Activating the Divine Farming System

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 system’s screen unfolded automatically, marking the concentration of spiritual energy within ten yards.

As he trembled, taking out the seed glowing purple, a burning sting shot through his fingertips.

“Warning! Host has not drawn spiritual energy into the body. Success rate for cultivating a third-grade spirit plant: less than 1%.”

Shen Yi stared at the last half-moldy coarse cake in the pouch, recalling the storage ring stolen at the village gate that morning. It was the only relic left by his parents, now likely flashing on a cultivator’s finger.

He bit his lip and pressed the seed into the earth. The system’s sudden blue light enveloped the entire mountain hollow.

The agony arrived sooner than expected. As the Purple-veined Spirit Taro sprouted, Shen Yi felt his organs shoved into a meat grinder. The vortex of spiritual energy tore at his fragile veins, and as he doubled over, coughing violently, the blood beads seeping through his fingers shimmered faintly gold.

The instant the system announced cultivation failure, the birds in the mountain forest took flight all at once.

“Backlash triggered. Host has entered weakened state.”

Shen Yi curled up in the pile of dead leaves like a shrimp, blood beads oozing from every pore.

Moonlight filtered through the tree crowns, sketching strange Dao markings on his trembling back. Before consciousness faded, he vaguely heard the brittle snap of branches approaching, as if someone hurried through the woods carrying a lantern.

In the haze, Shen Yi smelled the bitter scorch of burning mugwort, and the clink of ceramic jars reached his ear. He tried to lift his eyelids, only to find even his lashes fixed in place by some viscous ointment.

The old village chief applied crushed moonflower to his chest, brown juice dribbling down the cracked rim of a clay bowl.

“Young man, do you have no care for your life?” The aged voice quaked with spiritual power, instantly calming the pain rampaging through Shen Yi’s veins. “Purple-veined Spirit Taro must be planted in Profound Yin Soil. Using ordinary mountain earth for a third-grade spirit plant—count yourself lucky your dantian hasn’t been blown apart by spiritual energy.”

His throat worked, tasting the lingering tang of blood.

Through the drafty bamboo window of the cottage, he saw villagers bundling dried Dragon Tooth Grass. Three days ago, on that same threshing ground, the scar-faced thug had stomped his head and stolen the porcelain bottle containing Fasting Pills.

“May I ask, elder, where might one find Profound Yin Soil?” Leaning on his elbows to rise, a needle-sharp pain stabbed his wrist.

The system interface flashed before his eyes, the red warning symbol beside his spiritual energy value still unresolved.

The old chief tapped the corner’s bronze mortar with his pipe; several dark red grains inside began to glow.

“See these blood sands? Last year’s floods washed away an ancient cultivator’s cave, and I picked up half a basket on the riverbank.” His clouded eyes reflected the flickering flames of the medicine stove. “If you want spirit soil now, you’ll have to brave the sinister cave of Blackwind Ravine.”

Shen Yi’s nails dug deep into his palm.

The three pounds of spirit soil in the system’s warehouse now bore a glaring ‘Task Only’ mark.

When he opened the cultivation interface, the unlock conditions beside the Purple-veined Spirit Taro seed were clear: Profound Yin Soil (0/5 pounds), Morning Dew (0/3 pots).

A commotion suddenly erupted outside the cottage; several hunters dragged the corpse of a saber-toothed tiger past.

Shen Yi’s pupils contracted—the beast’s forehead crystal core had been gouged out, icy traces of frost magic lingering at the wound.

On the system map, the area representing Blackwind Ravine began flashing with a skull icon.

“These are for you.” The old chief rummaged through the bottom of the medicine cabinet, producing a shabby storage pouch and pouring out seven faintly glowing shards of spirit stone. “East of the village, Wang the blacksmith took on a job repairing a formation disk—he’s short-handed for hauling thunder-struck wood.”

Shen Yi rubbed the rough surface of the spirit stones, and the system popped up a prompt: [Detected trace amounts of spiritual energy. Can be converted into 3 points of spiritual power.]

When he tried to absorb them, the stones crumbled to dust in his palm—hidden injuries in his veins leaked spiritual energy as if through a broken basket, unable to retain even a drop.

As dusk reddened the window frame, the scent of roasting meat wafted from the threshing ground.

Leaning against the medicine cabinet, Shen Yi listened to villagers chatting. A drunken voice pierced the evening breeze: “If you’re talking spiritual energy... hic... that man-eating cold pond in the back mountain...”

The blood sands in the mortar shifted without wind, arranging themselves into a strange star pattern on the table.

The old chief suddenly coughed, the rhythm of his pipe tapping the table turning chaotic.

Shen Yi feigned meditation, yet on the system map a new light quietly emerged, glowing eerily in the area representing the back mountain.