The sudden quiet in the Qiu Clan Compound was heavier than the shouts had been. Wan Shenghao’s gaze, a dark, unwavering current, held Lingshan utterly still. She felt the scrutiny of every villager, a burning brand on her skin. Meifang, momentarily forgotten, stood frozen, her hand still reaching for the now-abandoned ginseng, her face a mask of thwarted avarice. Then, a low murmur rippled through the onlookers, a collective shift of bodies. The whispers began, soft as rustling dry leaves, before swelling into a hushed tide of speculation. Lingshan knew what they were saying, even if she couldn’t make out the words: *infidelity, shame, foreign rich man*. The shame coiled in her gut, a familiar, searing agony. Her throat tightened, sealing off any protest. She couldn’t stand it. Not another moment. With a raw, desperate gasp that no one heard, Lingshan wrenched her eyes from Shenghao’s, her gaze sweeping past the gaping villagers. She grabbed the coarse hemp bag slung over her shoulder, a small pouch of grain she’d managed to pilfer from the communal bin before the engagement farce began, and stumbled backward. Her bare heels scraped on the packed earth as she turned, fleeing the unbearable scene. She didn’t look back, didn’t acknowledge the concerned set of Shenghao’s jaw, or the way his hand twitched as if to reach for her. She just ran, the mud sucking at her feet, until the clamor of the compound faded behind her. Her shack, a listing structure of sun-baked mud bricks and decaying thatch, offered a fragile illusion of sanctuary. The door, a warped slab of pine, hung crooked on its hinges. Pushing it open, Lingshan stepped into the dim, stale air. The single window, a grimy square of oiled paper, barely admitted the fading light. A thin wail reached her ears, tearing through the fragile peace. “No! Mama said no!” The sound of a sharp slap followed, cutting off the protest. A hollow terror locked Lingshan's ribs. She dropped the hemp bag, its contents scattering faintly across the dirt floor. Her gaze whipped toward a small, rough-hewn table. Crouched there, back to the doorway, was Meifang. The older woman’s bony fingers gripped a lumpy, misshapen object—the last sweet potato, meant for the young ones. Little Liya, barely four years old, whimpered nearby, a bright red welt rising on her cheek. The two-year-old boy, usually mute and watchful, clutched at Liya’s torn tunic, tears streaking his chin. “Silence, you wretched brats!” Meifang hissed, her voice a low snarl. “This is *my* share for the trouble your mother causes! Starving you would be a mercy!” She raised her hand again, a cruel glint in her eyes, ready to strike Liya a second time. Fury, cold and absolute, slammed into Lingshan. It was a raw, primal roar in her mind, a beast straining against the tethers of her anxiety. Her vision narrowed. Her hands clenched, trembling not from fear, but from a desperate, wordless rage. She wanted to scream, to tear Meifang limb from limb, but the words caught in her throat, a stone lodged behind her tongue. Her lungs burned. Her fists tightened. Her gaze landed on the heavy wooden stool near the entrance, a crude, sturdy thing used for mending fishing nets. Without a conscious thought, Lingshan snatched it up. Its rough weight was a sudden, solid comfort in her hands. She hefted it, the muscles in her arms coiling with an unfamiliar strength. Meifang, finally sensing a presence, spun around, her mouth gaping open. Her lips parted to unleash another torrent of abuse. But Lingshan didn’t speak. She didn’t utter a sound. With a guttural grunt that clawed its way from deep within her chest, she swung the stool. The impact was deafening. *CRACK!* The thick wooden leg slammed into the doorframe, splintering the aged pine with a sickening shriek of tearing wood. A shower of dust and splinters erupted. The entire shack shuddered. The blow was not aimed at Meifang, but the sheer, silent violence of it was far more terrifying. Meifang shrieked, a high-pitched, genuine sound of terror. Her eyes, usually full of malice, were now wide, glassy with fear. She scrambled backward, dropping the sweet potato, which rolled limply across the floor. “You—you madwoman!” she stammered, her voice thin. She didn’t wait for Lingshan to speak, not even glancing at the toddlers. Her bony legs churned, propelling her out of the ruined doorway and into the twilight, a blur of tattered cloth and panicked flight. The little ones, shocked into stillness