Chương 8: Farming Simulator 101 1.8

The sun had barely risen when Ning drove the hoe into the earth. The blade struck soil with a dull thud. He twisted his wrists, stepped forward, and struck again. The impact reverberated up his arms, settling deep into his shoulders as he worked in steady rhythm. Sector Three's soil was not like the dirt he remembered from Earth. Under the top layer lay a compacted stratum strengthened by years of formation reinforcement. The land had been designed to trap qi, to prevent spiritual dissipation.

That same quality made it stubborn. So, each stroke required his full strength. Alas, Ning had thought too simply at the beginning. Spiritual farming was still just farming essence. No matter how mystical the world, the sun still rose, the soil still resisted, and the body still tired. By midmorning, sweat traced steady paths down his spine. The body he had inherited was strong, honed through years of martial discipline. Without that foundation, he would have collapsed within hours.

Even so, his palms blistered beneath the wooden handle, and his lower back throbbed with a steady, unforgiving ache. After preparing the soil, he began planting the Basic Grain. As the name suggested, basic Grain was the lowest-tier spiritual produce offered by the sect. It carried no elemental attribute, no temperament, no special affinity. In theory, even a novice could grow it successfully. It demanded no complex nurturing technique. It required only one thing. Spiritual rain. And that was precisely the problem.

Ning could not use spiritual rain. Not yet. So for the first week, before mastering the Small Cloud Rain Technique, water had to be carried from the river. Fortunately, the river was not especially far and a short walk under normal circumstances, but repetition magnified distance. He fashioned a shoulder pole from spare lumber and suspended two buckets from either end. The first trip was manageable. The fourth carved raw lines into his shoulders. By the eighth, every step felt like punishment.

"I don't think this is how I imagined my cultivation life," Ning muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. When he had first learned he would be assigned to spiritual farming, he had at least expected some assistance. An ox. A sect puppet. Perhaps even a simple mechanical contraption. Instead, he had a pole, two buckets, and a hoe. The so-called mystical world had proven surprisingly mundane.

When he had asked Old Zhou why they were required to perform such labor in a mortal fashion, he had replied plainly:"It's the sect's rule. Physical labor helps newly condensed qi stabilize within the body. You adapt faster when the body moves." For a moment, Ning had been speechless. Annoyed, yes. But unable to refute it. After several days of hauling water, he had indeed grown more comfortable circulating qi while moving. The foreign energy no longer felt so foreign. It followed his breath more naturally.

His steps felt grounded. Still, understanding did not make the buckets lighter.

"Alas, I can only hope cultivation can cure back pain." Ning sighed. Days passed like this. Hoe at dawn. Water by noon. Study by lamplight. The rhythm became routine. The soreness became familiar. He learned the slope of his land by instinct. He could now circulate qi while walking without stumbling over his own breathing. And yet, one problem remained. The field demanded spiritual rain. But that was about to change.... After planting the final stretch of grain, Ning straightened slowly, rolling his shoulders.

He surveyed his field. Over the past week, he had divided it into sections. He rotated watering patterns. He observed which areas dried fastest, noted the slight slope running westward, and tracked how morning light touched the eastern edge first. He carved shallow surface channels to guide excess water instead of letting it pool. Small improvements. But improvements nonetheless. The Small Cloud Rain Technique. He had read the jade slip every night. Read it again in the morning. And once more before sleep.

If he were being honest, the sheer misery of carrying water had only sharpened his determination. The heavier the buckets felt, the more carefully he memorized the circulation diagrams. There were hand seals and a qi circulation pattern that needed to be mastered. It required qi to leave the dantian, flow through specific meridians, exit through the palms, and be unleashed to form a specific effect. Ning inhaled slowly. He formed the first seal. Qi stirred within his dantian and rose, steady but cautious.

He adjusted the flow, preventing the faint abrasion caused by rushing circulation. The second seal formed. Above him, the air thickened. At first, it was nothing more than a shimmer. Then mist gathered, coalescing into a small cloud suspended overhead. A droplet fell. Then another. Soon, a steady rain pattered across the field. Ning felt the drain immediately. It was far more taxing than martial practice, yet strangely controlled. The soil darkened as spiritual rain seeped into it.

The newly planted grain trembled faintly as qi infused the roots. He held the technique just long enough. Then released. The cloud dissolved, leaving behind only the quiet morning air. Ning stood still, chest rising and falling. If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

"Fudge… this is magic," he breathed. He had known, in theory, that cultivators could split mountains and shatter skies. But witnessing rain manifest from empty air, summoned by his own hands, struck him differently.

