A guttural roar ripped through the air, shaking the very roots of the withered wheat stalks. Commander Jin Tao, his face contorted into a mask of pure fury, lunged forward, his broadsword a blur of cold steel. Behind him, the twenty elite guardsmen, once docile laborers, lunged forward with drawn steel humming under sharp qi. “The impudent wretch!” Jin Tao bellowed, his voice raw with remembered humiliation. “You dared to make me… *plant radishes*?!” Bai Ruhai stood his ground, a shattered bamboo flute clutched in one hand, the other stained with mud. His cheeky grin, however, faltered. This was different. This was pure, unadulterated rage, unhindered by mental binds. Lin Feiyan moved. She moved like a silver streak, faster than thought, faster than sound. Her blade, *Cloud-Raker*, sang as it met Jin Tao’s furious swing. The clash echoed like thunder, sending shockwaves through the soil. She parried, her face a storm of focused ice, pushing the Commander back just as two more blades slashed towards Ruhai’s head. “Stay behind me, you fool!” she snapped, pivoting as her sword drew a silver arc that deflected both attacks simultaneously. One swordsman cried out, a thin crimson line appearing across his cheek. Feiyan was no longer merely defending; she was unleashing a controlled storm of precise, deadly strikes. But there were twenty of them, and only one of her. Their coordinated attacks began to overwhelm her, a relentless barrage of steel and qi. Each parry, each block, sent jarring tremors up her arm. She gritted her teeth, pushing her spiritual circulation to its absolute limit. Meanwhile, Ruhai, instead of aiding her, stood motionless, his gaze unblinking as an imprinted recollection surged through his mind. The projection was not his own experience, yet every detail struck raw: the elder Chenmu stood empty-handed, his usual gentle smile replaced by steady defiance. Zong Wuhen stood before him, the same cold, unyielding presence, his *Heavenly Frost Sword* humming with nascent power. *This is it, young one,* the old cultivator's voice echoed through the resonance orb Ruhai had kept hidden away, a final gift. *Remember what I taught you. The earth hides more than it shows.* “You harbor an abomination, old man,” Zong Wuhen’s voice, sharp as ice, cut through the memory. “That boy, Chu Da… his signature is chaotic, primordial. I felt it, even from afar. Surrender him, and your punishment might be lenient.” Chenmu chuckled, a dry, papery sound. “An abomination? Or merely a seed waiting to sprout? The cosmos has many forms, Enforcer. Your narrow path only sees what it can control.” “Insolence!” Zong Wuhen’s blade shimmered. “The barrier weakens with every deviation. I maintain order.” “Order?” Chenmu’s eyes, suddenly alight with a fierce, defiant spark, met Zong Wuhen’s. “Or merely stagnation? You would condemn a growing thing for not fitting your mold? A mold that itself will break?” Then, Chenmu did the unthinkable. He raised his hand, not in surrender, but in a mocking gesture. “Come then, Enforcer. Strike down the old fool who dares to question your divine ‘order.’ Show them all how swiftly you crush what you do not comprehend.” His eyes, however, held a silent, urgent plea that only Ruhai, through the orb, could now understand: *His gaze is on me. He won’t see Chu Da now. Run, little root. Grow.* Zong Wuhen’s eyes narrowed to slits. “As you wish. May your chaotic qi feed the barrier, old man.” The *Heavenly Frost Sword* descended, a blinding arc of cerulean light. Chenmu closed his eyes, serene once more, while a streak of moisture traced through the dust on his cheek. The light consumed him. There was no scream, just a silent, absolute obliteration. The vision receded, snapping Ruhai back to the present, to the ring of steel and Feiyan's labored breaths. Bruised and bleeding, she beat back three attackers with *Cloud-Raker*, her footing growing heavy. “You worthless dirt-scraper!” one of the vanguard snarled, his knuckle connecting squarely with Ruhai’s jaw. Ruhai stumbled, bone jarring against bone. Another soldier's boot slammed into his ribs, cracking against the flank. He crumpled to the muddy ground, spitting out a mouthful of blood and a loose tooth. He refused to use his hands. Not to fight them, not to defend himself. Every strike he absorbed, every blow, he focused. He was a conduit. Chenmu's sacrifice, Chu Da's dormant horror, the world's thin skin—he bore it all in silence. The pain was a distraction, a cover. Beneath the surface of the Terraced Fields, deep within the dark, rich soil, the network of weaponized radishes thrummed. Ruhai channeled his blood, hot and potent with his unorthodox qi, into the earth beneath him. Each drop, each pulse of agony, fueled the intricate array. He watched Feiyan, her breath ragged, her once pristine white robes now streaked with crimson. She moved with a desperate ferocity, a protective beast defending its young. Her blade, despite its diminishing speed, still flashed with dangerous precision, carving shallow wounds into her attackers. “Stand down, Enforcers!” Feiyan screamed, her voice cracking with strain, but her eyes held an unwavering fire. “Harm him, and I will ensure your names are erased from the annals of Jinyang!” Her threat, though formidable, was met with jeers. Ruhai knew it wouldn’t be enough. He needed more time. He needed more blood. Another fist, heavier this time, slammed into his temple. Darkness swam at the edges of his vision. He tasted iron and dirt. His vision blurred, but through the haze, he saw Zong Wuhen, perched atop a distant knoll, watching, unmoving, his gaze cold and calculating. He was waiting. Waiting for the 'anomaly' to be excised. With a ragged gasp, Ruhai forced himself to push more qi into the ground. He pressed his bleeding hand into the mud, a silent offering, a pact with the earth itself. The old farmer's death would purchase its full yield. Chu Da would remain concealed. The realm would hold, for now. He looked up, a chilling, genuine smile stretching across his bloodied face. It was not his usual cheeky grin, but something ancient, terrifying, and utterly focused. He coughed, a wet, rattling sound, and with a slow, deliberate motion, pulled from the depths of his tattered robes a single, glowing golden seed.

Blood on the Harvest