Waking in the middle of the night, Chen Ping couldn’t fall back asleep.

It hurt. Everything hurt.

The straw bedding in the Shack was cold and hard. Curled up on it, Chen Ping felt as if his entire body had fallen apart, a deep ache seeping from the very marrow of his bones.

The places on his back lashed by the whip burned with a fiery pain, and when sweat soaked into them, it became a piercing agony.

The skin on his shoulders, rubbed raw by the straps of the carrying basket, had scabbed over only to split open again, sticking to his tattered clothes. The slightest movement tugged at it painfully.

There were even more wounds on his hands—cuts from grass-cutting, scrapes from moving things—all mixed with grime, filthy and infected.

He closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come.

It felt as if a needle were stabbing inside his skull, a throbbing pain.

Both his body and spirit were exhausted to the extreme. If this continued, he might die.

Before he had the Jade Pendant, life was hard, too. But by gritting his teeth and forcing himself to endure, he could barely manage to complete the tasks Manager Wang assigned. It wasn’t like now, where he was whipped almost every day.

Ever since obtaining the Jade Pendant, especially with frequent entries into that space, his entire spirit felt as if it had been drained dry.

Working during the day, his limbs felt weak, his reactions sluggish, and his movements naturally slowed down. He cut less grass, carried things slower, and cleaning the Pigsty became inefficient.

When the Foreman’s whip came down, he didn’t even have the strength to dodge.

Manager Wang’s greasy face grew increasingly gloomy, his curses harsher and more vile. Those few burly Laborers pushed even more of the dirty, exhausting work onto him; the slightest sign of dissatisfaction would bring fists and kicks raining down.

The injuries on his body piled up, new wounds layered over old ones.

He knew he was trapped in a vicious cycle.

Entering the space consumed his spirit. Poor spirit led to slow work, beatings, and injuries. Physical pain further intensified spiritual consumption, creating an even more frequent need to enter the space to confirm that hope.

Each entry and exit felt like drawing on what little vitality he had left.

But he couldn’t stop!

Those six thousand Spirit Grain plants in the Black Earth were his only lifeline. He had to hold on until they matured.

He could only endure the whips more numbly, accept the extra work more silently, hoarding every shred of strength he could save to sustain himself until that brief moment deep in the night when he could enter the space.

Only by seeing those Spirit Grain seedlings growing taller day by day, turning golden day by day, could that faint spark of hope barely suppress the total collapse of his body and spirit.

Another three days dragged by.

The injuries on his body were worse; headaches had become constant; every day was spent in a daze. Drinking Gruel did nothing; his stomach still felt hollow and panicked. His body was so weak he felt unsteady even walking.

Late at night.

Chen Ping struggled to sit up. The movement was too abrupt, pulling at his wounds; he gasped sharply from the pain.

After catching his breath for a moment, he fished out the Jade Pendant. Today was the eighth day.

Based on the first experience… today… they should be mature!

HUM!

The scent of Black Earth flooded his nostrils.

Ignoring the intense headache and feeling of physical collapse, he jerked his head up to look toward the Spirit Field.

Fortunately, there had been some improvement. At least within this Black Earth space now, he could stay for several hours without worrying about passing out.

At first glance, it felt as if he’d been struck by lightning. He froze in place.

As far as his eyes could see—a sea of gold!

No longer scattered dots of tender green or pale yellow, but an endless expanse of heavy gold bending under its own weight.

Where there had once been a thousand mounds of earth now stood tall Spirit Grain plants!

Each one was sturdier and more luxuriant than that single plant from his first harvest. Their entire bodies shimmered with a pure, thick golden luster as if cast from solid gold.

Dense and layered upon layer upon layer—they filled every inch of visible Black Earth.

Success! All matured!

Chen Ping’s heart swelled with joy.

The impact of this sight was a hundredfold—a thousandfold—stronger than when he first saw that single mature plant.

“Uh… ngh…”

A sob suppressed to its absolute limit forced its way from deep within his throat.

Chen Ping’s legs gave way. Thump. He knelt on the cold Black Earth.

Tears instantly breached their dam, gushing out in torrents. Mixed with the grime on his face, they carved out muddy tracks down his cheeks.

He bit down hard on his own arm to keep from crying out loud. Yet his body trembled violently under the immense emotional shock. Not sorrow—this was overwhelming joy born from desperate survival! The awe of seeing hope made real!

Boundless gold! Heavy rice heads! And grain fragrance so thick it seemed tangible!

All of it… all of it was his! Won with his very life!

Kneeling before this golden sea, Chen Ping wept soundlessly. His shoulders shook violently.

All grievances… all fears… all whip marks… all hunger… found their outlet in this moment. Tears blurred his vision until all that remained before him was this expanse of gold symbolizing life itself.

A long time passed before Chen Ping managed to steady himself.

He wiped his face fiercely with a mud-stained sleeve. No time to waste! Time is precious!

Gritting his teeth against the still-intense headache and bodily weakness, he struggled back to his feet.

Harvest!

He walked quickly to where the tools were stored and picked up that stolen Sickle. The cool wooden handle in his hand brought a sliver of solid reassurance.

He approached the nearest Spirit Grain plant. He bent over, his left hand gathering the heavy rice heads, his right hand swinging the Sickle.

Swish!

The sharp blade easily severed the tough stalks. Golden rice heads fell into his hand—substantial weight.

Chen Ping’s spirits lifted slightly. Good blade! Infinitely faster than prying with hardwood sticks.

He threw himself into harvesting: bend over, gather heads, swing Sickle, cut off, pile rice heads aside.

His movements, clumsy at first, quickly became practiced and swift. The swish-swish sound of the Sickle cutting stalks stood out starkly in the silent space.

Yet this task remained extremely physically taxing. Each Spirit Grain plant was exceptionally tall and sturdy, the rice heads heavy. Each bend pulled at the whip wounds across his back; his aching waist and arms swinging the Sickle made his shoulder wounds throb dully.

Sweat soon soaked through his already ragged clothes, streaming down his temples and neck, stinging his eyes. The headache hadn’t lessened in the slightest, still stabbing his temples like needles.

Chen Ping clenched his teeth, not uttering a sound. Like a tireless machine, he repeated the harvesting motions.

The golden sight before him gave him boundless strength. He forgot the pain. He forgot the exhaustion. His eyes only saw the rice heads waiting to be harvested.

Piles of golden rice heads rose rapidly behind him.

He didn’t know how long he harvested. Maybe several hours. Maybe longer.

His arms were sore and swollen, almost unable to lift. His waist and back hurt as if they were breaking each time he straightened up. His vision darkened intermittently, the headache splitting his skull.

But he didn’t stop.

Finally, the last golden Spirit Grain was cut off and piled atop the rice heap.

Harvest complete.