The northern wind clawed through the broken shutters of the Li family courtyard, carrying with it the stench of rot and ash. Outside, the land had long since turned barren. Fields that once glistened gold with harvest now lay cracked, starved of rain and mercy. Even the riverbed was a skeleton—dry, jagged stone where children once played.
Inside the crumbling house, silence pressed heavier than the cold.
Madam Li sat by the low wooden table, her shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. She was only thirty, yet famine carved years into her face that should not have been there. Still, her beauty lingered, stubborn as the last flower in winter—skin too pale, lips chapped, but eyes sharp and dark like the night sky.
Five pairs of hollow eyes watched her from across the room.
Her sons.
Li Yuan, the eldest, had just turned twenty. He sat upright, back stiff, fists curled on his knees as though sheer willpower could keep hunger from devouring him. His frame had once promised strength—broad shoulders, a soldier's posture—but now his clothes hung loose on him, collarbones protruding like blades.
Beside him was Li Wei, nineteen. His jaw clenched and unclenched with restless frustration. Of the five, he was the loudest, his tongue quick, his temper quicker. Hunger had only sharpened his edges.
Li Zhi, eighteen, leaned against the wall, staring at the floor. He was quiet, almost too quiet, as though his spirit had already given up before his body did. His cracked lips and hollow cheeks spoke more than his silence.
The younger two, Li Hao at seventeen and Li Ming at sixteen, huddled together on a straw mat. They tried to look strong for their older brothers, but fear betrayed them in every trembling breath. Their eyes darted to their mother with desperate hope, as if she alone could keep them alive.
But Madam Li had no food to give.
The only sound was the growl of empty stomachs, loud in the stillness. It was a cruel reminder that they had eaten nothing but grass paste and a handful of husks for days. Even water had become scarce.
At last, Li Wei broke the silence.
"Mother," he muttered, his voice hoarse. "We can't keep waiting like this. The neighbors… they say our family should scatter. Find food separately, survive however we can."
The words stabbed sharper than any blade.
"Scatter?" Madam Li's voice trembled, not from weakness but from rage. "Do you mean to abandon your brothers? To abandon me?"
Wei's face twisted with guilt, but his hunger spoke louder. "Better than watching us all die here! We're men now. If Father were here, he'd tell us to act, not sit and wait for heaven to pity us."
The mention of her husband struck like a thunderclap.
The air thickened, as though the very walls dared them to continue. No one spoke of him anymore. Two years ago, he had left for the battlefield, promising to return. No letter had come. No body, either. The village had long whispered that the Li family was cursed—that the husband had died nameless on the field, leaving only a widow and five sons too young to lead.
But Madam Li had never wept openly. She had not allowed herself. For her children's sake, she endured.
Now, her son's words pressed into that wound until she could hardly breathe.
"You dare speak of your father," she whispered, her fingers digging into the edge of the table. "You know nothing of what he sacrificed."
Wei opened his mouth, but Yuan's hand shot out, silencing him with a hard grip on his arm. The eldest son's eyes met his mother's—dark, steady, though hunger dimmed their fire.
"Mother," Yuan said quietly, "he's only desperate. We all are."
Desperate. The word echoed in her ears.
Her body swayed with exhaustion. The world tilted, shadows creeping in from the corners of her vision. She braced her hand on the table, struggling to steady herself.
And then—
A voice.
Cold, clear, unearthly, echoing not in the room but within her very mind:
[Spring System activated. Host survival priority engaged.]
Her breath caught. Her surroundings blurred.
One heartbeat she was in the freezing hut, the next she stood barefoot in a place that could not exist.
A spring bubbled before her, water so pure it glowed under a lightless sky. Around it stretched a patch of soil, rich and fertile, its scent alive with promise. To her right shimmered a small pool, its surface glowing faintly with warmth, as though it pulsed with healing. Beyond the field loomed a structure like a barn, its doors shut, waiting to be filled.
