Chapter 17

This man hadn’t acted tough—he must’ve been upright. Liu Xiaolou watched him disappear into the distance with deep respect, bowing his hands behind him in farewell.

But as evening fell and darkness crept in, those of poor character appeared—suddenly bursting from the woods, rushing to the fields, slashing a few handfuls of rice with their sickles, then turning and fleeing before anyone could chase them.

Liu Xiaolou was at Qi Refining third layer, not yet able to send his sword flying—he could only roar after the retreating figure, stomping and cursing, “Fucking bastard!”

The last plot of spirit rice was harvested in utter frustration, having been robbed over ten times. The final time was especially maddening—the thief’s cultivation was clearly two full levels higher, and he refused to leave the field. Liu Xiaolou charged forward multiple times, but each attempt ended in failure.

He couldn’t beat him, and cursing did no good—the thief simply wore a black cloth over his face, silently reaping. He harvested two full fen of land, then calmly tied it all up, bundled it, and walked off—Liu Xiaolou had absolutely no way to stop him.

Fortunately, this was his final contracted spirit plot. In total, over twenty catties had been stolen—no great loss. He might as well have fed it to dogs.

After delivering his spirit rice that night, he was still a hundred catties short of his quota. He had four bags hidden in secret, totaling over three hundred catties. He obviously couldn’t hand it all in at once; by the final delivery tomorrow night, he planned to add another thirty or fifty catties, and make up the rest with silver—spending money to buy rice. Spirit rice cost two taels per catty—expensive, but not something you could just buy whenever you wanted.

Back at the field, Liu Xiaolou meditated for half an hour. Under the cover of dark moon and high wind, he pulled on a black cloth and donned a conical hat.

If others can do it, so can I!

His target had long been chosen: at the southeast end of the valley. Every night when he delivered his rice, he passed over the mountain and could see which plots remained unharvested. One plot at the southeast end was huge—over four and a half mu—and the spirit rice still stood tall and intact, unmistakably visible.

Halfway up the mountain, he watched for a long time under the moonlight. The field lay silent, the surrounding wilderness empty—perhaps the Zang family hadn’t assigned workers here, or those assigned hadn’t yet arrived to harvest. Either way, this was it!

He waited patiently another while until a dark cloud drifted across, blotting out the bright moonlight. The night deepened, the valley below plunged into near-total darkness, so dark he couldn’t see his own hand before his face.

“Go!” Liu Xiaolou spurred himself on, leaping down with swift, tiger-like ferocity!

In a few bounds he reached the foot of the mountain, crouching low as he sprinted silently, soon arriving at the field’s edge.

Indeed, pitch black—perfect timing for stealing rice.

Liu Xiaolou crept silently into the field, unsure of his exact location, enduring the prick of the grain stalks. He flung out his Mílí Xiāngjīn, then immediately began pulling rice—yanking up a clump and tossing it behind him into his basket. Soon, it was full.

He stepped back out of the flooded field, nearly tripping over the ridge behind him—embarrassing, but he had no time to care. He dumped the rice stalks onto the ridge, tied them with a single stalk, and piled them temporarily there.

He returned to the field and kept working, making multiple trips, cutting five or six bundles total.

As he worked, he kept glancing upward—the dark cloud was about to drift away, and moonlight would return. He’d better retreat to the mountain’s mid-slope first, then wait for another chance to descend.

As he pondered, he flung his Mílí Xiāngjīn forward—but it missed, snagging nothing.

Without time to think, he flung it farther out—this time it caught. Liu Xiaolou poured his true qi into the silk, and yanked back—

A soft cry came from below: “Ow...”

Liu Xiaolou froze. He looked closer—the thing he’d reeled in wasn’t a stalk of rice, but a person!

The cloud passed, moonlight returned—and now he saw clearly: it was a person, his Mílí Xiāngjīn wrapped around their ankle.

Looking across the field, he saw dozens of masked thieves, like headless flies, scrambling in panic under the moonlight.

The man with the tangled ankle sat up halfway, grabbing at the silk and glaring furiously at Liu Xiaolou: “You idiot! Can’t you see?”

Liu Xiaolou was equally stunned. He had no time to argue—he retracted the silk, dashed back to the ridge, snatched up his harvested rice, stuffed most into his basket, and gripped several bundles in each hand before sprinting into the forest.

When he reached the mountain’s mid-slope, panting, he turned to look back—the field was now empty. The once-neat rows of rice were torn apart, half-gone, as if devoured by dogs.

“These rice-thieving bastards are too damn many!” Liu Xiaolou spat in anger, gazing bitterly at the ruined field. After a moment’s hesitation, he finally left.

Too many thieves were targeting this plot—someone might alert the landowners. If they caught him red-handed with stolen grain, he’d lose everything.

He found a secluded spot to count his haul: five bundles in the basket, three in each hand—eleven bundles total! A fine harvest!

Huh? Eleven bundles? Hadn’t he only cut five or six?

He examined them closely—yes, six bundles were pulled up by the roots—his work. The other five were cut halfway up the stalk, noticeably shorter—someone else’s doing.

This unexpected windfall calmed Liu Xiaolou’s nerves, lifting his spirits considerably.

He immediately began stripping the grains, winnowing away the chaff—ended up with seven or eight catties. Satisfied, he tucked them into his basket and headed for his next target.

The next spirit plot was more secluded, tucked into a mountain corner, barely over one mu, long and narrow. From above, it was hidden by a grove of tall trees—nearly impossible to spot. Liu Xiaolou wouldn’t have found it at all if he hadn’t slipped down to relieve himself while passing by two days ago.

Reaching above the plot, Liu Xiaolou leapt down, landing on a tree branch. He gently parted the leaves to check for movement.

His heart sank.

Someone had already been here—just started, harvested about one-tenth of the plot.

Liu Xiaolou felt frustrated, yet unwilling to give up. Under the moonlight, he stared—the thief was a female cultivator, age indeterminate, figure graceful. Crucially, she wore no black cloth, harvesting openly with a longsword.

Since she didn’t cover her face, this plot must be hers. And since she wasn’t using aerial sword control, her cultivation hadn’t reached high Qi Refining—certainly not above eighth layer. Of course, few eighth-layer cultivators would bother with labor like this.

Watching longer, he noticed her sword never emitted a blade aura—otherwise, why would she be struggling so clumsily to cut the rice? Meaning her cultivation was below mid-Qi Refining—certainly not above fifth layer.

If that’s the case...

Could this be another opportunity?

Liu Xiaolou pulled his black cloth back over his face, slipped silently down from the tree trunk, and crept to the field’s edge.

Still several zhang from the ridge, he dropped to all fours and crawled forward.