The word slithered into Chen Ping’s mind like a venomous snake, coiling in the darkness and refusing to leave.

Steal.

Fear instantly seized his heart, turning his hands and feet to ice. But immediately following the terror was the madness born of three years of starvation.

If he didn’t steal, he would starve to death.

If he stole… what if?

What if he could really grow it? What if this patch of Black Earth could perform a miracle?

He remembered the hardwood stick he had whittled during the day.

It was a leftover scrap he had secretly retrieved from the Waste Residue pile while hauling lumber. The wood was dense and tough.

He had spent a good part of the day using a sharp piece of broken stone to slowly shave off the bark and splinters, smoothing it down. Originally, he had intended it as a defensive club or a tool for prying open crates.

Now, this foot-long hardwood stick had become his only farming tool.

He returned to the Shack once more.

The sky was already bright. The shack area grew noisy, a cacophony of hacking coughs and curses mixing together as the Laborers woke.

Chen Ping gripped the hardwood stick tightly. The rough wood grain pressed into his palm, bringing a strange, grounding sense of calm.

He tucked it into the waistband of his tattered pants, barely covering it with his outer garment.

He needed to wait for the right moment.

Daytime was too crowded with prying eyes; it was absolutely not an option.

The target could only be the outer perimeter of the Spirit Field, where the watch was relatively lax at night.

The Spirit Grain planted there was said to be of lower grade, and the security wasn’t as strict. After all, no one believed these starving laborers, barely clinging to life, would have the guts to touch an Immortal Master’s property.

For the entire day, Chen Ping endured immense torment.

Like everyone else, he numbly performed the heavy labor—pulling carts, hauling stone materials, clearing waste slag.

The hunger in his belly burned like fire, but even more torturous was the maddening thought of theft and the Jade Pendant against his chest, which felt like it was searing him like a branding iron.

Every time he bent over, every time he exerted force, he instinctively protected that spot on his chest, terrified someone might notice something amiss.

The blisters on his hands burst, the raw flesh stinging fiercely as it mixed with sweat and dust. The cut on his thumb from the stone shard seemed to throb, a constant reminder of last night’s promising beginning.

He didn’t dare look at the Jade Pendant again. He focused all his attention solely on the approaching night.

Finally, quitting time arrived.

The Foreman cursed and grumbled as he distributed the pitiful portion of Gruel.

Chen Ping cradled his broken bowl, gulping it down in a few mouthfuls. He forced himself to ignore the lingering hunger. He thought only of the Black Earth.

Night fell once more. Dull yellow oil lamps gradually lit up across the shack area.

Chen Ping did not light a lamp. He curled up in the darkest corner of his Shack, ears pricked, listening to the sounds outside.

Human voices gradually dwindled until only sporadic coughs and the distant chirping of insects remained.

Time passed, drop by drop.

Chen Ping’s heart pounded like a war drum, each beat tugging at his taut nerves.

He estimated that the patrolling guards should have already passed through the area near the shacks. Their next round would likely be in about half an hour.

This was his chance.

He rose silently, moving like a night-prowling civet cat. His movements were extremely light, careful not to disturb the other sleeping laborers.

He felt his way to the door and listened intently for a moment, pressing his ear against the wood. Then, he gently pushed it open just wide enough for his body to squeeze through.

He slipped out and carefully closed the broken door behind him.

The night wind carried a chill, blowing against his sweat-dampened back and raising goosebumps all over his skin.

The shack area was deathly quiet. Only the occasional distant bark of a dog broke the silence.

Hugging the shadows, he moved toward where he remembered the outer Spirit Field to be.

The moonlight was faint. Clouds drifted across it intermittently, shrouding the land in a protective haze.

Even Heaven was helping him.

The path underfoot was pitted and uneven. He stepped gingerly, trying hard not to make a sound.

Every time he stepped on gravel or dry twigs, the faint crunch made his heart leap into his throat. He would immediately stop, crouch low, and only dare to continue after confirming he hadn’t drawn any attention.

After walking for about an Incense Stick’s Time, the familiar, unique fragrance of Spirit Grain gradually grew stronger in the air.

To a Starving man, this scent was an irresistible temptation.

