That's what he was thinking—but his hands didn't slow down at all.
After preparing such a vast, fertile field, Mog glanced at Uvogin and the other man, who were still standing there in a daze.
"What are you all just standing around for?! Hurry up and plant the rice seedlings!!"
Uvogin: "???"
Before he could even react, Mog had already walked up to him and popped open the capsule containing the seedlings in his hand. He divided them into three portions and handed two to Uvogin and Machi respectively.
"Like this—plant the seedlings in the ground."
Mog even took the lead, rolling up his trousers and stepping into the muddy paddy to demonstrate.
Uvogin: "…."
They were really planting seedlings—right here, right now?!
Was something like this even possible in Meteor City?!
This went completely against everything Uvogin had ever known about survival in this place. For the first time, his instincts clashed violently with what was unfolding before him.
He stared down at the tiny rice seedlings in his palm—so small he could've crushed them with a single squeeze—and found himself utterly at a loss.
"If you don't know what to do, just copy her~~~"
Mog noticed Uvogin's hesitation immediately and gestured toward Machi.
Machi?
Uvogin instinctively turned to his ever-present partner.
There he saw Machi's slight frame already wading into the paddy. Though clearly inexperienced and awkward, Machi managed to plant the seedlings with surprising care—mimicking Mog's movements as best as he could.
Uvogin fell silent for a long moment… then grinned.
It's just planting rice seedlings, right?
If this scrawny kid and Machi can do it, how the hell can Grandpa Uvogin not?!
Without another word, he stomped into the mud.
"You're too big—go over there and stick it in."
"Make sure you plant it straight! Don't leave it crooked or uneven!"
"Leave enough space between them, or they won't grow properly!"
Under Mog's constant scolding, Uvogin—drenched in sweat—planted seedling after seedling with surprising diligence.
Under any other circumstances, if someone dared speak to him like that—so casually, so bluntly—Uvogin would've ripped their head off and shoved it under his boot.
But here, in this strange, miraculous paddy field, he simply obeyed.
And so, through their chaotic, clumsy, yet earnest efforts, the entire field was soon dotted with… surprisingly neat rows of rice seedlings.
"That's it—good enough for now," Mog said, wiping sweat from his brow. He turned to the two mud-caked figures behind him, who looked like they'd rolled straight out of a swamp. "It'll be ready to harvest in about two hours."
Two hours…
Machi didn't even bother wiping the mud off her face as she glanced up at the artificial sun and the dark clouds looming overhead. Between the rice paddies, the seedlings, and that bizarre sticky rice cake machine nearby—none of this felt like something a normal person would ever do.
Uvogin, whose back ached from bending over all this time, kept his eyes fixed on the patch of green before him. Physical labor was nothing to someone like him—but doing farm work, here, under these circumstances? It left him oddly tense.
Yet as he watched the seedlings spread across the field—knowing he'd planted them himself, and that the harvest would come in mere hours—a strange warmth bloomed in his chest.
He didn't know it was called a "sense of accomplishment," but Uvogin found himself smiling anyway.
Beside him, Machi stared upward too—at the artificial sky, the clouds, the tiny sun—both of them quietly hopeful.
Thankfully, this time, things didn't go wrong.
Unlike that old story where Doraemon and Nobita planted rice—only for the season-controlling machine to break down: the rain too little, the sun too harsh, the field cracking like dry bone—then later flooding everything when Doraemon dumped an entire bucket of water trying to fix it… even resorting to hanging a teru teru bōzu in the middle of the field to stop the downpour.
Mog's system had none of those flaws.
Natural sunlight. Gentle, rhythmic rainfall. Perfect conditions.
For over an hour, the field thrived.
"They've grown taller?!"
Uvogin and Machi watched, stunned, as the rice shot upward at a speed visible to the naked eye. The green shoots soon sprouted ears, ripening into golden stalks that bent under their own weight.
In the old tale, locust eggs would've hatched right about now—swarming the field, devouring everything. Uvogin and his crew would've been forced to hunt them down… maybe even roast them for dinner instead of sticky rice cakes.
But Mog's system had already purged even the eggs. No pests. No disasters.
Just smooth, uninterrupted growth.
And just like that—two hours passed in the blink of an eye.
The golden wheat field came into view.
Those plump ears of wheat hung heavy on the stalks, nearly bending them double!