Chapter 5: Building and Planting
The morning came soft and grey, the kind of morning that promised rain later but held it back for now. Wei woke to the familiar chime of the system's daily notification.
```
┌──────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ TREE OF LIFE — DAILY ABSORPTION │
│ Ambient mana absorbed: +20 credits │
│ Credits: 3 → 23 │
└──────────────────────────────────────────┘
```
Wei lay still for a moment, staring at the fish-shaped knot in the ceiling beam, letting the warmth of the kang seep into his bones. Outside, the farm was already waking—he could hear his mother in the kitchen, the rhythmic thump of dough being kneaded, the clink of a ladle against a pot. The smell of congee drifted through the house, rice and ginger and the faint toasted scent from the bottom of the pot where Grandmother always let it catch just a little.
Beside him, Hao was still a motionless lump under the blanket, one arm flung over his face, making that soft whistling sound that wasn't quite a snore but wasn't not one either.
Xiao Hei was already up, his white paw tapping impatiently against the packed earth floor, his tail wagging in sharp, expectant sweeps.
"Today's the day," Wei said to the ceiling. "We're planting."
The lump under the blanket made a sound that might have been "five more minutes" or might have been "a few more pancakes."
Wei threw his pillow at the lump. "Get up. Li's already in the kitchen."
The lump shifted. One eye appeared from under the blanket. "Li is unnatural. She doesn't need sleep. She photosynthesizes."
"Plants need sunlight. She's been up since before dawn."
"See? Unnatural." Hao sat up slowly, his hair sticking out in seven different directions, each one seemingly intentional in its chaos. "I'm up. I'm vertical. This is me being vertical and suffering."
Xiao Hei, tired of waiting, launched himself onto the kang and began licking Hao's face with the focused determination of a creature who had found his life's purpose.
"Ack—okay! I'm getting up! The dog is waterboarding me with affection! This is a violation of the Geneva Convention!"
"There's no Geneva Convention anymore," Wei said.
"Then I'm filing a complaint with whoever's in charge."
"That's me."
"Then I'm filing a complaint with you. Official protest. Signed in triplicate."
"I'll lose the paperwork."
They made it to the kitchen just as Mother was setting out a fresh platter of scallion pancakes. The room was warm and full of steam and the particular chaos of a family that had been living together for decades and had long since abandoned any pretense of dignity.
Li was already at the table, her bowl of congee cradled in both hands, her eyes still carrying the soft heaviness of early morning. Father stood by the window, his tea cooling in his hands, looking out at the restored field. Uncle Jianguo was working methodically through a bowl of rice and pickled vegetables with the mechanical efficiency of a man who viewed food as fuel. Grandfather sat at the head of the table, the wooden box of enhanced seeds beside him, his cane hooked over the arm of his chair. Grandmother was at the stove, her back to the room, adding something aromatic to the congee that Wei couldn't identify.
Hao stumbled in last, Xiao Hei still orbiting his ankles like a small, furry moon. "The dog assaulted me. In my own bed. There were licks. Many licks."
"He was helping," Li said without looking up. "You're impossible to wake up. Father says it's like trying to raise the dead."
"I'm a growing boy. I need my rest."
"You stopped growing three years ago," Mother said, sliding the pancakes onto the table. "You're not growing. You're marinating."
The table went quiet for a beat, and then Hao said, in a wounded tone, "I'm being marinated? By my own mother?"
"If the comparison fits."
Father turned from the window, his tea still in his hands. "Your mother has been marinating me for thirty years. You get used to it."
Mother pointed a spatula at him. "You were tough and stringy when I married you. I've been tenderizing you ever since."
"Explains the nagging."
"Explains your survival."
Grandfather chuckled, a dry sound like leaves rustling. "She gets that from her mother. Your grandmother once told me I was 'an adequate husband, with room for improvement.' That was fifty years ago. I'm still improving."
Grandmother said nothing, but the faintest curve touched the corner of her mouth.
