The storm had passed, leaving behind a hush of serenity. Shen stepped outside, breath misting in the cool air, and found the world slick with rain. The soil squished beneath his feet, saturated and pliant. Mist clung to the land like a veil, curling around the edges of his freshly tilled field.
He stood there for a long moment, letting the scent of petrichor wash over him. It was a grounding smell—earthy, damp, alive. The rain had awakened the land. And it was time.
Shen walked over to the edge of the field, where the Seed of Possibility had been planted days ago. The sprout, no taller than his hand, glowed faintly even in daylight. Its presence felt like a quiet heartbeat in the wet soil—steady, strong.
He touched the young sprout gently and whispered, "You stay here and grow strong. You're not the crop. You're the promise."
And with care, he cleared the space around it. Not to center it in his field, but to honor it as a witness. A guardian. The sapling would remain on the side, overlooking his work like a silent observer.
The time had come to begin true cultivation—not of his soul, but of sustenance.
It was the rainy season now, the season for rice. The skies were still heavy, clouds weeping intermittently, soaking the land to perfect saturation. Shen knew the rhythms of such work, even if most cultivators had long forsaken them.
He chose a space beside his lean-to for the rice nursery bed. It needed to be slightly raised, with berms shaped from packed mud to retain water. He spent hours forming the shape, pressing the walls firm, making sure the water would pool and not spill. Then, he mixed the soil—turning earth with a flat stone, softening it by hand, folding in compost, wood ash, and fermented fruit water that had matured during his early days in Mudvale.
The smell was pungent, but the essence was rich.
The previous night, he had filled a clay pot with rainwater and set it beside the fire. Into this warm bath, he had poured his rice seeds. By morning, they were swollen, eager to split. He drained them and transferred them carefully into a woven reed basket.
Shen knelt before the prepared nursery, water sloshing gently against the edges. Despite sore muscles and a weary body, he felt more centered than he had in weeks.
His fingers pressed into the mud. He let his qi flow—not in sharp strikes or combat katas, but in ripples. Gentle and sustained. Each seed he touched, he imbued with a quiet thread of himself. Not a powerful surge, but a whisper of life, of care.
Raindrops fell in soft mist as if nature itself approved.
He planted slowly. Carefully. Reverently.
This was cultivation.
With the rice nursery secured, Shen turned to the larger field. Rain had awakened more than just rice—uninvited growth had returned.
Dozens of green shoots pushed through the surface. Some were benign. Others not. One sapling in particular had roots that pulsed with a dark essence.
Demonic qi.
Shen's gaze hardened.
He uprooted the sapling and burned it instantly, using dried husks and foraged bark to ignite a smokey blaze. The rising ash shimmered with more than heat—it carried his will.
"Only what I choose shall grow here."
For hours, he moved across the muddy land, pulling weeds, tilling new beds, and refreshing the soil with additional compost and waste from his latrine pit—diluted and decomposed properly. He dug trenches for drainage, then banked the far edge of the field to redirect any overflow away from the rice nursery.
By the time he finished, twilight painted the sky in bruised pinks and storm-washed purples.
Using reeds salvaged during the storm, Shen wove a fence around the nursery. It wasn't tall, but it was thoughtful. It would deter curious animals and wandering paws.
He carved simple sigils into river stones and buried them around the border—basic symbols of harmony and growth. The fox sniffed at one, yipped in distaste, and pawed it half-heartedly before flopping beside the warm stones he had placed to hold heat through the night.
Smoke grass burned in a small bowl nearby, the fumes keeping insects at bay. The scent clung to Shen's robes, earthy and sharp.
When all was in place, he sat back, stretching sore arms and soreer legs. The field shimmered in the waning light. A few fireflies danced lazily above the paddies. The fox curled tighter against his side.
He closed his eyes and fell asleep.
He dreamed of the field.
Not as it was—but as it could be.
Moonlight poured over soil that shimmered like black glass, rich and bottomless. The Seedling on the edge radiated a warm green glow, casting roots that extended far beneath the nursery and main field. The rice bed blazed gently with internal light, every seed humming in harmony with his heartbeat.
Shen walked barefoot through the glowing mud. Each step rippled the earth, and roots answered his movement like dancers in soil.
His translucent hands hovered over the seed bed, and the pulsing of each grain grew stronger in response.
Above the field, golden words unfolded like blossoms:
[Task Complete: Plant Something Living by Hand]
[Milestone Achieved: Create Cultivator-Guided Nursery]
—Trait Gained: Rootbound Initiate— Crops planted with spiritual energy grow harmoniously and provide slight cultivation gains during planting.
[Reward: Verdant Seed Pouch (Uncommon)]A spiritual pouch containing seeds aligned with Growth, Life, and Utility Daos. Granted for sowing life through spiritual guidance.
[Land Bond: Strengthened] Your intent has been accepted. The land begins to recognize you.
—EXP Gained—
The dream blurred—shimmering roots fading into the void.
Shen awoke to the sound of water dripping from leaves and the scent of soaked earth.
The rice nursery shimmered beneath the morning sun. The seedlings had begun to rise—delicate, rooted, alive.
He pressed his palm to the ground near them, not to cultivate, but in thanks.
"Let's grow together," he said.
And the earth answered in silence, deep and warm.