The following morning began not with sunlight, but with a thin veil of mist that clung to Shen's skin like dew. A quiet, silvery hush filled the air as though the world held its breath between dreams and waking. Mudvale was still, save for the soft rustle of leaves and the distant yip of the fox cub chasing a beetle near the riverbank.
Shen stirred from sleep slowly, warmth still lingering in his limbs from the dream. In that otherworldly realm, he had walked a path through rows of verdant crops, their stalks shimmering with threads of light. As he touched them, whispers bloomed in his ears. Not words. Feelings. Growth, patience, nourishment. And then a seed had formed in his hand—not physical, not even symbolic. Just... potential. A promise.
When he awoke, the single seedling in the field felt different. It pulsed with more than just qi now. It pulsed with memory.
Breakfast was meager again—roasted tubers, a few edible leaves, and a sip of water. But he felt less hollow. The exhaustion had ebbed, and his injuries no longer burned with every movement. His qi still flickered unpredictably, like a candle in the wind, but it was stronger now. Steadier.
He glanced at the fox cub. She had yipped at him once already that morning—a high, impatient sound—then returned to stalking insects through the grass. Her single silver tail flicked with feline precision. Still unnamed, still watching him with unblinking curiosity.
"You're judging me," Shen muttered. "You're not even subtle about it."
She tilted her head and gave a small chuff.
He smiled and stood. Today, he would till the soil.
There were no cultivation techniques in Shen's arsenal suited to plowing land. No divine implements. Just a stick with a pointed stone lashed to one end, and his calloused hands. He began near the seedling, carving slow furrows outward in a spiral. The earth was dense, sunbaked, reluctant to yield.
Every motion was a strain. Every foot of progress required aching effort. He worked in rhythm: breath, dig, pull, lift, breath. Sweat rolled down his brow, stung his eyes. He wiped it away with a muddy sleeve and kept going.
The fox watched from a rock.
As midday approached, Shen collapsed beside the river and dunked his arms in the water. It was tepid and low, barely a trickle, but it cooled the worst of his aches. He looked up. The sun had pierced the clouds now, turning the mist into rising steam. His shelter loomed behind him—awkward, boxy, but solid. His furrows carved spirals in the soil. A single sprout stood proudly at their heart.
Shen stared at it.
"You're the reason I'm doing this, aren't you?" he said aloud.
It didn't answer. Of course it didn't. But the breeze that followed felt... amused.
By evening, he'd tilled nearly a third of the field. Not perfect rows. Nothing pretty. But the earth was open. Ready. He could feel it, humming faintly under his feet. A low vibration of acceptance.
And then, something shifted.
As he stood beside the seedling, its glow flared, and the air thickened. Not with heat, but with presence. Like the mountain watching him again. Like the dream.
A symbol bloomed in the space between breaths:
[Task Complete: "Till the Land"] +20 EXP
Minor Soil Enrichment (Field)
[New Task: "Sow Something Living"]
Reward: Random Growth-aligned Seed
Shen blinked. The message had not arrived in sleep, but in the half-light between exhaustion and peace. He felt no strangeness about it. Only a deep, pulsing resonance, like a drumbeat in his chest.
"So we're not strictly bound to sleep anymore, huh?" he murmured.
The fox yipped again.
That night, Shen didn't sleep immediately. He sat beside the fox cub under the stars, slowly feeding the fire. She curled into his side, her single tail warm against his thigh.
He thought of what he had fled. The cruelty of the sect. The cold eyes of inner disciples. The endless climbing for status. Here, he tilled soil with broken tools and burned hands. And he was... content?
He wasn't sure what that said about him.
But the stars overhead glimmered just the same. The earth beneath him breathed. And something ancient stirred in the seedling, still unfurling leaf by leaf.
Tomorrow, he would plant.