Spirit Plant Entry: Immortality Begins with Farming

The wind blows, carrying the earthy smell of soil and the sweet, cloying aroma of rice before it rots.

Someone was crying in the distance, the sound was intermittent, like a cat about to die.

He squatted down and grabbed a handful of soil.

The soil was mixed with broken rice leaves and dark red blood clots—it was unclear whether they were human or animal blood.

I could feel a faint spiritual energy at my fingertips, like the pulse of a dying person, one beat after another, growing weaker and weaker.

"Young Chen..."

Old Zhao's voice came from behind.

Chen Yuan turned around. The old man stood a few steps away, his face ashen, as if he had aged ten years overnight. He carried a hoe, the hoe tip covered in mud, but his trousers were clean—he hadn't been working in the fields.

"You too..." Old Zhao's throat moved, but he didn't finish his sentence.

Chen Yuan stood up: "Old Zhao, your land..."

"Gone," Old Zhao uttered, his voice hoarse. "All gone. Three acres of land, not a single grain of rice left."

He squatted down, took out his pipe, his hands trembling so badly that half of the tobacco spilled onto the ground. He finally managed to light it, took a puff, and coughed so hard he bent over, his shoulders heaving.

Chen Yuan remained silent.

He looked into the distance. In the main field, dozens of spiritual farmers were busy in the fields, some supporting the rice stalks, some replanting, and some simply sitting on the ground, motionless.

The crying grew louder and louder.

A middle-aged female cultivator lay prone on the edge of the paddy field, digging her hands into the mud as if trying to prop up the fallen rice stalks. Someone tried to pull her away, but she broke free and continued digging, breaking her fingernails and drawing blood from the tips.

"This year's harvest... is ruined." Old Zhao finally stopped coughing, his voice hoarse. "I've done the math, even if we replant now, it won't be enough by harvest season. We won't be able to pay the taxes, and our ranking at the end of the year..."

He paused, then didn't continue.

But Chen Yuan knew the second half of the sentence—if he ranked last at the end of the year, he would have to go to the Black Stone Mine, to the Yinming Leakage Zone, to be a pathfinder.

---

On the way back to the shantytown, despair permeated the air like a fog.

Chen Yuan paused as he passed Widow Li's house.

The courtyard gate was ajar, swaying gently in the morning breeze and making a soft creaking sound. The water bucket by the gate was overturned on the ground, its rim covered with dried mud, and the water inside had long since spilled out, leaving a dark, damp stain on the muddy ground.

What's even more jarring is the area near the threshold—scattered with a few broken pieces of porcelain, like shattered bowls and plates.

The courtyard was eerily quiet.

There was no sweet laughter, no clattering of pots and pans, and not even a sound of breathing could be heard.

The only sound was the wind whistling through the door hinges, creaking and groaning like someone slowly grinding their teeth.

Chen Yuan recalled the suppressed sobs of Widow Li when the monster attacked the fields last night.

He glanced into the courtyard—the door to the main house was also ajar, and it was pitch black inside, so he couldn't see if anyone was there.

But that sense of despair seeped out from the half-open door, from the overturned bucket, and from the tattered cloth smothered in the mud, more chilling than any cry.

Chen Yuan withdrew his gaze and walked away quickly.

Back in his own yard, he closed the door, leaned against the door panel, and slid down to sit on the ground.

The wound on his left arm started to hurt again, throbbing. He untied the bandage and took a look; the wound was red and swollen, with blackened edges—it was the Ironclaw Lynx's claws that were unclean, carrying poison or foul odor.

I need to buy medicine.

We need to replant.

We still have to pay taxes.

We still need to...

Chen Yuan closed his eyes.

I ran the numbers through my mind: two and a half mu of land were destroyed out of three mu, leaving half a mu with a yield of at most twenty jin. The first two seasons yielded a total of one hundred and fifty jin, so even if this season yields twenty jin, the total for the year would be one hundred and seventy jin.

The more than 300 farmers in the shantytown, even those who were at the bottom in previous years, still had a harvest of 180 or 190 jin (50-65 kg) for the whole year.

He would be last in line.

---

In the afternoon, Chen Yuan went to Baicaotang.

The shop was quieter than usual. Manager Liao sat behind the counter, wiping the abacus with a soft cloth, his movements slow and deliberate.

Seeing Chen Yuan enter, he looked up and gave a slight smile: "Young friend Chen."

"Shopkeeper," Chen Yuan walked to the counter, "do you still have 'Detailed Explanation of the Cloud and Water Technique'?"

Shopkeeper Liao looked at him but didn't answer immediately. After a few moments, he pulled out a thin booklet from under the counter. It was blue-covered, thread-bound, with four characters in black ink on the cover: "Detailed Explanation of the Cloud and Water Technique".

"Yes." He placed the booklet on the counter. "Thirty spirit stones."

Chen Yuan counted out thirty yuan and pushed it over.

Shopkeeper Liao accepted the spirit stones but didn't hand over the booklet: "Young friend Chen, if I may ask—are you buying this now to replant?"

"Um."

"Is it too late?"

"I don't know," Chen Yuan said honestly, "but we have to try."

Manager Liao was silent for a moment, then suddenly lowered his voice: "Actually... there is another way."

Chen Yuan looked up at him.

"The Flying Feather Sect is currently recruiting 'herb field helpers'," Manager Liao said. "They are responsible for taking care of the outer sect's herb fields. Although it's hard work, it's safer than going to the Black Stone Mine. Moreover, herb field helpers have the opportunity to come into contact with spiritual plant scriptures, and even... have the chance to learn better Spirit Rain Techniques."

