Sowing Hope

Chapter 14: Sowing Hope

At dawn, when the first rays of still-gentle sunlight filtered through the newly patched thatched roof, casting mottled spots of light on the earthen floor, Chen An was already awake. He did not immediately begin his morning chores as usual, but sat quietly on the straw mat, engaging in a nearly ritualistic preparation.

Today was an important day. He would sow seeds from another world into the fertile Primordial soil.

Days of hard labor—repairing the roof, reclaiming the garden plot—had nearly drained his strength. Last night's deep sleep left his muscles still aching, but his spirit was unusually full and clear. A solemn, reverent emotion spread through his heart. This was not merely planting vegetables; it felt like a transmission of civilization, an attempt to establish order in the wilderness, a solemn promise to the future.

He walked to the well, drew clear water with the rough stone bowl, and carefully washed his hands and face. The icy well water made him shiver, completely driving away the last traces of drowsiness. He wanted to greet this moment in the purest state possible.

Then he returned to the house and, from the backpack he treasured like a precious relic, took out several packets of vegetable seeds sealed in transparent plastic bags. Bok choy, small radishes, lettuce, mixed salad greens. The colorful packaging stood out vividly in the dim stone room, creating a strange temporal dislocation against the ancient Primordial courtyard.

He sat cross-legged on the ground, arranging the seed packets in a row. He did not open them hastily. Instead, he first picked up the worn-edged Tao Te Ching and placed it beneath the seeds. This unconscious gesture carried an unspoken prayer, as if hoping this ancient wisdom would bless these tiny lives, allowing them to take root in this unfamiliar land.

He picked up the bok choy seed packet. Through the plastic film, he could see the tiny, sand-like, brownish seeds inside. His fingertips felt a slight friction. His thoughts drifted back to the world before his transmigration—the few thin but tenacious bok choy seedlings in the balcony flowerpots. And now, he was about to sow the same hope into this fertile Primordial soil, rich with spiritual energy.

"Are you ready?" he asked himself softly, as if also asking the sleeping seeds.

The answer was yes.

He picked up his tools—mainly his calloused, blistered hands and a devout heart—and walked toward the newly reclaimed garden plot bathed in golden morning sunlight.

After a day of settling, the soil appeared smoother and more moist. The dark earth glimmered faintly under the sun, exuding a fertile, peaceful aura. The neat ridges were like the keys of a great instrument, awaiting the music of life.

He first planned the planting areas. The sunniest, best-drained central area was reserved for short-cycle leafy greens (bok choy, lettuce, salad greens). The slightly lower sides were for root vegetables needing more moisture and soil depth (small radishes).

He did not broadcast the seeds; that would waste them and make management difficult. He crouched down, using his right index finger to carefully poke shallow holes in the soft soil ridges, spaced about a palm's width apart. Each hole was about one knuckle deep, ensuring the seeds could be covered by soil yet push through easily. His movements were light and slow, as if afraid to disturb the sleeping earth. Every small hole felt like a cradle prepared for life.

He tore open the bok choy seed packet. A faint, unique scent of seeds wafted out. He poured some seeds into his left palm, then, with his right thumb and forefinger, extremely carefully pinched two or three seeds and gently, precisely placed them into the freshly dug holes.

This process required immense patience and steadiness. The seeds were so tiny that one careless move could spill them or drop too many. He was completely focused, his breathing soft. Sunlight fell on his hunched back; sweat gradually seeped out, but he was oblivious. His eyes were fixed only on those tiny black specks falling into the soil, brimming with infinite vitality.

One hole, two holes, three holes... He moved slowly along the ridge, like the most meticulous craftsman dotting the earth with stars of life. After the bok choy came the lettuce, then the mixed salad greens. Each seed type varied slightly in size and shape, and he adjusted his pinching force accordingly.

When it was the small radish seeds' turn, he was even more cautious. Radish seeds were slightly larger, irregularly flat and round. He placed only one seed per hole, ensuring it had enough space to grow. He knew these red or white radishes would be an important food source in the future.

After sowing, he gently brushed the fine soil beside the holes back over the seeds to cover them. He strictly controlled the covering depth—not too thick, or the seedlings would struggle to emerge; not too thin, or the seeds would dry out or be pecked by birds. He lightly pressed the covering soil with his palm to ensure close contact between seed and earth, aiding water absorption and germination.

To avoid confusion, he used small sticks to draw simple symbols at the start of each vegetable's ridge: a horizontal line for leafy greens, a circle for radishes. This was the most primitive agricultural record.

When the last seed was gently covered by soil, Chen An slowly straightened up. The ache in his lower back intensified from the prolonged crouch, but his face glowed with a nearly sacred satisfaction.

Next came the most critical step—watering.

He drew a full stone bowl of clear, sweet well water. He walked to the plot's edge. Instead of splashing it directly, he used a large leaf rolled into a funnel to drizzle the water finely and evenly over the freshly sown holes.

The water seeped into the soil, making a faint "sizzling" sound, as if the thirsty earth was drinking deeply. He imagined the sleeping seeds, in the dark soil, greedily absorbing moisture and nutrients, beginning to awaken, swell, and prepare to break through their shells.

He watered slowly and carefully, ensuring every sowing spot was moistened. The faint spiritual energy in the well water, seeping into the soil with the flow—would it bring unexpected changes to these seeds? He did not know, but he was full of anticipation.

The sun grew hotter. The watered soil darkened, exuding a damp, earthy scent. Chen An stood at the edge of the plot, gazing at this land that had absorbed his effort and hope, a myriad of emotions swirling within him.

From the despair of transmigration, to the ecstasy of discovering the Safe Zone, to the hardship of repairing the house and reclaiming the land, and now, to personally burying the seeds of civilization into the Primordial soil—this journey had been filled with fear, loneliness, and sweat, but also with creation, hope, and resilience.

These ordinary seeds from the modern world, planted in this legendary fertile Primordial soil—what would they grow into? Ordinary vegetables? Or... would they nurture unexpected miracles?

He did not know the answer. But he knew he had done everything he could.

The rest was left to time, to this land, to the power of life itself.

An evening breeze blew, bringing a hint of coolness and the faint roars of distant beasts beyond the courtyard. But at this moment, Chen An's heart was filled with unprecedented peace and strength. What he guarded was no longer merely a safe refuge, but a land pregnant with the future, a place of hope.

He turned and walked back to the stone house, his steps firm. Behind him lay the silent ridges and the infinite possibilities buried deep within, waiting to break through the soil.

(End of Chapter 14)