Immortal Farmer: Reborn with a Golden Farm

"Three years," he wheezed, blood dripping from his chin. "Three years I've been chasing the path of cultivation, and I only got this far because I ate a root I found in the forest— The sword cultivator— of course he was a sword cultivator, those guys were always the most dramatic— clutched his stomach like it personally betrayed him. His robes were tattered in a dozen places, a scorch mark across his chest like he'd tried to cook his own meridians from the inside out. I watched the disaster from behind the shed where I was supposed to be sweeping. Not my shed. Not my problem. Three hundred tiles before sundown, and the head disciple's weekly lecture wasn't going to finish itself. I wasn't about to let some random cultivator's meltdown cost me my quota. The tiles in front of me were particularly stubborn today—some kind of moss had set up camp in the grooves, each little plant putting up a fight that would've impressed any w**d worth his salt. I bent down, scraping at them with the edge of my broom. Not effective. But satisfying. "Let me guess," I said, not looking up from my work. "You found a spirit root in the woods, ate it thinking it would make you powerful— ecause obviously the universe just hands out power to anyone who picks things up off the ground— nd now your meridians are about as organized as a cat in a bathtub." The cat-in-a-bathtub comparison was generous. His meridians looked more like someone had blended a bowl of spaghetti and asked it to run a straight line. Served him right for eating random forest vegetables. Cultivator types always see shiny root, think divine treasure, eat it before anyone else gets it. The sword cultivator's eyes went wide. "How did you— "Because I've seen this exact mess six times this month." I finally glanced over, leaning on my broom. I'd named it Gerald. Seemed only fair. "You cultivators are all the same. See shiny thing, eat shiny thing, act surprised when it blows up. Clockwork. Predictable. Boring." "It's not— He tried to stand, failed spectacularly, and slumped back against the wall with a groan that echoed off the stones. "I'm from the Crimson Phoenix Sect. We're supposed to be... *urp*... Noble." "Noble," I repeated, tasting the word like a questionable piece of fruit. "Sure. Real noble, watching you spit blood on the ground like a broken water balloon. Very dignified. I'm sure your sect elders are proud." My name is Eliot. Outer disciple of Qingyun Sect—which is to say, I empty bedpans, sweep floors, and get told I'm worthless twice a day. My spiritual roots make cultivators wince: five elements, perfectly balanced, perfectly mediocre. Like a hand where every card is a six. Not terrible. Not good. Just... There. The elders call me a "waste spirit root." I call it "not my problem." The thing about having a waste spirit root is that nobody expects anything from you. No missions, no cultivation sessions, no pressure to "unlock your potential" or "seize your destiny." I'm a ghost in the sect. They forget I'm there half the time. Which is exactly how I like it. Here's the thing about cultivation nobody talks about: it's exhausting. Wake at dawn, meditate until legs cramp, spar until bones creak, repeat. For what? To fight over spiritual veins? To compete for pills that "enhance your foundation" but mostly just enhance your anxiety? Meanwhile, I'm over here living my best life. I get three meals a day. I have a corner of the shed that's mine— estled between spare mops and a truly impressive collection of dust bunnies. And most importantly, I have time to do the things that actually matter. You wouldn't think a place like Qingyun Sect would have any use for gardening, but you'd be wrong. There's a little patch behind the servant quarters nobody bothers with—too much shade, not enough spiritual energy, completely useless for anything except growing weeds. Which is exactly what I planted three months ago. They came from an old man at the market two seasons ago, selling vegetables from a cart like it was nothing unusual. When I stopped to look, he gave me a knowing smile—like he could see something in me I couldn't see in myself. "You've got the look," he said. "The look of someone who doesn't want to fly, doesn't want to fight, and doesn't want to chase some Dao." He pressed a small pouch into my hands. "Plant these. Water them with calm. Let them grow in peace. And when the time comes, you'll understand." Now, three months later, I have seventeen plants growing in my secret garden, and they're the most beautiful things