Madam Li pressed a trembling hand to her chest. "What… what is this place?"
The voice answered again, calm and mechanical, yet strangely gentle.
[Welcome, Host. This is the Spring Space. Current functions: Water Source, Spiritual Soil, Storage, Healing Pool.]
Her lips parted, disbelief warring with awe. She bent to the spring, cupping water into her hands. It was warm, sweet, unlike any water she had tasted before. She drank greedily, tears stinging her eyes as strength coursed back into her frail limbs.
When she blinked, the vision shifted. She was back in the dim hut. Her sons were staring at her, confusion etched on their hollow faces.
"Mother?" Hao whispered. "What happened? You look… different."
Her heart pounded. She could not tell them. Not yet. To reveal such a miracle was to invite ruin. The village would brand her a witch, the greedy would kill for it.
But she could act. She must act.
Madam Li straightened, her voice firm. "Yuan," she said to her eldest. "Bring me what rice husks remain."
He frowned. "There's nothing left, Mother. Only scraps too bitter to eat."
"There is enough," she said, her tone brooking no argument.
He hesitated, then obeyed. Soon, a meager handful of husks sat in her palm. She touched them, and in her mind willed them into the space. A faint warmth pulsed, and when she withdrew her hand, the husks felt… cleaner, lighter, as if stripped of rot.
She poured them into the battered pot, filled it with the water she had drawn from the spring, and set it over the cold ashes. Even without a fire, the pot began to steam faintly, the water releasing a gentle warmth that spread through the room.
Her sons' eyes widened as the thin porridge thickened, filling the hut with a scent they had nearly forgotten.
"Eat," Madam Li ordered when she ladled the steaming broth into bowls.
They obeyed without protest. First in silence, then with disbelief, then with tears running down their gaunt faces.
It was not much. Barely a mouthful each. But it was enough. Enough to remind them that life still clung to them, however fragile.
Madam Li watched her sons lick their bowls clean. Her hand rested on the table, steady now, her back straight.
This famine will not take us, she swore silently. I will keep them alive. No matter what it costs me.
The fireless stew lingered in their bellies, a thin warmth that dulled the edge of hunger. Madam Li sat awake long after her sons had drifted into uneasy sleep. Their breaths were shallow, their bodies curled close for warmth against the night chill.
She kept her eyes on the dark ceiling beams, though her mind remained within that impossible spring. The sweet water on her tongue, the fertile soil that stretched endlessly—none of it felt real. And yet, the broth she had conjured from scraps sat heavy in her stomach.
This is not a dream, she thought. Heaven has not abandoned us.
She pulled her shawl tighter. In the silence, she allowed herself to remember her husband—Li Zheng. His smile had always been firm, unshaken by hardship. He was a soldier to the bone, but with her and the boys he had been gentle. When he left, he promised: "Wait for me, A'Yun. No matter what happens, wait."
She had waited. And waited. But no man had returned, only famine and whispers.
Her throat tightened. She pressed a fist against her lips, stifling the sob clawing to escape.
She could not break. Not now. Not ever.
At dawn, Madam Li rose before the rooster's cry. She stepped quietly into the yard, her feet crunching on frost-dusted soil. The world was gray, barren—yet when she closed her eyes, she felt the pulse of that hidden spring beneath her skin.
She entered it with a thought.
Inside, the spring gurgled with life, its water sparkling brighter than before. The field of soil seemed to call to her, rich and eager. She glanced at her hands, rough from years of labor, and dared to kneel on the edge.
She pressed a single rice husk into the soil. Instantly, the earth swallowed it whole, and before her very eyes, a thin green sprout pushed through. Her heart skipped. Within moments, it grew taller, leaves unfurling, until the stalk bent with golden grains.
She gasped.
Harvest, in the span of a breath.
Tears burned her eyes. She cut the stalk, clutching the full grain against her chest. For a moment she could only laugh, shaky and desperate, the sound cracking in her throat.
