After speaking, he gently handed over the reins, his eyes filled with solemnity: "Whether this year's harvest in Mai Lang Territory is good or not depends entirely on this moment."

Louis took the reins, and as he gripped the plow handle, he took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, the cold air dispersing into a light mist in the steam.

He glanced at the untouched black soil ahead, as if seeing countless fields of Mai Lang, countless meals, countless families being fed.

"...Then let me make a good start for the year," he whispered.

The ox's hooves moved with steady force.

The iron plow slowly broke the soil, turning over a thick layer of earth, revealing a straight, deep brown furrow.

The rising steam coiled with the turning plow blade, like warm mist emerging from the depths of the earth, shimmering in the golden light, resembling the cooking smoke of early summer.

Louis held the plow steadily, moving forward inch by inch.

All around was silent, no one spoke, but every pair of eyes was tightly following that furrow, watching it come into being, from something imaginary to something real, as if seeing the hope of an entire year being sown into the soil.

Finally, someone started clapping.

Then applause spread from the village chief in the front row, quickly reaching outside the shed to the villagers watching.

The sound of clapping brought a sense of reassurance, spreading among the people.

Of course, Louis knew that this "plowing ceremony" was merely symbolic, as the real spring sowing had already commenced according to plan.

He did not need to personally hold the plow, as those precise schedules, detailed processes, and professional agricultural officials were the guarantee of efficiency.

But he also understood, some things cannot be solely accomplished through efficiency.

The eyes watching him weren't just looking at a lord farming, but were seeking confidence, proof that their lives would improve.

The simple hopes of the villagers never came from cold, hard orders, but from seeing you personally undertake the first plow of spring.

Louis slowly stopped, gently patted the ox's back, then turned to look at Mike, with a relaxed smile.

"Next, it's up to you," he said.

Mike nodded heavily, unable to contain the smile on his face.

The next morning, the work of preparing seedbeds began in each village.

The fields had been frosted for days; if sown hastily, the seeds could freeze to death before sprouting.

Thus, under the coordination of the Agricultural Bureau, villages conducted thermally preheated plowing.

The plowing order strictly followed the distribution priority of the geothermal pipeline network.

In areas where geothermal activity was stable, labor was gathered to loosely turn the soil a day in advance, dispelling the cold; the loose dirt still steamed, with ice shards softly cracking in the morning breeze.

Village chiefs tread on the heated mud, checking temperature differences, preparing to chart a heat map for spring sowing.

Next followed the stage of applying base fertilizer.

"The mixed compost is here, hurry! Mix one bushel of straw ash with half a bushel of dried manure, spread three buckets per acre!"

The fertilization team moved swiftly along the fields, ensuring that each sowing area was tilled with a depth of at least a palm of fertile soil.

For barren plots, special additions of clay powder and fish bone powder brought from the Red Tide are needed to supplement trace elements.

The water used for fertilizing was also selected with care.

The geothermal water pulled from wells was warm and suitable, not only helping to decompose the fertilizer but also further softening the permafrost.

Every village kept a fertilization log, recording how many buckets were used, and how many times it's watered, everything was clearly documented,

The General Affairs Office sent inspectors daily to verify if "the acreage matched the amount fertilized," even a disparity of one bushel would be noted in a bad record.

Simultaneously with plowing and fertilizing, the seedling greenhouses operated nonstop around the clock.

Wheat and potato seeds had entered the germination phase ten days earlier and were guarded by agricultural officials and female workers, with temperature and humidity checked every two hours, making the air inside feel like humid warm soup.

The seed distribution system was also exceedingly strict.

Each village had to register uniformly on the designated day, with personnel from the Agricultural Bureau distributing seeds in person.

"Put your fingerprint here, sign to confirm."

"The village chief personally supervises, and there will be random checks tomorrow."

"Those caught reselling will have their cultivation rights revoked and permanently expelled from Mai Lang Territory."

These were ironclad rules, no one dared to violate them.

From seeds to soil, from heat to fertilizer, everything seemed drawn into a precise set of gears.

Turning slowly yet steadily, laying a firm foundation for the spring sowing across the entire Mai Lang Territory.

Each field, each greenhouse, each village was running in its rightful place.

And each day, the first sounds came from the copper gongs and assembly whistles in the villages.

As dawn broke, the thin mist over the fields had yet to fully dissipate, the first main labor force from the Morning Cultivation Village was already fully prepared to set out, their shoulders carrying hoes, pushing plow carts, stepping onto the newly thawed land.

Their task was the hardest yet most crucial, involving large-scale plowing, fertilization, and sowing, setting the pace for a whole day's spring cultivation in one go.

As the midday sun fell, the young and strong, female workers, and youths of Noon Cultivation Village came into action.

They were responsible for repairing sheds, inspecting plastic film, and the meticulous work on the seedbeds.

"The angle of the sixth shed's plastic film is incorrect, the wind will get in!"

"The stove's heat is leaning westward, needs to be adjusted by an inch!"

In the seedbeds, steam rose, while technicians and seedling officials in charge of the records took turns examining every detail.

When the sun set in the west, it was Night Cultivation Village's turn to take over.

The militia and village pavans donned short armor, carrying lanterns as they patrolled irrigation channels, warm sheds, and supply piles in the growing cold of night.

The lights revealed the vague steam inside the warm sheds, with footsteps, dripping water, and the occasional soft whispers and laughter weaving through the silence.

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