The sun dipped behind the western hills.

Sparse, dim yellow oil lamps flickered to life across the shack area, glowing weakly like the final gasps of a dying man.

Chen Ping dragged his leaden legs back to his shack. He didn’t go immediately to collect his half-bowl of “evening meal.” The cramping pain in his stomach had long since been replaced by a numbing, extreme exhaustion.

He needed to deal with his hands first. The rough cart shafts had rubbed his palms raw with blisters, and whittling a hardwood stick during the day had left several tiny splinters embedded in his flesh.

Groping around in the corner, he found the piece of wood and picked up a sharp stone shard he kept beside a whetstone.

The light inside the shack was abysmal, provided only by a sliver of faint glow leaking through the door crack. He squatted by the doorway, using that bit of light to gingerly shave off the protruding burrs on the wooden stick.

The wood was hard, and the stone shard was dull; he had to concentrate fully.

Suddenly, the shard slipped.

Its sharp edge scraped harshly across the thumb of his left hand.

“Hiss!”

Chen Ping sucked in a sharp breath.

Looking down, he saw a cut on the side of his thumb. It wasn’t deep, but crimson beads of blood quickly welled up, gathering into a heavy droplet. Under the dim light, the red was stark and vivid.

Instinctively wanting to flick off the blood, he gave his wrist a sharp shake.

The warm drop of blood traced a barely perceptible arc through the air, landing perfectly right in the center of the grayish-white Jade Pendant he had just pulled out from his clothes to use as a wedge.

Zip.

The blood droplet was instantly absorbed, vanishing without a trace as if it had never existed.

Simultaneously, the dull, dark red spot in the center of the pendant flashed brightly.

A faint, almost imperceptible sensation of heat shot from the jade pendant into Chen Ping’s chest. It was so fast it felt like an illusion.

Chen Ping froze, looking down at the stone in his hand.

The burning sensation was gone. The pendant remained dusty gray and lifeless, completely unchanged.

He frowned, cursing himself. He was so hungry he was hallucinating. Maybe the heat was just the stinging pain from his wound?

He paid it no more mind, casually tucking the jade pendant back inside his clothes. He planned to find some torn cloth strips to bandage his bleeding thumb.

But the moment the jade pendant touched his skin—

HUM!

A low sound exploded in Chen Ping’s mind, like an ancient bell tolling deep within his soul.

An irresistible force of suction erupted from the grayish-white stone against his chest.

Chen Ping saw only darkness. Heaven and earth spun.

His body felt as if it had been seized by an invisible giant hand, dragged frantically toward a pinpoint of light.

The shack, the pile of tattered straw, the faint light through the door crack… all the familiar misery twisted, stretched, and shattered. The world transformed into countless streaks of bizarrely colored light.

Just as Chen Ping felt his consciousness tearing to shreds, the twisting sensation abruptly vanished.

His feet hit solid ground.

An indescribably fresh scent flooded his nostrils.

The fragrance of rich soil drove away the nauseating, musty rot of the shack. It was a pure scent, brimming with unimaginable vitality. Every breath felt like sweet spring water flowing into parched lungs, washing away his exhaustion and hunger.

Chen Ping snapped his eyes open.

He stood on completely unfamiliar land.

Above him, there was no dilapidated thatched roof. Instead, a soft, uniformly pure milky-white halo of moonlight enveloped this small patch of heaven and earth.

Beyond the halo surged a rolling, boundless gray-white fog that isolated everything.

And beneath his feet lay an acre of Black Earth.

The soil was purely black. Glossy, rich, and oily.

Chen Ping grabbed a handful. The soil was moist and heavy; it seemed that with just a gentle squeeze, life-nourishing sap would drip out.

Land!

Only that single word thundered in Chen Ping’s mind.

To a man starving near death, the concept of land was simple and direct: It could grow things.

If it could grow things, there would be food.

He dropped the mud and plopped down onto the Black Earth. He looked up at the milky luminous ceiling, then at the churning gray fog.

This place was unnervingly clean. The silence was absolute.

He sat there, watching. The hunger remained; he was still starving.

I need to leave, he thought.

The moment the intention formed—

HUM!

Again, the sensation of being punched in the head. The scene before him flashed, twisting and stretching.

It was much faster than entering, and far more unpleasant.

Chen Ping staggered, finding himself once more standing amidst the familiar moldy stench of his shack.

The same corner. The same broken door. The faint light seeping through the crack.

But his hands still held grains of damp, cold black soil. The wound on his thumb still throbbed.

His head pounded like he had a severe hangover, a dull, swelling pain radiating from the back of his skull.

Was it a dream? A hallucination born of starvation madness?

His stomach was empty; the cramps had dulled into a numb ache. He forgot to go collect his gruel. Dragging his heavy body, he collapsed onto the pile of sour-smelling dried grass in the corner.

Exhaustion swallowed him whole.

When he opened his eyes again, dawn was breaking.

His headache had eased, but the hunger gnawed at him like an awakened beast, savagely tearing at his stomach lining.

Last night… that place…

Instinctively reaching into his clothes, he touched the cold, hard Jade Pendant. Its surface was rough, carrying the faint warmth of his body.

Thoughts grew wild like weeds. If only I could go there again…

As soon as the thought crystallized—

HUM!

The familiar dull sound. The familiar tearing sensation. His vision blurred.

Feet on solid ground.

The moist, fresh scent of vital soil enveloped him once more. Above was the milky moonlight; beneath was the glossy Black Earth.

It wasn’t a dream!

Chen Ping’s heart pounded wildly. Blood rushed to his head, momentarily drowning out his hunger.

He abruptly crouched down, thrusting both hands deep into the soil. The cold, fertile texture was incredibly real. He scooped up a handful and inhaled deeply, trembling at the scent.

Out!

HUM!

The scene twisted. He was back in his shack, his hands still stained with black dirt.

In!

HUM! The Black Earth reappeared.

Out!

In!

Out!

In!

Like an enchanted child, he repeated the experiment over ten times.

Each entry and exit was accompanied by that dull hum and a dizzying tearing sensation. The faster he went, the stronger the vertigo became—as if his soul was being physically yanked back and forth.

After the tenth time, intense nausea forced him to stop.

He sat on the Black Earth, panting heavily, his forehead covered in cold sweat.

“Can’t do it too fast… need to slow down…”

He muttered aloud, noting the limitation. But despite the nausea, a wild joy burned like wildfire in his chest.

This place was real. This patch of Black Earth was real.

One thought occupied his mind with crystal clarity: Must plant something!

Plant what?

The most urgent need was to fill his belly.

Grain! Only grain!

Millet ground into rice and steamed could stave off hunger. If he could grow millet…

Chen Ping dared not think further. The thought was too beautiful, too extravagant. He feared it might prove to be an empty dream.

But where would he get seeds?

His hands were empty. Inside the shack, aside from a few rags and a whetstone, he had nothing.

Outside… outside lay vast expanses of Spirit Fields.

There grew the Spirit Grain reserved for the Managers, the Foremen, and the lofty Immortal Masters.

The laborers only received a tiny bit of the worst, stale Spirit Rice—mixed with sand and cooked into paste.

Spirit Grain…

Chen Ping licked his parched lips.

Even a single, whole, plump Spirit Grain seed would be a treasure beyond his wildest dreams. The Foreman had said privately that hoarding Spirit Grain was a capital offense. Even a single grain caught meant being beaten to death.

He didn’t care.

Steal!