“Ah, a man without money stays idle; a woman without money suffers bodily trial…” Day was just breaking.
In the outer shantytown of Qingyang Market, situated within the Southern Wilderness Cultivation World, a wooden door creaked open.
A young man of thoroughly average appearance stepped outside.
Qin Ming let out a long yawn, rubbed his bleary, bloodshot eyes with a sluggish spirit, hoisted his spirit-hoe onto his shoulder, and prepared to head out for work.
Before leaving, he glanced back at his neighbor’s courtyard, feeling a surge of irritation.
“In the dead of night, what’s with all the wailing?
Is there not a single shred of public decency left in you?” His neighbor was a young female cultivator of no small beauty.
Yet every few days, she would bring a male cultivator home to spend the night indulging in illicit pleasures.
Last night, in particular, her obscene shrieks had lasted straight through until dawn.
‘Once I save up enough spirit stones, even if I can’t afford to move, I’m definitely installing a soundproofing array first!’ Qin Ming gritted his teeth, swearing silently to himself.
The sound insulation of the houses around here was abysmal.
While meditating to circulate his energy last night, the commotion next door had been so intense that it threw his mind into turmoil.
Blood surged through his veins, and his Dao heart nearly fractured on the spot.
It had been far too close a call!
Left with no alternative, Qin Ming had been forced to tough out an entire all-nighter.
Matching the rhythm of the creaking bed next door, he angrily copied the Scripture of Tranquility a thousand times just to barely soothe his agitated mind… And now, thinking of the endless toil awaiting him in the spirit fields today, his mindset shattered completely.
“It’s been almost five years since I transmigrated into this cultivation world.
When will these days ever end?” “With living conditions like this, what kind of damn immortal path am I even cultivating?” “I can’t even get a decent night’s sleep!” “Sigh… life without a golden finger really is pure suffering.” Before coming to this world, Qin Ming’s perception of immortal cultivation had been romanticized: roaming the northern seas by morning and resting at the southern pines by dusk, flying through the sky, tunneling through the earth, with sword qi spanning ninety thousand miles.
Yet the reality was starkly different.
While “immortal cultivation” sounded lofty and refined, what good life was there for low-tier cultivators at the bottom of the heap?
Every day was a desperate struggle for survival under crushing pressure.
‘If not for the original owner of this body being forcibly conscripted by the Spirit Feather Sect to perform land-clearing missions out here—saddled with a mandatory sixty years of forced labor—I’d have been better off finding a mortal realm to retire in.
At least I could have enjoyed a few decades of decent living.’ After all these years, Qin Ming had long seen through reality.
He finally understood that he was, in the end, just an ordinary, mediocre soul.
With his talent of Four-Element Pseudo-Spiritual Roots and without any extraordinary fortuitous encounters, he wouldn’t reach the Foundation Establishment Stage even if he cultivated until the day he died.
Wasting more than a decade of his youth… only to remain trapped at the Second Layer of Qi Condensation like a prison inmate.
His path to immortality was essentially hopeless.
It was entirely understandable why his family had chosen to abandon him, trading him to the sect in exchange for resources.
Fortunately, his family had pulled a few strings in advance to ensure he wasn’t sent to the front lines to fight beasts with his life on the line.
In the cleared outer perimeter of the rear lines, Qin Ming rented three mu of spirit fields and became a humble spirit farmer.
And today was the day of the spirit rice harvest.
Yet there was not the slightest hint of joy on Qin Ming’s face.
Instead, his heart was fraught with apprehension.
A bountiful harvest meant one thing: the superiors would soon send someone to collect the spirit rice tax.
“Yo, Little Qin, up so early?
Looks like this season’s spirit rice grew pretty well!” As Qin Ming was mulling things over halfway to the fields, an old-farmer-like cultivator stepped out from an adjacent alleyway, greeting him with a warm smile.
The aura of cultivation radiating from the man was noticeably higher than his own—Qi Condensation Layer 4.
“Morning, Old Jiu.” A smile flickered across Qin Ming’s face upon bumping into him, followed quickly by a helpless sigh.
“Ah, don’t bring it up.
You know I’m only at the Second Layer of Qi Condensation, and my Spirit Rain Art is only at the beginner level.
I can barely cast it a few times a month.” This man was named Cai Jiuwu, though the nearby cultivators all called him Cai Old Jiu.
He was an old veteran in this shantytown.
Qin Ming didn’t know his exact background, only that he had been tilling the fields in this area for over a decade.
Cai Old Jiu had dark, sun-baked skin, a face lined with deep wrinkles, and a scruffy stubble.
He puffed on a tobacco pipe, rolled up his pant legs, and looked entirely unkempt, a spirit-hoe and spirit-sickle slung over his shoulder.
He looked far more like a beggar than an immortal cultivator.
Yet through their interactions, Qin Ming knew the man was actually only in his early forties… “By the way, Old Jiu, with your Layer 4 cultivation and intermediate Spirit Rain Art, your harvest this year ought to be quite grand, right?” A trace of envy seeped subtly into Qin Ming’s words.
