Chen Ping walked over to the pile of grain and scooped up a large handful. The heavy grains slipped through his fingers, bringing a sense of solid happiness.

He walked to the first row of pits and crouched down.

Extending his rough fingers, he gingerly picked out six grains from the handful he held. Then, leaning forward, he gently and evenly scattered the six golden seeds into the first shallow pit.

Next was the second pit, six grains.

The third pit, six grains…

His movements, initially clumsy, quickly became proficient.

Pick seeds, scatter seeds, move on.

His expression was utterly focused, his gaze sharp, as if performing a sacred ritual. Each seed falling into a pit was like lighting a small spark in his heart.

He could almost see it—soon, this place would become a golden ocean.

One thousand pits. Six thousand seeds.

This was work requiring patience and meticulousness.

Chen Ping did not rush. He maintained a steady rhythm. When crouching for too long made his legs numb, he would change position to kneeling, or stand up to stretch his sore back before continuing.

Time passed in silence.

The halo overhead remained constant, illuminating his hunched figure as it moved bit by bit across this land of hope, sowing seeds.

Finally, the last handful of grain was evenly scattered into the last pit.

Six thousand Spirit Grains, all planted.

Chen Ping stood up and looked around.

The originally empty Black Earth was now dotted with thousands of tiny potential lives. A tremendous sense of accomplishment welled up, diluting the fatigue in his body.

But he did not stop. He needed to cover the seeds.

Walking back to the first row, he crouched down again. Carefully using both hands, he scooped up the Black Earth beside the pit and covered the seeds inside.

His movements were gentle, afraid of crushing them. Cover with soil, press it firm.

One pit, then another…

This was yet another repetitive and monotonous process. But Chen Ping performed it meticulously, his expression incredibly serious.

Because what he was burying wasn’t just seeds—it was his hope.

He gently pressed each small mound with his fingers, ensuring the seeds were completely covered and the soil was tightly packed. He nurtured each mound as if caring for an infant.

When the last mound was finished, Chen Ping finally straightened up for real.

He stood in the center of the Black Earth, looking at the land he had personally turned and sown.

Full of accomplishment!

Sweat had soaked through his clothes. His back ached as if it were about to break. His fingers were sore from the prolonged digging and covering.

But there was no trace of complaint on his face—only a heavy sense of satisfaction and unprecedented anticipation.

Wiping sweat and grime from his face, Chen Ping grinned, smiling silently once more.

Seven days! Just seven more days to wait!

Looking at this newly turned Black Earth, he could already envision it transforming into a lush ocean of golden Spirit Grains.

Spirit Grains grown from six thousand seeds… what an astonishing harvest that would be!

Fatigue washed over him like a tide, reminding him it was time to leave.

He took one last deep look at this land carrying his future, his gaze unwavering.

With a thought…

HUM…

An intense dizziness assaulted him. Indeed, staying in the space too long caused this.

Chen Ping collapsed onto the hay pile in his Shack. The exhaustion in his body instantly erupted; every joint seemed to creak.

Closing his eyes, what surfaced in his mind was no longer the manure pit or the shadow of the whip—it was that newly turned Black Earth and those one thousand neatly arranged small mounds.

He turned over on the cold, hard hay, curling his body tight. Yet a faint smile lingered at the corner of his mouth as he fell into a deep sleep.

In his dream… a field of gold…

Days passed one by one. His task was set: feeding pigs.

Repeating the cycle of cutting grass, carrying grass on his back, cleaning pigsties, and enduring scoldings. Physical exhaustion and pain were normal; the hunger pangs in his belly never truly disappeared either.

But Chen Ping’s state of mind was completely different from before.

The hope buried deep in his heart was like a heavy stone pressing down all restlessness and despair.

Chen Ping became exceptionally calm—even somewhat numb.

When whipped, he lowered his head, eyes fixed only on the ground, swallowing all pain back into his belly. When rations were shorted, he would silently take the offered Gruel and eat it quickly.

He knew he wasn’t much different from other Laborers struggling in the mud—all were just firewood consumed at the Qingyun Sect’s lowest level.

But this vast Immortal Sect had a hierarchy as rigid as an iron-cast tower.

