Chapter 381: The Spirit Fields

There are a hundred trades in the Dao.

Across the vast Nine Provinces, customs and lands differ. Cultivators depend on the mountains and rivers around them—adapting to their environment and making a living in countless ways.

Among these many trades of cultivation, Spirit Farmers cultivate spirit rice and other crops within Spirit Fields.

Tōngxiān City, surrounded by mountains, has no arable land. Its spirit grain and rice are all purchased from an immortal city to the west—one that survives by farming vast Spirit Fields.

Mo Hua, who had grown up in the city, had never before seen such an expanse of farmland.

South of Qianjia Town, the Spirit Fields stretched out in neat grids, covering nearly a hundred acres.

Verdant rice shoots swayed amid the mist that lingered low above the ground.

The sky was wide and high, clouds drifting lazily across it. The fields gleamed with emerald life, spreading endlessly into the distance—like a vast carpet of jade stretching toward the horizon.

Where the blue sky met the green fields lay a range of mountains, shrouded in cloud and mist.

Mo Hua took a deep breath. The air was crisp and fresh; his heart felt tranquil, and a faint light flickered in his eyes as he suddenly gained some insight.

Heaven gives birth to all things, and the Earth nurtures them.

Heaven is the manifestation of the Great Dao, and the Earth, its extension.

And between these fields, traces of formations could indeed be seen.

Along the ridges between fields were embedded firm earthen stones, upon which simple formations were drawn.

But these were not Absolute Formations—merely simple Earth-Nurturing Arrays, used to cultivate the soil and preserve water qi.

Mo Hua released his Divine-Sense. All he perceived were ordinary Earth-Nurturing Arrays—nothing special, no trace of extraordinary formation energy. Slightly disappointed, he decided to walk deeper in for a closer look.

A narrow path ran along the fields. As Mo Hua followed it for a while, his brows furrowed.

It was morning; the sun shone bright. Farmers labored among the fields.

Most were elderly, dressed in tattered robes smeared with mud. Their faces were dark and thin, their hands calloused and cracked.

They were bent double, as if something invisible pressed upon their backs, making it hard to breathe.

Under the brilliant sun and amidst the lush green fields, these hunched figures looked painfully out of place.

Mo Hua sighed softly.

After a while, he came across an old man beside one of the fields.

The old man, clearly a Spirit Farmer himself, was dry and thin, his waxy, wooden face etched with despair.

Beside him stood a small grandson, wiping tears from his dirty little hands.

Feeling pity, Mo Hua asked,

“Grandpa, what’s the matter?”

The old man turned stiffly. Seeing a clear-eyed young cultivator before him, he hesitated many times before finally sighing deeply.

“The field’s gone bad again…”

His voice carried bitterness and fatigue.

Mo Hua blinked, concerned.

“How could the field go bad?”

The old man pointed at the ridge. His voice was hoarse.

“The array’s broken. Without it, the field loses vitality, can’t hold water, and the crops dry out. Then this year’s harvest is gone…”

By the end, his tone had become choked.

Mo Hua looked over and saw that indeed, the array inscribed along the ridge had failed—its runes dull, no longer circulating spiritual energy.

He exhaled in relief. For a moment he thought it was something serious.

It was merely a six-line Earth-Nurturing Array.

“This array’s simple. I can fix it for you,” Mo Hua said.

The old man was stunned. “You… you know formations?”

The little boy’s teary eyes widened hopefully.

Mo Hua nodded humbly. “A little.”

“But this formation’s very complicated…”

“I happened to study it.”

The old man looked doubtful at first but saw that the young cultivator spoke with calm confidence—so he half believed. Yet still he hesitated.

“What if you make it worse…”

Mo Hua blinked. “Isn’t it already broken?”

The old man froze. That… was true. It couldn’t get worse than this.

Still, it concerned his livelihood, and he couldn’t quite let go. After a long struggle, he sighed.

“All right, little brother… go ahead.”

There was nothing else he could do.

Mo Hua took out his formation brush and dipped it in ink.

The old man looked surprised—this young one even had proper tools!

Hope flickered in his eyes.

Then he saw Mo Hua walk to the ridge, raise the brush, and with a few quick strokes, he was done.