The Spirit Rain Art was a crop-nurturing spell taught by the sect to spirit farmers like them.
By dispersing the spiritual energy from spirit crystals, spirit stones, or spirit veins into the air, it could forcibly summon down a shower of spirit rain.
Nourished by this spirit rain, various spirit grains, spirit rice, spirit fruits, and spirit herbs would not only resist pests and rodents, but their yield would also be immensely boosted.
Qin Ming had never imagined that even farming would be so deeply tied to one’s cultivation level.
When he had practiced the Spirit Rain Art for over half a year, only to find its rain radius spanned a mere two zhang and his spiritual energy could barely sustain it for less than half an incense stick’s time… he had felt like dying of frustration.
Even someone taking a leak had more volume than his spell.
“Heh, it’s alright, just barely passing by.
Once we finish harvesting and pay the tax today, how about we head over to Juxuan Pavilion in the market for a little drink to unwind?” Cai Old Jiu smacked his lips, answering evasively with a sharp, sly look in his eye.
“Forget it.
A money-draining pit like that isn’t for me.” Qin Ming shook his head.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go; his pockets were simply too shallow.
Cai Old Jiu clicked his tongue.
“I say, kid, you really are no fun.
Life ahead is long; what’s the harm in enjoying yourself once in a while?” “As the saying goes: enjoy today’s wine while there’s wine today.
For folk like you and me, why bother chasing that elusive longevity or grand Dao?
Better to wake up early from the dream and enjoy freedom while we can.” “Sure thing.
So, your treat?” “Get out of here!
Beat it, kid!” Before long.
A massive mountain range shrouded in swirling mist rolled into view.
The wild, sprawling mountains featured roaring waterfalls cascading down into deep dragon pools amid boundless waves of vapor, creating a scene straight out of an ink-wash painting.
On the cleared mountain slopes, hundreds of mu of spirit fields were terraced in neat, orderly tiers.
With spiritual energy supplied by a Tier-1 spirit vein, growing low-grade spirit grains and plants here was more than sufficient.
Within the fields, golden heads of spirit grain radiated a brilliant luster, swaying gently in the wind.
The unique, rich aroma of spirit rice drifted heavily through the air.
The fragrance drew flocks of nearby birds swooping down to feed.
Clang!
Before the birds could land, a sharp blast resounded.
A simple scarecrow puppet positioned in the field struck a spirit gong in its hands, unleashing waves of ear-splitting soundwaves that scattered the startled birds in all directions.
Qin Ming and Cai Old Jiu walked along the mountain path, arriving at their respective fields to begin their work.
Standing in his field, Qin Ming looked helplessly at a particular plot, his lips twitching slightly as disappointment washed over him.
In this half-mu patch, the spirit rice was still vibrant green—a stark, awkward contrast to the golden, ripe crops surrounding it.
Anyone uninitiated might have assumed he was growing garlic sprouts here… He knew the reason for this all too well.
It was caused by his low proficiency in the Spirit Rain Art, its low rank, and the few times he had been able to cast it, leaving the rainfall unevenly distributed.
‘Looks like this season’s spirit rice yield is going to take a hit.
I just hope I can squeak through the tax collection this time.’ Qin Ming felt a heavy gloom in his heart.
Shaking his head, Qin Ming began harvesting the spirit grain.
His spirit-sickle sliced beneath the stalks, dropping bundles of spirit rice that he skillfully tied into sheaves.
The spirit rice here yielded three harvests a year.
As long as the roots were left intact, they would regrow in a few months for another harvest.
It was not unlike harvesting chives.
As the setting sun cast long shadows, Qin Ming finished cutting, threshing, and bagging the spirit rice.
The spiritual energy in his body was completely drained, leaving him exhausted like a dog.
Just as he wiped the sweat from his forehead, he heard the whistling sound of a magic treasure slicing through the air.
Qin Ming quickly looked up to see a Azure Leaf Vessel trailing a streak of green light, slowly descending from the sky.
A man stepped down from the vessel.
He was a stout, middle-aged cultivator wearing the blue-and-white robe of a Spirit Feather Sect outer disciple.
He sported a prominent belly and exuded an overbearing air as he swaggered over.
This fat man was named Du Haifu, the supervisor of this sector of spirit fields.
He oversaw the fields and spirit farmers across this entire mountain, making him an absolute tyrant in the eyes of Qin Ming and the others.
“Heh heh heh, Little Qin, you’re quite nimble with your hands!
You’ve bagged all the spirit rice already.” Du Haifu pulled open one of Qin Ming’s sacks, pinched a few grains of spirit rice, and brought them to his nose for a sniff.
Tossing the grains into his mouth, he chewed slowly, a satisfied smile creeping onto his face.
“Mm, the quality is quite good.
Seems you put in plenty of effort.” With a pat on the storage pouch at his waist, Du Haifu produced a large measuring bucket treasure and began weighing the grain.
“Harvested spirit rice: two piculs and eighty pounds.
