The tiny Spirit Grain seedling carried all of Chen Ping’s hopes.

It carried his courage to keep living.

This wasn’t an illusion. It was proof. With this, there would be food. There would be the strength to survive.

With this, he could grow more. He could break free from this endless cycle of exploitation and hunger. He could live with dignity.

There was even a chance to become an upper-level servant… no longer having to worry about starving… no longer fearing that he would end up like Old Zhang, rotting silently in a cesspit.

Grievance, fear, pain, despair…

In this moment, they all found an outlet.

Chen Ping knelt on the Black Earth, weeping silently. Tears mixed with the grime on his face, carving out streaks through the dirt.

He clenched his fists, nails digging deep into his palms, using the physical pain to anchor himself to reality.

After a long time, the turbulent emotions gradually subsided.

Chen Ping roughly wiped his face with his sleeve, smearing the grime even more. He looked at the Spirit Grain seedling standing quietly in the faint light, his eyes burning with an unprecedented firmness.

Soon.

At this rate, seven days at most!

In seven days, he would harvest his first stalk of Spirit Rice. The first grain that truly belonged to him.

He carefully leaned closer, meticulously examining the leaves to confirm there were no signs of withering or disease. The Black Earth remained fertile, humming with boundless vitality.

He dared not stay long, fearing the headache would strike again.

Finally, he took one last greedy look at that patch of green, etching its image deep into his soul.

With a thought.

HUM.

The scene shifted. The darkness and foul air of the Shack enveloped him once more.

His head felt slightly heavy, but it was far less severe than the previous night. A shorter stay meant a smaller price.

Chen Ping lay on the cold pile of straw, eyes wide open in the darkness.

The pain in his body was still clear. The wound on his shoulder burned fiercely, and the gnawing hunger in his belly returned with a vengeance.

But this time, he felt no despair.

The image of that half-foot-tall emerald green seedling was branded into his mind. That patch of green was a small yet incredibly intense flame burning in his heart, dispelling the gloom.

He cracked his dry lips and smiled soundlessly. The expression tugged at the wounds on his face, but he paid it no mind.

Life was finally no longer an impenetrable darkness.

There was light now. Faint, but real—light he could grasp.

In the following days, Chen Ping’s life remained bitterly harsh.

He was awakened before dawn by the clamor of that fat pig, Manager Wang.

The man was inherently mean-spirited, skimming silver from the sect without fearing retribution while intentionally making life hell for the servants.

Chen Ping’s tasks had completely shifted to feeding pigs.

He dragged his sore body back and forth, Foraging for pigweed. The dull knife became increasingly hard to use, and new wounds constantly appeared on his arms, sticky and painful.

The shouts of the burly servant men remained grating. While cleaning the Pigsty, he was knocked over by an irritable spirit pig and covered in filth. While fetching water, the heavy wooden buckets pressed down on his shoulders, reopening old wounds until they bled.

But the ash-like deadness deep in Chen Ping’s eyes had vanished.

Replacing it was a calm, calculated endurance.

When reprimanded by the Foreman, he gritted his teeth and stayed silent. When shoved and cursed at, he kept his head down, eyes fixed on the ground.

He saved every bit of strength he could spare, hoarding it all to last until late night.

The exhaustion and pain were real. The Starving ache in his belly was real.

But whenever night fell deep and quiet, and snores rose from all corners of the Shack, the thing sustaining him became clear.

As on previous nights, he waited until everyone was asleep before tightly gripping the Jade Pendant.

After a wave of dizziness, the familiar scent of Black Earth enveloped him.

The light overhead remained constant.

His first action was to look toward the center.

There, the Spirit Grain seedling that had been a tiny sprout yesterday had grown noticeably taller. It now reached his knees!

The leaves were no longer tender sprouts; they had unfurled, showing a resilient dark green. Against the glossy Black Earth, the color was strikingly vivid.

Chen Ping’s heartbeat quickened.

He moved closer, crouched down, and carefully examined the veins on the leaves. He gently touched the stem.

Firm. Resilient.

It was real.

He cracked his dry lips and smiled soundlessly once more. All the hardship and weariness of the day seemed worth it.

He didn’t dare stay long. After soaking in the strength brought by this vitality, he withdrew.

On the third night, the plant had grown to thigh height. The stem was sturdier, the leaves broader, their edges bearing fine serrations. It was no longer a seedling; it had taken on the appearance of a true spirit plant.

Chen Ping walked a circle around it, fingers lightly brushing over a leaf. The cool touch carried the power of life.

On the fourth day, the height surpassed Chen Ping’s waist.

The plant was lush, leaves layered upon leaves, their color deepening into the shade of thick, dark jade. The entire plant exuded a robust sense of power.

Chen Ping straightened up, looking at the spirit plant almost as tall as himself. His chest swelled with immense satisfaction.

On the fifth day, the change was even more pronounced.

From the top of the plant emerged slender spike-like structures. Though still thin and immature, they were unmistakably nascent rice panicles!

Chen Ping’s heart leaped into his throat. He held his breath, leaned close, and stared fixedly at the spikes.

Yes, panicles! It had started to grain!

Wild joy surged through him like an electric current. He clenched his fists tightly, digging his nails into his palms to stop himself from crying out.

On the sixth day, the emerging rice panicles rapidly elongated and filled out.

Even more astonishingly, the dark green leaves and stems began taking on a faint golden hue. The panicles changed faster—from bluish-green to pale yellow, then to a weighty golden yellow.

The entire Spirit Grain plant seemed gilded by sunlight, shining brilliantly against the Black Earth.

In the air, the unique, rich fragrance of mature Spirit Grain—a mix of sunshine and grain—was clearly discernible.

Chen Ping greedily inhaled several breaths. This scent was sweeter than any Gruel.

The seventh day.

Chen Ping entered the space with an almost pilgrim-like reverence.

The sight before him stole his breath.

The Spirit Grain plant had fully matured.

Its original dark green had completely faded, replaced by a pure, heavy golden yellow. The stem was thick and strong, sturdily supporting the massive rice panicle at its top.

The panicle hung low, heavy with grain. Each grain was plump, like a cluster of tiny golden beans, weighing down the stalk.

A rich grain aroma permeated every corner of the space. A single breath filled one’s lungs with satisfaction.

Chen Ping knelt before the Spirit Rice plant, hands clasped, praying fervently.

The Spirit Grain was ripe.