Spirit Plant Entry: Immortality Begins with Farming

Just as the first mandrill burst out of the forest, Chen Yuangang pressed the last piece of fire-attribute slag into the ridge of the field.

The thing was bigger than expected—it reached up to its waist, was covered in stiff, iron-gray hair, and had a row of bony spikes standing upright on its back.

The lead mandrill's scarlet eyes—not the normal brownish-yellow of a wild beast, but a deep, blood-soaked red, with a faint black aura swirling around the edges of its pupils.

It didn't run out; it crashed into something.

It smashed a small tree, about the size of a bowl, with its shoulder, sending splinters flying everywhere.

Chen Yuan didn't turn around. His palms were on the ground, and his spiritual energy rushed along the pre-buried slag path—

"start!"

A pale golden barrier rose around the edge of the field, only three feet wide and as thin as a layer of glass.

But that's enough.

The mandrill at the front crashed headlong into the barrier, its bony spikes scraping against it and producing a piercing screech. It staggered backward, and the second and third, unable to stop in time, crashed into it one after another.

The barrier flickered violently, and cracks spread like a spider web.

"As expected, it won't last long." Chen Yuan stood up and gripped the iron knife tightly.

There were seven mandrills this time, spread out in a fan shape, crouching low as they approached. Their eyes were all scarlet, radiating an abnormal madness.

The lead mandrill raised its head and roared before charging again!

Chen Yuan turned to the side and slashed horizontally with his iron blade.

The blade struck the mandrill's forearm bone spur, sparks flying—the spur was as hard as iron, and the recoil made his hand go numb.

The second one attacked from the left. Chen Yuan rolled on the spot, the mandrill's claws grazing his back, tearing his clothes and causing a burning pain. He swung his knife backhand and slashed at the mandrill's leg bone, with a "clang" sound, and the knife chipped.

"So hard?!"

The third and fourth attacked at the same time.

Chen Yuan gritted his teeth, channeling his spiritual energy into his legs, and unleashed the rudimentary "Leaf-Stepping Step" from the "Long Breath Technique." He weaved through the claw shadows like a leaf in the wind, but while he could dodge once or twice, he couldn't dodge five or six times.

scoff-

Three deep cuts were scratched on his left arm, and blood gushed out instantly.

Chen Yuan groaned and staggered backward, blood dripping from his fingertips into the soil. He leaned against the thatched hut, his vision blurring.

The mandrills slowly closed in, their scarlet eyes filled with bloodlust.

Are we going to die here?

He glanced at the earthenware basin. The leaves of the golden ginseng trembled slightly in the wind, the golden veins along their edges shimmering in the morning light.

I haven't lived enough yet.

The rice I wanted to grow hasn't been planted yet.

I haven't... found that road yet.

"Get out of here!"

A loud shout came from outside the field.

Old Zhao rushed in, rake in hand, followed by Manager Liao and two employees of Baicaotang. Further away, Fan Datong was leading three disciples of the Feiyu Sect on their way.

The mandrills stirred for a moment.

Taking advantage of the opening, Chen Yuan rolled over into the thatched shed and grabbed the bag of fire-attribute slag.

"Uncle Zhao! Get away!"

He tore open the cloth bag, scattering the slag into the air, while simultaneously circulating the Spirit Rain Technique—

Rainwater, mixed with slag, turned into a crimson mist that pelted the mandrills.

"Awooo—!!!"

The fire-attribute energy within the slag was amplified by the rainwater, sending tiny sparks flying the moment it touched the fur. Though fierce, the mandrills were still afraid of fire at their core. They retreated with screams of agony, their formation thrown into chaos.

But the leader didn't retreat.

Its scarlet eyes were fixed on Chen Yuan, or rather, on the golden ginseng behind him.

"It's going to ginseng!" Manager Liao exclaimed, "It's attracted by the medicinal aroma of ripe golden ginseng!"

Before the words were even finished, the lead mandrill suddenly pounced!

Ignoring the sparks burning on its body, it transformed into a gray shadow and rushed straight towards the thatched shed. Old Zhao was right in front of the shed, and without thinking, he raised his rake to block it.

Click.

The wooden handle of the rake snapped in two.

The mandrill's bone spur pierced Old Zhao's chest, drawing out a spray of dazzling blood.

Time seemed to stand still at that moment.

Old Zhao looked down at his chest, then looked up at Chen Yuan, his lips moving slightly.

"Plant...plant it..."

He fell, his blood soaking the soil on the ridge of the field.

Chen Yuan's mind went blank.