"This is amazing," he murmured, almost incredulous. For the first time since arriving in this world, he felt the true magical aspects of this world. He felt like a cultivator. And beneath his exhaustion, something steady took root. No more buckets....

"Senior Brother, how does the Small Cloud Rain Technique work?" Ning asked. Every two days, Old Zhou would impart various bits of farming common sense to him. It was the responsibility of senior farmers to guide the newcomers, after all. In just the past week, Ning had already learned quite a bit. Spiritual plants had ranks, and each rank carried its own temperament and demands. First-tier grain seemed simple, but even it required steady spiritual rain and careful qi control.

Weeds were not merely weeds but competitors for spiritual energy. Soil could be refined, balanced, and even upgraded through proper techniques. And all of this was only the foundation.

"The entire Sector Three sits atop a great farming formation," Old Zhou explained patiently.

"When you cast the technique, you aren't pulling water from thin air. You're guiding the formation's stored energy, shaping clouds so they release qi-rich rain at the right moment."

"I see," Ning nodded. Practical enough for daily use. Vague enough to dodge deeper questions. A classic cultivator explanation. Of course, Ning wasn't fully satisfied. Weather control, energy circulation, formation theory, there had to be deeper layers beneath it all. But Old Zhou likely didn't know them either.

"Senior Brother, your knowledge is profound. I truly admire you." Ning spoke earnestly, slipping into the role of a flattering junior with ease. Praise cost nothing; why not brighten the old man's day? But it seemed this trick, which had worked quite well over the past few days, had lost its effect. Old Zhou merely waved his hand.

"Knowledgeable? Hardly." He gazed over the fields, then farther toward the inner regions of the sect.

"This is about as far as it goes for people like us." Ning paused.

"What do you mean?"

"Status," Zhou said simply.

"Our standing in the sect is too low. We farm, we maintain, we produce. That's all. Resources, guidance, opportunities, those go upward." He snorted softly.

"Cultivation is already hard. Do it while being at the bottom, and it becomes twice as slow." Ning frowned. That sounded uncomfortably familiar.

"Is there a way to change that?" Ning asked. Zhou glanced at him, surprised. Then he nodded.

"There is." Ning leaned forward slightly.

"Spiritual profession certification," Zhou said.

"If you obtain a first-tier certificate, your status changes. You're no longer just labor. You become… useful."

"Like spiritual farming?" Ning asked.

"Exactly." Zhou chuckled.

"Those with the certificate are called spiritual plant masters. Just by getting the certificate, the massive tax gets significantly reduced." Ning hesitated.

"Then why don't you?" Zhou's smile thinned.

"Because it isn't easy," he said.

"For farming, you need three planting spells cultivated to great success." He raised two fingers.

"I only have two. The Cloud Rain Technique and the Soil Refining Art."

"The third?" Ning asked. Zhou shook his head.

"Couldn't complete it. No matter how many years I tried, it never crossed the threshold. After all, I was only born with the earth elemental attribute." He didn't sound bitter. Just matter-of-fact. Ning fell silent. Zhou clapped his hands suddenly, the mood shifting as quickly as it had darkened. A broad, shameless grin spread across his face.

"So I stopped worrying about it." Ning blinked.

"Stopped… worrying?"

"…What?" Ning froze at the sudden change in tone.

"I may be old," Zhou continued cheerfully, "but a cultivator's vitality doesn't decline until sixty. I'll head to the mortal world, marry a string of concubines, and hope one of my descendants has talent. My low-grade spiritual root wasted twenty years of my life. With it, breaking into late-stage cultivation is harder than ascending the heavens."

"Spiritual roots, huh…" Ning sighed. Compared to Zhou, he was luckier. A mid-grade root wasn't heaven-defying, but with hard work, it was enough to reach late-stage Qi Refining.

"To be honest," Zhou added, narrowing his eyes with envy, "I'm jealous of you, Junior Brother. Not just your root, but your five-element attribute as well. In farming terms, you could be called… the Congenital Holy Farming Body." Ning's lips twitched violently. Oh, for heaven's sake. Why did cultivators insist on slapping ridiculous names onto everything? Holy Farming Body? Really? Still, Zhou's sigh carried genuine regret. Ning hesitated.

"Senior Brother, " But Zhou cut him off with a lewd grin.

"As for me, I'll return home and live like an emperor. Ten, no, twenty, beautiful mortal women, and I'll spend my twilight years surrounded by beauties. If the Dao won't grant me breakthroughs, I'll grant myself comfort." Ning's sympathy evaporated instantly when he saw that expression. Fudge! Give me back my concern, you shameless old goat.