Wei sat down and reached for a pancake, but Grandfather's hand moved first—not fast, just certain—and covered the seed box with his palm.
"Before we eat ourselves into a stupor," he said, "we've got a field to plan. Ten varieties. Half a mu of new soil. And a lot of opinions about how to use it."
"The old way was rows," Uncle Jianguo said, setting down his chopsticks. He'd cleared his bowl already, the rice and pickles gone with military efficiency. "Straight lines, irrigation between them. But that was before the corruption. Before the new soil Wei brought in."
"The new soil is different," Grandfather agreed. "Richer. Heavier. It'll hold water better, but it drains differently too. And those enhanced seeds—they'll root deeper than anything we've grown before. They need room to stretch."
Li set down her bowl and leaned forward. "We need to think about what each crop actually needs, not just what's convenient. The tomatoes need support—stakes or cages. The corn needs to be in blocks, at least four rows by four rows, or the wind won't carry the pollen properly and we'll get empty ears. The beans need trellises. The cucumbers need mounds for drainage. The spinach wants partial shade or it bolts. The carrots need deep, loose soil or they split."
Hao stared at her, a piece of pancake frozen halfway to his mouth. "How do you know all that?"
"I listen when Grandfather talks. Unlike some people."
"I listen!"
"You fell asleep during the crop rotation lecture last spring. Mother had to poke you with the broom handle. You fell off your stool."
"That was a tactical collapse. I was resting my eyes and gravity betrayed me."
"Gravity betrays you a lot," Father observed. "Especially when there's work to be done."
"Et tu, Father?"
"I'm just making an observation. Like your mother, I've been observing you for twenty years. You're very observable."
Hao threw his hands up. "I'm being bullied by my entire family. This is a hostile work environment."
"You don't work," Li said.
"I work very hard at not working. It's exhausting."
Father set down his tea and leaned against the windowsill. "Boundaries," he said, and the word cut through the chaos with quiet authority.
Everyone turned to him.
"The old field had wooden stakes and string to mark the rows," he said. "Your grandfather drove those stakes himself, thirty years ago. They're still there—or they were, before we dug everything up. But stakes rot. String snaps. By mid-season you're guessing where one crop ends and the next begins." He shook his head. "We need something permanent. Stone, maybe. Raised edges between the patches, like the beds Wei built before, but on a larger scale. Something that'll still be there when your children are planting."
"That's a lot of stone," Hao said. He'd recovered his pancake and was eating it with the air of a man who had earned it. "And a lot of shaping. We'd need long pieces for the borders, square blocks for the corners, flat caps for the tops so you can walk between patches without scraping your legs. Where are we going to find stones like that? We can't just dig them up already carved."
"Could we use the same design as the pig pen?" Li asked. "The stone walls there are smooth and fitted. Whatever Wei did to upgrade it made the stone flow like it was alive. It's perfect."
Everyone looked at Wei.
He'd been quiet through most of the discussion, thinking. Thinking about the three secret jars still tucked in his inventory—the Dewfruit Strawberry, the Frostroot Carrot, the Ironbark Pea. He hadn't shown those to the family yet. They weren't part of today's planting. They were for later, once the main garden was established, once there was time to explain.
But more than that, he'd been thinking about the book. The Farmer's Codex, still sitting unread in his inventory. He'd bought it on a whim, one credit for something that might be useful. He hadn't opened it yet. There hadn't been time.
"I might have something," he said. "Give me a few minutes."
---
He went to his room, closed the door, and pulled the Codex from his inventory.
The book was heavier than he remembered—a thick leather-bound volume, its pages crisp and new, its cover stamped with a simple design of wheat and roots intertwined. It smelled of old paper and something else, something faintly green, like crushed herbs. When he opened it, a panel flickered into view.
