Potatoes And Sweet Potatoes!

Logan trailed behind Cobos, weaving their way through the expansively cultivated fields under the vast sky. As they moved, Logan pieced together the dire situation at hand, absorbing the reality of their tribe's struggle.

The Silvermane tribe held rye in high regard, considering it the cornerstone of their sustenance, primarily used in crafting the staple black bread that nourished them. Yet, the fields before them told a story of hardship; drought and a severe lack of rainfall had withered some of the wheat seedlings, which stood a meter tall amidst the thousand acres of parched earth. The tribe's diligent efforts in drawing water from the irrigation wells had been the only lifeline for these crops, staving off total ruin.

"Behold, Chief!" Cobos exclaimed, halting abruptly to gesture towards a section of the farmland a short distance away. Logan, driven by a mix of curiosity and concern, hastened towards the indicated spot, momentarily shedding the composed demeanor expected of a chief.

Upon arrival, a wave of relief washed over Logan as he surveyed the land before him, markedly distinct from the struggling rye fields. The sight of thriving green shoots, bursting with life, brought a spontaneous smile to his face.

"Master Chief," Cobos began, his voice carrying a note of excitement, "this crop, the potato, shows remarkable resilience against drought. Despite our daily efforts to water the rye, its survival still remains uncertain. While, these potatoes on the other hand thrive with minimal intervention, requiring water only once every few days, and their growth has been beyond hopeful!"

Begon, momentarily puzzled by the unfamiliar crop, mulled over the information. "Potatoes? This is the first I've heard of them. How extensively have we embraced this crop?" he inquired, the weight of their survival evidently on his mind.

"We've dedicated the entire ten acres you allocated to potatoes," Cobos replied, pride evident in his voice.

Impressed, Logan's thoughts quickly shifted. "And the sweet potatoes?" he probed, eager to assess the status of another crop he hoped would fortify their food reserves.

Cobos, buoyed by the chief's approval, pointed eagerly towards another part of the farm. "Right over there, Chief. We followed your directive to the letter and planted an additional ten acres with sweet potatoes."

Without hesitation, the group made their way to the new site.

Arriving at the sweet potato field, Logan's enthusiasm was palpable. He knelt, scooping up a bunch of the lush vines, a wide smile spreading across his face as he observed their vigorous growth. "This is remarkable!" he exclaimed, the potential of these crops to alter the tribe's fate igniting a spark of hope within him.

"What exactly are these crops, and how come they've never crossed my path before?" Begon's curiosity finally bubbled over as he watched his nephew's unabated enthusiasm for the unfamiliar vegetation sprawling before them.

Indeed, both potatoes and sweet potatoes were a revelation to him, their very names as foreign as lands untraveled.

"Second uncle, what do you make of these crops?" Logan inquired, remaining crouched among the verdant leaves, his gaze fixed on Begon.

"Their ability to grow in such harsh conditions is undeniable,they're bursting with life!" Begon observed, his words laden with a mix of admiration and bewilderment, especially when juxtaposed with the rye fields, which seemed to languish in the shadow of these thriving newcomers.

"These," Logan began, gesturing first to the potato and then to the sweet potato, "are ancient crops, treasures I unearthed from within the depths of ancient ruins of past beastmen civilization."

His statement, while drenched in mystery, was far from the truth, a playful ruse, as these crops were actually acquired from a marketplace, a transaction made possible by Logan's reputation rather than any archaeological discovery.

"At first, it was merely an experiment," Logan confessed, albeit indirectly, reflecting on the modest beginnings of what was now a significant agricultural endeavor, driven by the pressing food crisis facing their tribe.

"Ruins? Ancient crops?" Begon's brow furrowed in skepticism. The concept of 'ancient crops' rediscovered seemed far-fetched, yet he sensed his nephew's reluctance to divulge the entire story and chose not to pry further. His curiosity now pivoted to the capabilities of these mysterious plants.

"Yes, ancient indeed," Logan reaffirmed, catching the thread of doubt in his uncle's gaze, "And remarkably resilient against drought, far surpassing rye's fragile endurance."

"And their yield? Can you imagine the abundance they promise?" Logan prodded, his eyes twinkling with the secret of their productivity.

