Chapter 11: The Sling

The techniques for using the curved-shaft plow were exceedingly simple. The plow Leo had crafted lacked the complex components of traditional models—no plow heel, plow arrow, or plow whip. The user needed only to adjust the plow’s depth by lifting or pressing down on the handles, using the rudder at the end of the shaft, which skimmed near the ground, as a pivot.

With just a few words of Leo’s guidance, even children and women could master the tool with ease.

Before long, the able-bodied men of the village moved on to other tasks, leaving only the elderly, the women, and the children on the wasteland.

Children led the donkeys at the front, women managed the plow from behind, and the elders followed, collecting grass roots and stones.

Drawn by the donkeys, the iron plow sliced effortlessly through the soft earth, turning over buried roots and stones. The wasteland, blackened by fire, swiftly transformed into fertile farmland.

Meanwhile, all the men had relocated to the slopes beneath the western side of the riverbend peninsula. Tilling the land was only the beginning; in addition to leveling and clearing debris, Ulyan led a group to dig a channel at least five feet deep along the inland side, connecting the southern marsh and the small lake, to regulate the water levels in the fields.

Although Ulyan had selected the northern wasteland of the peninsula for its flatness—ideal for initial cultivation—the terrain, being naturally formed, still featured numerous rises and dips, falling short of the standards for farmland.

Some places rose several meters, overgrown with shrubs; others were muddy swamps.

Most areas could be leveled by manpower, but some required irrigation through channels or drainage ditches.

After sowing, they also needed to build a small embankment along the riverbank before the summer floods, to prevent surging waters from inundating the peninsula’s fields.

There was, of course, a reason why such fertile land on the peninsula bore no trees; every advantage had its price.

Though Leo was injured and unfit for heavy labor, he did not sit idle. He watched the iron plow at work while twisting hemp fibers from the camp’s stores into ropes.

The body’s former owner, after more than a decade of semi-wild living, was a master of survival skills—he could strip bark and twist ropes by hand in the wilderness, even without ready-made hemp, and set up a snare strong enough to hang a wild boar.

Now, with the knowledge—indeed, the common sense—of a transmigrator’s soul, Leo was doubly equipped.

Take the rope in his hands: the original owner’s technique was entirely self-taught, relying on brute force to twist the fibers together. Every meter, a knot was needed to keep it from unraveling.

But now, with Leo’s clever hands and keen mind, the rope he wove was no thicker than a chopstick, yet far stronger and more durable than the old, finger-thick cords.

As he worked, a rope over a meter long emerged, with a small netted pouch woven at its center.

One end of this rope was fashioned into a wheat spike design, the other into a loop. Leo slipped the loop over his right index finger and gripped the wheat spike at the other end.

He picked up a pebble, roughly the size of a hen’s egg, and placed it in the pouch, then gently whirled the rope.

As the sling spun faster through the air, Leo released the wheat spike, and the stone shot out instantly, arcing across the riverbank—dozens of meters wide—and splashing into the calm waters of the Anzeno River.

A sling—the wisdom of the ancestors!

Even in modern times, legends of it abound.

Satisfied with the feel, Leo set the sling aside and began weaving a second one.

Nearby, Olivia and Little Mouse also helped twist hemp into ropes. Olivia’s sling was nearly identical to Leo’s, while Little Mouse’s creation looked more like a giant centipede—hopelessly tangled and impossible to straighten.

After making over thirty slings in one go, Leo stood, glanced at the sky, and called out to the villagers nearby, “Militia, follow me to the river!”

Once everyone had gathered, Leo handed each person a sling and demonstrated the basic technique.

Like the javelin, the sling was simple—anyone with hands could use it—and far more powerful than the villagers’ crude bows and bone arrows.

In small skirmishes, especially against small, unarmored creatures like kobolds and goblins, it was devastatingly effective.

But it had its flaws, chief among them being accuracy.

For the new militia, just propelling the stone forward was challenging—hitting a target was another matter entirely.

“Don’t use force—just swing it lightly. Yes, gentler! Release the stone when it’s in front of you. You! What are you doing? You think you’re a catapult?” Leo paced among them, correcting their form. When one militiaman tried to load a pebble the size of a lead ball into the pouch, Leo kicked him in frustration.

Under his guidance, most of the militia managed to send their stones splashing into the river ahead.

The broad surface bloomed with water lilies of spray.

A few impatient ones sent stones flying in all directions.

One pebble flew straight at Leo’s forehead, striking him so hard he saw stars.

Leo pressed a hand to the bump on his brow, staring in disbelief at the guilty militiaman.

How did you manage to hit me dead-on from fifteen meters behind the target while shooting blind?

Though Leo had anticipated mishaps, warned everyone repeatedly to go easy, and kept his distance, even a lightly thrown stone from a sling carried quite a punch.

Had the militiaman used any more force, a hit to the forehead would have meant more than a bump—it would have been a broken bone.

For the next hour, the militia practiced with the slings.

When they could reliably cast small stones forward into the river, Leo taught them the vertical spinning technique favored by ancient Greek slingers.

Once they’d mastered both methods, Leo allowed them to gradually increase their strength, sending stones ever farther.

The chosen stones grew larger and heavier, until they were the size of goose eggs.

Slinging a goose-egg-sized stone revealed the true terror of the weapon.

At first, Leo hadn’t dared to let them use such heavy projectiles—one mistake could easily break bones.

Even so, this kind of training was a breeze for the militia compared to the hard labor of tilling or digging channels; practicing with slings felt like play.

At the same time, they were awed by the sling’s power. No one present could throw a stone that size fifty meters by hand, but with a sling, it was effortless.

Little Mouse practiced with her own sling as well, though her arms were too weak for anything but small stones, and she couldn’t throw far.

Yet, compared to the clumsy men, her aim was uncanny—each stone landed within a small area.

Watching the militia scattered along the riverbank, excitedly training with their slings, Leo felt a surge of determination.

If I invent something new every day, I refuse to believe I can’t lead everyone to survive!