Those like him were at the very bottom—called “Laborers.”

Laborers did the dirtiest, most exhausting, most dangerous work. Mining, logging, hauling goods, cleaning filth, tending ferocious spirit beasts… they were treated like cattle or worse.

The Sect issued a thin booklet supposedly for strengthening health called the “Vitality Technique,” which could increase Physical Strength if practiced deeply.

But for Laborers, this booklet felt more like a mockery.

Working from before dawn until late night, exhausted like mud, starving with bellies empty—even breathing felt laborious. Where would they find the strength or will to practice any technique?

That booklet mostly ended up padding bed legs or used as kindling in their Shacks.

Their lives hung by that single bowl of Gruel, slowly withering away in endless labor. When they died, like Old Zhang, they were rolled up in a straw mat and tossed into a manure pit. No one would even remember their names.

Slightly better off than Laborers were “Regular Disciples.”

These people either had some crude martial foundation making them stronger than average, had connections, or had endured long enough to catch a Manager’s eye.

They managed small areas or supervised several Laborers. For example, guarding less important storehouses, handling cleaning around alchemy or artifact workshops, or tending small plots of less valuable medicinal herbs.

Their work was relatively lighter, not back-breaking all day. Gruel was provided sufficiently, and occasionally they even got scraps slipping through the Managers’ fingers.

Most importantly, they escaped direct physical exploitation, becoming part of that “managing” layer.

For Laborers to be promoted to Regular Disciples, there was one hard requirement: Physical Strength must exceed five hundred pounds.

Five hundred pounds might not be difficult for those well-fed people practicing techniques…

But for Laborers struggling for basic survival, it seemed an insurmountable chasm.

Further up were “Registered Disciples.”

These were the top among the Servant Disciples, also called “quasi-outer sect.”

They could access basic techniques issued by the Sect and even learn one or two crude Arts.

Registered Disciples handled tasks closer to core Sect operations, like guarding more important storehouses, assisting with basic materials, or tending more valuable medicinal plots under formal disciples’ guidance.

Their greatest hope was standing out during the “Servant Disciple Minor Competition” held every three years, officially joining the outer sect and embarking on the true Immortal path.

For Regular Disciples aspiring to become Registered Disciples, the most crucial step was the “Spirit Root.”

Of course, before Spirit Root detection, there was another prerequisite: Physical Strength exceeding one thousand pounds!

If detected possessing a cultivatable Immortal Spirit Root, even the poorest qualifies for entry into the Registered Disciple ranks.

Additionally, without a Spirit Root, if Physical Strength breaks one thousand pounds, becoming a Servant Manager also counts as an indirect promotion.

Only such promoted managers aren’t called Registered Disciples, but Manager Disciples.

And Manager Disciples lacking Spirit Roots still cannot obtain Immortal fate…

Manager Wang is such a Manager Disciple.

The Spirit Root marks the division between Immortal and Mortal.

Chen Ping becoming a Qingyun Sect Laborer cost him his parents.

Three years ago, a mineral vein was discovered a thousand miles away, urgently needing manpower. Deep within the mines, dangers abounded: cave-ins, poisonous gases, fierce beasts… death was commonplace.

To fight for a slim chance at life for their sickly, frail son…

Even the lowest Sect Laborer was better than starving outside or being captured as a mine slave.

Chen Ping’s parents signed that life-and-death contract—equivalent to selling themselves—and plunged into that man-eating mine shaft that consumed without spitting bones.

They traded their lives for Chen Ping’s qualification to enter the Qingyun Sect as a Laborer Disciple.

Three years passed. No news whatsoever.

Alive or dead?

Chen Ping dared not think. He lacked the ability to inquire.

Such is life for the ordinary masses—there is no worst, only worse.

These thoughts occasionally flashed through Chen Ping’s fatigue-numbed mind, bringing sharp yet brief stabs of pain.

Then, they were immediately suppressed by the deeper yearning for the Black Earth pressing down again.

He lived not to wallow in the past.

He lived to grasp this sole visible lifeline before him.

He must survive. He must rise above.

At least to save his own parents… to escape this sea of suffering.