Spirit Plant Entry: Immortality Begins with Farming

The morning light peeked through the crack in the door, illuminating his face in a half-light, half-shadow.

"The second floor," he said.

The room was so quiet you could hear three people breathing.

Old Zhao opened his mouth, but no sound came out. After a long while, he finally managed to squeeze out, "...How long?"

"Three days."

"Impossible!" the old man blurted out. "The second level of the Spirit Rain Technique takes at least three months to master! You—"

He suddenly stopped, looked Chen Yuan up and down, as if he were looking at some monster.

Chen Yuan walked to the table, picked up the packet of Qingyang rice seeds, and poured a few grains into his palm. The seeds were dark blue-green, and the cloud-like patterns on their surface shimmered faintly in the morning light.

"Old Zhao, why do you think Qingyang rice is three times more expensive than Huangya rice?"

"It has plenty of spiritual energy!" Old Zhao said irritably. "Is that even a question?"

"What if..." Chen Yuan said slowly, "I could raise the spiritual energy of Huangya rice to the level of Qingyang rice?"

Old Zhao was stunned.

Widow Li also raised her head, tears still clinging to her face.

"Are you crazy?" Old Zhao said. "The grade of spirit rice is determined by heaven! Yellow Sprout Rice is a low-grade first-order rice, while Green Sun Rice is a top-grade low-grade first-order rice! This has been the rule in the cultivation world for millions of years!"

"Rules are made by people," Chen Yuan said. "Or rather, they are made by plant spirit masters."

He took out a small cloth bag from his pocket, poured out a few yellow-sprout rice seeds, and placed them on the table alongside Qingyang rice seeds.

"Look, they're about the same size, but different colors and patterns," Chen Yuan pointed to the two kinds of seeds. "But essentially, they're both plants that absorb spiritual energy and grow into ears of grain. If I could change the way they absorb spiritual energy—"

"You can't do it!" Old Zhao interrupted him. "This isn't about watering and fertilizing! This is...this is about the roots!"

"What about the golden thread ginseng?" Chen Yuan suddenly asked.

Old Zhao choked.

"Manager Liao of Baicaotang said that Golden Thread Ginseng prefers shade and must be planted in a shady place," Chen Yuan said slowly. "But what if I could adapt it to a fire-elemental environment and make it mature a month earlier?"

Widow Li gasped.

Old Zhao stared intently at Chen Yuan, his wrinkles becoming more pronounced in the morning light. His throat bobbed, his voice dry: "You...you tried it?"

Chen Yuan didn't answer, but turned around and pushed open the back door.

In the courtyard, in two experimental plots, five pale golden seedlings swayed gently in the morning breeze. Two of them were noticeably taller, with thick leaves and veins that gleamed with a dark golden sheen.

Old Zhao staggered over, squatted down, and held his trembling fingers above the tender seedling, not daring to touch it.

"This is...golden thread ginseng?" His voice trembled. "It's only been a few days?"

"Three days," Chen Yuan said. "These two are mutant varieties. I estimate they'll grow to a 'recognizable' size in twenty days."

Old Zhao suddenly stood up and grabbed Chen Yuan's arm: "How did you do that?!"

Chen Yuan glanced at his arm that was being held. Old Zhao's fingers were like iron clamps, with black dirt embedded in his fingernails.

"Let go," he said.

Old Zhao released his grip, but his eyes remained fixed on him.

"I have my own methods," Chen Yuan said. "The question now is whether you trust me or not."

"Believe what from you?"

"Believe me, I can grow enough to pay taxes for three families in twenty days." Chen Yuan said, word by word, "Your family has three mu, her family has two mu, and my family has two and a half mu—eight mu of land, all destroyed. With conventional farming methods, even a god couldn't save it. But if you give me the seeds and the land deeds, and let me make unified arrangements, perhaps... there is a way to survive."

Widow Li, clutching her child, trembled as she said, "Fellow Daoist Chen, you really are..."

"I can't guarantee that," Chen Yuan interrupted her. "I can only say that I will try. And—" He looked at Old Zhao, "I won't touch your seeds. The Qingyang rice will still be planted, but the planting method will be different."

Old Zhao fell silent.

As the morning light grew brighter, the roosters began to crow in the yard. In the distance, the scattered, drawn-out footsteps of Lingnong heading to the fields could be heard.

"How do you want to plant it?" Old Zhao finally asked.

Chen Yuan took out the book "Detailed Explanation of the Cloud and Water Technique" from his pocket, turned to the middle page, and pointed to the picture on it: "The second level of the Spirit Rain Technique can adjust the temperature and concentration of spiritual energy in rainwater. I can use different 'spiritual rain' for different crops."

