Chapter 2: Qin Ming

"Sigh, men without money have idle cocks, women without money suffer in their cunts..."

The sky was just beginning to lighten.

In the Southern Wastes’ cultivation realm, outside the Qingyang Marketplace, the shantytown district.

A wooden door opened, and a plain-looking young man stepped out.

Qin Ming yawned, rubbed his bloodshot eyes listlessly, and slung his spirit hoe over his shoulder, preparing to head out to work.

Before leaving, he glanced back at his neighbor’s courtyard, fury rising in his chest.

"What the hell are you screaming at three in the morning? Do you have zero public decency?"

His neighbor was a young female cultivator, quite attractive, who regularly brought male cultivators home to spend the night in lewd acts.

Last night she had moaned and screamed the entire night through.

'Once I have spirit stones, even if I can’t afford a new house, I’ll definitely set up a soundproofing array first!'

Qin Ming gritted his teeth, silently vowing— the sound insulation in these houses was truly terrible.

Last night, while he was meditating and cultivating, the noise from next door had stirred his thoughts wildly, sent his blood boiling, and nearly shaken his Dao heart.

It had been far too dangerous!

With no choice, Qin Ming had gritted his teeth and stayed awake all night, reciting the Pure Heart Sutra a thousand times in time with the creaking bed next door, barely managing to calm his mind...

Just thinking about the endless work waiting for him in the spirit fields today made his mood collapse entirely.

"I’ve been in this cultivation world for nearly five years— when will this hell end?"

"With this environment, what the hell kind of cultivation is this?"

"I can’t even get a decent night’s sleep!"

"Sigh, having no cheat system is so damn frustrating..."

Before coming to this world, in Qin Ming’s understanding,

cultivation meant traveling to the Northern Seas at dawn and reaching the Western Woods by dusk, flying through the skies, vanishing underground, and slashing with sword qi across ten thousand li.

But in reality?

Although cultivation sounded prestigious, what kind of life did low-level cultivators actually have?

Every day they struggled desperately just to survive, under crushing pressure.

'If not for the fact that the original owner of this body had been forcibly conscripted by the Lingyu Sect from a cultivation family and ordered to undertake this reclamation mission, required to serve a full sixty-year labor term...'

'I’d rather just retire into mortal society— at least I’d get a few decades of decent life.'

After all these years, Qin Ming had long seen through the reality—he finally understood he was just an ordinary fool.

After all,

with his four-element pseudo-spiritual root, without special fortune, even if he cultivated until death, he could never reach Foundation Establishment.

Wasting over a decade...

His cultivation base was still stuck at Qi Refining Stage Two, effectively doomed on the Dao path.

His family abandoning him and trading him to the sect for resources was understandable.

Fortunately, his family had quietly arranged things ahead of time, so he didn’t have to be sent to the front lines to fight beasts.

Qin Ming rented three mu of spirit fields in the cleared outer zone, becoming a spirit farmer.

And today was the day of the spirit rice harvest.

But,

Qin Ming’s face showed no trace of harvest joy.

Instead, he felt uneasy inside.

A bountiful harvest also meant the authorities would send people to collect the spirit rice tax.

"Oh, Xiao Qin, up so early? Looks like this season’s spirit rice is doing well!"

As Qin Ming was pondering on his way to the spirit fields, an old farmer-looking cultivator emerged from the alley beside him, smiling as he greeted him.

The man’s cultivation aura was far higher than his own— Qi Refining Stage Four.

"Morning, Old Nine."

Qin Ming couldn’t help but smile slightly upon seeing him.

He sighed next.

"Ah, don’t even mention it—you know I’m only Qi Refining Stage Two, and I’ve barely mastered the Spirit Rain Art at beginner level, can’t even cast it more than a few times a month."

His name was Cai Jiuwu; the nearby cultivators called him Cai Old Nine, a longtime resident of this shantytown.

Qin Ming didn’t know his exact background, only that he’d been tilling this land for over a decade.

Cai Old Nine had pitch-black skin, a face full of wrinkles, a scruffy beard, and a pipe clenched between his teeth; he rolled up his pant legs, looked disheveled, and carried a spirit hoe and sickle slung over his shoulder.

He looked more like a beggar than a cultivator.

Yet from Qin Ming’s observations, he knew the man was only in his early forties...

