Several days later, Chikumamaru’s father, Magojirō Motonaga, returned from the castle after being summoned by his lord, Hosokawa Rokurō Harumoto.

Upon his return, he received a report from Chikumamaru’s tutor.

When he went to check on his son, he found exactly what Shinohara Magoshirō Nagamasa had described.

Chikumamaru was busily writing away while muttering to himself.

“What are you doing, Chikuma?”

“Ah, Father.”

“Welcome home.”

“Mm.”

“And what is it that you’re writing?”

Under the guidance of his tutor, Magoshirō Nagamasa, Chikumamaru’s completed works had been mounted onto backing sheets, rolled up, and arranged like picture scrolls.

Motonaga picked one up.

“What is this?”

It depicted a square box with a round hole in it.

The internal mechanism had been drawn from another angle.

There was some kind of handle attached to the box.

Wood shavings.

Lime?

Charcoal?

“Ah, that’s a simple toilet.”

“A toilet?”

“Um, a latrine?”

“A box for relieving oneself.”

“And what are these materials inside?”

“Well, wood shavings and lime.”

“You turn this handle here to mix everything together.”

“You let it accumulate for several uses, then collect it afterward.”

“It can be used as fertilizer and for various other things.”

“I think you could even make gunpowder with it.”

It was essentially a composting toilet.

It required neither water nor electricity.

The mixing mechanism might be somewhat troublesome to make.

Could they even manufacture iron products in this era?

Well, they had swords, so perhaps they could.

After staring at the drawing for a while, his father fell into thought.

Then he picked up another scroll.

“And what is this?”

“Well, that’s called a threshing comb.”

“It’s a farming tool.”

“You assemble it from wood, place the rice stalks between the teeth here, and pull them through to remove the grains.”

“It’s basically for threshing.”

“There are also foot-operated threshers, but I don’t really understand how those work.”

“And this?”

“That’s a shovel.”

“The larger version is a spade.”

“This part should be made of iron.”

“It needs to be sturdy because it’s used for digging.”

“This is a hoe.”

“This is a sickle.”

“And this is a plow.”

“This one is called a rake.”

“It’s used for gathering fallen leaves, cut grass, and other debris, or for leveling uneven ground.”

“There are many different types, though…”

As she spoke, she showed him a more detailed drawing of an American-style rake.

Her husband in her previous life had been obsessed with gardening.

He had even rented nearby fields and built all sorts of fences and growing areas.

Naturally, he had been extremely particular about his tools as well.

At first, she hadn’t understood what the fuss was about.

But after listening to his explanations, she had eventually become convinced by their practicality.

For gardening and farming, he had always insisted that an American rake was an absolutely essential tool.

Cheap ones wouldn’t do.

She had been astonished when he had personally imported a heavy-duty model over the internet simply because he insisted on having the best one.

Because he had thoroughly explained the differences between Japanese and American rakes, she was able to draw it in considerable detail.

Whether it could actually be manufactured with the technology of this era, however, was another matter entirely.

It was more of a, ‘It would be nice if they could make it,’ sort of thing.

She also sketched ordinary rakes, bamboo rakes, netted rakes, short-handled ones used for clam digging, and long-handled versions that allowed people to work while standing.

Anything she could remember, she drew.

One after another, she presented illustrations of various farming tools.

Her father examined them with intense concentration.

Finally, after letting out a deep breath, Magojirō Motonaga seated his son directly before him.

“Chikuma.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Chikumamaru.”

The eyes looking straight back at him showed not the slightest trace of hesitation.

Had the boy struck his head badly when he fell from the tree?

No.

Even so, these were not ideas that a three-year-old child could possibly conceive.

“Father.”

“There is something I must tell you.”

“Could you please have everyone leave?”

“Very well.”

“Everyone, withdraw for a while.”

His personal attendants and Chikumamaru’s tutor, Magoshirō Nagamasa, quietly left the room.