[ Valley 4 · Pioneering Day 10 · Morning ]
I was awakened by a faint yet persistent tap, tap, tap.
The sound was steady and rhythmic, like something hard striking bamboo.
Dazed, I rolled over, trying to cover my ears with the edge of my straw mat—a failed attempt.
The mat was too thin, and that stubborn noise continued to drill into my mind.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
My dragon tail whipped the ground in frustration.
I opened one eye, my ice-blue pupil constricting in the morning light.
On the platform at the cave’s entrance, the azure Glaze-Feather Sparrow was perched upon the bamboo bow blank I’d roughly shaped yesterday, pecking at the bamboo nodes with its beak.
Its three ice-crystal tail feathers swayed in the morning breeze, emitting a faint, wind chime-like tinkling.
It worked with such seriousness, as if it were a task of the utmost importance.
“You…” I croaked, my voice low and hoarse from sleep.
The Glaze-Feather Sparrow paused, tilting its head as its golden eyes met mine.
After a moment, it let out a short, “Guh”-like sound from its throat, then took flight, landing on a familiar branch of the dwarf pine to begin preening its feathers.
I sighed and sat up.
The depression on the straw mat still held my body heat, but the remnants of sleep had been completely dispelled.
This was the fifth day the Glaze-Feather Sparrow had appeared in my life.
Five days ago, it first came to the cave’s platform, drawn by the row of mud blanks drying in the shade.
Three days ago, it began standing on the dwarf pine to observe me from a distance while I worked, occasionally letting out a few clear and melodious chirps.
Two days ago, it landed for the first time during breakfast on the rock where I was drying my tools, tilting its head to watch me roast fish.
And today, it had already started pecking at my bow blank.
“Are you here to oversee the work?” I said to the azure figure on the dwarf pine while getting dressed, “or did you come to apply as a quality inspector?”
The Glaze-Feather Sparrow, of course, did not answer.
It simply changed its posture and continued preening those three dazzling tail feathers.
I shook my head and walked out of the cave entrance.
The morning breeze brought the coolness of the river water against my face as the morning glow just started to redden the eastern ridge of the mountains.
It was another clear, beautiful day.
After a simple wash, I didn’t rush to light a fire for cooking, but went to check the field first.
On the newly cultivated plot of land, four ridges were laid out neatly in the morning light.
Dew from last night still lingered in the furrows, while the soil on the ridge tops had already begun to crust over, a sign that they needed to be loosened.
I knelt down and gently brushed aside the surface soil from the top of one ridge to check the trial patch of Earth-Bell Tubers I’d planted a few days ago.
That was three evenings ago.
Following the planting guidelines provided by the System, I had buried five cut seed tubers, their cut surfaces already dried, at the eastern end of the first ridge.
Each one featured two plump buds, and I’d coated the cut surfaces with grass ash from a small fire of dried twigs and leaves I’d specially burned the previous evening.
Now, I carefully brushed away the covering soil, my fingertips touching the surface of a seed tuber.
It was firm, dry, and showed no signs of rotting.
More importantly, at one of the buds, I glimpsed an extremely faint, tender white protrusion.
It was a just-sprouted shoot.
“It sprouted…” I whispered, my voice tinged with a surprise I hadn’t even noticed myself.
I covered it back up with fine soil, pressed it down gently, then drew water from the river with a bamboo tube and watered the furrows along the ridge.
The sound of water seeping into the soil was soft and lingering, like the earth’s own breath.
I turned to look at the Jade-Needle Rice.
In the small plot of twelve or thirteen square meters, the fifty planting spots remained still and quiet.
I probed the soil with my fingertips, feeling the moist, warm, and vibrant-with-life aura, but there was no sign of any shoots breaking through.
The growth cycle of Jade-Needle Rice is 120 to 150 days, and it had only been seven days.
It wasn’t even time for sprouting yet.
No rush, I told myself.
Rice has its own rhythm.
After checking the field, I began to retrieve the fish traps.
Through seven days of trial and improvement, the fish trap had been upgraded to its third generation.
The first-generation fish trap, a crude weave of twigs, had an impractical entrance design that often allowed fish to escape, resulting in an unstable harvest.