With trembling reverence, she stored the grain inside the barn-like structure. The system's voice echoed:
[Storage function activated. Grains preserved indefinitely.]
Her heart pounded. Food. She had food. Not much, not yet, but enough to prove this miracle could grow.
When she returned to the hut, her sons stirred awake. Yuan rubbed his eyes and frowned. "Mother? You've been outside?"
"Yes," she said, smoothing her hair to hide her trembling. "Fetching water."
Wei yawned, scowling. "There's no water left. The well's gone dry."
Madam Li smiled faintly, a secret blooming in her chest. "There is always water, if you know where to look."
The boys exchanged confused glances, but said no more.
By midmorning, a knock rattled their broken gate.
The Li sons stiffened. Wei muttered, "It's them again."
Madam Li stood, smoothing her patched skirt. She opened the gate to reveal her husband's elder brother, Li Cheng, and his wife, Madam Wang. Their faces were pinched with disdain, though their bodies looked far less starved than they should have. Rumor had it they'd hoarded grain when famine first struck.
"Sister-in-law," Li Cheng greeted, though his tone was anything but respectful. "You and the boys still breathing?"
Behind him, Madam Wang sniffed. "Barely. Honestly, you'd do better sending those half-grown brats to the granary to earn their keep. Heaven knows there's no point keeping them idle."
Madam Li kept her voice level. "We manage as we can. What brings you here?"
Li Cheng's lips curved into a sneer. "The clan elders sent word. Each household must contribute food for redistribution. Even a widow's family cannot be exempt."
Her chest tightened. Contribute? When we have nothing?
Her sons bristled behind her. Wei stepped forward, fists clenched. "You vultures! You know we've eaten nothing for days, yet you come to demand grain?!"
"Silence!" Li Cheng barked. "Mind your tongue, boy, or I'll see it cut."
Yuan quickly pulled his brother back, jaw tight.
Madam Li bowed slightly, her hands folded before her. "Elder Brother, forgive our lack. We truly have nothing to offer."
Madam Wang's eyes narrowed. "Strange. The neighbors said they smelled porridge last night. Thin or not, food is food. Don't tell me you hide it while others starve."
Fear stabbed through Madam Li. Could they suspect the spring? No—impossible. She forced her face calm.
"A few husks, boiled in water. Hardly fit to call a meal."
But Li Cheng's gaze lingered on her too long, calculating.
At last, he spat on the ground. "See you don't forget your place. The clan watches all." With that, he turned and strode away, Madam Wang tottering after.
When the gate closed, Wei exploded. "Those leeches! Always taking, never giving! If Father were here—"
"Enough," Yuan cut him off. "Father is not here. Mother is."
The boys fell silent, their anger simmering.
Madam Li exhaled slowly, her hands trembling out of sight. Already, danger crept close. If the clan discovered her secret, everything would be lost.
She straightened, her voice firm. "Listen well, all of you. What we have must remain hidden. Not a word to anyone—not even friends. Do you understand?"
One by one, her sons nodded, though worry clouded their eyes.
That night, as they lay together for warmth, Madam Li quietly sifted through an old chest at the corner of the room. Most of her husband's belongings had been sold for grain long ago. Only scraps remained—an old cloak, a dagger dulled by time, a few letters eaten by damp.
Her fingers brushed something hard. She drew out a small lacquered box, its surface worn smooth. When she opened it, moonlight caught on a piece of jade carved with the imperial crest.
Her breath caught.
A military token.
She remembered Zheng's words the night before he left: "This seal is my life. Guard it well. If I do not return… it may be the only proof left of who I was."
She clutched it to her chest, tears burning her eyes. He had not been just another soldier. He had been someone of rank—someone important.
And now, she was alone with five sons, a famine, and a secret spring that could change everything.
Madam Li closed the box and pressed it against her heart.
Zheng… I will keep them safe. Even if heaven itself must bend.