Chapter 14

Machines roar in the fields, and the villagers chat while they work. More and more wild grass and trees pile up on the ridges. The brown soil, long unplowed, carries a moist scent as it lies exposed to the brilliant early morning sun.

The mountain village reveals a long-lost liveliness.

Wang Lifen opens the cluttered storage room in the corner of the courtyard, which hasn't been opened in a long time; it's a mud-brick house built decades ago.

That year, she had just given birth to her daughter, and Song Youde, together with his brothers, mixed yellow mud, chopped straw, and molded brick after brick to slowly build the house.

At first, this was their main room.

Later, as the children grew up and a brick-and-tile house was built, this room became a place to store grain and hay... and after they stopped farming, it became a complete storage room for odds and ends.

Qiao Qiao runs over: "Grandma! Grandma!"

Wang Lifen has just dug out a few carrying poles from inside and answers upon hearing him: "Qiao Qiao!"

Before long, Qiao Qiao's neatly trimmed, rounded buzz-cut head pokes in: "Grandma, Sister said she's taking me to farm later and wants me to borrow a small basket."

He is quickly distracted by the carrying poles stacked on the ground: "Grandma, what are these?"

Wang Lifen chuckles, hands him a small basket, thinks for a moment, then tears off a piece of plastic rope, folds it a few times, and ties it around his waist: "Our Qiao Qiao knows how to farm now!"

Song Qiao puffs out his chest proudly.

But he still persists in asking: "Grandma, one, two, three... seven, eight, eight of them... what are these for?"

"These? These are for the hens to hatch chicks."

Qiao Qiao's eyes light up: "I want to hatch some too!"

Wang Lifen:... This is exactly why she didn't want to answer immediately. This child asks one question after another—too many.

Fortunately, little kids all like to play with older children. When Song Qiao was three, Song Tan was eight; now Song Qiao is eighteen... and he still thinks he's three.

So he should find older children to play with.

Wang Lifen, sensing his thoughts, asks:

"So, are you going to farm with your sister, or come back and hatch chicks with Grandma?"

This kind of question is truly a bit too difficult for Song Qiao.

He struggles for a long while, but finally looks toward the direction of home: "I'll go farm with Sister."

As he leaves, he is reluctant to part: "Grandma, talk to the hens, don't let them hatch too fast, wait for me to come back and we'll..."

Once the little pest finally leaves, Wang Lifen digs out four baskets and places them in the warehouse, pads the bottom with a thick layer of dry grass, counts twenty or thirty eggs into each basket, and then goes to the chicken coop to catch all four hens—

These local country chickens are lean with long legs, and they peck quite painfully; they aren't easy to catch under normal circumstances.

Unlike the plump, fleshy broilers of today, which are lazy and won't even run if you chase them for two steps, just plopping down on their rumps—but whether it's laying eggs or eating them, they can't compare to local chickens; they only have efficiency.

To catch them, Wang Lifen specifically didn't open the coop door early in the morning, and they've been clucking inside all morning.

She puts the four hens one by one into the large-holed carrying baskets, inverts another basket on top, and fastens it tightly. If they persist like this for a few days, the hens will start preparing to hatch the chicks.

Just wait twenty or thirty days like this, and the chicks will be ready to break their shells.

It just so happens that by then it will be late March, the weather will be warm, and everything will be growing—a good time for chicks to thrive.

After two days of tidying up, the sawtooth oaks on the back mountain are cleared, and of the seven fields, only the two on the outermost edge remain today.

Song Tan sees that the weather is just about right, so she grabs Song Qiao, intending to sow the Chinese milk vetch seeds.

Until Wu Lan is still a bit hesitant: "It's still very cold in the mornings and evenings..."

The temperature difference is too great; it's easy to freeze the tender sprouts to death. At the very least, they should wait another half month.

Song Tan thinks to herself: I know. But the first time I channeled spiritual energy two days ago, I wasn't careful, and these seeds almost sprouted right then and there.

Sigh, it's also her lack of experience planting in this world; she had no idea how precious spiritual energy is to the plants here.

If she drags it out for two more days, she'll either exhaust the seeds' vitality prematurely, or watch them pile up there and sprout directly.

So she can only act headstrong: "Mom, this Chinese milk vetch isn't rice; how could it be that delicate? It will definitely survive."

Then she reaches out and calls: "Qiao Qiao, are the seeds packed? If they are, let's go to the fields."

Song Qiao doesn't care what season it is or what sprouts; the basket at his waist is filled with Chinese milk vetch seeds mixed with sand, weighing nearly ten jin.

The seeds are flat and small; don't look at the sand mixed in—there isn't much of it. Ten jin is almost enough for two mu of land. For Song Qiao, it's more like playing.

He looks cheerful and full of expectation:

"Sister, I'll farm today!"

"Good Qiao Qiao, Sister knew you could farm!"

The siblings head out like two carefree fools.

Until Wu Lan:...

Standing at the edge of the field, the fishy scent of soil rushes toward them. The plowed clods are turned over, and one can even see wild grass with white roots already sprouting inside.

Song Tan has been eating home-cooked meals for several days. Although they are much better than city food, and Until Wu Lan's cooking is impeccable, as her Qi Refining stage progresses, her mouth finds it increasingly difficult to tolerate impurities...

Everything she eats, after a night of cultivation, requires her to go to a smelly toilet the next day...

Sigh.

In short, it has absolutely nothing to do with the wind-drinking, dew-sipping, crystal-clear bodies of cultivators.

Thinking of this, Song Tan becomes urgent.

The two large bags of seeds she is carrying are also impatient to sprout; she can feel their vibrant vitality through the bags.

Song Tan doesn't hesitate anymore, grabs a handful, and swings her hand to scatter them. The seeds, damp from soaking, fall silently onto the soil, quickly blending into the brown earth, indistinguishable to the naked eye.

On the surface, unnoticed by anyone, that vigorous vitality bursts forth, and the overlooked seeds begin to crack open from the inside out.

Just waiting for a nourishing morning dew and appropriate sunlight, they can grow wantonly and vigorously without needing to be covered with soil.

This exuberant vitality makes one feel extremely peaceful. Song Tan looks down at them and decides that once the sowing is finished, she will take advantage of the daytime warmth to silently draw in more water vapor to press them into the soil.

A month later, large swaths of purple flowers will bloom here.

Her first step toward recovering her costs starts with these Chinese milk vetch.

Holding onto this belief in breaking even, Song Tan finishes scattering the field in no time. Just as she is about to move to the next field, she sees Qiao Qiao still squatting on the ridge, carefully examining the seeds.

"Qiao Qiao, what are you doing?"

Qiao Qiao says with a solemn expression: "Sister, you can't farm like that. You have to dig a hole, put two seeds in, and then cover it with soil."

Song Tan is stunned, then realizes—isn't this the method for planting corn?

So Qiao Qiao only knows how to plant corn!