Waking in the middle of the night, Chen Ping couldn’t fall back asleep.
It hurt. Everything hurt.
The straw bedding in the Shack was cold and hard. Curled up on it, Chen Ping felt as if his entire body had fallen apart, a deep ache seeping from the very marrow of his bones.
The places on his back lashed by the whip burned with a fiery pain, and when sweat soaked into them, it became a piercing agony.
The skin on his shoulders, rubbed raw by the straps of the carrying basket, had scabbed over only to split open again, sticking to his tattered clothes. The slightest movement tugged at it painfully.
His hands bore still more wounds: cuts from the grass knife and scrapes from hauling things, clogged with mud, filthy and painful.
He closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come.
It felt as if a needle were stabbing inside his skull, a throbbing pain.
Both his body and spirit were exhausted to the extreme. If this continued, he might die.
Before he had the Jade Pendant, life was hard, too. But by gritting his teeth and forcing himself to endure, he could barely manage to complete the tasks Manager Wang assigned. It wasn’t like now, where he was whipped almost every day.
Ever since obtaining the Jade Pendant, especially with frequent entries into that space, his entire spirit felt as if it had been drained dry.
During the day, his limbs were weak and his reactions slow. He cut less grass, took longer to carry it back, and struggled to clean the Pigsty properly.
When the Foreman’s whip came down, he didn’t even have the strength to dodge.
Manager Wang’s oily face grew darker, his curses uglier. The burly servants pushed more and more of the dirty, exhausting work onto Chen Ping. At the slightest displeasure, they struck him with fists and feet.
The injuries on his body piled up, new wounds layered over old ones.
He knew he was trapped in a vicious cycle.
Entering the space exhausted him mentally. That exhaustion slowed his work, bringing beatings and injuries. Pain drained him further, and he needed to visit the space even more often to reassure himself that his hope was real.
Each entry and exit felt like drawing on what little vitality he had left.
But he couldn’t stop!
Those six thousand Spirit Grain plants in the Black Earth were his only lifeline. He had to hold on until they matured.
He could only endure the whips more numbly, accept the extra work more silently, hoarding every shred of strength he could save to sustain himself until that brief moment deep in the night when he could enter the space.
Only the sight of the Spirit Grain growing taller and more golden each day kept that faint flame of hope alive, barely holding his exhausted mind and body together.
Another three days dragged by.
His injuries worsened, the headache became constant, and he stumbled through each day in a daze. Even after drinking his gruel, his stomach felt desperately empty. He was so weak that he swayed when he walked.
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Chen Ping struggled to sit up. The movement was too abrupt, pulling at his wounds; he gasped sharply from the pain.
After catching his breath for a moment, he fished out the Jade Pendant. Today was the eighth day.
Based on the first experience… today… they should be mature!
HUM!
The scent of Black Earth flooded his nostrils.
Ignoring the intense headache and feeling of physical collapse, he jerked his head up to look toward the Spirit Field.
Fortunately, there had been some improvement. At least he could now stay in the Black Earth space for hours on end without worrying about harm to his body.
At first glance, it felt as if he’d been struck by lightning. He froze in place.
As far as his eyes could see—a sea of gold!
No longer scattered dots of tender green or pale yellow, but an endless expanse of heavy gold bending under its own weight.
Where there had once been a thousand mounds of earth now stood tall Spirit Grain plants!
Each one was sturdier and more luxuriant than that single plant from his first harvest. Their entire bodies shimmered with a pure, thick golden luster as if cast from solid gold.
Dense and layered upon layer upon layer—they filled every inch of visible Black Earth.
Success! All matured!
Chen Ping’s heart swelled with joy.
The impact of this sight was a hundredfold—a thousandfold—stronger than when he first saw that single mature plant.
“Uh… ngh…”
A sob suppressed to its absolute limit forced its way from deep within his throat.
Chen Ping’s legs gave way. Thump. He knelt on the cold Black Earth.
Tears instantly breached their dam, gushing out in torrents. Mixed with the grime on his face, they carved out muddy tracks down his cheeks.
He bit down hard on his own arm to keep from crying out loud. Yet his body trembled violently under the immense emotional shock. Not sorrow—this was overwhelming joy born from desperate survival! The awe of seeing hope made real!
Boundless gold! Heavy rice heads! And grain fragrance so thick it seemed tangible!
All of it was his. He had risked his life for it!
All grievances… all fears… all whip marks… all hunger… found their outlet in this moment. Tears blurred his vision until all that remained before him was this expanse of gold symbolizing life itself.
A long time passed before Chen Ping managed to steady himself.
He wiped his face hard with his mud-stained sleeve. He could not delay. Time was precious!
Gritting his teeth against the still-intense headache and bodily weakness, he struggled back to his feet.
Harvest!
He walked quickly to where the tools were stored and picked up that stolen Sickle. The cool wooden handle in his hand brought a sliver of solid reassurance.
He approached the nearest Spirit Grain plant. He bent over, his left hand gathering the heavy rice heads, his right hand swinging the Sickle.
Swish!
The sharp blade easily severed the tough stalks. Golden rice heads fell into his hand—substantial weight.
Chen Ping’s spirits lifted. What a good blade! It was far faster than prying the rice heads off with his hardwood stick.
He threw himself into harvesting: bend over, gather heads, swing Sickle, cut off, pile rice heads aside.
His movements, clumsy at first, quickly became practiced and swift. The swish-swish sound of the Sickle cutting stalks stood out starkly in the silent space.
Yet harvesting still took immense effort. Every plant was tall and thick, with heavy rice heads. Bending pulled at the whip wounds and aching muscles in his back; swinging the sickle made his injured shoulders throb again.
Sweat soon soaked through his already ragged clothes, streaming down his temples and neck, stinging his eyes. The headache hadn’t lessened in the slightest, still stabbing his temples like needles.
Chen Ping clenched his teeth, not uttering a sound. Like a tireless machine, he repeated the harvesting motions.
The golden sight before him gave him boundless strength. He forgot the pain. He forgot the exhaustion. His eyes only saw the rice heads waiting to be harvested.
Piles of golden rice heads rose rapidly behind him.
He had no idea how long he had been harvesting. Perhaps hours on end. Perhaps longer.
His arms ached so badly he could scarcely raise them. His lower back felt ready to break, and straightening up took a terrible effort. His vision kept darkening, and his head felt as though it would split.
But he didn’t stop.
At last, he cut the final golden Spirit Grain plant and laid its rice heads on the pile.
Harvest complete.