episode_0045
by fnovelpia
45. He’s a God!
Ever since I was a child, my health was never good.
Born into an ordinary farming family, destined to assist with farm work.
Not even a noble, the only choices I had were becoming a merchant, farming, or labor.
To fix my constitution, I paid a hefty sum to visit a priest, but….
“It seems you were born with underdeveloped lungs, limiting your physical endurance. There’s no remedy for congenital deformities.”
That was the only answer I ever got.
With weak lungs, I struggled with physical labor.
Naturally, while my siblings sweated under the scorching sun, all I could do was watch.
Aside from being born in the vast and populous capital of Redmain, luck had never favored me.
The guilt of being the only one indoors while my family worked weighed on me.
And if I ever married, the dreadful cycle of leaving my husband to labor alone might repeat.
To make matters worse, the harvest from our family’s hard-tended fields was dwindling.
My body was at ease, but my heart suffered every day.
Then something miraculous… no, a miracle happened.
“A factory?”
“What’s a factory…?”
“They say all we have to do is assemble parts, and they’ll pay us?”
A job even someone like me, with poor health, could do.
I worried it might be a brothel, but it bore the seal of Grace, the local lord.
Not wanting to burden my family, I applied myself and got hired at the factory.
All I had to do was sit on a chair and assemble the inner parts of something called a stove.
Work so simple even a 15-year-old could do it.
Though exhausting from repeating the same task for 10 hours, everything else was wonderful.
People like me, unable to labor, or loafers who fled farming.
All bored, yet satisfied in their own way.
Farming meant backbreaking labor for over 12 hours a day.
But what satisfied us most was the weekly wage.
“42 silver… that’s a fortune!”
Enough to live on while working.
And since the work was monotonous, chatting became our main pastime.
“They say a man named Cain built this factory.”
“I’ve heard of him. He went off to war.”
“Right. And he proposed something called a ‘minimum hourly wage’—50 bronze per hour.”
We owed our livelihoods to him.
Was that all?
As time passed, my daily life transformed in countless ways.
“Did you hear? A new factory making something called pencils opened. I’ll tell my husband to work there.”
“No way! They say Lord Cain made a flying machine!”
More jobs and miraculous rumors.
Soon, whispers about him spread like wildfire….
“I don’t get it, but they say this gray, foul-smelling dirt is fertilizer?”
“Word is, Lord Cain made it.”
“Then we’re using it, no question.”
Now, anything bearing his name was blindly trusted as good.
The result?
I witnessed my father, always unshakable, cry for the first time.
“These sprouts… Sniff….”
A father supporting a wife and five children.
Years of poor harvests had worn him down, though he never showed it.
He’d doubted the guano fertilizer but used it—and now, incredibly thick sprouts emerged.
A lifetime of farming let him predict yields from just the seedlings.
He told me:
“These are the sturdiest sprouts I’ve ever seen. Barring disasters, we’ll have a bumper crop!”
The man who once drank only sorrow now laughed and shared joy—and wine—with us.
And it wasn’t just us. Everyone in the capital.
Some hailed Lord Cain, who ended years of famine with unprecedented bounty, as a god.
Even my devout father chuckled and agreed with such whispers.
“Hahaha—! He must be the God of Harvests!”
How long had it been?
A meal filled with joy, not hunger or cold.
My family farming hard, while I brought home steady side-income before harvest.
Had I ever been this happy in all my life?
Honestly, I even wanted to see his face.
Rumors at the factory said he was handsome.
One day, shopping at the bustling market, I indulged that foolish hope.
With more factory workers, the market thrived like never before.
Most being farmers, they’d spend harvest earnings to last the year.
Autumn aside, the market used to be small—now, unrecognizable.
Basking in the lively village, I suddenly spotted a figure.
A man in a carriage’s passenger seat, writing something.
Nearly 6’3″, muscular, with striking looks.
His unique build made me recognize him instantly—I shouted.
“It’s him—!! Lord Cain—!!”
“Ahh, the hero visits our market!!”
Clearly, I wasn’t alone—cheers erupted around me.
Some knelt and prayed as if meeting a saint.
A bit much, but I understood.
Even I offered a small prayer to the gods above.
“May Lord Cain live long and achieve great things.”
If gods existed, I hoped they listened.
Only later did I realize how startled he’d be hearing this.
────────────────────
Erica’s office.
A man rushed in, drenched in cold sweat.
He knelt before his liege with urgency.
“My—My Lady! A pressing matter!”
“What’s got you so flustered?”
Erica massaged her temples, buried under paperwork.
Recent workloads meant more headaches—though at least they were good problems, like factories and new systems.
“It’s… well….”
“Out with it.”
“You must banish Cain at once!”
Erica’s expression mirrored a floating question mark.
As if told to temporarily remove her heart—the absurdity stunned her.
Seeing this, the retainer hastily elaborated.
“The people’s fervent support for Cain is alarming! If he ever turns malicious….”
“Pfahahaha—!”
Erica burst out laughing.
From another’s perspective, his concern made sense.
A subordinate growing too powerful naturally unsettles any ruler.
Her retainer, bless him, meant well.
“Cain, betraying me? No need to fret.”
“But, My Lady…!”
“Read this. No, I’ll recite it myself.”
From her desk drawer, she pulled a stack of pristine papers.
Randomly selecting one, she read aloud in a melodious voice.
“‘Though I die and die again, a hundred deaths, even as a wisp, my loyalty unwavering—may this heart reach thee.’”
“What is this…?”
“Cain’s resignation letter.”
“That’s all of these?”
“Yep.”
Easily 50 sheets covered the desk.
Chuckling, Erica reassured him.
“At first, just ‘I quit.’ Now he writes poetry. Adorable, no?”
“…….”
“His only ambition is resigning. Your fears won’t materialize.”
“Yet….”
Erica studied her fretful retainer.
“And this isn’t favoritism.
Say our darling revolts—what then?”
“Well….”
The retainer fell silent.
Brilliant yet politically inept, Cain was all blunt honesty and zero diplomacy.
A recluse who lived in his workshop.
Even if he rebelled—a mere commoner—he lacked means.
The perfect subordinate: hyper-competent, zero betrayal risk.
“Besides, discarding such talent over baseless suspicion is folly.”
“My concerns were misplaced.”
“Not entirely. Cain’s the outlier—your vigilance is usually warranted. I appreciate your loyalty.”
Bowing, the retainer withdrew.
Erica tenderly stored her resignation collection and sipped wine.
Gazing out the window, she smirked.
“My fox betray me? That milk-swollen wench becoming Queen is likelier.”
Liliana, my polar opposite.
Gifted yet impoverished, a penniless hanger-on.
Her ruling? A statistical impossibility.
Erica drank deeply.
Not that the future ever plays fair.
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