“All fixed,” Mo Hua said cheerfully.

The old man blinked, dumbfounded.

“That’s it? Already?”

A few strokes and it was done?

Mo Hua nodded. “It’s a very simple one.”

The old man stepped closer—and saw faint yellow light bloom across the lines. The water vapor began to gather again; the rice plants regained their green sheen.

His lips trembled. Then, suddenly, he smiled.

The smile soon gave way to tears. He squatted beside the field, weeping in relief—because it meant he and his grandson wouldn’t starve this year.

Mo Hua felt a pang in his heart.

So many cultivators in this world lived such pitiful lives—

To simply survive was already a cause for tears of joy.

“Thank you, young sir…”

The old man bowed deeply, unable to express his gratitude in words.

Mo Hua asked,

“When your arrays break, haven’t you hired anyone to fix them?”

The old man sighed. “I have. Ten spirit stones each time. But it keeps breaking. I fix it, it breaks again… I’ve poured all the spirit stones I had into it—and even owe the Sun family dozens more…”

“The Sun family?”

He pointed toward Qianjia Town. “The richest family in town—the Suns. That array’s their ancestral pattern. They say only their people can draw or repair it. So whatever price they name, we have to pay.”

Mo Hua frowned. “And you never asked another formation master to look at it?”

The old man forced a bitter smile. “There are no others here. Even passing ones won’t help us—they don’t dare offend the Suns.”

The words left Mo Hua silent for a moment.

He looked again at the repaired formation—indeed, there were traces of earlier patchwork. It had been done with the cheapest ink and crude technique—barely apprentice-level.

Likely deliberate.

If the formation were fixed properly, it wouldn’t break so soon—and the Sun family would lose their steady stream of profit.

Ten spirit stones each time…

No wandering cultivator could afford that endlessly.

Mo Hua asked quietly, “And if you can’t repay the Suns?”

The old man’s face fell. “Then we sell our children to them. The sons become servants; the daughters, maids. Once they enter the Sun household, they lose their names. Parents can’t even recognize them again…”

Mo Hua’s gaze hardened slightly.

Now he understood where all those maids and servants of the Sun family had come from.

The old man realized he had been rambling and apologized awkwardly.

“Listen to me, going on and on…”

Then he flushed with shame. “For the array repair—I don’t have any stones to pay you…”

He wanted to offer something, but his home was utterly barren.

Mo Hua waved it off. “A small favor, don’t mention it.”

The old man was deeply moved.

“Young sir, if you don’t mind, please come to my house for a simple meal.”

He looked so guilty that Mo Hua nodded after a moment’s thought—he also had more he wanted to ask.

As they walked, they chatted idly.

The old man’s surname was Ding. His family had four members and lived in Dongshan Village near Qianjia Town, farming spirit fields for generations.

But spirit farming earned too little to feed them all, so his son and daughter-in-law had gone away to find work—returning maybe once a year.

Only he and his grandson remained, living off a few thin acres.

When Mo Hua entered their home, it was just as he expected—bare walls and utter poverty.

Old Ding looked embarrassed. “Please forgive… we have little to offer…”

Mo Hua shook his head gently. He had grown up a wandering cultivator himself—he knew poverty well.

Old Ding went to light the fire and cook.

After a while, a bowl of porridge, a plate of pickles, and a single country chicken were set on the table.

That chicken had been alive when Mo Hua entered earlier—clucking at him in the courtyard.

Though technically a spiritual beast, it had almost no spiritual energy and was worth next to nothing—some poor cultivators raised a few for food.

But it was their only chicken.

The pickles were bitter and salty.

There was half a bowl of rice in Mo Hua’s porridge—but none at all in theirs.

Farmers, yet with no grain to eat.

Mo Hua sat silently for a long time.

“Wandering cultivators in Tōngxiān City live hard lives,” Elder Yu had once said, “but most in the wider world live harder still.”

Now Mo Hua finally understood.

He remembered the Sun family’s breakfast that morning—a full table of dishes, half of which had gone uneaten and were thrown away…

Mo Hua sighed softly.

Those who toil and sweat starve,

while those who neither plow nor sow feast in silk and gold.

(End of Chapter)