```
┌──────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ THE FARMER'S CODEX │
│ Type: Bound Knowledge Artifact │
│ Tier: Special │
│ Durability: Indestructible │
│ │
│ A comprehensive guide to farming in │
│ mana-enriched environments. Automatically │
│ records and organizes all crop knowledge │
│ known to its owner. Updates as new │
│ information is acquired. │
│ │
│ Contents: │
│ • Crop Encyclopedia (428 varieties known) │
│ • Soil Management & Nourishment │
│ • Irrigation Design & Water Management │
│ • Garden Planning & Field Layouts │
│ • Construction Blueprints │
│ • Companion Planting Guides │
│ • Natural Pest Control │
│ • Seed Saving & Storage │
│ • Seasonal Planning │
└──────────────────────────────────────────┘
```
Four hundred and twenty-eight varieties. Wei stared at the number, his mind reeling. He'd studied agriculture at university, walked through endless test fields and research stations, memorized hundreds of crop profiles for exams. All of that knowledge—every variety he'd ever learned, every plant he'd ever studied—was in this book. Organized. Accessible. Ready.
And it was organized in a way that made immediate sense. As he flipped through the pages, he realized the book had arranged itself in the order he'd acquired his seeds. The first section covered the ten varieties he'd just registered and enhanced—tomatoes first, then corn, then beans, all the way through to herbs.
Each had a full profile: planting depth, spacing, water requirements, soil preferences, companion plants, pest vulnerabilities, harvest timing. The information was more detailed than any textbook he'd studied, refined for post-shimmer conditions, annotated with notes about mana-enriched soil.
After the ten known varieties, the pages shifted. Question marks filled the margins. Crop names he didn't recognize, varieties he'd never heard of. Hundreds of them. The Codex had recorded not just what he knew, but what existed—and most of it was still unknown to him, waiting to be discovered, waiting to be planted.
"What the hell," he murmured. "This is incredible."
He flipped to the section on garden planning. Blueprints. Detailed diagrams of field layouts, complete with dimensions and materials lists. And there, near the back of the section, exactly what he needed: a design for permanent garden patches separated by carved stone borders.
Long rectangular blocks for the edges. Square corner pieces with interlocking grooves. Flat capstones for the tops. The whole system was modular—you could arrange it in any configuration, expand it as needed, reconfigure it between seasons.
And beneath the blueprint, a materials list with prices that were still absurd.
```
┌──────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ SYSTEM STORE — GARDEN CONSTRUCTION MATERIALS │
├──────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
│ │
│ HEAVY BORDER STONE (LONG) │
│ Cost: 1 credit per 6 units │
│ Dimensions: 3m length × 50cm height × 30cm width │
│ Weight: ~650kg each │
│ Material: Dense grey foundation-grade stone │
│ Finish: Smooth-faced, beveled top edges, │
│ interlocking tongue-and-groove ends │
│ Frost-proof, weather-resistant, load-bearing │
│ │
│ CORNER ANCHOR BLOCK (SQUARE) │
│ Cost: 1 credit per 4 units │
│ Dimensions: 50cm × 50cm × 50cm │
│ Weight: ~400kg each │
│ Material: Reinforced dense stone with iron core │
│ Finish: Grooved on all four sides, interlocking │
│ with border stones and capstones │
│ │
│ CAPSTONE (FLAT WALKWAY) │
│ Cost: 1 credit per 8 units │
│ Dimensions: 100cm × 40cm × 10cm │
│ Weight: ~80kg each │
│ Material: Polished grey stone, slip-resistant │
│ Finish: Smooth top, rounded edges, slight overhang │
│ Doubles as garden path seating │
│ │
│ T-CONNECTOR STONE (3-WAY JUNCTION) │
│ Cost: 1 credit per 4 units │
│ Dimensions: 50cm × 50cm × 50cm │
│ Grooved on three sides for T-shaped intersections │
│ Used where internal borders meet main paths │
│ │
│ END CAP STONE (TERMINAL) │
│ Cost: 1 credit per 6 units │
│ Dimensions: 50cm × 30cm × 30cm │
│ Rounded front face, grooved on one side │
│ Finishes exposed border ends neatly │
│ │
