Chapter 37 Harvest Festival

The winter came somewhat late this year.

It was almost November, yet the evening sun still cast a sliver of warmth over the fields.

The dreamlike pure blue sky was smeared with a layer of vast twilight, enveloping farmhouses, open fields, rivers, and the distant forests and mountains shrouded in light purple haze.

Night was drawing near, and the farmers from the villages east and west of the river had long returned home to drink barley porridge.

But on the land that was once Mitchell's estate, now the first "Harvest" farm of Wolfton town, there were still people laboring.

An old man with his coat open, stubbornly lifted his wrinkled forehead, firmly holding the plough with both hands, walking barefoot in front.

Two draft horses struggled to pull the plow, walking ahead of the old man. Moist steam blew from their nostrils, and sweat gathered on their ribs, streaming down in beads.

Behind the horses, the deep plow blade dug a long furrow into the soil.