He then pulled out a small wooden box from under the bed, opened it, and inside were several cloth bags: "This is Fertile Soil Powder, and these are improved yellow-sprout rice seeds bought from the market, with a growing period of sixty days. I also have two low-level Spirit Gathering Array Plates, which can cover two acres of land."

Old Zhao squatted down, grabbed a handful of improved rice seeds, smelled them, and then broke one open.

"The quality is good," he said in a low voice, "but sixty days is still not enough."

"What if we add this?" Chen Yuan took out a small porcelain bottle from his pocket and poured out a few grains of dark red powder.

The powder landed in my palm, emitting a faint warmth.

"Firestone powder," Chen Yuan said. "It's used to stimulate mutations in spiritual plants. I've tried it on Golden Thread Ginseng, and it's effective."

Old Zhao stared at the few grains of powder, his expression shifting repeatedly. After a long while, he finally said in a hoarse voice, "Do you know what you're doing? Mutating spiritual plants... that's something only alchemists and spiritual plant masters dare to touch! If you're not careful, the whole field will be ruined!"

"The field is already ruined," Chen Yuan said calmly. "How much worse can it get?"

Old Zhao stopped talking.

Widow Li hugged the child tighter, then suddenly asked, "Fellow Daoist Chen, how can I help you?"

Chen Yuan looked at her: "Give me the deed to your two mu of land. Starting today, you will come to my yard every morning, noon and evening to help me take care of the golden ginseng. Water it, weed it, and control the pests, do it the way I teach you. In exchange, I will be responsible for growing your two mu of land."

"Then... what about Uncle Zhao?" Widow Li looked at Old Zhao.

The old man was still squatting on the ground, staring at those few grains of fire ore powder, as if he wanted to see something out of them.

"Old Zhao," Chen Yuan said, "you're very experienced. I need you to keep an eye on the fields for me—which plots are short of water, which are infested with insects, and which have unstable spiritual energy. You have a sharp eye; you can tell."

Old Zhao looked up: "And what about you?"

"I'm in charge of coordinating the spiritual rain, using the spirit-gathering array, and..." Chen Yuan paused, "...finding a way to make these seeds grow within twenty days."

Silence fell between the three of them.

In the courtyard, the tender shoots of ginseng swayed gently in the morning light. In the distance came the hum of Fan Datong's flying boat—that bastard was demanding taxes again.

Old Zhao finally stood up and dusted off his knees. He took out a yellowed piece of paper and a small cloth bag from his pocket and placed them on the table.

"The land deed," he said, "and my last three spirit stones. You take the seeds, and the spirit stones... to buy fertilizer."

Widow Li also took out the land deed from her bosom and carefully placed it beside her.

The two yellowed papers, one with neater handwriting and the other crooked, were both stamped with the cloud pattern mark of the Flying Feather Sect.

Chen Yuan looked at the two pieces of paper and suddenly felt a lump in his throat.

He took a deep breath, carefully put the paper away, and looked up at the two of them:

"Twenty days. Either we live together, or—"

"Don't talk such unlucky things," Old Zhao interrupted him, a sudden glint in his cloudy eyes. "Get to work!"

As dawn broke, the three of them stepped out of the courtyard.

Chen Yuan carried three land deeds, two packets of seeds, and three spirit stones in his arms.

Widow Li carried her child on her back and held a bucket of water in her hand.

Old Zhao carried his hoe, his back straighter than usual.

At the alley entrance, several early-rising farmers saw them and whispered among themselves. Someone called out, "Old Zhao, your fields are in such a state, why are you still working in them?"

Old Zhao didn't even turn his head: "The land is ruined, but the people aren't!"

Another person laughed: "Chen Yuan, I heard you've reached the second level of the Spirit Rain Technique? Is that true?"

Chen Yuan ignored him and walked straight ahead.

The man awkwardly shut his mouth.

As we passed Liu San Niang's house, the courtyard gate creaked open. Liu San Niang leaned against the door frame, wearing only a thin shirt with the collar loose.

"Oh, so early in the morning, going to the fields as a team?" Her voice was soft and gentle, but her eyes were like hooks, scraping over the three of them.

Widow Li lowered her head and quickened her pace.

Old Zhao spat.

Chen Yuan glanced at Liu San Niang. The woman had a smile on her face, but the smile didn't reach her eyes. Behind her, in the house, a burly figure could be vaguely seen moving by.

It is Li Xiong.

Chen Yuan withdrew his gaze and continued walking forward.

Even after walking several dozen paces, you can still hear Liu San Niang's sweet, coquettish laughter, like a honey-coated knife sticking to your back.

"Be careful of that woman," Old Zhao said in a low voice. "She and Li Xiong haven't been acting quite right lately."

Chen Yuan nodded without saying anything.

The three land deeds in his arms were pressed against his chest, slightly warm.

Twenty days.

We'll either live together or...

Either way... no one will survive.