Arin awoke with a start, his body trembling as he lay sprawled on cracked, damp earth. His limbs felt frail, unfamiliar, as if they belonged to someone else. He was clad in a tattered kurta-like robe, its fabric rough against his skin, and his hands—still calloused but thinner—clutched at the ground. The air buzzed with an energy he couldn't name, a pulse that thrummed through the earth beneath him. This wasn't Rajasthan. Before him stretched a vast expanse, its name whispering through his mind unbidden: the Verdant Lotus Valley. Once a cradle of life, it was now a scarred wasteland, its fields reduced to dust and stone by years of war between martial sects. Jagged scars crisscrossed the landscape, remnants of battles fought with qi-enhanced blades and fiery techniques that had scorched the earth black. Yet, beneath the desolation, Arin felt something—a faint heartbeat, a thread of vitality waiting to be coaxed free. Qi, he realized, though the word felt foreign yet instinctive.
The valley was a paradox: barren yet brimming with potential, like a seed buried in parched soil. Sparse patches of grass clung to life, their blades shimmering faintly with qi, and the air carried a scent of ash and forgotten blooms. The horizon was framed by jagged cliffs, their peaks shrouded in mist, and a river—its waters dull and sluggish—wound through the valley, its banks eroded by neglect. In the distance, a village square bustled with life, its stalls draped in silks and spices that glowed with subtle energy. It reminded Arin of a Jaipur bazaar, but here, the air crackled with mysticism. Villagers in flowing robes, their patterns shimmering with lotus motifs, moved with a quiet urgency. They offered rice and flowers to a shrine carved with intricate designs, its stone surface glowing faintly with qi, as if the offerings fueled its light.
The scene echoed Pongal—the harvest festival his village celebrated with fervor—but here, the joy was fragile, shadowed by desperation. The land was starving, its fertility drained by conflict. Arin's farmer's instincts stirred, a deep ache to heal what was broken. He approached the square, his steps hesitant but purposeful. The villagers' robes were dyed in earthy tones—ochre, sage, and indigo—their patterns pulsing with qi like veins of light. Stalls brimmed with goods: jars of spices that sparkled like crushed gems, their scents sharp and otherworldly; bolts of silk that seemed to ripple like water, their threads woven with qi; and baskets of wilted produce, their qi faded but lingering, as if the plants themselves mourned the valley's fall.
A group of children played near the shrine, tossing a ball woven from dried lotus stems, their laughter a stark contrast to the tension in their parents' eyes. An elder, her hair streaked with silver, poured rice into a brazier, her lips moving in a silent prayer. The air smelled of incense and longing, a community clinging to hope amidst ruin. Arin watched as a young woman bartered with a vendor, trading a handful of wilted herbs for a small jar of glowing ointment. "For my son's fever," she said, her voice tight with worry. The vendor nodded, his face etched with sympathy. "May the land heal him," he replied, a prayer more than a promise.
Screams shattered the air. Black-clad warriors stormed the square, their boots crushing crops and scattering offerings. "Tribute!" their leader bellowed, a towering figure in a dhoti-like robe, a sword gleaming at his hip. His eyes were cold, his presence a storm of fear. The Iron Fang Sect, Arin somehow knew, their name rising like a memory not his own. The warriors moved with precision, their movements fluid and deadly, their armor etched with fang-like patterns that pulsed with qi. Villagers cowered, their baskets spilling rice across the dirt. A young girl, thin and trembling, clutched a wilted rice stalk, hiding behind a stall. Her eyes, wide with hunger, locked onto Arin's, stirring memories of Priya and the bulldozers. She couldn't have been more than six, her frame frail, her cheeks hollow from hunger, her tattered robe barely covering her bony shoulders.
Without thinking, Arin knelt beside her, his hands sinking into the dry soil. A faint pulse stirred beneath his fingers—qi, alive and waiting. Guided by instinct, he murmured, "Om Bhumi Namah," the mantra flowing as naturally as breath. Warmth surged from his core, a golden stream of energy pouring into the stalk. It glowed, its brittle leaves unfurling into vibrant green, sprouting golden grains that spilled into the girl's hands. She gasped, her tears forgotten, and began to eat, her face lighting up with wonder. The grains tasted of life itself, sweet and sustaining, each bite filling her with warmth. She looked up at Arin, her eyes shining with gratitude, and whispered, "Thank you."
The villagers froze, their whispers rippling through the crowd. "The Jade Farmer…" they murmured, a mix of awe and hope in their voices. An old man dropped his basket, his eyes wide with disbelief. A woman clutched her child, whispering prayers to the shrine. Arin blinked, bewildered. He felt the land's gratitude, a bond deeper than anything he'd known on Earth. He was no warrior, no sage—just a farmer. Yet, in this world, that seemed to carry weight. The crowd parted as a young woman approached, her sharp eyes softened by kindness, a bindi-like qi rune glowing faintly on her forehead. Her robe, adorned with lotus patterns, shimmered in the fading light, and her dark hair was braided with threads of silk that pulsed with qi. "You're not from here," she said, her voice low and curious. "I'm Naya Seorin. That was no ordinary act."
Arin managed a small smile, still clutching the glowing grains. "I'm just a farmer," he said, his voice steady despite the strangeness of it all. Naya tilted her head, studying him with a mix of skepticism and intrigue. "A farmer who wields qi like that? The land hasn't bloomed in years. You're more than you think." She reached into her satchel and handed him a leather-bound journal, its pages worn but intact, the cover embossed with a lotus that seemed to glow faintly. "My mother was a seer. She wrote of a farmer who would bring prosperity. I think… it might be you."
Arin took the journal, his fingers tracing the embossed lotus on its cover. He opened it, glimpsing elegant script, diagrams of crops, and symbols he couldn't decipher. One phrase stood out, written in bold strokes: "The Jade Farmer will restore the fields and unite the sects." Before he could speak, a shadow fell over them. The Iron Fang elder stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he sensed Arin's qi. "A farmer with such power?" he sneered, his hand resting on his sword, its blade etched with runes that pulsed with dark qi. "Join us, or leave this valley by dawn."
The crowd tensed, their whispers falling silent. Arin's locket felt heavy against his chest. He wasn't a fighter, but the land called to him, its secrets buried beneath the scars. He met the elder's gaze, his voice calm but firm. "I'll stay," he said, "and I'll plant." The elder's scowl deepened, his grip tightening on his sword. For a moment, Arin thought he might strike, but the elder turned away, his warriors following. The festival resumed, but a chill lingered—a threat, unseen but palpable, loomed over the valley.