│ DECORATIVE COPING STONE (OPTIONAL) │
│ Cost: 1 credit per 10 units │
│ Dimensions: 60cm × 25cm × 8cm │
│ Beveled edges, slightly arched top │
│ Adds finished look to patch borders │
│ │
│ TRELLIS POST (IRONWOOD) │
│ Cost: 1 credit per 4 units │
│ Dimensions: 3.5m length × 18cm diameter │
│ Pre-treated, rot-resistant, insect-proof │
│ Pointed base, pre-drilled crossbeam holes │
│ │
│ TRELLIS CROSSBEAM (FLEXIBLE HARDWOOD) │
│ Cost: 1 credit per 6 units │
│ Dimensions: 3m length × 10cm diameter │
│ Weather-sealed, notched ends for secure fitting │
│ │
│ ARCHED TRELLIS TOP (DECORATIVE) │
│ Cost: 1 credit per 4 units │
│ Curved hardwood arch, 2m span × 30cm rise │
│ Connects two trellis posts for vine coverage │
│ │
├──────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
│ RAW MATERIALS (BULK) │
│ │
│ Crushed Stone (Drainage) — 1 credit per truckload │
│ Coarse Sand (Soil Mix) — 1 credit per truckload │
│ River Gravel (Path Base) — 1 credit per truckload │
│ Hardwood Timber Bundle — 1 credit per 200 planks │
│ Natural Stone Slabs (Irregular) — 1 credit per 300 │
│ Clay Bricks (Baked) — 1 credit per 200 units │
│ Iron Rods (Reinforcement) — 1 credit per 50 rods │
└──────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
He closed the book, tucked it under his arm, and walked back to the kitchen. The family was still gathered around the table, the pancakes now half-gone, the congee pot noticeably emptier. Hao had acquired another pancake somehow and was eating it with the satisfied expression of a man who had won a minor victory.
"I found something," Wei said.
He led them outside and drew the plan on the ground with a stick, scratching lines into the packed earth. The family gathered around, looking down at the rough diagram—Father kneeling, Grandfather leaning on his cane, Hao craning his neck, Li already pointing at details.
"The field is about thirty meters by ten," Wei said, sketching the rectangle. "We divide it into ten patches. Each patch gets one of the ten varieties." He drew the internal lines, the stone borders, the corner blocks. "The borders are carved stone—long blocks for the sides, square corner pieces with grooves that lock together, flat capstones on top so you can walk between the patches without damaging the plants."
Father knelt down, tracing the lines with one calloused finger. "The stones lock together? No mortar?"
"No mortar. The weight and the grooves hold everything. And we can take them apart later if we want to change the layout."
Grandfather tapped the drawing with his cane. "The corn patch. It needs to be bigger than the others—at least six rows by six rows for proper pollination. These blocks you've drawn are all the same size."
Wei looked at the diagram, then at Grandfather. "We could combine two patches for the corn. Make it twice as wide. The borders are modular—we just leave out the dividing wall."
"And put the corn in the middle?" Li suggested. "That way the other crops can use it as a windbreak. The beans could go right next to it—they'll climb anything, including cornstalks, if we let them."
"That's an old method," Grandfather said, nodding. "The Three Sisters. Corn, beans, and squash all growing together. The corn gives the beans something to climb, the beans feed the soil, the squash shades the roots. We're not planting squash today, but we could put the cucumbers nearby. Same principle."
"So the corn gets a double patch in the center," Wei said, adjusting the diagram. "Eight rows by six. The beans go on the north side—they can climb trellises there, and the corn won't shade them. The cucumbers on the south side, where they'll get sun but the corn will protect them from the worst of the wind."
Father nodded slowly. "That works. What about the others?"
"The tomatoes and peppers in the sunniest corner, near the south wall," Li said, pointing. "They need the most heat. The spinach and cabbage in the shadier section, near the irrigation channel—they'll bolt if they get too much sun. The root vegetables in the deepest soil, where they can go down. The herbs along the borders, where we can reach them easily from the kitchen."