Until the lead mandrill tore open the thatched hut, its bony spikes clawing at the ceramic basin—

"Fuck your ancestors!!!"

Chen Yuan's eyes reddened. He abandoned his knife, picked up the nearest pot of golden ginseng with both hands, and smashed it down on the mandrill's head with all his might!

The ceramic basin shattered.

Ginseng roots, mixed with mud and blood, smeared all over the mandrill's face. The unique bitter medicinal aroma of golden ginseng, mingled with the stench of blood, exploded in the air.

The mandrill howled in agony and shook its head frantically.

Chen Yuan pounced, picked up the broken tip of the rake, and aimed it at its scarlet eyes—

捅！

Once, twice, three times.

Warm liquid splashed all over his face, but he didn't care and just mechanically kept stabbing.

The mandrill stopped moving, and the other mandrills were killed by the arriving disciples of the Flying Feather Sect.

The fields fell silent.

The rain stopped sometime ago.

Chen Yuan knelt in the mud, still holding the tip of the rake, which was stained with blood and brains.

Old Zhao lay three steps away from him, his eyes gazing at the gray sky, his chest no longer rising and falling.

Manager Liao walked over, squatted down, and examined the broken ceramic basin.

The ginseng root was broken, but several strands of the main root were still connected. The golden veins on the leaves stood out starkly against the bloodstains.

"Golden-Veined Blood Ginseng..." His voice trembled, "This is an auxiliary ingredient for refining Foundation Establishment Pills!"

Fan Datong also chimed in, "How much is it worth?"

"If it were a complete plant, it would be worth a fortune." Manager Liao took a deep breath. "As it is now... I'll offer four hundred spirit stones and take it!"

The disciples of the Flying Feather Sect exchanged glances, and when they looked at Chen Yuan again, their eyes held something else.

Chen Yuan didn't hear it.

He stared at Old Zhao's face, recalling the expression on the old man's face a few days ago when he stuffed the Qingyang rice seeds into his hand.

"Here's your money for your funeral... Take it."

"If you plant them, someone has to plant them."

Someone patted him on the shoulder.

Chen Yuan looked up and saw Fan Datong.

"Kid, your luck has turned around." The foreman's tone was unusually gentle. "Manager Liao has agreed to vouch for you and let you work as a handyman in the Hundred Herbs Hall's medicinal fields. I'll get rid of the conscription issue for you."

Chen Yuan opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

He looked into the distance.

Widow Li stood at the doorway, holding her child, her face deathly pale. Half of her two acres of land had been trampled and destroyed, but she was still alive.

Other spirit farmers from the shantytown gradually gathered around, looking at Old Zhao's corpse and the messy spirit fields, but no one spoke.

Chen Yuan pushed himself up, his legs trembling.

He walked over to Old Zhao, took off his coat and covered the old man's face, then turned to Fan Datong:

"How many spirit stones will be awarded for sending the corpse back to its hometown?"

Fan Datong was taken aback for a moment: "Twenty yuan is enough."

"You can pay on credit first," Chen Yuan said hoarsely. "It will be deducted from my future earnings."

He turned to Manager Liao and said, "Please give those four hundred spirit stones directly to the Flying Feather Sect as payment for the rent of my eight acres of land for the next few years."

Manager Liao frowned: "Then you—"

"I still farm," Chen Yuan interrupted him, "but not in the medicinal herb field. I'll farm here, eight mu, not a mu less."

"Are you crazy? Those beasts might come back!"

"Come on then." Chen Yuan bent down to pick up the chipped iron knife, wiped the blood off the blade with his sleeve, and said, "Uncle Zhao died here, so I have to finish planting his fields. Fellow Daoist Li's child is still young, so I have to take care of her fields too."

He looked up, rain and blood mingling as they dripped from his chin.

"Farmers' lives are cheap, but the land itself isn't. Someone has to plant the seedlings, right?"

The crowd was silent.

After a long pause, Manager Liao sighed, "Whatever you say. But I'll reserve the menial job for you; come anytime you decide."

The disciples of the Flying Feather Sect began cleaning up the corpses of the demonic beasts.

Someone carried Old Zhao away.

Chen Yuan stood there, looking at the blood-soaked ridges of the field.

In the sea of ​​consciousness, the seedlings of words sway gently.

A new piece of information entered my mind—

[Blood-Soaked Technique]: Nourishing spiritual plants with essence blood can temporarily stimulate their potential, but at the cost of losing three days of lifespan.

He gripped the knife handle tightly, his knuckles turning white.

In the distance, deep in the mountains and forests, a scarlet dot of light flashed and disappeared.