On the second day, I tore it apart and rewove it, referring to the “Inverted-Barb Basket” structure from my memory.
I used a mix of fine bamboo strips and Ironwire Vine to weave a new fish trap, leaving inward-pointing barbs at the entrance.
Fish could enter, but not escape.
The effect was immediate.
Since the third-generation fish trap had been put into use three days ago, I had harvested three or four Silverskin Fish every morning, occasionally along with some freshwater shrimp.
Today’s harvest was especially good: five plump Silverskin Fish, plus seven or eight lively Green-Shell Shrimp.
I took out the big fish, released the small ones, and reset the fish traps.
Then I squatted by the river, using my Stone Knife to skillfully process the catch.
After five days of repeated labor, my technique had become quite efficient: scraping scales, slicing the belly, removing the innards, and washing, the entire process taking less than the time it takes to brew a cup of tea.
The innards were thrown back into the river, returning to nature’s food chain.
Today’s breakfast was fish fillet porridge, though of course, there was no rice.
I used diced Earth Yam, boiling it in a Clay Pot with the boneless fish meat.
The Clay Pot had just come out of the kiln last night.
Yes, out of the kiln.
The evening before yesterday, the row of clay molds that had dried in the shade for six full days finally reached a state ready for firing.
I chose a flat area by the river, built a crude open-air kiln with stones, and carefully stacked the four clay molds, two bowls, a plate, and a repaired deep-bellied jar, in the center of the kiln, covering them and the top with thick layers of firewood and dry grass.
The moment I lit the fire, my hands were shaking.
The fire burned for nearly four hours.
I kept adding wood, tending to the leaping flames, watching the clay molds gradually turn orange-red in the intense heat, then slowly fade.
The smoke stung my eyes, and sweat soaked through the back of my tunic.
After the fire died down, the wait for the kiln to cool felt exceptionally long.
I sat by the river for a long time, watching the moon in the water, listening to the cries of night birds, my Dragon Tail unconsciously thumping the ground. This chapter was copied from novelping . com without permission.
When I dug the four pieces of pottery out of the cooled ashes, I almost wept.
Of the two bowls, one was completely intact without a single crack, its inner wall smooth, producing a clear “ting” when tapped.
The other bowl had a fine crack along the rim, but it didn’t leak and was still usable.
The plate was intact.
The deep-bellied jar leaked slightly at the repaired crack, but it was perfectly fine for holding dry goods or boiling soup.
Four pieces of pottery.
Four pieces that I had personally shaped from mud and forged in flame.
Right now, that intact bowl held Earth Yam and fish fillet porridge, steam curling gently.
I used homemade bamboo chopsticks to pick up a slice of fish, blew on it to cool it, and placed it in my mouth.
The fish was tender, the Earth Yam soft and mealy, the broth rich.
Although there was no salt, no ginger, no seasonings at all, this was food that had been “boiled,” not roasted or eaten raw.
It was the taste of civilization, borne by a vessel, transformed through water and fire.
I ate slowly, mouthful by mouthful, with deep earnestness.
After finishing breakfast and tidying up, I didn’t start working immediately.
Instead, I sat on the platform, opened my notebook, and wrote down today’s observations point by point.
Then, I began reviewing the records from the previous few days.
First Day of Reclamation: Woke up and discovered I had transmigrated.
System activated, accepted initial mission.
Ate the first meal of roasted fish.
Second Day: Cultivated the first plot of land (about 10 square meters).
Third Day: Sowed 50 grains of Jade-Needle Rice.
While making a fish trap, discovered a bamboo grove, found Earth-Bell Tubers, collected clay, and shaped the first batch of clay pieces (5 pieces).
Fourth Day: Built a bamboo rack, unlocked the Blueprint System, cleared a new field (about 10 square meters), and scouted the Earth-Bell Tuber colony.
Fifth Day: Prepared the new field, cut Earth-Bell Tuber seed tubers into pieces, dried them, coated them with plant ash, and sowed 5 holes for a trial.
Attempted to make a bow, Ironwire Vine is being soaked, discovered Glaze-Feather Sparrows.