"Someone's been paying attention," Father said, and there was a warmth in his voice that was rare and precious.
"She's been paying attention since she was five," Grandfather said. "Used to follow me down the rows with a little basket, picking up the weeds I pulled. Called them 'plant babies' and tried to replant them."
"I was four," Li said. "And they were plant babies. They deserved a second chance."
"You cried when your grandmother pulled up a dandelion."
"It was a very nice dandelion."
Hao, who had been watching this exchange with the expression of someone who had just realized how much work he was about to do, pointed at the diagram. "So we're building all these stone borders. And then we're planting all these seeds. And then we're building trellises. And then we're watering everything. Is there a part of this plan that involves not working?"
"No," said everyone at once.
"Great. Just checking."
Wei modified the blueprint as it was discussed.
┌──────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ BLUEPRINT MODIFIED │
│ Garden Patch Layout — Corn Expansion │
│ Status: Updated │
├──────────────────────────────────────────┤
│ Original: 10 equal patches (6m × 5m) │
│ Modified: Patch 4 & 5 merged for corn │
│ New Corn Patch: 12m × 6m │
│ Total patches: 9 (1 double, 8 single) │
│ │
│ Changes Applied: │
│ • Removed dividing border (2 long stones,│
│ 2 corner blocks, 4 capstones) │
│ • Extended outer border (2 long stones, │
│ 2 corner blocks, 4 capstones) │
│ • Adjusted trellis placement for beans │
│ to north side (windbreak orientation) │
│ • Added companion planting notes │
│ │
│ Net Material Change: │
│ Long stones: +0 (redistributed) │
│ Corner blocks: +0 (redistributed) │
│ Capstones: +0 (redistributed) │
│ T-Connectors: +2 (new internal junction) │
│ End Caps: -2 (removed old ends) │
│ │
│ All existing materials sufficient. │
│ No additional credits required. │
└──────────────────────────────────────────┘
"All done."
The materials materialized in a neat stack near the edge of the field—heavy stone, ironwood, and polished capstones gleaming in the morning light. Wei felt the credits drain, nineteen in total, leaving him with just four.
```
┌──────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ PURCHASE: Garden Patch Materials │
│ │
│ Heavy Border Stone (Long) × 24 │
│ 24 ÷ 6 = 4 packs = 4 credits │
│ │
│ Corner Anchor Block (Square) × 16 │
│ 16 ÷ 4 = 4 packs = 4 credits │
│ │
│ Capstone (Flat Walkway) × 40 │
│ 40 ÷ 8 = 5 packs = 5 credits │
│ │
│ T-Connector Stone (3-Way) × 4 │
│ 4 ÷ 4 = 1 pack = 1 credit │
│ │
│ End Cap Stone (Terminal) × 6 │
│ 6 ÷ 6 = 1 pack = 1 credit │
│ │
│ Trellis Post (Ironwood) × 8 │
│ 8 ÷ 4 = 2 packs = 2 credits │
│ │
│ Trellis Crossbeam × 12 │
│ 12 ÷ 6 = 2 packs = 2 credits │
│ │
│ Total: 19 credits │
│ Credits before: 23 │
│ Credits after: 4 │
└──────────────────────────────────────────┘
```
Hao walked over to the stack and ran his bandaged hand along one of the long stones. It was pale grey, smooth as river rock, its edges perfectly square. "These are beautiful. They look like they came out of a mason's workshop."
"They did," Wei said. "Sort of."
"I'm not going to ask."
"Probably wise."
***
They spent the morning building the borders, and it was chaos—the good kind, the kind that came from a family working together and getting in each other's way and complaining loudly and laughing even louder.
Grandfather stationed himself at the edge of the field like a general commanding troops, his cane pointing at whoever was nearest. "The corner block goes there. No, there. Your other there. Hao, are you listening or are you daydreaming about lunch?"
"I'm listening," Hao grunted, heaving a corner block into position. "I'm also daydreaming about lunch. I can do both. I'm a multitasker."
