Chen Zhiwei’s fingers gently parted a stalk of rice, revealing the plump, golden grains resting in her palm.
They glowed warmly in the morning light.
She exhaled deeply, the tension in her shoulders and neck easing slightly. This tangible harvest dispelled more of her initial uncertainty in this world than any words ever could.
The day of the harvest dawned bright and clear, the autumn breeze crisp and refreshing.
Uncle Zhang Meng and several hired hands arrived early at the field. Chen Zhiwei changed into a neat, rough-spun work outfit.
She said little, bending down to test the sharpness of her sickle.
Zhang Meng drew a deep breath, chest swelling, and shouted with a force that carried across the field: “Begin the harvest!”
The sharp sickles sliced through the stalks, “swish swish,” and the golden rice toppled neatly onto the field. The rich scent of grains spread instantly.
Amid the workers, Chen Zhiwei moved with practiced ease—bending, swinging the sickle, tying bundles—her movements fluid and confident, far from those of a novice.
But it was at the threshing floor where the true marvel appeared. The heavy wooden flails were raised high and slammed down with a “thud! thud!” on the thick bundles of rice.
With every strike, golden grains burst forth like a sudden summer shower, scattering fine, sunlit dust into the air.
“Heavens… look at this grain! Look at the quality!” an old farmer squatted by the heap, trembling as he pinched a few kernels.
Those nearby leaned closer. “Listen! The sound as it hits the bin is different from anyone else’s—solid and dense!”
“Look at those piles! The yield must be high!”
Murmurs of astonishment rippled through the crowd.
The grains were weighed in baskets. The tiny “golden mountain” grew visibly, its aroma—a mix of sunlight and earthy freshness—overpowering every other scent in the courtyard.
Villagers surrounded the heaps in layers, eyes wide, some holding their breath unconsciously.
Village chief Chen Fugen oversaw the scale himself, aided by elders for judgment and younger hands for record-keeping. The scene was hushed, broken only by the soft rustle of grain against the baskets and the excited counting voices:
“One shi!”“Two shi!”…
After five shi, the crowd began murmuring. At six shi, gasps of astonishment arose. When the final tally was announced:
“Total: six shi, one dou, five sheng!”
The crowd erupted like a disturbed hornet’s nest.
“What? Six shi?!”“Six shi per mu?! Ancestors… in ordinary years, two shi is a blessing enough!”“Triple! Triple, or even more!”“Divine Shennong has opened his eyes! He’s blessed us!”
Elder villagers wiped tears from their rough hands, murmuring, “No more hunger for us.” Those who had known hunger best understood the true weight of this bounty.
Chen Zhiwei knew this yield was within her expectations—but still far from what she believed possible. One bite at a time, she thought.
The next day, she approached Chief Chen Fugen. “Uncle Fugen, we need to report this yield to the county.”
He stroked his beard. “Little Wei, are you sure? This will attract attention.”
“I’m sure,” she nodded. “A good harvest is both the magistrate’s achievement and the villagers’ blessing. Besides,” she paused, “if we officially record the method with the county, then later, if anything happens—whether with the village or my little workshop—we’ll have a valid reason to report it.”
Chen Fugen pondered briefly, then patted his thigh. “Right! That makes sense! I’ll write the report immediately.”
The county magistrate arrived sooner than expected. That afternoon, a carriage rolled into the village. The magistrate alighted, brushed his robe, and strode directly toward the field: “Where is this high-yield land? Show me at once!”
At the field, he bent down, pinching a stalk and examining the grains in his palm. The full, golden kernels made his face light up. “Excellent! Truly excellent! This is an auspicious sign, a blessing for the county’s people!” He waved to his attendants, “Begin the harvest immediately! I want to witness it myself!”
The villagers, without instruction, entered the fields with reverence. The yield was confirmed once more: over six shi per mu.
Clapping his hands, the magistrate turned to Chen Zhiwei with admiration. “Miss Chen, you’ve done a great deed! I must commend you. I hear your farming methods are unique—explain them carefully so my clerks may record them. I shall report to the prefecture.”
Chen Zhiwei bowed respectfully. She did not immediately reveal the method, instead speaking softly, just enough to convey modesty: “Sir, this yield has some effect, but soil and climate vary. Only after repeated planting over two or three years in different fields can the method truly be mastered for the benefit of the people. However…”
“However?” The magistrate leaned in, eager to solidify the achievement.
“However, I am about to turn fourteen, and I fear some might use my marriage as leverage…”
“The law requires girls to marry at fourteen. The magistrate cannot intervene,” he said.
“I do not wish to break the law, sir. I only hope that so-called relatives will not manipulate me with marriage. I ask your help to ensure that if anyone attempts to register a marriage for me, it may be refused. I will resolve the matter myself before turning fourteen, so as not to trouble you.”
The magistrate, a shrewd man, immediately understood the potential family discord. A girl capable of producing six shi of grain deserved a small favor.
After a moment, he said, “Understood. You focus on your fields. Leave the rest to me.”
“I thank you, sir!” Chen Zhiwei bowed deeply. At last, the tension inside her eased.
The magistrate left with his records, and the villagers’ respect for Chen Zhiwei grew even stronger.
But trouble never waits. A few days later, Uncle Zhang Meng came frowning: “Little Wei, bad news. Some families who usually buy our beans say the ‘Fengyu Grain Company’ has pre-ordered them, at the same price.”
“Fengyu Grain Company?” Chen Zhiwei frowned. This large grain company had previously ignored such small deals.
At the same time, Chen Zhiyi returned from school, face flushed and clothes dusty. “Sister… Chen Zhiyuan and his friends in town blocked me today… they said… you’re just lucky now, it’ll soon be revealed…” His childish voice trembled.
Chen Zhiwei wiped his face with a cloth, calm as ever.
Her success had drawn the attention of predators—even a county-level company was taking notice.
Just then, Aunt Mei called nervously from outside the courtyard: “Little Wei, Manager Zhou from Fengyu Grain Company is here. He wants to discuss a big deal.”
Chen Zhiwei’s eyes narrowed. They arrived fast—but that was just fine. She adjusted her clothes and said calmly: “Aunt, please invite Manager Zhou in.”
What comes must be faced. And she was eager to meet this Manager Zhou.