"By the way, Old Nine, with your Qi Refining Stage Four and intermediate Spirit Rain Art, your harvest this year must be pretty good, right?"

Qin Ming’s tone carried a hint of envy.

The Spirit Rain Art was a spirit cultivation technique the sect had given them farmers, allowing them to disperse spiritual energy from spirit crystals, spirit stones, or spirit veins into the air to artificially summon spirit rain.

Spirit grains, rice, fruits, and herbs nourished by this rain avoided insect and rodent damage and greatly increased yields.

Qin Ming hadn’t expected that farming could be so tightly tied to cultivation base.

When he’d practiced the Spirit Rain Art for half a year and found that his rain radius was only two zhang, and his spiritual power lasted less than half a stick of incense...

He’d wanted to die...

Someone’s piss had more volume than that.

"Heh, not bad, just decent enough. After we finish harvesting today and pay the tax, wanna head to the Juxuan Pavilion in the marketplace for a drink and relax?" Cai Old Nine smacked his lips, answering vaguely, looking shrewd.

"Nah, I won’t go to that money pit." Qin Ming shook his head.

He wasn’t unwilling—he just had no spirit stones...

Cai Old Nine clicked his tongue.

"Man, you’re such a bore. Life’s long— every now and then, treat yourself a little won’t hurt..."

"They say, drink today’s wine, drown today’s sorrows. With our lot, why bother chasing immortality or the Dao? Better wake up from this dream early and be free."

"Fine, then treat me?"

"Get lost! Get the hell out of here!"

Not long after,

a vast mountain range shrouded in mist and clouds came into view, its peaks wild and rugged, waterfalls cascading down, caves feeding dragon pools, mist and waves stretching endlessly, like a traditional ink painting.

On the terraced half-slope, hundreds of mu of spirit fields were neatly divided into orderly rows.

Here, the spiritual energy from a first-rank spirit vein was more than sufficient to grow low-grade spirit grains and plants.

Within the fields, golden spirit rice ears glowed brilliantly, swaying in the wind, releasing the distinctive fragrance of spirit rice into the air.

Birds in the sky flew down to feed.

"Dang!"

Before the birds could land, a loud crash echoed.

The simple straw effigies set up in the spirit fields shook their spirit gongs, emitting piercing sonic waves that scattered the bird flocks.

Qin Ming and the other man followed the mountain path to their respective fields and began working.

Inside the spirit field,

Qin Ming stared at one of his plots, his lips twitching slightly, feeling disheartened.

Half a mu of his spirit rice was still lush green, standing out sharply against the surrounding golden, ripened rice.

Anyone who didn’t know would think he’d planted garlic sprouts here...

He himself knew exactly why.

His Spirit Rain Art was too underdeveloped, too low-level, cast too infrequently, resulting in uneven rainfall distribution.

"Looks like this season’s rice yield will drop— I wonder if I can even cover the tax this time." Qin Ming worried, shook his head, and began harvesting the rice ears.

His spirit sickle swept beneath the stalks, cutting down clusters of rice, which he expertly tied into bundles.

The spirit rice here yielded three times a year; as long as the roots remained, new shoots would grow again in a few months, allowing another harvest.

Like cutting leeks.

The sun sank low.

After harvesting the rice, threshing the grains, and filling the sacks,

Qin Ming’s magic power was completely drained, exhausted like a dog.

He had just wiped the sweat from his brow when he heard the sound of a magic artifact slicing through the air.

Qin Ming looked up immediately and saw a green-leaf magic boat slicing through the sky in a flash of emerald light, slowly descending.

One person stepped down from it.

He was a fat middle-aged male cultivator, dressed in the blue-and-white robes of Lingyu Sect’s outer disciples, his belly protruding, strutting forward with an air of authority.

This fat man was Du Haifu, the overseer of this region’s spirit fields.

He managed all the spirit fields and farmers on this entire mountain— to Qin Ming and the others, he was a real local emperor.

"Hehe, Xiao Qin, you’re quick! Got all the spirit rice harvested already."

Du Haifu pried open Qin Ming’s sack of spirit rice, pinched a few grains, and held them under his nose to sniff.

He casually tossed a handful of spirit rice into his mouth and chewed slowly, then smiled contentedly.

“Hmm, the quality’s quite good. You must’ve put in a lot of effort.”

Du Haifu slapped his waist pouch and pulled out a large measuring device, beginning to weigh the harvest.

