The tiny Spirit Grain seedling carried all of Chen Ping’s hopes.
It carried his courage to keep living.
This wasn’t an illusion. It was proof. With this, there would be food. There would be the strength to survive.
With this, he could grow more. He could break free from this endless cycle of exploitation and hunger. He could live with dignity.
There was even a chance to become an upper-level servant… no longer having to worry about starving… no longer fearing that he would end up like Old Zhang, rotting silently in a cesspit.
Grievance, fear, pain, despair…
In this moment, they all found an outlet.
Chen Ping knelt on the Black Earth, weeping silently. Tears mixed with the grime on his face, carving out streaks through the dirt.
He clenched his fists, nails digging deep into his palms, using the physical pain to anchor himself to reality.
After a long time, the turbulent emotions gradually subsided.
Chen Ping roughly wiped his face with his sleeve, smearing the grime even more. He looked at the Spirit Grain seedling standing quietly in the faint light, his eyes burning with an unprecedented firmness.
Soon.
At this rate, seven days at most!
At most seven days, and he would harvest his first Spirit Rice plant—the first grain of Spirit Grain that truly belonged to him.
He carefully leaned closer and examined the leaves, making sure there were no signs of withering or disease. The Black Earth remained fertile, as though it held an endless supply of life.
He dared not stay long, fearing the headache would strike again.
Finally, he took one last greedy look at that patch of green, etching its image deep into his soul.
With a thought.
HUM.
The scene shifted. The darkness and foul air of the Shack enveloped him once more.
His head felt slightly heavy, but it was far less severe than the previous night. A shorter stay meant a smaller price.
Chen Ping lay on the cold pile of straw, eyes wide open in the darkness.
The pain in his body was still clear. The wound on his shoulder burned fiercely, and the gnawing hunger in his belly returned with a vengeance.
But this time, he no longer felt cold and hopeless.
The vivid image of that green seedling, nearly seventeen centimeters tall, was imprinted on his mind. Like a small but intensely hot flame, it burned in his heart and drove away the gloom. The source of this chapter is g.com.
He cracked his dry lips and smiled soundlessly. The expression tugged at the wounds on his face, but he paid it no mind.
Life was finally no longer an impenetrable darkness.
There was light now. Faint, but real—light he could grasp.
In the following days, Chen Ping’s life remained bitterly harsh.
He was awakened before dawn by the clamor of that fat pig, Manager Wang.
The man was mean to the bone. Skimming so much silver—wasn’t he afraid of getting what he deserved?
As though Manager Wang were deliberately making things hard for him, Chen Ping was assigned nothing but work feeding pigs.
He could only drag his aching body out to cut grass for the pigs and carry it back. The blunt knife grew harder and harder to use. Fresh wounds kept appearing on his arms, sticky and painful.
The burly servants’ shouts were as grating as ever, and all the dirty, exhausting work still fell to him. While cleaning the Pigsty, an irritable spirit pig knocked him over and covered him in filth. When he carried water, the heavy wooden buckets pressed on his shoulder wounds, splitting them open again until they bled.
But the ash-like deadness deep in Chen Ping’s eyes had vanished.
In its place were quiet resolve and patience.
When reprimanded by the Foreman, he gritted his teeth and stayed silent. When shoved and cursed at, he kept his head down, eyes fixed on the ground.
He saved every bit of strength he could spare, hoarding it all to last until late night.
The exhaustion and pain in his body were real. So was the hunger in his belly.
But whenever night fell deep and quiet, and snores rose from all corners of the Shack, the thing sustaining him became clear.
As on previous nights, he waited until everyone was asleep before tightly gripping the Jade Pendant.
After a brief wave of dizziness, the familiar breath of the Black Earth enveloped him.
The light overhead remained constant.
His first action was to look toward the center.
There, the Spirit Grain seedling that had been a tiny sprout yesterday had grown noticeably taller. It now reached his knees!
The leaves were no longer frail new shoots. They had unfurled into a tough, deep green, striking against the glossy Black Earth. The plant stood quietly, its growth speaking for itself.
Chen Ping’s heartbeat quickened.
He moved closer, crouched down, and carefully examined the veins on the leaves. He gently touched the stem.
Firm. Resilient.
He cracked his dry lips and smiled soundlessly once more. All the hardship and weariness of the day seemed worth it.
Afraid of the headache, he dared not stay long. He looked a little longer, drew strength from that living plant, and withdrew.
On the third night, the plant had grown to thigh height. The stem was sturdier, the leaves broader, their edges bearing fine serrations. It was no longer a seedling; it had taken on the appearance of a true spirit plant.
Chen Ping walked around it, lightly brushing its leaves with his fingers. Their cool touch seemed full of life. He crouched beside the plant and watched in silence, as though he could hear it growing. When it was time to leave, he did so with a deep sense of reassurance.
On the fourth day, the height surpassed Chen Ping’s waist.
The plant was lush, leaves layered upon leaves, their color deepening into the shade of thick, dark jade. The entire plant exuded a robust sense of power.
Chen Ping straightened up and gazed at the spirit plant, now almost as tall as he was. Immense satisfaction filled his chest. He held out a hand to measure its height, his smile deepening. Soon!
On the fifth day, the change was even more pronounced.
A long, slender panicle had emerged at the top. Still thin and green, it was unmistakably the beginning of a rice head!
Chen Ping’s heart leaped into his throat. He held his breath, leaned close, and stared at the new panicle.
A rice head! It really was forming a head of grain!
Wild joy shot through him like an electric current. He clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms to keep from crying out. It had worked! It really had!
On the sixth day, the emerging panicle was no longer so immature. It lengthened rapidly.
Even more astonishingly, the dark green leaves and stem began taking on a faint golden hue. The rice head changed faster—from bluish-green to pale yellow, then to a heavy golden yellow.
The entire Spirit Grain plant seemed gilded by sunlight, shining brilliantly against the Black Earth.
In the air, the unique, rich fragrance of mature Spirit Grain—a mix of sunshine and grain—was clearly discernible.
Chen Ping greedily drew in several breaths. The scent was sweeter than any gruel. He stared unblinkingly at the heavy, golden rice head, afraid of missing the slightest change.
The seventh day.
Chen Ping entered the space with an almost pilgrim-like reverence.
The sight before him stole his breath.
The Spirit Grain plant had fully matured.
Its original dark green had completely faded, replaced by a pure, heavy golden yellow. The stem was thick and strong, sturdily supporting the massive rice panicle at its top.
The rice head drooped under its weight. Each grain was round and plump, like a tiny golden bean, packed tightly alongside the others and bending the panicle’s axis.
A rich grain aroma permeated every corner of the space. A single breath filled one’s lungs with satisfaction.
Chen Ping knelt before the Spirit Rice plant, hands clasped, praying fervently.
The Spirit Grain was ripe.