Chapter 4: The Seeds of Peace
The next morning began with birdsong.
Alex woke before dawn, rising with the sun like a true farmer. He had no alarm clock here—just the soft rustle of wind through leaves, the chirping of early sparrows, and the gentle light filtering through the paper windows of his cottage.
He dressed simply in a loose robe, tied his hair back with a simple cord, and stepped out onto the porch barefoot. The earth was cool beneath his feet, and the scent of dew on spirit grass filled the air. In the distance, the small village he had seen before was just beginning to stir. A rooster crowed. Smoke began rising from hearths.
He smiled.
Still Wind Hill was silent, but not empty. His crops—though planted just the day before—were already showing signs of growth. Tiny green shoots pushed from the soil, glowing faintly with spiritual energy.
"System Notification: Spirit crops reacting favorably to Host's emotional frequency. Growth accelerated by 200%."
"Feels like cheating," Alex said, crouching beside a row of Moonleaf Lettuce. "But I'll take it."
He spent the morning checking each row, clearing weeds, and adjusting irrigation channels the system had installed overnight. He watered everything by hand, humming softly. The tools gleamed in the morning sun, elegant and eternal, but they carried no bloodshed—only the promise of harvest.
Around midmorning, he sensed it—movement beyond the protective formation. Subtle, hesitant.
He turned his head.
A group of villagers stood at the base of the hill.
They weren't armed, just curious. There were four of them—two old men, a middle-aged woman holding a basket, and a boy no older than ten who peeked from behind her robes.
Alex stood slowly, brushing dirt from his hands. He walked down the slope, stopping just before the invisible boundary.
The villagers flinched slightly as he approached. That was to be expected. Even though he kept his cultivation sealed, the instinctual part of every living being could sense the gulf between them and him. A beast recognizes a dragon, even if the dragon never roars.
The woman stepped forward first. Her voice trembled slightly, but she bowed politely.
"Esteemed Immortal… forgive our intrusion. We… we saw light on the hill last night. Strange buildings appearing. We feared… something dangerous."
Alex gave her a gentle smile. "No danger. Just a home. My name is Alex."
The old men exchanged looks.
"You… built all this in one night?" one of them asked.
"The system helped," Alex said. "But yes. I came here for peace. I don't want trouble."
The boy peeked out from behind the woman. "Are you a sect master?" he asked, eyes wide.
Alex chuckled. "No. Just a farmer."
The boy blinked. "But you're glowing."
Alex looked at his arms, which shimmered faintly with condensed qi. "Ah. That. Sorry."
He concentrated and further suppressed his aura, cloaking himself in near-complete mundanity. The light around him dimmed, and the grass stopped bowing in reverence.
The villagers visibly relaxed.
The woman bowed again. "Then… if you truly mean no harm, perhaps you'd join us for tea one day?"
"I'd like that," Alex said.
The villagers departed soon after, casting glances over their shoulders. Not of fear—just disbelief. How often did someone like him descend from the clouds, only to live in a cottage and grow vegetables?
Alex returned to his porch, staring down at the road winding toward the village. He sipped tea from a fresh pot and let his thoughts wander.
"System Analysis: Village populace exhibits 72% curiosity, 21% caution, 7% awe."
"That sounds about right."
"Recommendation: Establish trust through shared resources. Suggestion: Gift excess spirit crops to local village."
Alex paused. "Sharing my harvest, huh?"
He looked out at the fields again. Even now, the crops were growing visibly. At this rate, he'd have more than enough to feed himself for a year within a week.
"…Yeah," he said quietly. "Let's do that."
He returned to the fields and marked several rows—these would be gifted. The rest would be for his own use or trade, if ever necessary. He pulled out a few spirit carrots already ripe for harvest—long, golden-orange, and pulsing with gentle warmth.
"Crimson Root Carrot: Restores vitality. Improves circulation. Delicious when steamed or raw."
He took a bite.
It was the best thing he had ever tasted.
As evening approached, he packed the carrots and a bundle of Moonleaf Lettuce into a clean wooden basket. He left the hill, walking calmly into the village as twilight painted the sky orange and purple.
The villagers stared, then murmured. Doors creaked open. A few brave children followed behind him at a distance.
Alex stopped in the square and placed the basket down.
"From my farm," he said simply. "I'll bring more next time."
He turned without waiting for thanks and walked back up the hill as lanterns flickered to life behind him.
That night, under the stars, the village spoke of him with a different tone—not fear, not awe, but something warmer.
Respect.
Gratitude.
And so, the seeds Alex had planted that morning bore two kinds of fruit.
One from the earth.
And one from peace.