The Farming Saint in the Starry Wasteland (Elizabeth Schofield) novel Chapter 405

Chapter 405 Are They Even Ripe?

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“Go pick your own,” Baxter said, guarding it instinctively. After a moment’s thought, he brought it to his mouth and took a bite.

He closed his eyes in that instant.

It was sweet, but not the kind that was cloyingly sweet

First came the faintest hint of tartness, like a brush of morning air across the tip of his tongue. Then the sweetness followed. It was rich, full–bodied, and so dense that it felt like it could melt and linger forever. It was layered with an almost floral freshness.

The flesh was so tender that it was nearly fiberless, dissolving the moment it touched his mouth. Only the tiny seeds remained, popping softly between his teeth like miniature bursts of sweet fireworks.

He opened his eyes, dazed.

‘I’ve never had strawberries in my life,” he said quietly. “So this is what they taste like.”

He’d served as a guard before and attended the most extravagant banquets. He’d seen crystal glasses stacked into towers and champagne cascading like waterfalls.

At those events, strawberries were sliced into perfect fans, arranged along the edges of silver platters as decoration. He’d never been allowed to touch them and never once thought to sneak a bite.

Now, he was squatting in the dirt, fingers sticky with strawberry juice. A crooked basket sat by his feet, its bottom lined with a thin ayer of red fruit.

de felt like a mortal who’d stolen fruit from the heavens–guilty, yet utterly satisfied.

Over in the apple grove, things were even livelier.

Onyx had already picked half a basket. His movements had shifted from his initial all–out frenzy to careful selection. Now, he only chose the ones ripened on the sunlit side, deep red with a hint of purple, uniform in size. Each apple got a quick wipe against his

leeve before he set it gently into the basket, stacking them in neat rows.

“Onyx, your basket is practically a pyramid…” Beanie shuffled over, hugging his own lopsided pile of apples, eyes full envy.

“Of course it is.” Onyx didn’t even look up, his tone smug. “Captain Brawn just said to fill a basket. He did say I couldn’t stack it properly Mine would even pass inspection as premium combat supplies.”

Baxter noticed the strawberries on the other side seemed bigger So, he started to get up, thinking of switching spots.

His gaze moved past the shouting young soldiers chasing one another, baskets bumping and bodies jostling, and settled on the old apple tree not far away.

Owen stood there, leaning against the trunk. At some point, he’d also picked up a basket, though he hadn’t gathered much. Now and then, he just reached up to pluck one or two apples from the lower branches, tossing them in casually.

His prosthetic hand gripped the rim of the basket, the silver gray metal flickering in and out of shadow beneath the leaves. His face, as always, gave nothing away

But Baxter saw it

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There was a faint, deeply buried contentment.

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Owen looked like an old beast that had lain dormant for years, finally stepping out of its cave to feel the sunlight again.

He remembered the few pages from the military archives about Owen.

Owen was a model mech tactician of the kingdom, awarded three second–class merits and one first–class merit, and retired at due to injury.

His mental power damage threshold was 78%. The prognosis was progressive deterioration expected within five years.

At the end of the file was a scribbled pencil note, messy handwriting, “Recommend exile-tevel supervision.”

Baxter had seen those wounded veterans sent to E–level waste planets.

Though it was called “long–term care facilities” on paper, it was actually a place to wait for death.

Even with advanced life–support treatment, high–grade mental power intervention equipment, and ample painkillers, most di make it past five years.

But six years later, Owen was standing beneath an apple tree with a soft cloth lining his woven basket. His mental power threst was down to 72%.

Baxter looked away, glancing toward the towering brute in the grove who was stacking apples like military supplies. His mouth lifted slightly.

“Alright,” he said, his voice not loud, yet cutting clean through the forest’s chaos. “Get yourselves together. What do you think y

ook like?”

No one listened.

Onyx was holding up two apples, shouting across the distance to Owen, “Captain Brawn! Look at this one! Isn’t it round and red enough? Is this good enough to be a prize fruit?”

Beanie crouched by the strawberry patch with his crooked basket of apples, staring longingly at Baxter’s basket of white strawberries. “Captain Coleman, why are your strawberries white? Are they even ripe?”

“They’re ripe! These are called Firstblush Berry. Captain Brawn said it’s a new variety from their farm!” Baxter shielded the white strawberries protectively, looking proud. “They’re even sweeter than the red ones there’s even a niky adoma!”

“Let me try one

“Pick your own!”

Linnea walked over from the far end of the strawberry field, carrying a small bamboo basket inside, two neat rows of perfectly shaped red strawberries were arranged with care.

She looked at the soldiers running wild through the grove, smiling as she shook her head, then stopped beside Owen.

“Happy nоw?” she asked softly

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