Chapter One: Qin Ming

“Ah, when a man has no money, he’s idle as a bird; when a woman has no money, she suffers in silence...”

Dawn had just barely broken.

In the southern wilds of the cultivation world, on the outskirts of Qingyang Market, lay the ramshackle shantytown.

A wooden door creaked open, and a plain-looking young man stepped out.

Qin Ming yawned, his spirit flagging as he rubbed his bloodshot eyes, slung his spirit hoe over his shoulder, and prepared to head out for the day’s labor.

Before leaving, he glanced back at the neighbor’s yard, feeling a flare of irritation.

“Making all that noise in the dead of night—don’t they have any decency at all?”

His neighbor was a young female cultivator, rather attractive, but every few days she’d bring some male cultivator home for the night, engaging in shameless debauchery.

Last night, in particular, the ruckus had lasted all through the night.

‘Once I have enough spirit stones, even if I can’t afford to move, I’ll at least set up a soundproofing array!’

Qin Ming gritted his teeth, making a silent vow.

The soundproofing here was truly abysmal.

Last night, while trying to meditate and cultivate, the noise from next door was so overwhelming it nearly disturbed his Dao heart, his mind wandering and his blood stirring dangerously.

It had been a close call.

Unable to do anything else, he’d gritted his teeth and endured the whole night, copying the *Scripture of Purity* a thousand times to the rhythm of the shaking bed next door, barely managing to calm himself.

Now, remembering the endless work waiting for him in the spirit fields, his mood soured further.

“It’s been nearly five years since I transmigrated to this world, and is there any end in sight to this kind of life?”

“With these conditions, who could ever hope to reach immortality?”

“I can’t even get a decent night’s sleep!”

“Ah, not having a cheat is just too painful...”

Before coming to this world, Qin Ming had imagined cultivation as soaring over the northern seas by morning and traversing the great blue mountains by dusk, flying through the skies, sword aura sweeping across ninety thousand miles.

But reality was far less glamorous.

Though the world of cultivation sounded lofty, ordinary cultivators led grim lives.

Every day was a struggle for survival, the pressure immense.

‘If not for the fact that the original owner of this body had been forcibly conscripted from a cultivation family by the Spiritfeather Sect to carry out land reclamation for a full sixty-year term of service...’

‘It would’ve been better to retire into the mundane world, at least there I could have lived out a few decades in relative peace.’

After all these years, Qin Ming had come to see reality for what it was—he was destined to be mediocre.

Given his talent—false spiritual roots in four elements—without some great opportunity, he’d never reach Foundation Establishment no matter how hard he cultivated.

Years wasted, and his cultivation was still stuck at the second level of Qi Refining, with no hope of ascending the immortal path.

It was understandable that his family had given up on him and traded him to the sect for resources.

Thankfully, his family had at least pulled some strings, sparing him from being sent to the front lines to fight monsters.

Qin Ming had rented three acres of spirit land in the outer region cleared at the rear, becoming a spirit farmer.

And today was the day to harvest the spirit rice.

Yet, there was no joy on his face—only anxiety.

Harvest also meant that officials would come to collect the spirit rice tax.

...

“Hey, up early today, Little Qin? Looks like your spirit rice is doing well this season!”

Halfway to his fields, Qin Ming was lost in thought when an old cultivator, looking every bit the seasoned farmer, greeted him with a smile.

The man’s cultivation was clearly superior, at the fourth level of Qi Refining.

“Morning, Old Ninth.”

A smile appeared on Qin Ming’s face when he saw him.

He sighed, “Don’t mention it. You know I’m only at Qi Refining level two, and my Spirit Rain Technique is still at the beginner stage—I can barely use it a few times a month.”

This was Cai Jiuwu, known as Old Ninth Cai to the locals, a veteran of this shantytown. Qin Ming didn’t know much about his origins, only that he’d been here for over a decade.

Old Ninth Cai’s skin was dark, his face full of wrinkles, unkempt beard gripping a pipe, trousers rolled up, spirit hoe and sickle slung over his shoulder—more beggar than cultivator.

Yet, from what Qin Ming gathered, the man was only a little over forty.

“By the way, Old Ninth, with your fourth-level cultivation and intermediate Spirit Rain Technique, your harvest must be excellent this year?”

Qin Ming couldn’t help a note of envy.

The Spirit Rain Technique, taught by the sect to spirit farmers, could disperse spiritual energy from crystals, stones, or veins into the air, summoning rain.

Crops nourished by spirit rain were immune to pests and produced far greater yields.

Qin Ming hadn’t expected that even farming would be so dependent on one’s cultivation.

After over half a year practicing the Spirit Rain Technique, he could only summon rain for a range of six feet, and his spiritual power lasted less than half a stick of incense.

It was enough to make him want to die.

Even a child could urinate more than that.

“Heh, it’s decent, I suppose. After the harvest and paying the tax today, why not join me for a drink at Juxuan Pavilion in the market to unwind?” Old Ninth Cai smacked his lips, his words vague and crafty.

“No thanks, that sort of money pit isn’t for me.”

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go—he simply couldn’t afford it.

“Tsk,” Cai scoffed. “You’re too serious. Life is long, you know. It’s fine to enjoy yourself once in a while. As the saying goes, live for today. Why bother chasing immortality when a dreamless sleep is so much more carefree?”

“Sure, as long as you’re paying.”

“Get lost! Not a chance!”

...

Soon, a vast range of mountains shrouded in mist appeared, waterfalls cascading down, carving out dragon pools, the landscape like a living ink painting.

On a terraced slope, hundreds of acres of spirit fields stretched in orderly rows.

A first-grade spirit vein provided abundant energy, more than sufficient for growing low-level spirit crops.

