The morning sun, usually a balm across the Verdant Inkstone Terraces, felt like a spotlight on my mounting irritation. “Now, honored cultivators,” I chirped, plastering a smile on my face that felt dangerously brittle, “a refreshing brew of my finest Jade Dew tea. Locally sourced, of course. Perfect after a long journey to—ah—inspect my… agricultural practices.” I extended a tray laden with steaming cups towards Grandmaster Fenghai, whose robes of Celestial Indigo were so stiff they seemed to defy gravity. He eyed the tea, then me, with the same disdain he might reserve for a particularly stubborn weed. His gaze, glacial and condescending, slid past my humble offering to sweep across my prize patch of Lumina-Heart Cabbages, their vibrant leaves shimmering with a faint, inner light. “Peasant Zong,” the elder's voice was a dry rattle, like pebbles ground in a mill, “the Heavenly Decree Bureau has no interest in your commoner beverages. Our mandate is clear: investigate spiritual anomalies in the Azure Terrace Realm, not partake in mortal frivolities.” He gestured with an imperious flick of his hand, and two subordinates, Luan and Jia, clad in matching indigo, began to stride deeper into my plots. My smile wavered. “But… my Lumina-Hearts. They’re nearly ripe. One step might…” The elder scoffed, a rasp like dry leaves scraping flagstones. “Mortal greens. Do you imagine such greens possess spiritual essence? Preposterous. Stand aside, tiller. We have detecting arrays to set.” My eye twitched. *Mortal cabbages?* These were the culmination of weeks of careful cultivation, each leaf meticulously nurtured, each root soaking in the unique vitality of the Inkstone soil. They hummed with a nascent energy that proved the earth's quiet potency. They were *my* greens. Then, I heard it. A wet *CRUNCH*. Luan, not even looking down, had planted his boot squarely on a prize head, its shimmering leaves instantly wilting, its radiant core squashed flat. Bile surged into my throat. Another *CRUNCH*, this time from Jia, who adjusted his stance, grinding his heel into a second plant, a smirk playing on his lips. The crisp mountain air turned bitter with sulfur. My carefully constructed cheerfulness, the placid mask I wore to navigate this insufferable realm, split clean down the center. Cold iron settled behind my ribs. My knuckles turned white, trembling with a fury that tasted of soot and copper. “You… you *trampled* them,” I whispered, each syllable scraping raw against my palate. “My prize harvest. You arrogant, self-important, *crop-crushing heathens!*” The haughty overseer finally turned, his brows rising before his lips curled downward. “Is the rustic upset over a few stalks? Perhaps we should teach you some humility.” Humility. The word scraped against my raw nerves. I didn't need humility. I needed a way to express the volcanic rage bubbling inside me. My gaze fell upon my tilling implement, a colossal calligraphy brush with a handle thicker than my forearm and bristles woven from ancient root-fibers. It usually helped me draw furrows and plant seeds, its tip always damp with the rich, dark Inkstone soil. I snatched it up, the brush feeling perfectly balanced in my hand, a weapon forged of earth and ink. I didn’t hesitate. With a roar that rattled the ridge, I slammed the colossal brush into the dark, fertile earth directly between the two vandals and their elder. The ground groaned. Then, with a furious, deliberate stroke, I *wrote*. My hand moved with an ancient, forgotten grace, carving into the soil the single, potent character for ‘SMASH’ – an emblem of absolute, pulverizing force, delivering total destruction. The character glowed, a blinding golden light erupting from the earth. The air shimmered, vibrating with an immense, ancient power. From the very spot I’d written the character, the ground *heaved*. A colossal, twenty-foot pillar, pure white stone pulsing with raw energy, surged upwards, tearing through the soil like a fang from the earth’s maw. It didn’t just appear; it *acted*. The slab swung, a blunt, irresistible force. The elder, who had barely managed to raise a hand, took the blow square in the chest. A thud like a wet sack of grain hitting a fortress wall echoed, and the man became a rapidly diminishing speck against the azure sky, his cries fading as he shot toward the stratosphere. The two underlings stood frozen for a beat, jaws slack, before emitting identical, high-pitched shrieks. They dropped their brass instruments, abandoned all pretense of dignity, and fled, scrambling down the tiers like startled rabbits, their indigo hem-cloths flapping behind them. I watched them go, a single plume of vapor marking the spot where the old man had likely punctured the cloud layer. The stone pillar, its job done, sank back into the loam, leaving behind a smoking crater where the elder had stood. I stared at the swirling dust, then at the smashed leaves, heat and spite still warring inside my ribs. I strode to the crater, the lingering heat from the stone's eruption warming my skin. Something metallic glinted within the churned earth. I reached in, pulling out a heavy, metal-bound journal, its cover etched with strange, intricate symbols. My own handwriting, disturbingly familiar yet utterly alien, covered the first page. A booming voice, resonant with untold power, suddenly echoed from the heavens, shaking the very mountains. “Zong Changhe! Your reckless defiance of the Heavenly Decree is an affront! By the authority of the Heavenly Dao, I, Magistrate Jian Wusheng, demand your immediate surrender, and your head, for this egregious offense!” The sky above darkened, and a fleet of cultivation airships, bristling with elite execution squads, descended like hungry vultures. Jian Wusheng, clad in robes even stiffer and more imposing than Fenghai’s, stood at the prow of the lead ship, his eyes blazing with righteous fury. He looked down at me, a lone farmer in a field of ruined cabbages, and his expression promised only death. I clutched the journal, the chill of its binding biting into my palm, and wondered just what sort of trouble my past self had buried for me. There was no time to wonder, however, as the first bolt of spirit lightning arced towards my head.

The Cabbage-Trampling Heathens