Let's say that I believed in the term 'progress.'
Not the soft, poetic kind where nations rise with honor and art, but the brutal, sweaty kind where you scream at mud and cry into blueprints.
Because today, we were digging a hole.
But not just any hole.
This would be Grimsby's First Engineered Sanitation Trench—the glorious foundation of a multi-stall bathhouse that would change the fate of this forsaken barony.
Or, at the very least, prevent people from pooping in the cabbage field.
I stood in the rear lot behind the manor, wearing my least ruined coat, boots with one functional sole, with a look of deeply unreasonable optimism.
Behind me was Bento, chewing a shovel.
Beside me was my trusty butler, Timothy, holding a crooked rake and already regretting everything.
"This is madness," he muttered.
"No," I said. "This is civil engineering."
I unrolled the blueprint napkin onto a flat rock.
"You see," I began, waving a soup ladle like a pointer stick, "each stall is one meter wide, with a half-meter buffer zone for ventilation, robe hooks, and spiritual dignity.
The trench follows a 12% incline toward the waste outflow zone, where we'll implement a charcoal-gravel filtration pit. It will be passive drainage and zero magic."
Timothy stared at the napkin.
"Milord… this appears to be a crude drawing of a rectangle, a bucket with eyes, and something labeled as 'please poop here.'"
I stabbed the ladle onto the paper. "That's the sacred drawing. Focus, man."
He sighed.
Bento barked twice, then flopped into the dirt. He immediately began digging.
"See?" I said. "The first volunteer."
"No, he's trying to bury your drawing."
I paused.
"…That's one way of seeing things."
I cracked open our Master Tool Kit anyway.
It contained:
-A warped garden spade
-A ceremonial goat jawbone (don't ask)
-Two bent soup ladles
-And one toothbrush I was spiritually attached to
Timothy picked up the spade, and it squealed.
"…Did that tool just squeal?"
"It's from the haunted barn. Think of it as pre-motivated for this great work ahead."
He gently put it back down and selected the jawbone.
"Better," he muttered. "At least this one doesn't ask questions."
We started digging.
Three minutes later, I had achieved:
-One blister
-A clump of stubborn clay
-And the realization that the ground of Grimsby hated me personally
"Timothy," I gasped, wiping sweat from my forehead, "what is this soil made of?"
"Brick fragments and chicken bones."
Bento trotted by with a worm in his mouth and tripped into the trench.
Progress: Negative one.
***
I knelt beside the trench and drew a slope line with chalk.
"We need a 12% incline from the stall zone to the waste exit," I explained. "Three meters of trench equals… 36 centimeters of drop. Simple geometry."
Timothy raised an eyebrow. "And how do we measure the drop without tools?"
I pulled out my secret weapon: The Official System-Approved Soup Spoon Level.
It was a long spoon filled halfway with broth. When the liquid tilted, we knew the ground tilted too.
"…That's not how leveling works."
I grinned. "It does, you just need the right attitude."
We used it to eyeball the first meter of slope. When it seemed right, we packed in the foundation gravel, which was made of mostly crushed pottery, egg shells, and optimism.
System Notification:
[DING!]Foundation Slope Stability: 68%
Soil Resistance: Moderate
Bento Factor: Unstable
Morale: "One Sandwich Away from Collapse"
Halfway through the trench, a group of villagers wandered over.
Old Man Billow leaned on his cane, carved from something that may have once been a chicken leg.
"You boys diggin' graves?"
"No," I panted. "We're building the future."
"The future stinks," he muttered. "I liked the cabbage field."
A woman in curlers and armor frowned. "What happens if the poop leaks?"
"It won't."
"What if it does?"
"Then we evacuate Grimsby and salt the earth," I muttered.
Another voice whispered, "It's witchcraft. He's carving demon runes into the soil."
"That's a slope angle marker!" I snapped.
"Sounds demonic," someone else mumbled.
Timothy stared at the trench as he whispered.
"We are going to be burned alive by torch-wielding villagers before we even install the privacy doors."
While we were distracted, Bento had:
Dug a secondary trench leading nowhere and buried half our tools. Even the last piece of chalk was eaten by him, and the blueprint was drowned in his pee.
I stared at him.
He stared back.
"Bento," I said slowly, "are you actively working against me?"
He wagged his tail.
***
As the sun sank behind a crooked hill and painted the sky with tired oranges, I collapsed onto a dirt pile.
We had dug:
One full meter of trench, half of another and a third one that collapsed into a mudslide after Bento farted near it
I had:
-One blister
-Two strained muscles
-And an urge to fake my own death
Timothy sat beside me, sipping weak tea.
"Technically," he said, "we have a trench."
I looked at the result.
It was ugly, shallow, and slightly leaning east. But it was progress.
"I'm going to name it," I whispered.
He blinked. "The trench?"
"Yes. She shall be called: Hopepipe."
He took a long, resigned sip. "Sure. We've named worse things."
Final System Report:
[CONSTRUCTION UPDATE: FOUNDATION PHASE – DAY ONE COMPLETE]
Progress: 11%
Tool Durability: Worrisome
Villager Trust Level: "They Seem Tired"
Bento Dig Accuracy: 8%
Possessed Tool Count: 2.5 Estimated
Completion Time: [??]
Morale Boost: You haven't given up yet. That's something.
Quote of the Day:
"Rome wasn't built in a day. Neither was its plumbing."