My Fusion System: Fusing Weak Soldiers with Direwolves at the Start-Chapter 50: House Of Dravion

Kaelor walked across the gently ridged fields already tilled and darkened in preparation for wheat sowing. The air carried the earthy scent of upturned soil.

Around him, the sacks of wheat, tightly packed and sun-warmed had already been brought over by a few of the men. Nearby, the women were working diligently, their hands brushing across the soil as they marked rows and prepared tools.

But the moment Kaelor appeared, with Vi walking just behind him, the famed beauty whose name often drifted between lips in whispered gossip, every hand stilled. The rustling ceased. All eyes turned. Silence, sudden and reverent, swept over the field.

Kaelor crouched beside one of the sacks and dipped his fingers into the grains, letting a handful slip slowly between them. The grains fell in a dry, whispery stream back into the sack, but his mind was already elsewhere, calculating and imagining.

He already had plans to sell the coveted Starlight Rice to the Golden Scales Merchant Guild. But if he could now produce a special wheat as well, something rarer... something unmatched...

People from far and wide would flock here, abandoning their own wheat for his. He could feel it.

"System," he said, voice low and purposeful, "fuse a hundred wheat seeds."

[Cost: 5 FP!]

"Go ahead. Fuse it."

A faint blue glow shimmered in the air for a few seconds as the fusion process began. When the light subsided, Kaelor stared at what lay in his palm, a single seed, radiant and golden. It gleamed like a gold coin freshly minted, as if a sliver of the sun had embedded itself into the kernel.

[You have successfully created the Eonwheat.

A rare kind of wheat that draws ambient mana from its surroundings to nourish the land, transforming entire stretches of earth into fertile, loamy soil. Once consumed, it restores stamina and enhances mana perception temporarily. Long-term consumption improves fertility. Eonwheat glows faintly beneath moonlight and reaches full maturity in just three weeks!]

Kaelor’s lips curled in satisfaction. "I want five hundred more."

[2,500 FP deducted!]

With a burst of swirling flame, blue like the heart of a forge, the fused seeds emerged, illuminating the sacks beside them. As the fire curled away and faded, the remaining farmers broke into motion.

They rushed toward the Eonwheat seeds, their breath catching. Though small, the seeds glowed subtly and outshone the contents of all the other sacks.

Kaelor stood tall, his voice calm and resonant. "This wheat is called Eonwheat," he declared. "It will reach full growth in three weeks."

A hush fell again, this time not of shock, but awe. The once-enslaved men and women stared at him wide-eyed. Some among them, former Redwood farmers, shared quick glances, understanding at once what was happening.

They had seen it before, in the miracle of the Starlight Rice. Now, another miracle had arrived.

"Eonwheat?" Vi leaned in beside him, her soft voice brushing the air as she tucked her silvery hair behind her ear. "This is... Eonwheat?"

Kaelor turned to her, curious. "You know about it?"

Vi’s eyes shimmered with a glint of old stories. "It was once grown in the Holy Alliance territory. But it vanished. They say it went extinct centuries ago."

Kaelor’s voice was quiet but firm, echoing across the field like a promise.

"It’s back now."

....

In a round hall crafted from fine bricks and adorned with candelabras, though none were lit, for sunlight streamed generously through the arched windows, the air was still and dignified.

The tall panes of glass had been swung open, allowing a pleasant breeze to sweep through, though none of this airy luxury seemed to matter to the finely dressed men and women gathered around a long rectangular wooden table.

At the head of the table lounged a blonde-haired man, his neatly trimmed hair framing a sharp, beardless face that held an air of disinterest. He rested his chin against his hand, his gaze fixed on two men standing near the grand double doors. This was Caldor Dravion, the Duke of Merlin.

To his right sat a soft-smiling woman with gentle brown hair and a buxom frame, clad in a gown of green that faded to white at the chest. She was Lucy, mother of the duke, her presence serene and poised.

Beside her was another blonde, this time a young woman. Her shimmering emerald eyes mirrored Caldor’s, and her black gown, tailored to draw the eye to her graceful upper figure, was a style often worn by women of her age and standing. She was Ciri, the youngest child of the late Duke.

Across from her, on Caldor’s left, sat a man in a long, tailored coat, much like his elder brother’s. His golden hair and sea-green eyes confirmed his lineage. He was Leonel, the second child of the late Duke and of Lucy.

"Was it done?" Leonel asked, leaning forward with both elbows on the table, eyes gleaming with anticipation.

"Yes," answered the first coachman, the same who had once scowled at Kaelor. He lowered his head respectfully. "His mother was the first to fall. And he didn’t even try to avenge her. The coward fled... dropped like a chicken the moment a dagger found his back."

Leonel chuckled, barely able to contain himself as the image played out in his mind.

"Are you certain they’re dead?" Lucy asked, her voice calm and level, though a sharpness glinted behind her words.

The two coachmen nodded in unison. "Yes, my lady. We made certain before leaving."

They then turned their eyes to Caldor, whose expression remained unreadable, his silence heavier than any verdict. The coachmen swallowed hard.

"The drunk is finally where he belongs. Good work, gentlemen."

Caldor rose, the sound of his leather boots striking the polished stone floor echoing through the silent hall. He walked to the coachmen and placed a firm hand on each of their shoulders, his expression brightened with gladness.

"I’ll double your reward. Five hundred gold coins for each of you."

The coachmen’s eyes widened in disbelief, their lips parting in grateful awe, but they never got the chance to speak.

With one fluid motion, Caldor drew the sword at his hip. It whistled through the air.

Shnk!

Both heads fell to the floor with wet thuds, rolling slightly before coming to rest away from the lifeless bodies. The silence returned.

Caldor tossed the blood-slick blade to the ground, exhaling deeply as if a burden had just lifted from his shoulders.

"Finally," he said, voice calm, almost pleased. "No more black sheep to taint the Dravion name. Not the bastard... nor his whore of a mother."

He turned back to the table. Leonel and Ciri sat frozen, stunned by the sudden execution. But Lucy... Lucy simply smiled, soft and serene, as if she’d just witnessed the pruning of an unwanted weed.