He saw the outline of the Spirit Field. Under the dim moonlight, the dense Spirit Rice resembled a low, undulating black blanket.

By the field ridge stood a simple straw shed. That was where the night watchman stayed.

Chen Ping’s heart rose to his throat. He lay prone in a low-lying ditch, his face pressed against the cold earth. Motionless.

His eyes fixed unwaveringly on the shed.

It was dark inside; no light shone from it. Listening carefully, he could faintly hear intermittent, heavy snores coming from within.

The night watchman was asleep!

Elation and terror simultaneously seized Chen Ping. The opportunity lay right before him, but this was also the most dangerous moment.

He forced himself to calm down, lying as still as a stone. He waited patiently for another full Incense Stick’s Time.

The snores continued unchanged.

He couldn’t wait any longer. The patrol could circle back at any moment.

Like a snake, he hugged the ground, using the field ridges and rice plants for cover. He slowly inched toward the edge of the Spirit Field.

The hardwood stick in his hand was now his sole reliance.

He didn’t dare go deep. He stopped beside a small clump of rice plants at the very edge.

The Spirit Rice leaves rustled softly in the night breeze.

Chen Ping reached out his hand, fingertips trembling slightly from tension and cold.

He touched the heavy rice ears. Each grain was hard, exuding a faint aura of Qi.

He needed just one grain. One single grain would suffice.

He selected what looked like the plumpest grain at the tip of an ear.

His left hand carefully cupped the rice ear, while his right hand tightly gripped the hardwood stick.

Using the sharpened end of the stick, he gingerly—little by little—pried at the tiny stem connecting the chosen grain to the ear.

His movements had to be extremely light and steady. He mustn’t rustle the surrounding leaves.

Sweat instantly soaked through his back. Time seemed to freeze.

The surroundings were terrifyingly silent; only his own ragged breathing and drum-like heartbeat were audible.

Each slight pry lifted his heart to his throat. Sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging, yet he dared not blink.

The hardwood stick tip wasn’t sharp enough. The prying was laborious.

Several times, the tip slipped, almost poking the neighboring grains. Each mistake frightened Chen Ping out of his wits, his heart nearly stopping.

He clenched his teeth, biting his lip until he drew blood, forcing his hand to remain steady.

Bit by bit…

Snap.

A faint, crisp sound echoed as the chosen grain finally detached from the ear.

Success!

Chen Ping retracted his hand lightning-fast, clutching the precious grain tightly in his palm.

It felt cool and hard, yet it seared his palm like a branding iron.

He didn’t even dare glance at it. He immediately stuffed the grain into his innermost pocket, pressing it against his chest.

His movements were swift as lightning.

Just then, a sound came from the direction of the straw shed.

A muffled, indistinct mutter.

The snores stopped.

Chen Ping’s blood froze. His entire body nailed itself to the spot. He dared not move a muscle; he even held his breath.

Ears pricked, he strained to catch the slightest sound from the shed.

A rustle of turning over. A smacking of lips.

Then, the heavy snores resumed.

Chen Ping exhaled a long, silent sigh of relief, collapsing back against the icy cold earth. Cold sweat had soaked his clothes through.

He dared not linger a moment longer.

Hugging the ground, he retraced his path with the fastest speed possible, crawling back using his hands and feet alike.

Only after squeezing back into the familiar darkness of his Shack, smelling the rank mildew, did he feel safe.

Only then did he dare to breathe. His heart pounded wildly, feeling as if it would burst out of his chest.

He slid down, leaning against the cold earthen wall, his whole body trembling uncontrollably. The delayed fear rose in icy tidal waves, washing over him again and again.

After a while, the trembling gradually subsided.

I succeeded!

He reached into his chest, his fingertips groping until they touched that small, hard, cool object.

He pulled it out, clutching it tightly in his fist as if holding his sole lifeline.

Now!

With a thought, the intense vertigo and tearing sensation assaulted him again.

HUM!

The aura of the Black Earth instantly soothed all his fear and trepidation. The milky moonlight overhead now seemed so safe.

He opened his palm.

A single, plump, bluish-green tinted Spirit Grain seed lay quietly in his sweat-dampened hand.

Under the soft, faint glow of the dimension, it resembled a tiny piece of jadeite.