The Eternal Farmer: I Trade My Harvest for Immortality

Jiang Chen stepped forward, examining the burns. “Senior Brother, are you alright?”

Chen Bo glanced at the clusters of angry red blisters bubbling on his arm and shook his head dismissively. “My Wood Spirit Root excels at recovery. Injuries like this will heal before the sun sets.”

Jin Fugui grinned, clapping his hands together. “Senior Brother is the first of us to secure a win! That’s a good omen. We should definitely celebrate.”

Mo Yu nodded vigorously, his eyes lighting up. “Agreed. Let’s have Old Jiang whip up a table of high-grade Spirit Cuisine!”

Jiang Chen smiled faintly. “I’m fine with whatever.”

However, Chen Bo waved his hand, his expression turning serious. “Forget the celebration.”

“Why?” The other three exchanged puzzled glances.

Long Ao was the first to speak, his voice low and analytical. “Although Fellow Daoist Chen won this first battle, he was forced to reveal his trump card. If he encounters another Fire Spirit Root cultivator, that needle trick won’t work a second time.”

“Furthermore,” Long Ao continued, scanning the crowd, “every other cultivator watching is now on guard against it.”

Chen Bo nodded grimly. He had no intel on his future opponents, but because he was in the first batch of fighters, he had attracted significant attention. His movement techniques, his combat style, and his hidden weapon were now public knowledge.

If he entered the next round expecting the same tactics to work, he would be slaughtered.

Hearing this explanation, Jiang Chen understood immediately.

Indeed, this was no time for feasting. Chen Bo needed to meditate and recover his peak condition to have any hope of surviving the next bracket.

…

The group lingered for a while longer, observing the matches between other Spirit Roots.

To Jiang Chen, it was largely underwhelming.

Overall, the combat style at the Qi Condensation and early Foundation Establishment stages wasn’t particularly dazzling. It was a standard exchange of artillery: circulate cultivation method, channel Spiritual Energy, release spell.

Victory usually came down to who cast faster, who had more proficiency, or who had a deeper pool of Spiritual Energy.

In cases where elemental affinities countered one another—like Metal cutting Wood or Water dousing Fire—the disadvantaged party had almost zero chance of turning the tables unless they possessed a Spirit Weapon like Chen Bo.

It was a numbers game. Rock, paper, scissors.

Jiang Chen found it dull.

“I’m going to head down to the outskirts of the Spirit Farm,” he told the others.

Without waiting for a reply, Jiang Chen walked toward the edge of the Fire Peak platform alone.

As he navigated the crowd, he nearly collided with a familiar face.

Both men stopped, momentarily stunned. They hadn’t expected to run into each other here.

Tie Zhu’s heart began to pound against his ribs. He bowed nervously. “Senior Brother Jiang!”

Jiang Chen smiled warmly. “Do you have a match today?”

Tie Zhu nodded, fidgeting slightly. “Yes. I saw my name on the roster.”

Jiang Chen patted him firmly on the shoulder. “Then give it your all. Don’t hold back.”

Tie Zhu froze for a second, then bit his lip. He couldn’t hold back the question that had been gnawing at him for weeks. “Senior Brother Jiang… why didn’t you ask me to loosen the soil this spring?”

Why was he nervous? This was the reason.

For seasons now, Jiang Chen had been his most reliable patron. They had a routine. But this spring, the summons never came.

Tie Zhu felt a deep sense of insecurity. If he lost this “golden thigh”—this powerful backer—where would he find such generous payments of Top-quality Spirit Rice and Spirit Wine?

Jiang Chen blinked, then realized the misunderstanding. “Ah, that. I acquired two new acres of Spirit Farm recently. The Earth Spirit Root team I hired to clear the wasteland offered to till the original two acres as part of a package deal.”

He smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry. I’ll call for you in the summer.”

“Do you have enough Spirit Rice and wine for now?” Jiang Chen added, his tone solicitous.

Tie Zhu let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Yes, yes! I have plenty!”

“Good,” Jiang Chen said, checking the sky. “I need to get going. If anything comes up, send word.”

He walked to the edge of the cliff and summoned his flight tool.

The Giant Leaf materialized, hovering steadily. Jiang Chen stepped onto it, rose into the air, and plunged toward the agricultural districts below.

