Sui Xiong arrived in the depths of winter. The weather was bitterly cold, and the vast fields lay buried beneath thick snow.
This year's snowfall had been especially heavy, leaving the farmers somewhat worried. Though people said that timely snow promised a bountiful year, and thick snow in the fields was supposed to be a good thing—first, because it made spring droughts less likely; second, because deep winter snow meant fewer insects in spring—snow as deep as it was this year still felt a little abnormal.
To ordinary people, abnormality usually meant trouble.
Sui Xiong knew nothing about this. Through Crick, he had come into contact with some agricultural matters, but the Thunder Duchy lay in the south. At most, it saw one or two light snowfalls a year, and the snow often melted within days. Knowledge related to "snow cover" was simply never needed there. So he knew nothing at all. Flying overhead and looking down at the snow-clad farmland, he even sighed a couple of lines about "great snow in a bountiful year"—though after saying it, he could not help wondering where exactly he had heard that poem. It felt as though its quality was about on par with his own. Surely no ancient poet could have written something so lousy and still had it passed down through the ages...
"Uh, maybe someone in the guild mentioned it while we were chatting. I remember that webnovel writer always complaining that any Tom, Dick, or Harry nowadays could call themselves a poet, and that every damn one of them wrote worse than he did. He even brought up some award-winning author's poetry collection—maybe it came from there?"
This was clearly a subtle mistake. The original author of that line had actually been highly skilled; it was only this particular