"You're a disaster."
"Thank you."
Father and Wei worked on the long stones, lifting them into place and checking each one for level. Father had produced a small carpenter's level from somewhere—a battered brass thing that had belonged to his father—and was applying it to every surface with religious devotion.
"A little to the left," he said. "No, your left. Wei's left, not your left."
"We have different lefts now?"
"Apparently."
Wei adjusted the stone. "Better?"
Father squinted at the level. "Acceptable."
"From you, that's high praise."
"Don't let it go to your head."
Uncle Jianguo worked beside them, lifting stones that would have taken two men to carry. His massive arms made the work look easy, but even he was breathing hard after the first hour. "These are heavier than they look," he said, setting down a corner block with a grunt.
"You're just getting old," Hao said from across the field.
"I could still throw you over the wall."
"That's not a farming skill."
"It's a transferable skill."
Li was in charge of the capstones, fitting each flat piece along the tops of the finished borders. Her hands were smaller than everyone else's, better suited to the precise work, and she moved down the rows with quiet concentration.
"You're good at that," Wei said, passing her another capstone.
"I like things that fit together. Stones, seeds, animals. Everything has a place if you're patient enough to find it."
"That sounds like something Grandmother would say."
"She did say it. About fifty times. I was listening."
By the time the sun was high, the borders were complete. Ten patches—no, nine separate patches and one double patch for the corn—each outlined in smooth grey stone with flat capstones along the tops. The paths between them were wide enough to walk comfortably, even with a wheelbarrow. The trellis posts stood at the edges of the bean and cucumber patches, their crossbeams ready to support climbing vines.
Hao collapsed onto the grass, his arms spread wide. "I'm done. I'm dead. Tell my story."
"You don't have a story," Li said.
"Then make one up. Make it heroic. Say I lifted all the stones myself."
"I'll say you complained about every single one."
"Also accurate."
Father sat down on one of the capstones, his breathing heavy but his eyes satisfied. "Not bad for a morning's work. Your great-grandfather would have approved."
"Would he?" Wei asked.
"He built terraces in the mountains that are still standing today. He'd look at these borders and say they were adequate." Father paused. "From him, that was the highest praise you could get."
"Sounds familiar."
Father almost smiled. "Get back to work."
***
The planting took the rest of the afternoon, and it was somehow even more chaotic than the building.
They started with the radishes. Grandfather insisted—radishes were the fastest, the first promise of harvest, the crop that gave you hope while you waited for everything else. He knelt by the first patch, his gnarled fingers placing each seed into its shallow hole with surprising delicacy.
"Radishes don't like to be crowded," he said. "Give them room to swell, or they'll come out thin and woody. About two fingers apart—like this." He demonstrated, his weathered thumb and forefinger placing a seed with the precision of a watchmaker. "Cover them lightly. They need to feel the sun even through the soil."
"When I was a boy," he continued, settling into the rhythm of planting, "there was a man in the next village who grew radishes the size of his fist. Won the county fair three years running. My father asked him his secret, and the man said he sang to them. Every morning, right at dawn, he'd go out and sing old folk songs to his radish patch."
"Did it work?" Hao asked.
"His radishes were enormous. Whether it was the singing or the soil, nobody knew. But my father came home and tried it himself. Stood out in the field at dawn, singing 'The Moon Over the Western Hills' to a row of radishes." Grandfather's eyes crinkled. "Your grandmother said he sounded like a bullfrog with a head cold. But the radishes grew just fine."
Li was working beside him, her hands moving in the same rhythm. "Did you ever sing to yours?"
"Once. Your grandmother told me to stop before I scared the chickens."
The carrots went in next, in the patch beside the radishes. Father took charge of those, his hands steady as he scattered the tiny seeds into shallow furrows. "Carrots are fussy," he said. "The soil has to be loose and deep—if it's compacted, the roots split. Mix a little sand into the furrow before you sow. Gives them room to stretch."