Felled bamboo for the bow (second stalk), roughly shaved the pieces.
Used a new clay pot to boil the first pot of Earth Yam soup.
The clay pot cracked.
At night, by the light of the fire, used a bone awl and stone flakes to add two hooks to the third layer of the bamboo rack, hanging linen bags and dried fruit skewers.
Sixth Day: Explored the edge of the valley.
Ninth Day: Fired the first batch of pottery (4 pieces successful).
Tenth Day: This morning.
Earth-Bell Tubers have sprouted.
Catch of 5 fish and 8 shrimp.
Boiled fish fillet porridge for the first time.
Ten days.
I looked up and gazed at the valley.
The morning mist had completely dissipated, and everything was clear and bright under the sun.
On the opposite bank of the river were two plots of land: one with Jade-Needle Rice quietly awaiting germination, and one with Earth-Bell Tubers just beginning to sprout on the new ridges.
The bamboo grove rustled in the distance, and another batch of Citromes upstream had probably turned red.
In the downstream wetlands, the seed pods of the Borer-Expelling Grass had already split open, their tiny black seeds scattering in the wind, waiting to grow into new plants.
My gaze fell back to the notebook.
Ten days.
From a cave with nothing, to having fields, seedlings, pottery, furniture, a stable source of food, and a daily routine of work and life.
Not fast, but every step was solid.
However, today seemed a bit different.
I put down the notebook, stood up, walked to the edge of the platform, and looked down at this valley I had already become preliminarily familiar with.
My dragon tail swayed gently behind me, its cream-colored mane brushing against the rock surface.
I found myself pondering a question: What comes next?
Planting crops is for harvesting grain.
Harvesting grain is for completing quests.
Completing quests is for unlocking more features.
Unlocking more features is for…
better farming?
It is a cycle.
A self-sustaining, peaceful, and secure cycle that can continue indefinitely.
But how much longer will I stay in this cycle?
Once this thought surfaced, it could no longer be pushed back down.
I have been in this world for ten days.
In these ten days, I have hardly stopped working for a single moment.
From early morning to night, from gathering to planting, from pottery-making to weaving, from fishing to ridge-forming.
I dared not stop, because once I stopped, I would be devoured by hunger, cold, and loneliness.
Labor is a means of survival, but also an excuse for escape.
And today, the Earth-Bell Tubers have sprouted, the pottery is fired, the Fish Trap is steadily producing, the bow wood is soaked, and the bamboo rack has hooks installed.
Most of today’s task list has already been crossed off, and the sun is still high, but I suddenly don’t know what to do next.
No, I know what I should be doing.
I should go water the Jade-Needle Rice, change the water for the composting Ironwire Vine, continue carving the bowstave, collect more plant ash and dry twigs, go downstream to see if the Borer-Expelling Grass seeds have ripened, and cut more bamboo to prepare trellises for the next field.
There are so many things to do.
But I don’t want to move.
I sat on the edge of the platform for a long time.
The sun gradually dipped from overhead to the west, and my shadow slowly stretched out from my feet.
The Glaze-Feather Sparrows had flown away sometime, leaving the dwarf pine empty.
In the distance, there was the sound of wind passing through the bamboo grove, a rustling sound like continuous rain.
I thought of my father.
I remembered him crouching by the experimental field, picking up a wheat seedling with his rough fingers, and turning back to say to me: “Look, the tillering on this one is so good.” This chapter was copied from novelping . com without permission.
I thought of my mother.
I remembered her always saying on the phone, “Your dad bought a few more bags of new fertilizer, saying he’s waiting for you to come back and try it,” and then my father’s muffled retort in the background, “Who’s waiting?”
I thought of my roommates.
I remembered the voices in the darkness after the lights went out: “Hey, you think we’ll really go farm after graduation?” “What else?
After studying for four years, if we don’t farm, are we supposed to go write code?” “Farming is fine too.
At least we won’t starve.”
At least we won’t starve.
I looked down at my own hands.
These hands could now swing an iron hoe for a whole morning without getting blisters, precisely cut bamboo with a Mountain-Cleaving Yue, drill holes in hardwood with a bone awl, and mold regular clay pottery.
