Chen Ping walked to the very center of the Black Earth.
He crouched down. Gingerly, he dug a small hole in the fertile soil with his bare hands. The hole wasn’t deep—only half a finger’s length.
Gently, solemnly, he placed the precious seed inside. He placed his own hope inside.
He scooped up the nearby soil, slowly and carefully covering the hole, burying the seed completely. The soil felt cool and fine against his skin.
After finishing, he stood up, took a step back, and stared intently at the small mound of earth.
His heart pounded violently in his chest, even more fiercely than when he had stolen the seed.
Anticipation, nervousness, and a crushing sense of uncertainty wrapped around him like a net.
He needed to wait. But he didn’t know how long.
A day? A month? Perhaps it wouldn’t sprout at all? Could this miraculous Black Earth really grow something?
He didn’t dare leave. He was afraid of missing any change.
He stood there for a long time, then crouched. Finally, he simply sat cross-legged next to the mound, staring unblinkingly at the freshly turned soil.
Time seemed to lose all meaning here.
The halo above him remained unchanged. There was no cycle of day and night, only stillness.
Hunger began to gnaw at him again, but he paid it no mind. All his senses were focused on that small patch of earth.
He did not know how much time had passed. Perhaps several hours; perhaps only a short while.
Just as his eyes began to burn from staring… he saw it.
On the surface of the soil covering the seed, an extremely tiny, almost imperceptible bulge pushed upward.
Immediately after, a faint green tip pierced through the thin layer of black soil. It was almost illusory, yet filled with vitality as it stubbornly emerged.
That speck of green, set against the glossy Black Earth, was unmistakable.
Chen Ping’s breath caught in his throat.
It grew!
It grew so quickly!
Just as he was about to cheer in wild joy, the tearing sensation assaulted his vision again.
He was back in the shack, instantly enveloped by the cold, the rough straw, and the smells of mildew and sweat.
He fell onto the pile of straw in the corner, his bones aching from the impact.
His head throbbed as if it were about to split open. Waves of nausea rose within him. He curled up, pressing his hands hard against his temples, his teeth grinding audibly.
After what felt like an eternity, the excruciating pain slowly receded like a tide, leaving behind a heavy dullness.
Chen Ping was drenched in cold sweat, as if he had just been pulled from a river. He lay sprawled on the straw, gasping for breath, unable to move even a finger.
In the darkness, the other laborers’ snores and grinding teeth sounded one after another.
The heart-stopping experience seemed like a nightmare born of extreme exhaustion. But the lingering trace of strange coolness on his palm and the image of that green tip told him with absolute clarity: It was real.
The Black Earth inside the Jade Pendant was real. The stolen Spirit Grain seed had truly sprouted.
Exhaustion, relief at having survived, and that faint but real hope settled heavily over him.
His eyelids could no longer hold up. His head tilted to one side on the filthy straw pile, and with a faint smile, he fell into a deep sleep.
The sky wasn’t fully bright yet; grayish light squeezed in through holes in the roof and gaps around the doorframe.
Chen Ping woke from the cold and the rustling movements of early risers.
His eyes snapped open. His first thought was to feel his chest.
The Jade Pendant was still there.
That eased some of his worry. He cautiously checked how his head felt.
It no longer hurt! Last night’s tearing agony had vanished, leaving only the grogginess of a late night. He tried moving his neck. It was stiff, but otherwise fine.
“Hoo…”
He let out a long breath.
So you can’t stay in that place too long, he realized. If you stay too long, your head can’t take it. This is probably the price for entering that miraculous space.
Chen Ping silently noted this pattern. The price wasn’t small, but compared to the wonder of the Black Earth, it was worth it.
The shack door was roughly pulled open, letting in a blast of cold wind that made everyone shiver.
“Get up! All you bastards, get up! Waiting to die?”
Manager Wang’s oily, fat face appeared in the doorway. His triangular eyes were full of meanness and impatience as he brandished a glossy leather whip.
“Those on pig-feeding duty, get to the west pig farm! Move your asses! If you’re late, I’ll skin you!”
Chen Ping quickly scrambled up, mingling with the sleepy-eyed crowd heading out.
The morning chill made him shiver. His starving stomach growled loudly. He and several other assigned Laborers silently followed Manager Wang toward an even filthier area west of Spirit Beast Peak.
Before they even got close, a nauseating mixture of smells struck them: pig manure, sour, rotting food, and the pungent animal odor peculiar to certain spirit beasts.
Large pigsties were built in rows in a low-lying area, constructed of rough logs and thatch. They were crude and drafty on all sides.
Their task was simple: cut grass for the pigs, chop it up, mix it with coarse grain bran, and pour it into the long feeding troughs.
The pens held low-tier spirit pigs. These weren’t ordinary domestic pigs; they were larger, with protruding tusks and coarse, bristly fur.
They were energetic and irritable. Seeing people through the wooden bars, they emitted deafening squeals and violently rammed the enclosures, sending splinters flying and drool dripping everywhere.
Their murky small eyes flashed with a greedy, savage light.
Chen Ping was given a rusty chopping knife with a rolled edge and a huge, damaged back basket. He followed several equally gaunt, sallow laborers toward the weedy slopes outside the pig farm.
Cutting fodder looked simple. Only when he tried it did he realize how punishing it was.
The wild grass on the slopes was tough, its roots dense and tangled. The blunt knife vibrated with every chop, numbing the web of his hand while cutting only a few strands.
He had to bend his waist and use his full body strength to chop, again and again.
Sweat soon soaked through his thin clothes and flowed into his eyes, stinging painfully. His waist and back ached as if they were breaking every time he straightened up.
After cutting less than half a basket of grass, he carried it back and emptied it beside a huge stone trough.
Several noticeably burlier Servant Disciples were waiting there. They were responsible for chopping and feeding.
One of them—a burly man with a meaty face and an exposed hairy chest—glanced at Chen Ping’s pitiful amount of pig grass. He impatiently kicked the stone trough.
“What’s taking so long? That’s barely a mouthful! Go cut more! Can’t you see the hungry pigs ramming the fence? If they don’t gain weight because of you, will you take responsibility?”
Chen Ping looked at his own blistered, bleeding palms. He looked at the mountain of grass beside him that needed chopping. He looked at the distance where the spirit pigs were squealing.
He opened his mouth, but ultimately said nothing.
He silently picked up his empty basket and blunt knife, turned, and walked back toward the hillslope.
Most of these burly Servant Disciples had some rudimentary martial training or had joined through connections. They did the relatively easy work of chopping grass and feeding the pigs, while the heavy labor fell to men at the very bottom, like Chen Ping.
The so-called “division of labor” was nothing but an excuse for exploitation.