“Two shi and eighty jin of spirit rice harvested. Seven percent tax due—that’s one hundred and ninety-six jin…”

“Huh? That doesn’t add up.”

“Why is it fifty jin less than last season’s harvest?” Du Haifu’s smile vanished instantly.

After checking a ledger, his expression turned cold, and his gaze shifted to Qin Ming.

Hearing this, Qin Ming’s heart tightened.

He pulled a small silk pouch from his robe and quickly handed it over.

Then he forced a smile and apologized: “Master Du, I’m truly sorry—there was a minor issue in the fields. These spirit stones make up for the half-sack of rice you’re missing. Please bear with me.”

Though it pained him, he had no choice—it was most of his wealth.

In truth, Spirit Feather Sect only collected fifty percent as tax, but below them were clerks, and beneath them, overseers managing the spirit farmers…

Layer upon layer siphoned off the harvest, leaving him with barely anything.

That small pouch of spirit stones was likely eighty percent destined for Du Haifu’s private stash.

Du Haifu took the pouch, weighed it in his hand, and immediately understood—he softened his tone.

Still, he warned Qin Ming: “Once only. No next time!”

With a wave of his hand, he sealed the several large sacks of spirit rice into his waist pouch.

Qin Ming stared at Du Haifu’s waist pouch and the earlier Green Leaf Flying Vessel, truly envious.

He could never afford such things…

“Do you know how much spirit rice Cai Laojiu turned in this season?” Du Haifu asked suddenly, his tone heavy with implication.

Then he held up two fingers, waving them in front of Qin Ming’s face.

“More than double yours!”

“You can’t keep going like this.”

“Since you’ve got some sense, I’ll give you a hint.”

“I just heard—next tax collection, the sect’s clerical elders will tally this year’s spirit rice contributions. The ten farmers with the lowest yields will be sent to the front-line battle camps to reinforce manpower.”

“Think carefully.”

Du Haifu finished speaking, didn’t even look at Qin Ming’s reaction, and flew off on his vessel.

Only Qin Ming remained frozen in place.

“What? Sent to the battle camp?”

…

Night fell.

Qin Ming carried the remaining spirit rice back to his hut.

Thud!

Shutting the door, he collapsed onto his bed with a thump, lying flat on his back like a dead dog.

His mind was a tangled mess.

He stared blankly at the ceiling, replaying Du Haifu’s words.

He knew perfectly well his current yield placed him among the bottom few.

Spirit Feather Sect’s battle camps were places of extreme casualties—everyone feared them.

So-called land reclamation naturally meant the sect dispatched cultivators to reclaim barren, uninhabited lands in the cultivation world.

These places were often previously occupied by beast beasts, blocked by natural barriers, and brimming with danger.

Not to mention the inexplicable, eerie threats that made daily cultivation impossible.

Put bluntly:

The sect needed low-level cultivators as expendable scouts.

Being a spirit farmer was exhausting, but at least it was safe.

In this world, countless people struggled just to survive.

What others once despised had now become his only lifeline in this sea of suffering.

“What do I do? I don’t want to die as cannon fodder!”

“I can’t accept this!”

Qin Ming pondered—perhaps he was just too tired today.

He drifted off into a drowsy sleep…

Suddenly!

A dazzling, radiant light streaked through the depths of his soul.

Qin Ming had a long dream.

In the dream, strange and bizarre plants, as if touched by some force, grew wildly at an impossible speed, blotting out the sky…

“Boom!”

Then something exploded in his mind.

…

The next day.

Qin Ming woke up, clutching his throbbing head, dazed and groggy.

He got up, filled a basin with water, and walked to the garden bed to wash his face.

The bed held dozens of spirit rice plants—he studied their habits and occasionally practiced the Spirit Rain Technique on them.

But the moment he looked up at the garden bed, he froze. Three of the spirit rice plants each emitted a floating prompt: 【Name】: Jin Ling Rice 【Entry】: Rapid Growth (Maturity 100%, Harvestable)

【Name】: Jin Ling Rice 【Entry】: Advanced Spirit Rain Technique (5 uses) (Maturity 100%, Harvestable)

【Name】: Jin Ling Rice 【Entry】: Faint Magic Power (Maturity 100%, Harvestable)

Qin Ming rubbed his eyes in disbelief, murmuring:

“Too much.”

“Did I sleep wrong last night?”

(End of Chapter)