Chapter 15: Chapter Fourteen: The Spirit Fields of Eyang Mountain

Liu Xiaolou counted anxiously and found more than twenty cultivators had already entered the fields; his heart sank—last year, the manor recruited exactly twenty laborers, yet now there were already more than twenty here; where would there be room for him?

Suddenly, he thought again, and his anxiety gave way to cautious hope—why had they recruited four extra this year?

Had they made an exception?

If they’d made an exception, adding one more... surely it wouldn’t matter?

Zang Baili was head of the Zang clan, a Qi Refining tenth-layer peak cultivator, but due to innate limitations, he could make no further progress, and thus never entered the inner sect; yet since the Zang clan’s rise two hundred years ago in the Zhanglong Sect, they had remained a significant factional branch, with disciples entering the inner sect in nearly every generation, and three of them having held the position of Elder.

The Zang clan could be called a major cultivation family of Xiangxi, ranking among the top hundred across the entire Jing-Xiang region, far surpassing the Zhang clan of Jinping Manor in depth and heritage.

Liu Xiaolou’s chance of meeting the Manor Lord Zang Baili was slim—and indeed, it was Zang the Steward of Eyang Manor who received him, a plump man over fifty, so fat he seemed to have no edges, his face flushed red, always standing with hands on hips, whether from habit or a spinal ailment, no one knew.

Zang the Steward had just returned from inspecting the spirit rice fields and spotted Liu Xiaolou at the manor gate; he stood with hands on hips and asked, “You look somewhat familiar.”

Liu Xiaolou hurriedly replied, “I worked here three years ago, Master Steward; you’re burdened with countless duties, and for you to remember me is my fortune.”

Zang the Steward nodded thoughtfully; the fat on his neck jiggled as he asked, “Three years ago? Indeed... then why didn’t you come these past two years?”

Liu Xiaolou paused, struggling to follow the steward’s train of thought, and forced a smile: “The number of laborer slots at Eyang Manor is too few; applicants flood in, and I simply couldn’t secure a chance.”

Zang the Steward grunted “Oh,” his tone dropping, not rising—signaling he accepted Liu Xiaolou’s explanation—then asked, “If you know opportunities are scarce, why not arrive early? Why are you late again this time?”

The reason had been prepared on the road; Liu Xiaolou replied, “I descended the mountain two days ago, but sudden heavy rain caused flash floods that blocked the path, delaying me two days. I beg your pardon, Master Steward.”

Zang the Steward asked, “Which mountain?”

Liu Xiaolou said, “Wulong Mountain, Gan Zhu Ridge. Liu Xiaolou.”

Zang the Steward gestured to the stooping manor head beside him, who always held a ledger; the man flipped it open, checked, and replied, “Wulong Mountain, Gan Zhu Ridge. Cultivator Liu Xiaolou of Sanxuan Sect. Correct.”

The ledger was the roster of Eyang Manor’s cultivator laborers; those previously employed and approved by the Zang family were recorded; those not on the roster were not recruited—who knew if you’d steal the harvested spirit rice in bulk?

Zang the Steward stood with hands on hips, lost in thought for a long while; Liu Xiaolou blinked, waiting for his decision. After a long wait, he finally heard: “Stay.”

Liu Xiaolou was overjoyed, profusely thanking him, watching Zang the Steward depart with hands on hips, then following the manor head to collect his sickle and bamboo basket, which held dried rations.

Spirit rice is not ordinary rice; harvesting it is not ordinary farming. The grain spikes are highly sentient, able to sense danger and strike harvesters with needle-like spines; the stalks are tough, beyond the strength of ordinary farmers—only cultivators can handle it. Even the sickles are specially forged—not quite magic treasures, but capable of withstanding minor true qi surges.

Prepared, Liu Xiaolou followed the manor head along the outer edge of the spirit fields; the cultivator laborers inside were already working feverishly: some diligently cut spikes with sickles, others used their own magic treasures to harvest, while those skilled in the Five Elements summoned fire to burn the stalks, or used ice blades and water dragons to strike the spikes—each in their own way. The fields blazed with swordlight, water and fire coiled like dragons, colors swirling wildly, a dazzling spectacle.

After walking past the spirit fields, the manor head did not enter them but took a detour, descending the northern slope of the valley, leaving the fields behind.

After walking two li along the mountain path, Liu Xiaolou could no longer hold back: “May I ask, Master Head, where are we...”

“Just follow.”

“Yes.”

After rounding a small hill, the view opened suddenly: below lay a valley winding through the mountains—the West Valley of Eyang Manor.

Once thick forest, the valley now held patches of rice fields carved into the undergrowth—half-mu, one mu, two mu, three mu—scattered irregularly among the dense trees. Many cultivators labored there, sweating; a quick glance revealed at least twenty.

At last, Liu Xiaolou understood why Eyang Manor had recruited more laborers this year—they had opened new fields, and the old quota was no longer enough.

“Is there a residual spirit spring here too?” he blurted out in surprise.

The manor head shot him a glare: “Don’t ask questions. Just work.” He pointed down into the valley. “See that grove? Old Sandalwood Grove... to the left! Beside that big rock at the foot of the mountain! See it? Good... follow the grove to the right until you reach E River. Then follow the river south. See that shallow ditch?”

“The one covered in wildflowers?”

“Correct. Chrysanthemums. All thirty-eight spirit fields within that ditch are yours. Total area: seventy-eight mu and seven fen. You’re two days late—only seven days left. Can you finish?”

“No problem,” Liu Xiaolou declared firmly.

The manor head said, “Same as always: thirty jin of unhulled spirit rice per mu. Whatever’s left is yours.”

Liu Xiaolou hesitated: “These spirit fields...”

The manor head cut him off: “Yield won’t be less—worry about finishing on time. Miss the season, and you can’t afford the loss.”

Liu Xiaolou nodded: “Master Head, I understand the rules.”

He had to harvest this parcel in seven days and deliver 2,361 jin of unhulled spirit rice—the manor would select the best seeds; for every hundred jin short, he must compensate one spirit stone, or if he had none, two hundred taels of silver. In truth, consuming one hundred jin of spirit rice yielded far less true qi than one spirit stone—barely half. So when compensation was due, no one ever paid with spirit stones; they always chose silver.

Eyang Manor knew the arriving cultivators couldn’t afford spirit stones, so they allowed silver compensation—but how many of those payments were really bribes in disguise? That was a matter of interpretation.

Time was precious. Liu Xiaolou immediately descended the mountain and soon reached his assigned field, beginning work at the northernmost left-hand plot.

This field was about one mu and three fen. Liu Xiaolou took several pieces of cowhide from his bamboo basket, tying them around his ankles and wrists for basic protection against the sharp grain spines, then stepped into the mud and picked up his sickle, reaching out with his left hand to grasp the rice stalks.