Day Two of trench construction.
I stood ankle-deep in mud while deeply regretting every decision I had made since agreeing to become the Lord of Grimsby. All of them.
Especially the one where I thought, 'Yes, we can build a bathhouse. How hard can it be?'
Spoiler: Very.
But today… Today was going to be different.
Today, we had a plan.
Timothy and I had spent the night reorganizing our equipment, gathering more gravel, and arguing about whether the trench was cursed or merely "aggressively uncooperative."
Spoiler: It was both.
We were five minutes into digging when Timothy froze mid-scoop.
"The shovel," he whispered. "It's humming again."
I looked up. The tool in his hands was faintly glowing.
From its warped iron head came a low, vibrating hum, like the bassline of an electric guitar.
"…That's new," I said.
Timothy didn't move. "It just said, and I quote, 'Dig, mortal. The soil remembers.'"
"That's okay, just deeply unsettling."
Bento barked once and immediately sprinted into the forest. Not a great sign.
I took the shovel from Timothy, and it stopped humming.
I handed it back.
It sang.
"It likes me," Timothy said, equally proud and terrified.
I took a long sip of lukewarm tea.
"Well, congratulations. You've bonded with a possessed tool. That's step one of every tragic backstory."
***
The trench work hadn't gone unnoticed. By noon, several villagers had gathered again. Drawn by either curiosity or the supernatural aura of the soil.
They didn't bring snacks.
They brought pitchforks.
Old Man Billow squinted at the shovel.
"That tool's glowing."
"Yes," I said brightly. "We're calling it Diggy Stardust."
"The earth's angry," said another. "You disturbed it and drew symbols."
"They're slope indicators!"
"They're demonic runes," someone whispered. "My cousin saw a goat levitate."
"That's just what goats do!" I snapped.
The crowd began to murmur.
Timothy attempted to de-escalate the situation by giving a live demonstration. He held up the shovel high.
"Observe," he said calmly, "as I use this cursed tool to dig a sanitation trench. It will hum because it is eager. Not because it is haunted."
He shoved it into the ground, and the shovel shrieked.
Not loudly. Just enough to sound like a metal banshee being mildly inconvenienced.
Everyone screamed.
Two villagers fainted.
Bento returned just in time to bark at the sky, declare war on clouds, and dig a completely unrelated hole next to a shrine rock.
System Notification:
[VILLAGER SUSPICION LEVEL: MODERATE-HIGH]
Rumors spreading: "Demonic Construction Cult," "Toilet Necromancy," and "Witch-Digging Hour."
Recommended Action: Bread Distribution or Emotional Speech.
Avoid: "Explaining math again."
I sighed as I read the notification.
I climbed atop the podium made of potato crates, adjusted my coat, and spoke to the crowd.
"People of Grimsby! I understand your concern."
A chicken clucked ominously from the well.
"Fear not. This is not dark magic. This is civil engineering. A noble, ancient art involving slope management, waste routing, and the strategic placement of gravel!"
Someone shouted, "Then why's the ground screaming!?"
I hesitated.
"It's… excited!"
"LIES!"
"I OFFER YOU SANITATION!"
I pulled the blueprint scroll from my pocket (version twelve, laminated with wax and good intentions) and unrolled it dramatically.
Gasps.(Mostly confused coughing.)
"This," I declared, "is what separates us from the beasts. Private stalls! A drainage system! Soap!"
They blinked at me like I was trying to sell lightning to a tree.
"And… we're giving away free tea to all who help dig!"
The crowd looked uncertain.
"Also… the trench has claimed no souls today."
"Yet," Timothy added unhelpfully.
***
Despite the disastrous public relations campaign, we made real progress in the afternoon.
We dug along the original slope path, using a crude level detector made from two bowls of soup and a spoon. The new section was straighter, deeper, and slightly less haunted.
Even the shovel, though still whispering 'Break the clay spine', seemed to be cooperating.
We reinforced the sides with planks salvaged from the haunted barn (they only groaned twice) and lined the bottom with gravel. Some of it even stayed where we put it.
Bento, now wearing a daisy crown he probably stole from the local girl, monitored squirrel activity nearby.
Which led us to...
Gregory, the Squirrel.
At sunset, we found a pile of suspiciously arranged nuts on the edge of the trench. It was a clear warning.
I stared at the pattern. It was five acorns in a spiral, centered around a piece of parchment with a single phrase: "THE EARTH BELONGS TO US."
Timothy frowned. "Is Gregory… threatening us?"
"I think he's declaring sovereignty over the trench."
"We need a squirrel diplomat."
"No," I said, drawing my sword (toothbrush). "We need a tiny prison."
Bento growled.
The war was back on.
System Update
[FOUNDATION FIASCO – PHASE TWO COMPLETE]
Trench Stability: Acceptable (for now)
Villager Trust: "Skeptical but tired"
Loyalty: 8% (Timothy only)
Possession Risk: Contained
Mental Fatigue: 94%
Gregory Threat Level: "Symbolic but escalating"