Chen Ping walked to the very center of the Black Earth.

He crouched down. Gingerly, he dug a small hole in the fertile soil with his bare hands. The hole wasn’t deep—only half a finger’s length.

Gently, solemnly, he placed the precious seed inside. He placed his own hope inside.

He scooped up the nearby soil, slowly and carefully covering the hole, burying the seed completely. The soil felt cool and fine against his skin.

After finishing, he stood up, took a step back, and stared intently at the small mound of earth.

His heart pounded violently in his chest, even more fiercely than when he had stolen the seed.

Anticipation, nervousness, and a crushing sense of uncertainty wrapped around him like a net.

He needed to wait. But he didn’t know how long.

A day? A month? Perhaps it wouldn’t sprout at all? Could this miraculous Black Earth really grow something?

He didn’t dare leave. He was afraid of missing any change.

He stood there for a long time, then crouched. Finally, he simply sat cross-legged next to the mound, staring unblinkingly at the freshly turned soil.

Time seemed to lose all meaning here.

The halo of light overhead remained constant. There was no sun or moon, only an eternal, tranquil twilight.

Hunger began to gnaw at him again, but he paid it no mind. All his senses were focused on that small patch of earth.

He didn’t know how much time had passed. Perhaps several hours. Perhaps only a few minutes.

Just as his eyes began to burn from staring… he saw it.

On the surface of the soil covering the seed, an extremely tiny, almost imperceptible bulge pushed upward.

Immediately after, a faint green tip pierced through the thin layer of black soil. It was almost illusory, yet filled with vitality as it stubbornly emerged.

That speck of green, set against the glossy Black Earth, was unmistakable.

Chen Ping’s breath caught in his throat.

It grew!

It grew so quickly!

Just as he was about to cheer in wild joy, the tearing sensation assaulted his vision again.

HUM!

He was back in the Shack, instantly enveloped by the cold, the rough straw, and the smells of mildew and sweat.

He fell onto the pile of straw in the corner, his bones aching from the impact.

His head throbbed as if it were about to split open. Waves of nausea rose within him. He curled up, pressing his hands hard against his temples, his teeth grinding audibly.

After what felt like an eternity, the excruciating pain slowly receded like a tide, leaving behind a heavy dullness.

Chen Ping was drenched in cold sweat, as if he had just been pulled from a river. He lay sprawled on the straw, gasping for breath, unable to move even a finger.

In the darkness, the snoring and grinding teeth of the other Laborers rose One After Another.

The heart-stopping experience seemed like a nightmare born of extreme exhaustion. But the lingering trace of strange coolness on his palm and the image of that green tip told him with absolute clarity: It was real.

The Black Earth inside the Jade Pendant was real. The stolen Spirit Grain seed had truly sprouted.

Exhaustion mixed with relief pressed down on him heavily.

His eyelids could no longer hold up. His head tilted to one side on the filthy straw pile, and with a faint smile, he fell into a deep sleep.

The sky wasn’t fully bright yet; grayish light squeezed in through holes in the roof and gaps around the doorframe.

Chen Ping woke from the cold and the rustling movements of early risers.

His eyes snapped open. His first thought was to feel his chest.

The Jade Pendant was still there.

Half his heart settled back into place. He cautiously checked his head.

It didn’t hurt. The tearing agony had vanished, leaving only a slight grogginess.

“Hoo…”

He let out a long breath of turbid air.

So you can’t stay in that place too long, he realized. If you stay too long, your head can’t take it. This is probably the price for entering that miraculous space.

Chen Ping silently noted this Rule. The price wasn’t small, but compared to the wonder of the Black Earth, it was worth it.

The shack door was roughly pulled open, letting in a blast of cold wind that made everyone shiver.

“Get up! All you bastards, get up! Waiting to die?”

Manager Wang’s oily, fat face appeared in the doorway. His triangular eyes were full of meanness and impatience as he brandished a glossy leather whip.

“Those feeding pigs today go to the west pig farm! Move your hands and feet quick for me! Miss your time and I’ll skin you!”

Chen Ping quickly scrambled up, mingling with the sleepy-eyed crowd heading out.

The morning chill made him shiver. His Starving stomach growled loudly. He and several other assigned Laborers silently followed Manager Wang toward an even filthier area west of Spirit Beast Peak.

Before they even got close, an overwhelming mix of nauseating smells assaulted them—pig manure, the sour stink of rotting food, and a peculiar fishy odor specific to certain spirit beasts.

Large pigsties were built in rows in a low-lying area, constructed of rough logs and thatch. They were crude and drafty on all sides.

Their task was simple: Foraging, chopping, and mixing coarse grain bran to pour into long feeding troughs.

The pens held Low-grade spirit pigs. These weren’t ordinary domestic pigs; they were larger, with protruding tusks and coarse, bristly fur.

They were energetic and irritable. Seeing people through the wooden bars, they emitted deafening squeals and violently rammed the enclosures, sending splinters flying and drool dripping everywhere.

Their murky small eyes flashed with a greedy, savage light.

Chen Ping was assigned a rusty, blunt chopping knife and a huge broken basket. He followed several similarly emaciated laborers toward the weed-covered hillslopes on the outskirts of the farm.

Foraging looked simple, but anyone doing it knew it was exhausting.

The wild grass on the slopes was tough, its roots dense and tangled. The blunt knife vibrated with every chop, numbing the web of his hand while cutting only a few strands.

He had to bend his waist and use his full body strength to chop, again and again.

Sweat soon soaked through his thin clothes and flowed into his eyes, stinging painfully. His waist and back ached as if they were breaking every time he straightened up.

He gathered half a basket, carried it back, and dumped it beside a huge stone trough.

Several noticeably burlier Servant Disciples were waiting there. They were responsible for chopping and feeding.

One of them—a burly man with a meaty face and an exposed hairy chest—glanced at Chen Ping’s pitiful amount of pig grass. He impatiently kicked the stone trough.

“Dragging your feet? Is this enough to fill their teeth gaps? Go cut more! Can’t you see the pigs are starving and ramming the pens? If you delay the spirit pigs gaining weight, can you bear the responsibility?”

Chen Ping looked at his own blistered, bleeding palms. He looked at the mountain of grass beside him that needed chopping. He looked at the distance where the spirit pigs were squealing.

He opened his mouth, but ultimately said nothing.

He silently picked up his empty basket and blunt knife, turned, and walked back toward the hillslope.

These burly Servant Disciples mostly possessed some crude martial arts or connections that got them easier jobs. Naturally, the heavy labor was pressed onto the lowest laborers like Chen Ping.

The so-called “division of labor” was nothing but an excuse for exploitation.