Chen Ping walked to the pile of grain and scooped up a large handful. The heavy grains slipped between his fingers, filling him with a reassuring sense of happiness.
He walked to the first row of pits and crouched down.
Extending his rough fingers, he gingerly picked out six grains from the handful he held. Then, leaning forward, he gently and evenly scattered the six golden seeds into the first shallow pit.
Next was the second pit, six grains.
The third pit, six grains…
His movements, initially clumsy, quickly became proficient.
Pick seeds, scatter seeds, move on.
His expression was utterly focused, his gaze sharp, as if performing a sacred ritual. Each seed falling into a pit was like lighting a small spark in his heart.
He could almost see it—soon, this place would become a golden ocean.
One thousand pits. Six thousand seeds.
This was work requiring patience and meticulousness.
Chen Ping did not rush. He maintained a steady rhythm. When crouching for too long made his legs numb, he would change position to kneeling, or stand up to stretch his sore back before continuing.
Time passed in silence.
The halo overhead remained constant, illuminating his hunched figure as it moved bit by bit across this land of hope, sowing seeds.
Finally, the last handful of grain was evenly scattered into the last pit.
Six thousand Spirit Grains, all planted.
Chen Ping stood up and looked around.
The once-empty Black Earth was dotted with freshly turned little mounds. Beneath each lay six golden seeds of hope. A great sense of accomplishment rose in him and eased his exhaustion.
But he did not stop. He needed to cover the seeds.
Walking back to the first row, he crouched down again. Carefully using both hands, he scooped up the Black Earth beside the pit and covered the seeds inside.
His movements were gentle, afraid of crushing them. Cover with soil, press it firm.
One pit, then another…
This was yet another repetitive and monotonous process. But Chen Ping performed it meticulously, his expression incredibly serious.
Because what he was burying wasn’t just seeds—it was his hope.
He gently pressed each small mound with his fingers, ensuring the seeds were completely covered and the soil was tightly packed. He nurtured each mound as if caring for an infant.
When the last mound was finished, Chen Ping finally straightened up for real.
He stood in the center of the Black Earth, looking at the land he had personally turned and sown.
He felt utterly satisfied.
Sweat had soaked through his clothes. His back ached as if it were about to break. His fingers were sore from the prolonged digging and covering.
But there was no trace of complaint on his face—only a heavy sense of satisfaction and unprecedented anticipation.
Seven days! Just seven more days to wait!
As he looked over the newly turned Black Earth, he could almost see the lush sea of golden Spirit Grain it would become in seven days.
Spirit Grains grown from six thousand seeds… what an astonishing harvest that would be!
Fatigue washed over him like a tide, reminding him it was time to leave.
He took one last deep look at this land carrying his future, his gaze unwavering.
With a thought…
HUM…
An intense dizziness assaulted him. Indeed, staying in the space too long caused this.
Chen Ping collapsed onto the hay pile in his Shack. The exhaustion in his body instantly erupted; every joint seemed to creak.
Closing his eyes, what surfaced in his mind was no longer the manure pit or the shadow of the whip—it was that newly turned Black Earth and those one thousand neatly arranged small mounds.
He turned over on the cold, hard hay, curling his body tight. Yet a faint smile lingered at the corner of his mouth as he fell into a deep sleep.
In his dream… a field of gold…
Days passed one by one. His task was set: feeding pigs.
Repeating the cycle of cutting grass, carrying grass on his back, cleaning pigsties, and enduring scoldings. Physical exhaustion and pain were normal; the hunger pangs in his belly never truly disappeared either.
But Chen Ping’s state of mind was completely different from before.
The hope buried deep in his heart was like a heavy stone pressing down all restlessness and despair.
Chen Ping became exceptionally calm—even somewhat numb.
When the whip struck, he kept his head down and his eyes on the ground, swallowing his pain. When his ration of gruel was cut, he silently accepted his mixed-grain meal and ate it quickly.
He knew he wasn’t much different from other Laborers struggling in the mud—all were just firewood consumed at the Qingyun Sect’s lowest level.
But this vast Immortal Sect had a hierarchy as rigid as an iron-cast tower.
