Da Ming: The system granted me immortality; I clock in every day.

The spring rains of the twenty-ninth year of peace were exceptionally dense.

Fine, hair-like raindrops slanted across the rolling fields outside Shuntian Prefecture, carried by the wind.

The distant green mountains were shrouded in a layer of misty water vapor, exuding a gentle charm unique to the water towns of Jiangnan.

The wild grass on the ridges greedily drank in the sweet rain of early spring, sprouting tender yellow buds.

Thirty li south of Shuntian Prefecture, there is a village called Xinghua Village.

As dawn broke, old farmer Zhao, wearing a straw raincoat and leading his old yellow ox, stepped into the muddy spring fields.

In previous years, spring plowing was the most arduous and difficult task at this time of year.

The frozen soil, hardened over the winter, would leave even the strongest man exhausted, with a sore back and trembling legs, after a day of working with an iron plow.

But today, Old Zhao's face, which was full of wrinkles, exuded an indescribable ease and rosy glow.

He harnessed the newly forged iron plow to the ox's back.

The iron plow looked no different from the old one, except that there were several strange, water-like patterns on the back of the cast iron plowshare.

The patterns were carved out bit by bit with a chisel, and some grayish-white powder was filled inside.

"Dad, take it easy, don't strain yourself."

On the ridge of the field, a young man dressed in a worn-out scholar's robe held an oil-paper umbrella and a well-worn book in his hand, shouting towards the field.

This young man was Old Zhao's only son, named Zhao Xuan, and was also a student in the village school.

"I know! Your father here has also practiced breathing exercises, and my strength is far greater than that of a bookworm like you who sits and reads all day!"

Old Zhao laughed loudly, his voice booming and full of energy.

He took a deep breath of the moist spring breeze, which carried the earthy scent of soil.

Following the method described in the "First Chapter of Body Strengthening and Breathing in the Great Ming Dynasty," I drew a stream of cool air from my dantian, and steadily poured it down my arms into the handle of the iron plow.

At the very moment he exerted his strength.

The ripples on the back of the iron plow shimmered with an extremely faint, earthy yellow glow in the dim light of early spring.

"Moo".

The old ox felt the plowshare it was pulling suddenly become as light as nothing.

With a gentle step, the iron plow sank deep into the soil.

"Splash..."

As the old ox moved, the hardened frozen soil was easily turned over by the gleaming plowshare, just like a crisp pastry.

As the soil churned, even the stubborn rocks hidden deep within were quietly shattered by an invisible force of vibration.

In just over half an hour, the dry land, covering an area of ​​five acres, was turned over until it was soft and flat, exuding a refreshing earthy fragrance.

Old Zhao stopped, wiped the fine sweat from his forehead, and didn't even catch his breath.

Looking at the neat rows of ridges behind him, he couldn't help but grin, revealing a smile that showed off his missing teeth.

"This clay pattern issued by the imperial court is truly more effective than any miraculous intervention from the Dragon King!"

“In previous years, it would have taken my son and me, along with this old ox, at least three whole days to work on these five acres. Now, it’s all done in the time it takes to eat a meal.”

Old Zhao took the water bag off the ox's back, gulped down a few mouthfuls, and turned to look at his son on the edge of the field.

"Xuan'er, you need to pay attention to learning these rune formations at the guild school."

"The teacher said that if you can draw the diagrams in this booklet clearly, you might be able to become a high-ranking official in the capital... or whatever the name of the pavilion!"

Zhao Xuan closed the booklet in his hand and nodded with a smile.

"Father, that's called the Qintian Pavilion. I understand. Although the pattern looks complicated, it can be broken down into the patterns of wind, rain, thunder, and lightning in the world."

"Those hermits on those sacred mountains used it to summon wind and rain, while our Ming Dynasty used it to turn the soil and weave cloth."

"This is what the sage meant by practical application in governing the world."

The young man gazed at the vast fields, his eyes sparkling with boundless hope for the future.

Since the "Introduction and Breathing Techniques" and various basic array patterns spread among the people, the world of the Ming Dynasty has quietly changed.

Gone are the ethereal, unrealistic ascensions to heaven; in their place lies the tangible, vibrant life found in the streets and alleys of the city.

The spirit-gathering, soil-loosening, and water-drawing formations, once treasured by the immortals, are now engraved on plowshares, waterwheels, and blacksmith's furnaces.

When divine magic is tainted by mud and water, and becomes tainted by the mundane world, it ceases to be a lofty divine miracle.

Instead, it became a real source of food for ordinary people.

This is the Ming Dynasty today, a vast and prosperous era that has completely trampled the cultivation of immortality underfoot, turning it into mere firewood for the mortal world.

……

The capital city, the inner city.

Less than three miles from the heavily guarded Forbidden City, in a quiet alley, there is an inconspicuous two-courtyard siheyuan (traditional courtyard house).

The courtyard gate is always closed, and a few strands of green rust have even grown on the door knocker.

The neighbors only knew that a noble but idle person with a sinecure in the imperial court lived here.

He usually lived a secluded life, avoiding associating with powerful figures and entertaining guests.

Occasionally, when you open the door in the early morning, you can only see a middle-aged scholar wearing a blue cloth robe, carrying a birdcage in his hand.

Or perhaps, clutching a tattered folding fan, one would leisurely stroll to the breakfast stall at the alley entrance to enjoy a bowl of soy milk.

Unbeknownst to many, this was the mastermind behind the entire East Sea Immortal Sect who single-handedly suppressed it and ushered in this era of universal cultivation.

Li Changqing.

At this moment, in the backyard of the courtyard house.

The spring rain pattered softly on the banana leaves, making a rustling sound.

Li Changqing was sitting behind a large rosewood desk.

There were no memorials on the table concerning governing the country and bringing peace to the world, nor were there any profound and obscure books on cultivating immortality.

There was only a piece of fine-textured boxwood and a few carving knives of different sizes.

He lowered his head slightly, his fingers flying across the paper, and sawdust fell in a flurry.

It was an unfinished wooden carving. It depicted a farmer wearing a straw raincoat, leading an old ox to work in the rain.

The swordsmanship was simple and unadorned, without any trace of the flow of immortal energy.

With just a subtle touch of his wrist, he perfectly captured the lines and smile on the farmer's face.

"If you take Grand Tutor's craft to the antique street in Liulichang outside the city, you can easily get a hundred or so taels of silver."

A deliberately light footstep came from the veranda, accompanied by a teasing voice that sounded somewhat tired but full of respect.

Li Changqing did not stop carving with his knife, nor did he even raise his head.

"If Your Majesty feels the national treasury is empty, I may have a few more engraved, which can be considered as adding some income to the imperial granary. However, I fear that the civil and military officials of the court will not dare to accept them."

The visitor was none other than Emperor Chengping, Zhu Youzhen, who had come out of the palace incognito.

This iron-fisted emperor of the Ming Dynasty was dressed today in only a simple, royal blue Hangzhou silk casual robe.

Behind him was still only the elderly eunuch Liu Jin.

Four years have passed, and Zhu Youzhen's temples have become increasingly gray.

Although he had also practiced the superior breathing techniques presented by the Qintian Pavilion over the years, which had largely resolved his chronic illnesses, he was still struggling to recover.

But the heaviness etched between his brows from years of exhausting himself was something that no amount of magic could erase.