He reached for the sand bucket, and his hand closed on empty air. "Hao. Where's the sand?"
"I put it over there." Hao pointed vaguely toward the other end of the field.
"That's very helpful. Could you put it over here?"
"It's heavy."
"You lifted stones all morning."
"The stones were motivated by fear of Grandfather. The sand is just sand."
Father closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, there was something in his expression that might have been patience or might have been the quiet resignation of a man who had raised three children. "Hao. Bring me the sand."
"I'm going. I'm going." Hao retrieved the bucket and set it down with a thump. "There. Sand. Delivered."
"Thank you. Now you can help plant."
"I thought you'd never ask."
The corn patch was the largest and the most complex. They planted it in blocks, just as Grandfather had instructed—eight rows by six rows, each seed spaced a forearm's length apart. Li had marked the grid with string and stakes, and they moved down the rows together, pressing kernels into the dark soil.
"Corn needs friends," Grandfather said, watching them work. "It won't pollinate properly if it's alone. The pollen falls from the tassels up top onto the silks below, and if there aren't enough plants close together, the wind can't carry it right. Plant in blocks, and every stalk helps its neighbor."
"So corn is social," Hao said.
"Corn is very social. It's the most extroverted crop we grow. Beans are social too, in their own way—they'll climb anything you give them, including cornstalks."
"Beans have no boundaries."
"Beans are ambitious. There's a difference."
The tomatoes went in the sunniest corner, where the south wall reflected warmth onto the soil. Mother took charge of those, her hands gentle as she settled each seedling into its hole and pressed a stake into the soil beside it. "Tomatoes need support," she said. "They'll grow tall and heavy with fruit. If you don't tie them up, they sprawl on the ground and the fruit rots."
"Like Hao after a big meal," Li said.
"That's four," Hao called from the bean patch. "I'm keeping count. There will be consequences."
"What kind of consequences?"
"I haven't decided yet. But they'll be severe."
Mother ignored both of them. "Your grandmother used to make sauce from these tomatoes. The same variety, generation after generation. She'd simmer it all day with basil and garlic. The whole house smelled like summer." She pressed the soil gently around the base of a seedling. "I'll make that sauce again this year. With these same plants."
The beans went in along the trellises, each seed pressed into the soil at the base of a post. Uncle Jianguo worked that patch, his large hands surprisingly gentle with the small seeds. "Beans are the easiest crop I know," he said. "Give them something to climb and they'll take care of the rest. They even feed the soil while they grow."
Hao, who had been assigned to the bean patch as punishment for his earlier sand-related crimes, looked up. "How do they feed the soil?"
"Nitrogen. They pull it from the air and fix it in the soil through their roots. After the harvest, we'll till the old plants back into the earth. Next year, whatever we plant here will grow twice as well."
"So beans are farmers too."
"In a way. They're better farmers than you are."
"That's a low bar."
"I know."
The spinach and cabbage went in the shadier section, near the irrigation channel. Li had argued for that placement—spinach bolted quickly in too much sun, and cabbage liked cool roots. She worked that patch herself, her hands moving with a confidence that made Wei pause and watch.
"You've done this before," he said.
"I've been planting since I was small. Grandmother taught me." She pressed a cabbage seed into the soil and covered it gently. "She said vegetables are like people. Some like the sun, some like the shade. Some need space, some need closeness. Some need more water, some need less. You have to know what each one needs before you can help it grow."
She looked up at him, her hands still in the soil. "The rabbits. They'll have their carrot tops again, won't they? Soon?"
"Soon," Wei promised. "A few weeks. The carrots will grow, and the tops will come back, and you can bring them greens every day."
Li nodded and went back to planting.
The peppers went in beside the tomatoes, where they'd get the same reflected warmth. Father planted those, his face thoughtful. "Peppers are slow," he said. "They take their time. But once they start fruiting, they don't stop until the frost kills them. They're stubborn. Like your mother."
"I heard that," Mother called from the tomato patch.