I've ever seen. Not because they're spiritually potent or worth mountains of spirit stones— ctually, I have no idea what they're worth. Nobody does, because nobody knows they exist. He struggled to his feet, leaving a human-shaped stain on the wall behind him like a Rorschach test of bad decisions. "I need... I need medicine. Something to stabilize my spiritual energy. If I don't— "Yeah, yeah, you'll explode or your meridians will collapse or some other dramatic thing." I resumed sweeping. "Go find the medical hall. It's that big building in the middle of the sect. You can't miss it. Has a sign and everything." "They won't help me." His voice cracked. "I'm from a rival sect. They said they'd rather watch me die than waste a single pill on— Another cough, more blood. "— n a Crimson Phoenix dog." "That's rough." I genuinely didn't care, but I felt a tiny prick of something like empathy. It passed quickly, like all my empathetic impulses eventually did. "Tell you what. Go bother someone else. I'm busy." I gestured at my tiles. Because apparently nothing says "urgent crisis" like floor maintenance. Three hundred tiles. Ninety minutes. And this guy was out here bleeding on ancient stonework like it was a spectator sport. The cultivator stared at me, his eyes acquiring that desperate glint of a man running out of options. He was going to do something stupid—like notice the seventeen plants in the only patch of sunlight behind the servant quarters. "Is that... What is that— "Nothing." I stepped in front of his line of sight, which was about as subtle as a fire in a paper factory. "Just some weeds. Weeds everywhere. Very weedy. Please leave now." But he was already pushing past me, stumbling toward my garden with the determination of a man with nothing left to lose. His spiritual meridians were on fire, blood everywhere, pride in tatters. He stopped in front of the patch, his eyes wide, his bleeding mouth hanging open. "This... This is impossible." "Yep. Impossible weeds. Very impossible. Please leave now." "These are spirit vegetables," he whispered. "Not wild. Not feral. Cultivated. With care. With—" He reached toward Mr. Leafy. "Ancient texts mention this. The Calm Heart Lettuce. It's supposed to... It can..." He trailed off, his spiritual energy visibly churning worse than before. Sparks of misfired qi shot out from his fingertips like tiny fireworks. It was almost pretty, in a "oh no he's going to die" sort of way. "Can what?" I asked, suddenly much more interested despite myself. "Finish the sentence. Nobody likes a cliffhanger." "Stabilize," he breathed. "It can stabilize spiritual energy. Smooth out meridians. Stop cultivation deviation before it starts." He looked up at me with something like awe. "You grew this? You? An outer disciple with a waste spirit root— I shrugged. "I just put seeds in dirt and watered them sometimes. Didn't realize that was special." "One leaf," he begged, already on his knees. "Just one leaf of the Calm Heart Lettuce. I'll owe you anything—pills, spirit stones, trade access, anything— "Get up," I said flatly. "You're making a scene." "I said get up." I crossed my arms, looking down at him with my best "I'm deeply inconvenienced" expression. I've had a lot of practice with that expression. Two years' worth, actually. "You want a leaf? Fine. One leaf. But it's going to cost you." "Name your price. Anything." I thought about it. Really thought about it, in that way that makes you realize you haven't thought about anything at all for the past five minutes. What did I want? Spirit stones? Pills? Some fancy cultivation technique that would let me finally do something with this supposedly worthless root? "What do cultivators even eat?" I asked. He blinked. "What?" "Food. Sustenance. The stuff you put in your mouth to not die." I mimed eating. "I've been eating sect rations for two years and I'm pretty sure it's just flavored sawdust. You got anything better? Meat? Vegetables? Maybe some of those fancy rice cakes I've heard about." "You... You want food." "I want good food. Meat. Vegetables. Maybe some rice cakes." I pointed at Mr. Leafy. "One leaf. You get stabilized, leave my sect, and send me food once a month. Deal?" He didn't even hesitate. "Deal." "Touching," said a new voice from behind us. I didn't need to turn around. That condescending tone was unmistakable. Kael Shen. Inner disciple. Prodigy. The kind with heaven-blessed spiritual roots instead of whatever cosmic joke gave me mine. He stood at the entrance to the servant quarters, his white robes pristine, his expression a particular