and silver fluttered in the wind. Travelers bustled everywhere—merchants, pilgrims, beastkin, even armored knights.

Sylas held tightly to Alric's cloak with one hand, Mira's tiny fingers clutched in the other.

It was his first time seeing the world beyond their fields. People with tails and tusks. Smells of spice and metal. Magic that sparked in the air like static.

A tired gatekeeper—an armored woman with a scar on her lip—stepped forward.

"Next!"

Alric moved to her. "Alric Hargrove. My daughter Mira. My son Sylas."

"Business?"

"Visiting Lord Eddric Ravelin," Alric replied. "We've crops to discuss."

She raised a brow. "Papers?"

He handed her their wooden seal, bearing the village elder's brand. She eyed it, shrugged, and nodded.

"Two silver for adults. Ten copper per child. Tax."

Alric flinched slightly, then counted out the coins with care.

Sylas watched him silently, fingers curling against the pouch. He would bring that silver back. And more.

The guard nodded. "Welcome to Farsend."

The city was alive.

Enchanted lanterns floated in the air. Stalls sold candies shaped like beasts, inks that glowed, paper birds that flapped on their own. Mira nearly screamed with joy at the sight of a three-legged cat juggling.

"Can we live here?" she whispered.

"No," Alric grunted, pulling her back from a stall of floating pears. "We visit. We learn. We leave."

They walked through marble lanes, across plazas crowded with musicians and weavers, until they reached a quiet vine-covered estate behind the central square.

The Ravelin Manor.

Gray stone, ironwood doors, and two guardian statues of stone hounds that blinked when Sylas passed.

A servant opened the door and disappeared without a word.

Moments later, Eddric appeared in a dark tunic and gloves. He stopped when he saw them.

"You… you came."

Alric stepped forward. "With terms."

Eddric looked from him, to Sylas, and then down to Mira, who was hiding behind a fruit basket she insisted on carrying herself.

Sylas stepped forward. Mira followed.

"We want to partner," Mira said, her voice small but clear. "Sell you food. Good food. From home. You can cook or trade. But our land stays ours. Forever."

Eddric knelt. "And this is your idea?"

Sylas nodded.

"Gold is heavy," he said softly. "Roots grow."

Eddric smiled. "Then we'll plant something… together."

That night, after supper at the Ravelin manor, Sylas sat by the window in the guest room, watching the glowing city.

Mira snored softly on the bed behind him, curled up beside her stuffed chicken.

The lights outside looked like stars trying to touch the earth.

The Empire was vast. But so was he.

Someday, nobles would beg for his harvest. Kings would kneel for seeds.

And when that day came… he would still wear dirt on his hands and a smile as quiet as dawn.

The boy with the golden eyes.

The boy born beneath a plow.

Sylas Hargrove, the Farming Emperor.

End of Arc I: Born Beneath the Plow