Morning light filtered into the dwelling.
"Did you rest well, Chief Spirit?"
Ki-woo nodded, sitting up from his crude bedding. "I did. And you, Straight Tree?"
"Of course. You must be hungry. I will bring food right away," the young warrior said, slipping back outside.
It had been eight months since Ki-woo's arrival. He had survived the biting winds of autumn and winter, and now, the first pale buds of spring were breaking through the frost. He had spent this time obsessively mastering the tribe's language: Creek.
He had also learned their customs. Names here were earned, not given at birth, due to the harsh infant mortality rate. A name was a badge of survival, reflecting a person's defining trait—Clear Lake, Black Mud, Wide Leaf. Straight Tree had earned his for his unbending, straightforward nature.
Ki-woo, however, was universally addressed as Wakan Tanka, the Sacred Spirit, or simply the Chief Spirit.
Now that spring had arrived, it was time to initiate the next phase of his plan. His greatest achievement over the winter hadn't been linguistic; it had been pinpointing his exact location.
He was situated near the Chattahoochee River in what would one day be known as Alabama.
Before the time warp, he had packed a high-density world map into his survival bag. It didn't just show topography; it mapped out vital resource deposits—iron, coal, oil—and complex river networks. By cross-referencing the map with the local terrain and the stars, he confirmed he was sitting on a geographical goldmine.
Alabama was destined to become a titan of the ironmaking industry, blessed with rich veins of iron ore, coal, and limestone near the southern tip of the Appalachian Mountains. Furthermore, the sprawling central lowlands were a fertile canvas for mass agriculture, while the vein-like river systems offered perfect routes for future water transport.
'It's the foundation of a superpower,' Ki-woo thought. He intended to tear that future out of European hands. If he succeeded, this continent would rise as an industrial juggernaut commanded by its native people.
Straight Tree returned, handing Ki-woo a bowl of unseasoned, roasted meat and foraged roots. It was incredibly bland compared to modern cuisine, but Ki-woo ate every bite without complaint. He knew this meager meal was a luxury; the tribe was constantly teetering on the edge of starvation.
'That ends soon,' he reminded himself.
The solution was already incubating. The survival pack he brought from the future had strict weight limits, forcing him to choose his cargo with agonizing care. He had sacrificed firearms and ammunition for items of true developmental power. Among them were five genetically modified chicken eggs.
North America severely lacked domesticable livestock. Bringing those eggs had been a massive gamble, but it had paid off. The five chicks had survived the winter, matured, and were now laying eggs of their own. A stable flock was forming.
The tribesmen viewed the birds with deep skepticism. To them, feeding precious grains to an animal you intended to eat later was absurd inefficiency. They only tolerated the project out of reverence for their Chief Spirit. But soon, when the flock grew large enough to provide a steady supply of meat and eggs, their worldview would shatter.
After finishing his meal, Ki-woo slung his pack over his shoulder and headed toward the primitive farming plots by the river. Straight Tree shadowed him, accompanied by ten other men.
Traditionally, agriculture was women's work while the men hunted. Ki-woo was intentionally breaking this norm. To transition into a true agrarian society, he needed the physical labor of the men.
"Do you know why I gathered you here?" Ki-woo asked, handing out freshly carved wooden hoes. He had spent the winter designing them to replace their inefficient digging sticks. Without draft animals to pull plows, hoes were the next best leap in agricultural technology. He desperately needed iron, but wood would have to suffice for now.
"To farm?" Straight Tree answered, looking confused by the obvious question.
Ki-woo looked out over the vast, fertile plains bordering the Chattahoochee. "Farming, yes. But what we plant today will change the fabric of our lives."
Straight Tree's eyes sharpened. He was remarkably quick-witted for a Neolithic hunter. While others grumbled about the chickens, Straight Tree had already begun puzzling out the long-term benefits of a captive food source.
"Is it because of these new tools?" the young warrior asked, examining his wooden hoe.
"Partially," Ki-woo said. He reached into his pack and withdrew a sealed, heavy container. "But mostly, it's because of this."
He opened it, revealing a dense cache of seeds. "These are improved seeds. They are a gift from the spirits."
It was the ultimate cheat code. Genetically perfected modern wheat, corn, cotton, potatoes, and barley.
***
The seeds were planted, and Ki-woo watched over the fields with a predatory patience. Spring bled into a sweltering summer, and finally, the crisp winds of autumn returned.
Standing at the edge of the golden fields, a low, triumphant chuckle escaped Ki-woo's lips. He tried to suppress the sound, but the sheer weight of his success made it impossible.
"Are we finally harvesting today?" Straight Tree asked, his voice trembling slightly. He had watched the strange, towering stalks of wheat grow for months, unlike any crop the tribe had ever seen.
"Yes," Ki-woo said, his chest tight with a strange nostalgia. "Today, we harvest wheat."
It was a historic anomaly—harvesting modern wheat in North America centuries before European contact. The heavy, swollen grains were a testament to modern genetic engineering.
However, the bountiful sight brought immediate conflict. As the golden stalks were cut and gathered, the starving tribesmen looked at the mountain of food with ravenous desperation.
"Don't let them eat it yet," Ki-woo warned Straight Tree. "Aside from a small portion and feed for the chickens, the vast majority of this harvest must be saved as seed for next year's planting. Do you understand?"
Straight Tree nodded solemnly. "I will make sure the council enforces it." He scratched the back of his neck, looking slightly overwhelmed by the tribe's hunger. As he did, a flurry of white dandruff drifted from his coarse hair.
Watching the flakes fall, Ki-woo made a mental note. 'I need to invent soap soon.' But hygiene would have to wait. With the food supply securing itself through the upcoming potato and sweet potato yields, and the chicken flock expanding exponentially, starvation would soon be a memory.
For now, Ki-woo had other priorities. He turned away from the harvest, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the edges of a small, crude mechanism he had been secretly developing over the last few weeks.