Chen Yuan's heart skipped a beat: "What are the conditions?"

"Two conditions," Manager Liao said, holding up two fingers. "First, you must have experience in cultivating spiritual plants, at least three years. Second, you must have a guarantor—a respected cultivator from the market."

"Guarantor..."

"I can help you," said Manager Liao, "but you have to prove your worth first."

"How can you prove it?"

Shopkeeper Liao pulled out a small cloth bag from under the counter, opened it, and inside were a dozen or so dark red seeds, slightly larger than edelweiss seeds, with fine golden patterns on their surface.

"These are seeds of the 'Golden Thread Ginseng'," he said. "A first-tier spiritual herb, the main ingredient for refining 'Qi-Replenishing Pills'. It's difficult to grow and picky about the environment, but it's expensive—a mature Golden Thread Ginseng can sell for five spirit stones."

Chen Yuan stared at the seeds: "What does the shopkeeper mean...?"

"Take this back and plant it." Manager Liao pushed the cloth bag over. "If you can grow three plants, you'll pass the test. I'll vouch for you and send you to the medicinal herb field."

"how long?"

"One month."

Chen Yuan took the cloth bag and put it in his pocket. One month... there's still hope.

---

Just as I stepped out of Baicaotang, the buzzing sound of a flying boat could be heard in the distance.

Chen Yuan looked up.

The green-leaf flying boat swept in from the mountainside, not heading towards the spirit fields, but directly towards the shantytown. Fan Datong, dressed in a blue and white robe, stood at the bow, his hands behind his back, his face grim.

The airship landed on an open space at the eastern end of the shantytown, kicking up a cloud of dust.

Fan Datong jumped down, followed by two outer disciples, both dressed in Flying Feather Sect robes and with swords at their waists. As soon as the three landed, the noise from the shantytown immediately subsided.

People peeked out of the house, then ducked back inside.

Chen Yuan stood at the alley entrance, not approaching, but could clearly hear Fan Datong's voice:

"Last night, demonic beasts attacked the fields, and all the losses have been reported. The sect has decreed that for spirit fields damaged by more than 50%, the taxes for this season will be reduced by 30%."

A low murmur arose from the crowd.

But Fan Datong's next words quelled the commotion: "However, the conscription has been brought forward."

He paused, waiting for everyone to quiet down, before continuing, "The situation at the Blackstone Mine has changed, and we need to send more people. Originally, we planned to send fifty by the end of the year, but now it's been changed to eighty. The time... is the beginning of next month."

A deathly silence.

There are less than twenty days left until the beginning of next month.

"How was the list determined?" someone asked, mustering their courage.

"We'll rank them according to the annual harvest," Fan Datong said calmly. "Based on the harvest records of the first two quarters, plus this quarter's forecast. Those ranked in the bottom eighty, come with me at the beginning of next month."

His gaze swept across the crowd, lingered on Chen Yuan for a moment, and then looked away.

"In addition," Fan Datong added, "this conscription isn't just for mining. Several 'Netherworld Rifts' have been discovered deep within the mine, and people are needed to go down and explore them. Each person who goes down will receive an extra five spirit stones. Those who return alive... will receive an additional ten."

Fifteen spirit stones.

It cost my life.

Some people in the crowd began to breathe heavily. Fifteen spirit stones were a huge sum of money for the spirit farmers in the shantytown. But everyone knew how low the chances were of returning alive from the Netherworld Rift.

Fan Datong seemed quite satisfied with this reaction, a slight smirk playing on his lips: "Did you all hear that? Those who need to replant, replant; those who need to cultivate, cultivate. I'll come to bring the people in twenty days."

After he finished speaking, he turned around and jumped onto the flying boat.

The green-leaf flying boat soared into the sky, transforming into a streak of green light and disappearing into the distance.

The shantytown was left in a state of utter desolation.

Chen Yuan stood still, his hand resting on the "Detailed Explanation of the Cloud and Water Technique" in his arms. The hard cover of the booklet pressed against his chest like a block of ice. His other hand touched the bag of golden ginseng seeds, the rough texture of the cloth bag rubbing against his fingertips.

Twenty days.

It's not a month, it's twenty days.

Manager Liao gave us a deadline of one month to successfully cultivate three golden ginseng plants, but now the requisition has been brought forward to twenty days later.

This means that within twenty days, he must not only master the Spirit Rain Technique to the point where he can grow Golden Thread Ginseng, but also make the Golden Thread Ginseng sprout and grow to a level that can be recognized as "grown".

is it possible?

Chen Yuan didn't know.

All he knew was that the pile of broken porcelain shards and the cloth smothered in the mud in front of Widow Li's house might be his own life twenty days from now—no, perhaps even worse.

At least Widow Li had a room where she could close the door and cry. But once she went to the Black Stone Mine and descended into the Netherworld Rift, she probably wouldn't even have a place to cry.

He looked up at the sky.

The flying boat had long since disappeared, with only a few wisps of clouds drifting in the sky, torn apart by the wind.

In the distance, towards the spirit fields, several spirit farmers were still busy on the field ridges, bending over to straighten up the fallen rice stalks, their movements mechanical, like a group of puppets.

Chen Yuan withdrew his gaze and turned to walk towards his own courtyard.

The footsteps were heavy.

With each step he took, the booklet and seeds in his arms would rub against him.