"Drought-resistant to such a degree?" Begon's interest peaked, intrigued by the potential bounty these crops could hold.

With Lott's attention firmly captured, Logan, opting for modesty over bravado, simply held up five fingers, a gesture that sparked astonishment.

"Five hundred pounds per acre?" Begon echoed, astonishment tinging his voice, a sentiment mirrored by Cobos, who also turned to Logan, equally surprised by the revelation.

The revelation that the yield per acre (a traditional unit of area) could soar to 500 kilograms for potatoes starkly overshadowed the humble figures rye provided. Under favorable conditions, rye's yield hovered between three to four hundred kilograms per acre, but the harsh drought slashed predictions to a mere hundred kilograms. The prospect of potatoes reaching a yield of 500 kilograms per acre was, therefore, nothing short of miraculous.

"Five hundred kg? My dear uncle, you've vastly underestimated the bounty these ancient crops can bring!" Logan said, his laughter echoing the lightness of his heart.

He then corrected the underestimation with a startling clarification, "The actual yield we're looking at per acre is five thousand kilograms!" His smile broadened as he once again held up five fingers, this time to underscore the true potential of potatoes.

Begon's response was a mixture of disbelief and awe. "Five...thousand...kilograms?" he stuttered, his seasoned facade crumbling under the weight of this revelation.

Cobos, too, was visibly shaken. The implications of such a yield were monumental; the Silvermane tribe's lands could potentially produce millions of kilograms of food. This abundance could easily sustain the tribe and then some.

Logan watched their astonishment with a knowing smile. He shared that the extraordinary fertility could be attributed to the unique soil magic inherent to their land, amplified by the cultivation methods sourced from the system mall. "In fact," he hinted, "the yield might even exceed the 5,000 kilograms per acre we're currently envisioning."

He then dropped another staggering piece of information, "And as for sweet potatoes, we might be looking at yields reaching up to 10,000 kilograms per acre."

Begon and Cobos were momentarily paralyzed by the enormity of this claim. "A yield of ten thousand catties per acre?" Begon whispered to himself, the potential for their tribe's prosperity and growth suddenly blown wide open.

In their world, where the orc tribes roamed, food was the cornerstone of power. Abundant food supplies meant the ability to shelter wandering beastmen and smaller tribes devastated by famine, thereby bolstering their numbers and strength rapidly. Logan's announcement hinted at a new era of prosperity and influence for the Silvermane tribe.

Ignoring the continued astonishment of his companions, Logan gracefully squatted down by a particularly lush sweet potato vine, tracing its length to unearth its origins deep within the fertile soil. Sweet potatoes, with their robust yields, adaptability, and nutritional richness, seemed to thrive exceptionally well in this environment, resistant to drought, poor soil, and pests.

With practiced ease, Logan dug his fingers into the earth, gripping the base of the vine to reveal its bounty. A cluster of small, yet densely packed sweet potatoes dangled from the vine, a testament to the land's richness.

"These are on the smaller side, but the abundance of these knots suggests the soil is teeming with nutrients," Logan observed, admiring the largest sweet potato, which had already grown to the size of a fist despite the crop being merely forty to fifty days old.

Drawn by Logan's actions, Lott and Cobos moved closer, their initial shock giving way to curiosity.

"Master Chief, are these the sweet potatoes?" Cobos inquired, his eyes wide with wonder at his first encounter with the crop.

"Yes, these are sweet potatoes. They're still young, just over a month old. Given about three more months, they'll be ready for harvest. Yet, even now, the size of these potatoes speaks volumes about our fertile soil," Logan explained, plucking a small sweet potato and offering it to Begon.

"What's this?" Begon eyed the tuber in his hand, a mixture of intrigue and hesitance playing across his face.

"Go on, try it. They're quite tasty even raw," Logan encouraged with a reassuring smile.

Though taken aback by the suggestion, Begon's curiosity got the better of him, and he tentatively accepted the sweet potato. Logan, meanwhile, selected another for Cobos and kept the largest one for himself.

Effortlessly, Logan cleaned his chosen sweet potato with a few brisk rubs against his garment, then bit into it with gusto. Moments later, he spat out the peel, revealing the golden interior of the sweet potato, its flesh glistening in the sunlight, an inviting display of the crop's promising yield and the rich bounty their land had to offer.