These hands were no longer the ones that held a pen to copy notes, typed on a keyboard to write theses, or fiddled with test tubes and petri dishes in a laboratory.
But was their owner still the same person as before?
I didn’t know.
When the sun sank behind the mountain ridge, I finally stood up.
My legs were a bit numb, and my dragon tail was stiff from holding a single posture for too long.
I stretched my body, walked down the stone steps, and mechanically completed my evening routine: collecting the fish trap (catching two fish this afternoon), watering the Jade-Needle Rice, loosening the topsoil in the Earth-Bell Tuber trial area, and changing the water for the composting Ironwire Vine (by the way, using my dwindling spiritual energy to guide the Water Essence).
Then I started a fire and cooked.
It was still fish boiled with earth yams, served with two citromes as dessert.
Cradling the ceramic bowl, I sat on the edge of the platform at the cave entrance, watching the sky gradually darken.
Steam rose from the food in the bowl, blurring the starlight before my eyes.
“Aren’t you out hunting tonight?”
Only as the words left my lips did I realize who I was speaking to.
The azure-green figure on the dwarf pine stirred, its golden eyes lighting up in the twilight like two small grains of amber.
The Glaze-Feather Sparrow made no sound.
It simply stood quietly on the branch, tilting its head, watching me.
“Today, I…” I paused, looking down at the milky-white fish soup in my bowl, “was thinking about things that don’t matter.”
Of course it couldn’t understand.
It was just an Elemental Organism, drawn here by the moist Earth Spiritual Aura of this valley, occasionally pecking at my bamboo, occasionally grooming those three beautiful tail feathers in the morning light.
But I kept talking anyway.
“I was wondering, what would it be like if this continued forever.
Planting, harvesting, planting again, harvesting again.
All alone.
Doing the same things every day, facing the mountains and water every day, talking to fish and birds every day.
What would I be like a year from now, or ten years from now?”
I poked the chunks of earth yam in the bowl with my bamboo chopsticks.
“Will you stay here forever?” I asked it.
“Or will you fly to another valley one day when you get bored?”
The Glaze-Feather Sparrow did not answer.
It simply shifted its posture, letting those three ice-blue tail feathers dangle, swaying gently in the night wind, producing a faint, tinkling sound like wind chimes.
I smiled and lowered my head to continue eating my fish.
After finishing, I washed the bowl, extinguished the campfire, and put away my tools.
Once night had fully fallen, I lit the small clay dish lamp and sat beside the bamboo rack.
The flickering flames cast dancing shadows on the rock wall.
I opened my notebook but did not immediately start writing.
The pen tip hovered above the page, remaining still for a long time.
I wanted to write something.
Today’s record hadn’t been written yet: the Earth-Bell Tubers sprouting, the fish catch, the progress of the bow wood seasoning, and also…
my mood.
But the pen tip touched the paper then lifted, lifted then touched again.
Finally, I wrote a single line in the center of the page:
“Fourth day, fifth day, sixth day.
Seventh day.”
Then I set down the pen, blew out the lamp, and lay down in the hollow of the grass mat.
My Dragon Tail automatically curled to my side, its pale yellow mane covering my calves.
I gazed at the patch of ink-blue night sky at the cave entrance, the starlight sparse and dim, the distant mountains like a painting in ink.
Tonight was windless.
The valley was so silent I could hear my own heartbeat.
“Thump.
Thump.
Thump.”
Unhurried.
I was still alive.
I don’t know how much time had passed before my consciousness began to blur.
Between sleep and wakefulness, I seemed to hear the extremely faint sound of wings slicing through the air at the cave entrance.
Then, a warm and weightless touch landed on my—Dragon Tail.
The warmth was slight, just below body temperature, carrying the coolness of the night air and a certain extremely subtle, moist scent like morning dew.
I did not open my eyes.
Nor did I move.
The mane of the Dragon Tail seemed to be gently pecked at by something, so light it was like a breeze passing by.
Then, that warmth vanished.
The sound of wings rose again, growing more distant.
I still did not open my eyes.
But the corner of my mouth curved slightly in the dark.