"That was the intention."
The cucumbers sprawled along the east edge, where they'd have room to spread. Grandfather directed that planting, showing Hao how to mound the soil around each seed to improve drainage. "Cucumbers hate wet feet," he said. "If their roots sit in water, they rot. Plant them on mounds, and the water runs off."
Hao, who was trying very hard to follow instructions, carefully shaped a mound around a cucumber seed. It immediately collapsed.
"Like this," Grandfather said, reshaping the mound with one practiced motion. "Firm at the base, loose on top. Not like you're building a sandcastle."
"I wasn't building a sandcastle."
"You were building something. It wasn't a mound."
"It was a mound in spirit."
"The cucumbers don't care about your spirit. They care about drainage."
The herbs went in along the borders—basil near the tomatoes, where it would repel pests and improve the fruit's flavor. Cilantro and parsley in the cooler corners. Grandmother came out for that part, her small frame moving slowly down the rows, her gnarled hands pressing each tiny seed into the soil with the care of someone who had been doing this for sixty years.
She didn't speak, but when she finished, she touched the soil with her palm and closed her eyes for a moment. A bee from the blessed hive drifted past her shoulder, golden and humming, and she opened her eyes and watched it go.
"Grandmother," Li said quietly, "do you think the herbs will grow well here?"
Grandmother looked at the soil, at the neat stone borders, at the dark earth that Wei had brought. She nodded once.
It was, from her, a speech.
---
By the time the sun touched the horizon, the garden was planted.
Ten varieties. Nine patches and one double patch for the corn. Neat stone borders marking each section, trellises standing ready for the beans and cucumbers, wooden stakes beside each tomato plant. The dark soil was smooth and level, dotted with the faint depressions where seeds lay sleeping beneath the surface.
Wei stood at the edge of the field, his family gathered around him—dirty, tired, and quietly satisfied. Hao had dirt on his face and a scratch on his arm from an overly enthusiastic cucumber mound. Li had soil under her fingernails and a small smile she was trying to hide. Father's hands were stained dark from the carrot furrows. Mother had a streak of mud across her forehead where she'd pushed her hair back. Uncle Jianguo was already thinking about dinner. Grandfather leaned on his cane, looking out at the field with something like peace in his weathered face.
Grandmother stood beside him, her hands folded in her sleeves. She didn't speak. She just looked at the garden, at the dark soil and the neat borders and the seeds sleeping beneath the surface, and nodded once more.
"My father used to say that planting day was the most important day of the year," Grandfather said. "More important than harvest. You can't harvest what you never planted. You can't eat what you never grew." He paused, his pale eyes moving across the field. "We planted everything we had today. Every seed, every patch, every hope. Now we trust the seeds to do their work. And we do ours."
Wei knelt by the first patch—the radishes—and pressed his palm against the soil. He could feel the seeds beneath the surface, small and still and full of potential. He reached for Hand of the Farmer, letting a thin stream of mana flow into the earth. Not enough to exhaust himself. Just enough to give them a boost. A head start. A small push toward the light.
The soil warmed under his palm. He could feel the seeds stirring, the first tiny roots beginning to stretch, the first shoots pressing upward. They wouldn't break the surface for days yet, but they were alive. They were growing.
He stood up, brushing the dirt from his knees. His mother was watching him, and she smiled—that small, private smile she gave when her children had done something right.
"Let's go eat," she said. "I made steamed buns with pickled vegetables and fried eggs—the chickens are laying well. And there might be some scallion pancakes left, if Hao hasn't found them."
"I would never," Hao said, with the deeply unconvincing tone of someone who had definitely already found them.
They walked back to the house together, leaving the garden quiet behind them. The first stars were coming out, faint and pale in the evening sky. The Tree of Life pulsed with its steady golden light. Somewhere in the rabbit pen, Li's rabbits were sleeping, unaware that their carrot tops would soon return.
And in the dark soil of the new garden, the first seeds were beginning to stir.
***
End of Chapter 5