The golden grain of spirit rice swayed in the wind, radiating a dazzling brilliance and filling the air with its unique fragrance, attracting birds from afar.

Clang!

Before the birds could descend, a blast rang out.

A scarecrow puppet in the field struck a spirit gong, sending out a piercing wave that scattered the flock.

Qin Ming and Old Ninth followed the mountain path to their respective fields and began their work.

Qin Ming stared gloomily at one particular patch, lips twitching.

About half an acre of his spirit rice was still green, standing out starkly against the surrounding golden fields.

Anyone passing by might think he was growing garlic shoots.

He knew the reason well enough—his Spirit Rain Technique was too weak and used too infrequently, resulting in uneven rainfall.

“Looks like this season’s yield will fall short—who knows if I’ll even have enough to pay the tax?” he worried.

Shaking off his gloom, he began harvesting.

The spirit sickle sliced through the rice, and he bundled the stalks expertly.

Here, spirit rice could be harvested three times a year—leave the roots, and it would regrow in months, much like cutting chives.

As the sun set, he finished reaping, threshing, and bagging the rice.

His mana was utterly depleted, and he was dog-tired.

No sooner had he wiped his sweat than the sound of a flying artifact split the air.

Qin Ming quickly looked up to see a green-leaf spirit boat streaking through the sky, descending slowly.

A portly middle-aged cultivator in blue-and-white outer sect robes of the Spiritfeather Sect disembarked, belly protruding, every step exuding authority.

This was Du Haifu, overseer of these fields—a veritable petty despot to Qin Ming and the other farmers.

“Well, well, Little Qin, you’re quick on your feet! Harvested already?”

Du Haifu opened Qin Ming’s rice sack, pinched a few grains, sniffed them, then tossed them into his mouth, chewing slowly before breaking into a satisfied grin.

“Mmm, good quality. You’ve put in the work.”

He patted his storage pouch and took out a spirit scale to weigh the harvest.

“Two stones and eighty jins of spirit rice—seventy percent tax, that’s a hundred ninety-six jins... Wait, something’s off.”

“Why is it fifty jins less than last season?” Du Haifu’s smile vanished.

He checked his ledger, his expression turning cold as his gaze bore into Qin Ming.

Qin Ming stiffened, quickly producing a small brocade pouch and handing it over with a forced smile.

“Senior Du, I’m terribly sorry. There was a small issue with the field this season. The missing half-bag of rice—I’ll make up for it with these spirit stones. Please be lenient.”

Though it pained him, he had no choice—most of his savings were in that pouch.

In truth, the sect only demanded fifty percent as tax, but with all the stewards and overseers skimming their share, precious little was left for the farmer.

Most of the spirit stones in that pouch would end up in Du Haifu’s pocket.

Du Haifu weighed the pouch, satisfied, and his tone softened.

“But only this once—don’t let it happen again!”

He waved a hand, and the sacks of spirit rice vanished into his storage bag.

Qin Ming watched the storage pouch and the flying spirit boat with envy—such things were far beyond his means.

“Do you know how much Old Ninth Cai paid in tax this season?” Du Haifu suddenly asked, holding up two fingers.

“More than double yours!”

“At this rate, you won’t last. I’ll give you a word of warning—”

“I just received word that next season, the inner sect stewards will tally up the year’s tax payments. The ten lowest-ranking spirit farmers will be sent to the frontline camps as reinforcements.”

“Take care of yourself.”

With that, Du Haifu boarded his boat and left, leaving Qin Ming standing dumbstruck.

“What? Sent to the war camp?”

...

Night fell.

Qin Ming carried the remaining rice back to his house.

Clang!

He shut the door, collapsed onto his bed like a dead dog, staring at the ceiling, his mind in turmoil as he replayed Du Haifu’s words.

He knew perfectly well that with his current yield, he was bound to be among the lowest-ranked.

The Spiritfeather Sect’s war camps were notorious for their high casualty rates.

The so-called land reclamation meant being dispatched to open up wild, uninhabited lands once overrun by monsters or cut off by natural hazards, fraught with peril at every turn.

Not to mention the other unspeakable, strange threats that made cultivation all but impossible.

To put it bluntly, the sect needed cannon fodder—low-level cultivators to blaze a path.

Spirit farming was exhausting, but at least it was safe.

Countless people struggled just to survive in this world.

The job everyone looked down upon was now his lifeline in a sea of suffering.

‘What should I do? I don’t want to be cannon fodder in the war camp!’

‘It’s just not fair!’

As he thought, perhaps from exhaustion, Qin Ming drifted off to sleep...

Suddenly!

A dazzling, wondrous light flashed deep within his soul.

Qin Ming dreamed a long, strange dream.

In it, all manner of bizarre plants grew wildly at impossible speed, blanketing the sky and earth...

Boom!

Something exploded in his mind.

...

The next morning.

Qin Ming woke, his head throbbing, feeling dazed.

He fetched a basin of water and went out to wash up by the flowerbed in his yard.

He’d planted dozens of spirit rice plants there to study their habits and practice his Spirit Rain Technique.

But when he looked up at the bed, he froze in shock.

Above three of the spirit rice plants, strings of messages appeared:

[Name]: Golden Spirit Rice [Trait]: Ripening (Maturity 100%, Ready to Harvest)

[Name]: Golden Spirit Rice [Trait]: Intermediate Spirit Rain Technique x5 (Maturity 100%, Ready to Harvest)

[Name]: Golden Spirit Rice [Trait]: Faint Mana (Maturity 100%, Ready to Harvest)

Qin Ming rubbed his eyes in disbelief, muttering,

“Did I wake up too fast?”

“Did I sleep in a strange position last night?”