The morning mist had yet to fully lift when the eastern plains of Blackwood Fortress were already alive with motion.
The newly reclaimed land, once silent and stubborn, now trembled under a different kind of force.
Because iron plows were still limited, the twenty Mountain Bison had been divided into four working teams. Under the direction of Fenrir and several carefully selected Deer-folk herdsmen, the massive beasts stood in disciplined formation. The harnesses strapped across their bodies—reinforced and forged personally by Berg—caught the early sunlight, their metallic sheen blending raw strength with crafted precision.
With a sharp, melodious command from Fenrir, the beasts moved.
Heavy hooves struck the earth in unison.
"Puchi—! Puchi—! Puchi—!"
Four iron plows bit deep into the soil at the same moment.
The ground split open.
Dark, moist earth—rich with life—rolled outward in thick curls, forming four long, perfectly straight furrows that stretched toward the horizon.
The transformation was immediate. Violent. Beautiful.
What once required hundreds of laborers an entire day to chip away—fighting stone, roots, and exhaustion—was now undone in moments. The hardened soil yielded like soft cheese beneath the overwhelming strength of the bison. Deep-rooted tangles that once stalled progress were ripped free, exposed helplessly to the air.
The land was no longer resisting.
It was surrendering.
Behind the plows, Woodhoof led the sowing teams. With light steps and bright expressions, they scattered carefully selected tubers into the freshly turned soil. Their movements carried rhythm, their voices low and melodic as ancient Deer-folk songs drifted across the fields—songs of patience, of harvest, of hope.
The entire scene unfolded like a grand symphony.
The bison's breathing formed its bass.The tearing of earth became its drums.The herdsmen's calls rang like horns.And the sowers' voices wove its melody.
For the first time, this was no longer a struggle against nature.
It was cooperation with it.
The results came faster than anyone had dared to imagine.
Ten days.
In just ten days, the entire summer sowing plan—once expected to consume months and every available hand—was completed ahead of schedule.
When the final plot was finished, Lena rushed into the council chamber, statistics board clutched tightly in her hands.
"Leader! Leader!"
Her cheeks were flushed, her breath uneven—not from exertion, but from disbelief.
"It's done! All of it!"
She placed the board on Colin's desk with a sharp thwack.
"One thousand mu—completely reclaimed and sown! We're ahead by… by at least two months!"
Even now, she sounded like she didn't quite believe it herself.
Then her tone shifted.
"There's… another issue."
She hesitated.
"We've run out of seeds. Which means… we now have over a hundred laborers with nothing to do until winter."
The word felt strange coming from her.
Idle.
In Blackwood Fortress, it had never existed.
Until now.
Colin, however, showed no surprise.
He calmly set aside the blueprint he had been studying, a faint smile forming on his lips.
This had always been the plan.
Productivity freed was not the end goal.
Redirected productivity—that was where real power lay.
"You've done well, Lena," he said. "Ring the assembly bell."
He stood.
"It's time."
The bell rang.
Clear. Heavy. Irresistible.
Across the fortress, people paused. Tools were set aside. Conversations halted. One by one, they gathered in the central square, drawn by instinct and expectation.
Colin stood atop the elevated platform, overlooking the crowd.
Behind him stood the core of Blackwood Fortress—Goff, Hask, Lena, Priestess Sur—each bearing solemn expressions.
When the murmurs faded, Colin spoke.
"People of Blackwood Fortress!"
His voice carried across the square.
"Today, we have achieved something unprecedented. With the strength of the Mountain Bison, we completed our entire summer sowing in just ten days!"
A ripple of excitement spread.
"This means that when autumn comes, we will harvest more than ever before. Hunger will no longer threaten us!"
Cheers erupted.
Colin raised his hand. Silence followed.
"But this victory has given us something even more valuable—time."
His voice hardened.
"And time… must not be wasted."
He swept his gaze across them.
"From this moment forward, the labor structure of Blackwood Fortress will change."
The crowd stilled.
"All warriors—withdraw from farming. Your duty is now training."
A surge of energy rippled through the fighters.
"You will be forged under Goff into blades worthy of battle."
Goff opened his eyes slightly, a glint of approval flashing within.
"Builders—strengthen our walls. Improve our homes. Every stone you lay protects our future."
"Artisans—enter the workshops. Support the forge. Strengthen our lifeblood."
Then—
Colin's tone shifted.
Colder.
Sharper.
"And now… I establish the foundation of our future."
He paused.
"The Contribution Point System."
The words echoed.
"From today onward, every action you take will be measured."
"Effort. Skill. Achievement."
"All will be converted into Contribution Points."
A murmur spread.
"These points will determine your life."
Silence.
"Basic survival—food, water—will be guaranteed."
Then his voice rose.
"But everything beyond that… must be earned."
"Better food. Fine drink. Warm furs. Larger homes."
"They belong to those who contribute the most."
His gaze swept across them like a blade.
"More work—more reward."
"Better work—greater reward."
"Those who fight and build for this fortress will live well."
He paused.
"Those who do not…"
His voice dropped.
"…will not."
The square erupted.
Not in fear—
But in fire.
From that day forward, Blackwood Fortress changed.
On the training grounds, warriors pushed themselves beyond exhaustion.
In the workshops, apprentices argued and learned with relentless hunger.
At construction sites, hands moved without pause, driven by visible gain.
And each evening—
Names were called.
Rewards were given.
Punishments made visible.
No concealment. No compromise.
Only results.
From above, Colin watched it all unfold.
This was more than organization.
More than efficiency.
He had changed something deeper.
He had replaced survival with ambition.
Planted competition where once there was only endurance.
The fortress was no longer just living.
It was accelerating.
And at the heart of it all—
Were twenty Mountain Bison.
The spark that ignited it.
But the fire?
That came from something colder.
Something unyielding.
A system.
Fair. Ruthless. Effective.
And under it—
Blackwood Fortress began to transform into something far greater than a tribe.
Something inevitable.