The field, once bursting with green, now lay calm and golden. Rows of neat stubble marked where Shen had reaped the bounty just days ago, the scent of fresh-cut grain still lingering in the breeze. The rice was harvested—but Shen's work was far from over.
Bundles of rice stalks leaned in careful clusters beside the lean-to, where flat stones soaked in midday sun. Shen knelt barefoot beside them, his qi-threaded fingers gently spreading the stalks. He turned each bundle with care, guided by more than just moisture content—he listened. The hum of the land, the rhythm of air and soil, told him when a bundle was ready to move on.
The little fox dozed nearby atop a shaded rock, tails twitching occasionally in the sunlight. Now and then she'd crack one eye open and sniff the bundles curiously, only to yawn and return to her nap.
When drying was done, Shen moved to threshing. By the edge of the field, a broad smooth log rested across two flat stones. Shen lifted a bundle and struck it in slow, measured rhythm, each motion a breath, a step in cultivation. When fatigue crept in, he shifted—laying the stalks down and walking over them barefoot, his weight helping dislodge stubborn grains.
Winnowing came next. Shen sat cross-legged near the field's edge, where the wind stirred the grass. He held a shallow basket woven from reeds and grass, gently tossing the rice into the air. On calmer days, he summoned the breeze himself with a large fan—crafted from river reeds, stiffened with subtle qi.
Chaff drifted on the breeze, and golden grain settled back into the basket.
By the time the sun reached its zenith, Shen had filled twenty coarse hemp bags—each holding nearly twenty kilograms of polished, fragrant rice. The weight of the harvest pressed down on the earth around his lean-to like a quiet promise. It was more than he had expected—enough to last the season, and then some.
The fox cub sat nearby, following the arc of the grains with sharp eyes, pouncing once or twice at floating husks. When Shen offered her a pinch of rice, she sniffed it, then pawed it into her own little bowl with an air of dignified acceptance.
Cleaned and dried, the rice was sealed in earthen jars and a row of hemp bags, lined carefully along a shaded corner under a thatched awning. One jar he buried halfway into the soil near his shelter, letting the earth keep it cool. The first pot of cooked rice—flavored with a handful of wild spring onions—was shared with the land.
Shen knelt beneath the now waist-high world tree sapling and placed a pinch of warm rice at its roots.
"Thank you," he murmured.
He ate slowly. Each bite tasted of effort, warmth, and patience. The fox nudged his leg once and got her share in a wooden bowl. She licked it clean, then promptly curled up on his lap, tail flicking his nose.
That night, Shen dreamed.
[Milestone Achieved: First Spiritual Harvest – Rain Season Rice]
Your rice carries the memory of rain, growth, and peace.
Trait Gained: "Cycle of Sustenance" – Eating food grown with intention enhances qi regeneration.
[Sub-Milestone Achieved: Abundant First Yield – Rain Season Rice]
Your field yielded 400 kg of spiritual rice. This abundance reflects harmony, patience, and applied intention.
Bonus Gained: Slight increase to future Growth Dao crop yield.
Morning came. Mist draped the land in veils of quiet silver. Shen stretched, his back popping faintly, and glanced at the rice jars. Satisfaction hummed in his bones.
He had harvested. He had threshed, winnowed, and cooked. And the land had answered.
The next morning, after a humble breakfast shared beneath the rustling leaves of the world tree sapling, Shen packed a modest bundle—dried rice, wild onion paste, and a folded cloth of steamed leaf parcels. The fox cub circled his feet, sensing the shift in rhythm. Tomorrow, they would journey beyond their field and across the low hills to Ashreed, the neighboring village nestled between the old bamboo groves. It was time to pay respects, to offer greetings, and perhaps, to trade the first fruits of his labor. Shen looked toward the horizon where faint trails wound between rising mist and sloping earth. He had worked in solitude long enough. Now it was time to walk the old paths—and let others know the soil had borne fruit once more.
End of Chapter