Um soco destrói montanhas e rios, e você diz que ele só sabe cultivar?

Shen Yi’s forehead struck heavily against the flagstone, and a fluid tinged with the taste of iron seeped into the corner of his mouth. The boots of five burly men fell like raindrops upon his back, and he could distinctly hear the sound of his ribs breaking. When the third toe crushed his right wrist, a burst of mechanical sound suddenly exploded in the chaos of his mind.

“Detected host’s vitality dropping below critical threshold. God-level Farming System forcibly activated.”

The agony seemed briefly isolated by some force. Through swollen eyelids, Shen Yi saw a translucent screen materialize in the void. The thugs who had been beating him suddenly screamed in unison, clutching their knees as they tumbled into the filthy puddles of the alley.

He curled up in the shadow by the wall, blood-encrusted lashes trembling, finally recalling the absurd experience of being struck by lightning and crossing into this world three days ago.

“Novice package delivered: three pounds of Spirit Soil, one Purple-veined Spirit Taro seed.”

The cold prompt made Shen Yi shudder. Wiping blood and grime from his face, he found an embroidered storage pouch bearing the Eight Trigrams in his palm.

Chaotic footsteps sounded at the alley entrance; the thugs, knocked down by some unknown force, staggered to their feet, the scar-faced leader’s blade glinting coldly.

Clutching the storage pouch, Shen Yi dashed toward the back mountain.

Rotting leaves crackled beneath his feet until, certain he had lost his pursuers, he slumped against an ancient tree. The