by the crash, stared at Lingshan. Liya’s lip trembled. Her brother, eyes huge, still clung to her sleeve. Lingshan dropped the stool. Her chest heaved. The rage slowly receded, leaving behind a profound exhaustion, but also a stark, exhilarating clarity. She had protected them. Without a single word, she had made the monster flee. She dropped to her knees, gathering both toddlers into her arms. “Mama is here,” she whispered, her voice rough, hoarse. The sweet potato lay forgotten. She collected the scattered crop from her hemp bag—a handful of plain, polished rice kernels. So little, and yet, a seed of an idea sparked in her mind. As the last vestiges of daylight bled from the sky, Lingshan closed her eyes. The familiar sensation of the boundless, inky black soil bloomed within her mind, cool and rich. She could feel the earth beneath her spiritual feet, the faint hum of life beneath the surface. With careful deliberation, she scattered the handful of dry kernels across the infinite expanse. Immediately, a subtle warmth spread through the soil. Tiny green shoots unfurled, pushing through the dark earth with impossible speed. Lingshan watched, mesmerized, as the stalks elongated, leaves unfurling in vibrant green. The air in her mind-space filled with the sweet, fresh scent of growing rice. Golden husks formed, swelling, ripening. It was a blur of accelerated life, a miracle unfolding before her spiritual eyes. Within what felt like mere moments, the boundless field was awash in a sea of swaying, golden-headed rice, each grain plump and heavy. The air thrummed with the quiet rustle of an abundant crop. She reached out, her spiritual hands brushing against the mature stalks. They felt real, solid. With a single, concentrated thought, she harvested a vast swathe, the golden grains piling up in a shimmering mound beside her. She felt the sheer, unimaginable bounty pressing against her mind. When Lingshan opened her eyes, the shack was plunged into utter darkness. She fumbled for the flint and steel, coaxing a hesitant flame to life in the oil lamp. Its weak glow illuminated the dirt floor, the broken doorframe, and her two children, still huddled together, watching her with wide, expectant eyes. “Liya,” she said, her voice softer than she’d ever heard it, stroking her son's tangled hair. “Mama will cook. A big meal.” She focused, pulling forth a substantial portion of the newly harvested rice. It materialized on the packed floor in a large, coarse burlap sack, the cereal a gleaming, pristine white, smelling faintly of clean loam and fresh sun. It was enough to feed a dozen households, let alone two starving mouths. Lingshan carefully measured out a generous amount, rinsing it in their only chipped clay bowl. The aroma of cooking rice soon filled the small shack, mingling with the scent of damp earth and old wood. She had found a few dried wild mushrooms earlier in the day, forgotten on a dusty shelf, and crumbled them into the pot, along with a pinch of salvaged salt. The pair watched without a sound, gazes fixed on the bubbling clay. When Lingshan finally served them, small hands shook around the chipped rims. Liya took a cautious bite, lips parting in awe. Her brother simply shoveled the fragrant food into his mouth, his gaunt face slackening into pure relief. Lingshan watched them eat, her own bowl untouched, a fierce, protective warmth spreading through her chest. This was what it felt like. This was security. This was triumph. After they had eaten their fill, their bellies finally rounded, Liya leaned against Lingshan, her thumb in her mouth, already half-asleep. The boy lay heavy in her lap, his breathing soft and even. Lingshan looked at the remaining rice in the burlap sack. It was enough for weeks, perhaps even months, if she rationed it carefully. A fortune, in this starving village. An out-of-season miracle. She needed to hide it. She strained, dragging the heavy sack toward the shack's darkest nook, intending to bury it beneath the loose earth. The rough fabric scraped against the dirt floor. Just as she reached the wall, a shadow fell across the threshold, cutting off the last sliver of weak moonlight. The warped pine door, still hanging precariously, creaked inward. Qiu Mingsheng, the Clan Head, stood framed in the opening. His eyes, usually crinkled with an assumed benevolence, were fixed on the heavy burlap sack. A slow, calculating smile spread across his face, predatory and knowing.

Seeds in the Dark