The next morning came wrapped in thin gray mist that clung to the village like a lover reluctant to leave. Oswin woke before the first light crept through the gaps in the thatch, body still carrying the faint, pleasant ache of yesterday's release. His mind, however, refused to stay quiet.
He slipped out of the hut without waking Elara. The air outside was cool and damp against his bare chest; he tugged the loincloth tighter and started walking, aimless at first, just needing to move.
The central fire pit smoldered low, tended by a single woman who nodded sleepily as he passed. Further on, the garden plots were silent except for the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze. He kept going until he reached the edge of the cultivated land, where the old irrigation ditch cut a lazy, half-forgotten path from the stream toward the main millet fields.
Oswin crouched beside it.
The channel was pitiful. It was shallow, overgrown with weeds in places, its banks eroded into crumbling lips. During the last dry spell, half the crop had yellowed and died while water sat useless in puddles closer to the stream. The women had stretched every handful of grain; bellies had gone empty longer than necessary.
He traced the line of the ditch with his eyes, then with a finger in the soft earth.
'Widen it here. Slope it more evenly. Pile stones along the sides to stop the banks from collapsing. Maybe even add a couple of simple wooden barriers, nothing fancy, just flat boards on stakes, to divert water when needed.'
He wasn't an engineer. He was an otaku who had sunk hundreds of hours into village-builder games, farm sims, and strategy titles where resource management decided whether your cute pixel waifus starved or thrived.
But the logic was the same.
'Better water flow = more reliable harvest = less hunger = stronger, happier women. And happy women… well, they tend to be more generous with their time and bodies.'
A small, self-deprecating grin tugged at his lips.
'Kingdom building through boners. The classic iseka tropei.'
Footsteps crunched softly behind him.
"You're up with the birds today, nephew."
Lira's voice rolled over him like warm smoke. Oswin turned.
She emerged from the mist like she belonged to it, she was tall and bronze-skinned with silver-streaked hair loose around her shoulders this morning. The leather band across her chest was the same one from yesterday, but she'd thrown a light woven shawl over her shoulders against the chill. It did almost nothing to conceal the heavy sway of her breasts or the generous curve of her hips beneath the short fur skirt.
She stopped beside him, looking down at the ditch with mild curiosity.
"Thought you would still be dreaming of soft tits and wet mouths," she teased gently. "Most boys sleep like the dead after their first proper milking."
Oswin shrugged, cheeks warming despite himself.
"I couldn't sleep. I had too much in my head."
Lira crouched next to him, with her thighs flexing and her skirt riding up just enough to remind him how those same thighs had gripped him yesterday. She studied the muddy trench.
"Thinking about dirt?"
"I'm thinking about water," he corrected. "This ditch is wasting half its potential. If we made it deeper here, reinforced the sides with stones, and maybe added a couple of basic gates to control the flow… we could get twice as much to the far fields without losing it to seepage or runoff."
Lira was quiet for a long moment. Then she reached out and dragged one finger along the same line he had drawn in the earth, mirroring his earlier gesture.
"It would take effort," she said slowly. "Shovels. Hands. Days of work when we could be gathering, hunting, or… entertaining ourselves."
"But if it works," Oswin said, meeting her eyes, "everyone eats better and there's less worry about the next dry season. More time for everything else."
Lira's gaze softened, not the teasing hunger he was used to, but something closer to respect.
"You sound like you've seen this done before."
"No I just thought about it." He said with a shrug.
Lira hummed thoughtfully. She stood, brushing dirt from her palms, then offered him a hand up. Her grip was warm, strong and familiar.
"Talk to Rika," she said. "She's the one who decides field work now that the old chief's gone. She's a tall woman, reddish-brown hair, scar across her left cheek. Always carries that long staff she uses for both walking and cracking heads when needed. If she likes the idea, she'll get the women moving. They trust her judgment."
Oswin took her hand and let her pull him to his feet. Their bodies brushed for a second—her breasts against his chest, her thigh grazing his—and she didn't step back immediately.
"And if she doesn't?" he asked.
Lira's smile returned, slow and wicked.
"Then you'll have to convince her yourself, sweet boy. And we both know you're getting better at persuasion every day."
She leaned in, lips brushing his ear.
"But don't forget your real lesson this afternoon. Auntie still has plenty to teach… and you still owe me a proper thank-you for yesterday."
She nipped his earlobe lightly, then turned and sauntered back toward the huts, hips swaying with deliberate invitation.
Oswin watched her go with his heart thumping.
Then he looked back at the ditch.
'One small change, just one conversation, and one step to something bigger '
He exhaled, mist curling around his face.
'Okay. First the women. Then the village.'