blend of disdain and curiosity that marked someone about to ruin my day. "Little Eliot," Kael said, walking toward us like he owned the place. Which, in a way, he kind of did. His family funded half the sect. "What do we have here? A dying cultivator? And you, of all people, trying to help him—" "Not trying. Failing, probably." I kept my voice neutral. Kael was the kind of person who thrived on reactions, and I wasn't about to give him one. "He wandered in. He's leaving now." "Is he—" Kael's eyes moved to the garden, and I watched his expression shift from mild interest to genuine shock in an instant. His eyebrows rose. His mouth dropped open. It was the most emotion I'd ever seen from him, deeply unsettling. "What... What is that?" "There are no weeds that look like that." Kael stepped forward, his senses picking up the energy from my plants. "These are spirit vegetables. Grown by—" He looked at me, really looked. "By you?" "Probably a hallucination from his spiritual deviation," I said, gesturing at the bleeding cultivator. He was doing his best to look unconscious and failing. "You should probably help him. He seems unwell." But Kael wasn't listening. He was circling my garden like a hawk who'd spotted an interesting mouse—my mouse, that I'd worked hard to keep hidden. His eyes tracked every detail, every plant. His fingers twitched like he wanted to touch everything, take it apart, figure out how it worked. "This is impossible," he murmured. "The spiritual energy here is... It's wrong. Too calm. Too balanced. The readings don't make any sense—" He cut himself off, looking at me with new eyes—suspicious, curious. "Who are you?" "I'm the guy who sweeps floors." I picked up my broom— erald— nd held him like a weapon. Seemed appropriate. "And you're the guy who's about to be late for his afternoon meditation. Wouldn't want to disturb the schedule." Kael's hand shot out and grabbed my wrist. His grip was strong—stronger than it needed to be for someone talking to an outer disciple—and his spiritual energy pressed against my skin like a warning. Like a threat. Like a promise of what he could do if he wanted to. "You're hiding something, little floor-sweeper. And I'm going to find out what." "Fine," I said. "Want to see my weeds? Here they are." I gestured broadly at my garden. "Seventeen plants. All growing in useless dirt, with a useless root, by a useless person. Happy now?" Kael released my wrist like it had burned him. He was staring at the garden with an expression I couldn't quite read. Anger, maybe. Or fear. Or some complicated mixture of both that I didn't have the experience to decode. His fists were clenched at his sides. "Show me," he demanded. "Show me how you did this." "I already told you. Put seeds in dirt. Water sometimes. That's literally it." "You're lying." "And you're trespassing on my personal space, but I don't see me making a fuss." I took a step back, reclaiming my territory. "Look, this is all very exciting for you, I'm sure, but some of us have actual responsibilities. Tiles to sweep. Things to do. Lives to not live." This isn't over," he said quietly. "Whatever you're hiding, I'll find out. And when I do..." "Can't wait," I said, already turning back to my sweeping. "Now get out of my shed. Some of us have work to do." The bleeding cultivator left too, clutching his precious leaf like it was made of gold. He bowed to me—actually bowed, more respect than I'd gotten from any cultivator in two years— and limped away toward the sect gate. "Well," I said. "I guess we're not so invisible anymore." Later that night, after I'd finished my tiles and eaten my sawdust rations—tonight's flavor: "mystery" with notes of "why bother"—I lay awake in my corner of the shed, staring at the ceiling and thinking about the day. The sect would want to study my plants. The elders would want to know how a waste-root nobody grew vegetables that shouldn't exist. People would start asking questions, start trying to take what I'd built, claim it as their own. I'd survived two years as a floor-sweeper in a sect that thought I was worthless. I'd survived the old man and his "magical seeds." I'd survived six cultivators blowing themselves up this month alone. And I'd survived Kael Shen's particular brand of entitled curiosity. I rolled over in my corner, pulling my thin blanket around me. The shed was quiet. Somewhere outside, a night bird called—three short notes, one long. A pattern I'd come to recognize. The sect had its own language, its own rhythm, its own way of telling you when to wake and when to sleep.