Tie Zhu watched the green streak vanish into the clouds, murmuring to himself in awe.

“In just one winter… Senior Brother Jiang added two acres of second-grade Spirit Farm?”

Tie Zhu shook his head. “His potential is even more terrifying than I estimated.”

At that moment, he felt incredibly lucky that he had persisted in building a relationship with Jiang Chen back then.

…

An hour later, Jiang Chen arrived at the outskirts of the Spirit Farm.

With the influx of new disciples, the once-barren fields were now a boundless sea of green. The first-grade Spirit Farms were lush with young rice shoots, and dozens of disciples were patrolling the ridges, checking for pests and weeds with meticulous care.

“Senior Brother Jiang! Could you take a look at my planting technique?”

“Senior Brother Jiang is here!”

The moment Jiang Chen landed, he was swarmed by the Outer Peak disciples.

To the formal disciples on the mountain, Jiang Chen was just a wealthy hermit. But to these outer disciples, he was a legend—a living idol who had climbed from their ranks to the top. They trusted him implicitly.

Jiang Chen didn’t put on airs. He answered every question, corrected their postures, and offered advice on irrigation flow. After all, he knew exactly how desperate they were to succeed.

It took half an hour to extract himself from the crowd.

He headed toward Mo Yin’s quarters, intending to check on the foolish prince.

The room was empty.

He asked a neighbor, who pointed toward the fields. “Someone saw Mo Yin heading to the Spirit Farm earlier.”

Jiang Chen raised an eyebrow. “He went to work voluntarily?”

Driven by curiosity, Jiang Chen hurried over.

He stood on a high ridge, scanning the lower paddies. Sure enough, he spotted a familiar figure bending over in the mud, transplanting seedlings.

It looked like he had been at it for a while.

Jiang Chen didn’t interrupt immediately. He watched from a distance, analyzing.

Mo Yin’s technique was atrocious.

He grabbed a handful of delicate spring seedlings in one fist and jammed them into the mud with the other. No spacing, no depth control, just random stuffing.

At this rate, the yield would be lucky to hit 500 jin—absolute garbage tier. Forget becoming a formal disciple; he wouldn’t even pay for the seeds.

Jiang Chen rubbed his chin, eyes narrowing. A fool doing foolish things isn’t strange. But something feels off.

Mo Yin was emotionally unstable. How could someone so volatile have the patience to do repetitive farm work for hours?

Just as the thought crossed his mind, Mo Yin stood up and started jumping up and down in the muck.

Splash! Crunch!

He ripped out the seedlings he had just planted and stomped others into green paste. He looked like he was having a seizure.

Jiang Chen frowned. “Acting up again?”

A moment later, Mo Yin threw himself into the mud, rolling around like a pig. A blissful, idiotic smile plastered his face as he turned to two surviving rice stalks.

“Imperial Father!” he shouted at one. “Imperial Mother!” he cried to the other.

Jiang Chen sighed. He couldn’t let the idiot ruin the crop or hurt himself.

He walked down the ridge.

Seeing someone approach, Mo Yin flinched violently, trying to burrow his head into the mud like an ostrich. When he realized it was Jiang Chen, his tension evaporated.

He pouted, his lower lip trembling. “Hungry! Hungry!”

Jiang Chen produced a packet of snacks, waving it like a lure. “Come on. Let’s go back.”

Mo Yin immediately dropped to the ground, thrashing his limbs and splashing mud everywhere. “No! No! I want to play! Don’t want to go!”

Jiang Chen had no patience for a tantrum.

He shoved the snacks into Mo Yin’s mouth to shut him up, then reached out and clamped his hand onto the back of the fool’s neck.

With a heave, he lifted Mo Yin off the ground like a naughty kitten.

“We are going back,” Jiang Chen stated flatly.

He dragged the struggling prince away. Mo Yin chewed frantically on his snacks while flailing his muddy limbs in the air.

The surrounding disciples burst into laughter.

“Only Senior Brother Jiang would bother with him. Anyone else would have left the fool to rot!”

“It really is strange, though. Why did the Immortal Sect recruit a retard?”

“His background must be terrifying. Didn’t you hear him screaming ‘Imperial Father’ at the rice?”