Those like him were at the very bottom—called “Laborers.”
Laborers did the dirtiest, most exhausting, most dangerous work. Mining, logging, hauling goods, cleaning filth, tending ferocious spirit beasts… they were treated like cattle or worse.
The Sect issued a thin booklet supposedly for strengthening health called the “Vitality Technique,” which could increase Physical Strength if practiced deeply.
But for Laborers, this booklet felt more like a mockery.
They worked from before dawn until late at night, exhausted to the point of collapse, so hungry their bellies felt hollow. Even breathing took effort. Where could they find the strength or will to practice a technique?
Most of those booklets ended up propping up bed legs in the shacks or serving as kindling.
A bowl of mixed grains barely kept them alive as endless labor wore them down. Once dead, they would be rolled in a straw mat and tossed into the manure pit, just like Old Zhang. No one would remember even their names.
Slightly better off than Laborers were “Regular Disciples.”
These people either had some crude martial foundation making them stronger than average, had connections, or had endured long enough to catch a Manager’s eye.
They managed small areas or supervised several Laborers. For example, guarding less important storehouses, handling cleaning around alchemy or artifact workshops, or tending small plots of less valuable medicinal herbs.
Their work was lighter, without constant backbreaking toil. They could eat their fill of mixed grains and occasionally pick up a little of whatever a Manager let slip through his fingers.
Most importantly, they escaped direct physical exploitation, becoming part of that “managing” layer.
A Laborer seeking promotion to Regular Disciple had to meet one firm requirement: strength exceeding five hundred jin—roughly two hundred and fifty kilograms.
But for Laborers struggling for basic survival, it seemed an insurmountable chasm.
Further up were “Registered Disciples.”
They stood at the top of the Servant Disciples and were also known as prospective Outer Disciples.
They could access basic techniques issued by the Sect and even learn one or two crude Arts.
Registered Disciples handled tasks closer to core Sect operations, like guarding more important storehouses, assisting with basic materials, or tending more valuable medicinal plots under formal disciples’ guidance.
Their greatest hope was to distinguish themselves in the Servant Minor Competition, held every three years, and officially become Outer Disciples, setting out on the true path of cultivation.
For Regular Disciples aspiring to become Registered Disciples, the most crucial step was the “Spirit Root.”
Before having their Spirit Roots tested, however, they first needed strength exceeding one thousand jin!
Anyone found to possess a Spirit Root that allowed cultivation, even the poorest kind, qualified to become a Registered Disciple.
A person without a Spirit Root could instead gain strength exceeding one thousand jin and become a servant Manager. That, too, counted as a form of promotion.
Only such promoted managers aren’t called Registered Disciples, but Manager Disciples.
But without Spirit Roots, Manager Disciples still had no chance to become cultivators.
Manager Wang is such a Manager Disciple.
The Spirit Root marks the division between Immortal and Mortal.
Chen Ping owed his place as a Laborer in the Qingyun Sect to the sacrifice his parents had made.
Three years ago, an ore vein had been discovered a thousand li away, and a great many workers were urgently needed. The depths of the mine were full of dangers: cave-ins, poisonous gases, savage beasts. Death was commonplace.
To fight for a slim chance at life for their sickly, frail son…
Even the lowest Sect Laborer was better than starving outside or being captured as a mine slave.
Chen Ping’s parents had signed a life-and-death contract that amounted to selling themselves into bondage, then entered that mine that devoured people.
They had staked their lives to gain Chen Ping a place in the Qingyun Sect as a Laborer.
Three years passed. No news whatsoever.
Alive or dead?
Chen Ping dared not think. He lacked the ability to inquire.
That was life for ordinary people. However bitter it became, something worse could always follow.
These thoughts occasionally flashed through Chen Ping’s fatigue-numbed mind, bringing sharp yet brief stabs of pain.
Then, they were immediately suppressed by the deeper yearning for the Black Earth pressing down again.
He lived not to wallow in the past.
He lived to grasp this sole visible lifeline before him.
He must survive. He must rise above.
At the very least, he had to rescue his parents and free them from their suffering.