The required tax is seventy percent, which comes to one hundred and ninety-six pounds…” “Eh?
Wait, something’s wrong.” “How is this fifty pounds less than what you paid last season?” The smile on Du Haifu’s face vanished instantly.
After checking a ledger to confirm, his expression turned cold, and his eyes snapped toward Qin Ming.
Hearing this, Qin Ming’s heart chilled.
He hurriedly reached into his robes, pulled out a small brocade pouch, and offered it over with both hands.
Forcing a flattering smile, he pleaded, “Senior Du, I am truly sorry!
There was a small issue with the field this season.
This half-sack deficit… please accept these spirit stones to make up for it.
I beg for your understanding!” Though it pained Qin Ming deeply, he had no choice; this pouch contained the majority of his remaining wealth.
In truth, the Spirit Feather Sect only levied a fifty percent tax on spirit rice.
However, with stewards above, and supervisors below managing the spirit farmers… Layer upon layer of exploitation meant that the portion left in their own hands was pitifully meager.
That small pouch of spirit stones would almost certainly end up straight in Du Haifu’s personal pocket.
Du Haifu took the brocade pouch and weighed it in his hand.
Knowing its contents, his attitude softened considerably.
Even so, he warned Qin Ming sternly, “Just this once.
Do not let there be a second time!” With a wave of his sleeve, the several large bags of spirit rice were swept into his storage pouch.
Qin Ming stared at the storage pouch at Du Haifu’s waist, then at the Azure Leaf Vessel nearby, filled with envy.
Things like that were completely out of his financial reach… “Do you know how much spirit rice Cai Old Jiu turned in this season?” Du Haifu asked suddenly, giving him a meaningful look.
He held up two fingers, shaking them in front of Qin Ming.
“More than double your amount!” “You can’t go on like this, kid.” “Seeing as you’re somewhat sensible, I’ll drop a word of advice.” “I just received word that during the next tax collection, the sect’s steward elders will tally up the spirit rice tax contributions for the entire year.
The bottom ten spirit farmers on the list will be reassigned to the front-line battle camps to reinforce manpower.” “You’d best watch out for yourself.” Without waiting for Qin Ming’s reaction, Du Haifu stepped onto his vessel and flew off into the sky.
He left Qin Ming standing frozen on the spot.
“What?
Reassigned to the battle camps?!” As night fell.
Qin Ming carried his remaining spirit rice back to his cottage.
Thud!
Closing the door, Qin Ming collapsed heavily onto his bed, lying flat on his back like a dead dog.
His mind was in utter turmoil.
He stared blankly at the ceiling, echoing Du Haifu’s words in his head over and over again.
He knew all too well that with his current yield, he was practically guaranteed to be among the bottom few.
The battle camps of the Spirit Feather Sect were notoriously deadly places that made everyone blanch at the mere mention of them.
The so-called “land clearing” meant the sect sent low-tier cultivators to reclaim untamed wilderness regions in the cultivation world.
Those places were either overrun by vicious demon beasts or blocked by deadly natural hazards—riddled with lethal perils at every turn.
Not to mention the bizarre, indescribable horrors lurking in the shadows, making peaceful cultivation impossible.
To put it plainly: the sect simply needed a massive number of low-level cultivators to serve as cannon fodder to clear paths.
Being a spirit farmer was exhausting, but at least it was safe and stable.
This world was full of people struggling just to stay alive.
A job that others looked down upon was now his only lifeline in this sea of suffering.
‘What do I do?
I don’t want to go to the battle camps as cannon fodder!’ ‘I really can’t accept this!’ Drowned in anxiety and battered by the physical fatigue of the day, Qin Ming drifted off into a heavy, fitful sleep… Suddenly!
A brilliant, mesmerizing radiance flashed through the depths of his soul.
Qin Ming fell into a long dream.
In the dream, all kinds of strange and magnificent plants seemed to encounter something extraordinary, growing at an impossible, wild speed until they blotted out the sky… Boom!
Then, something seemed to detonate inside his mind.
The next morning.
Qin Ming woke up clutching his throbbing head, feeling dizzy and disoriented.
He got out of bed, scooped a basin of water, and walked over to the flowerbed in his courtyard to wash his face.
Several dozen stalks of spirit rice were planted in the flowerbed—crops he used to study plant habits and occasionally practice his Spirit Rain Art.
But the moment Qin Ming raised his eyes toward the flowerbed, he froze on the spot!
Floating directly above three of the spirit rice stalks were glowing lines of text: [Name]: Golden Spirit Rice [Attribute]: Ripening (100% Maturity, Ready to Harvest) [Name]: Golden Spirit Rice [Attribute]: Intermediate Spirit Rain Art x5 (100% Maturity, Ready to Harvest) [Name]: Golden Spirit Rice [Attribute]: Faint Spiritual Energy (100% Maturity, Ready to Harvest) Qin Ming rubbed his eyes in utter disbelief, muttering softly: “Did I get up too fast?” “Or did I sleep in the wrong position last night?”