Famine 132: Sorghum

Life on the Farm had already become vastly different from that of the outside world’s Hunger Game.

Many people had given up their identities as “players,” choosing instead to support themselves with their individual skills. They could live quite well this way. Yet as the Hunger Game dragged on, those who survived were mostly the naturally sharp and skilled in battle, people who still willingly roamed the land, dealing with the supernatural as a matter of course. These were the ones who risked their lives again and again, forming the foundation of point earnings in Fantasia Town; both their status and quality of life were quite decent.

Regardless of one’s ambitions or desired way of living, as long as one was willing to work hard, there was a place for everyone on the Farm.

Every day from seven to eight in the morning, alarm clocks rang out across the settlement.

Residents awoke in their variously sized magical wooden cottages, stumbling sleepily through their morning routines, stretching and opening their doors.

The path to the town hall’s little red building, paved with snowy white stones, was designed by Mr. Li Tingkai himself—a lakeside promenade. A breeze rippled across the surface of the lake, bringing moist air and making the grasses on both sides sway gently.

Colorful pennants drifted overhead, and now and again iridescent bubbles floated by—signature elements of Fantasia Town, retained deliberately in its design.

On the white stone path, people heading to work walked in twos and threes, laughing and chatting as they progressed.

A little farther down, closer to the water, was a specially designed rubber running track—springy, soft, and free of debris, perfect for jogging. Combat players, dressed in workout clothes and regulating their breathing, ran past the stream of salaried workers.

Now and then, they’d spot an old teammate and call out in greeting.

Wu Jing, towel draped around his neck, called out loudly: “Captain Lin, up so early?”

“Ah.” Lin Qiushui was exercising on the path. Hearing this, she looked up and waved with a smile.

“Heading out on a mission today?”

“This afternoon,” Lin Qiushui replied, grinning. “That troublesome anomaly only appears around dusk.”

“Alright, take care!”

“I will,” Lin Qiushui said, her tone crisp and bright.

For regular eligible players like Lin Qiushui, the days of frowning over missions while clinging to the edge of viability had long since passed.

Thanks to Farm owner Si Zhiyan’s great discovery, players now understood the underlying logic of earning points (Tears of Fragmentation).

No longer obsessed with the roast potatoes and nutrient paste from [Mission Completion], player safety had risen sharply, and the rewards they could claim had become far richer.

More and more players had started probing into the stories behind the anomalies, reaching out to them, and even forming specialized exploration teams.

It was said that one group had begun studying ways to awaken the Blackthorn Deadwood without angering them.

Some had even befriended a few of these trees, carefully exploring their behavior, listening to the warriors’ pasts as priestly souls devoted to the gods, offering cautious comfort so each could warm the other.

Zhong Yanqing was an outstanding figure among them.

Once, when Si Zhiyan left the Farm on business and was flying over the forest, he happened to look down and see Zhong Yanqing.

A circle of Blackthorn trees surrounded her. The cheerful woman was leaning against the fork of a Blackthorn branch, nearly encased by dead limbs. She seemed to be holding someone’s hairband, and, eyes closed and smiling, she spoke out loud in a cheerful tone. Sunlight mottled their forms, as if embracing them.

Si Zhiyan watched them for a while, smiling, and then quietly left without disturbing the scene.

Today, everyone living under the Farm’s wing carried a heartfelt sense of joy and pride—

We are followers of the Farm owner, we are citizens of the Farm!

The days ahead would only get better.

And it wasn’t just the Farm’s own residents—regions under its influence, like the Skeleton Ferry, shared in this festive spirit.

Liu Zhengchu and Nannan were a happily married couple, both diligent support-role players, living at the Skeleton Ferry. During the Gu Haoping rebellion, Liu had been coerced into wrongdoing through threats to his wife. Burdened with guilt, he was the very first civilian to side with Commander Sha during the battle at the Blood Pool, earning great merit in defeating Gu Haoping.

Elderly Madam Zhong Manwen, admiring his kind heart and courage, forgave his past mistakes and appointed him to a desk job at the Skeleton Ferry.

It was a respectable position, well-paid enough for Liu Zhengchu to save up and buy medicine for Nannan’s illness.

Nannan’s condition steadily improved. Word had it that the Farm’s flower fields could cure physical ailments, so Liu gathered his points, rented a home in Fantasia Town, and brought Nannan to live on the Farm, commuting to work across the city each day.

Though their days were busy and full, and they had faced much adversity together, the two were still blissfully happy, drawing strength from each other.

And, under this happy and hopeful atmosphere, something unexpected happened.

Nannan became pregnant.

Within the world of the Hunger Game, most players saw death as their only certainty and sought only pleasure in the moment; such situations had never arisen before. How could adults, constantly on the brink between life and death, possibly afford the food or energy to raise a child? Even if both parents were elite players, female warriors could hardly guarantee their own survival, let alone risk their lives for such a long-term burden.

Besides, even if you managed to give birth, then what?

But this time—

Nannan rested in a soft armchair in their wooden cottage, the magic fireplace warming the room, sunlight glancing through a cracked lattice window, the breeze lifting the curtain, the long-pile carpet on the floor radiating gentle heat. Heads bowed, fingers intertwined, they shared a warmth that had never cooled in seven years.

Nannan’s gaze was gentle. She stroked her still-flat belly and glanced to the side, watching Liu playing on the grass outside.

“Zhengchu, let’s keep her.”
Nannan pressed a soft kiss to Liu Zhengchu’s hand.
“In this world I see now… I want her to see it, too.”

Outside, spring breezes blew lightly.

…………
……

Aside from those whose lives had stabilized, there were some special players as well. They were full of enthusiasm and ideas, eager to try something new on the Farm, but hampered by a lack of startup funds. So they wrote up their ideas, hoping to attract investment.

Thus, in addition to recruitment notices, the bulletin board was soon filled with project proposals seeking funding.

Soon there were so many that Si Zhiyan had to open a separate column for them.

Curious, Si Zhiyan made time to browse. Most ideas were flights of fancy, low in feasibility; a few even seemed like outright scams and were immediately struck off. But among them, he found a handful worth investing in.

One was a distillery.

Back on the first day the hotel’s staff cafeteria opened, Nidhogg had come to complain: “The Farm’s booze really needs to change—it’s all just rice wine, totally off. Proper crispy roast pork knuckle needs to be marinated in top-quality brandy for three days! Boss, with all your powers, can’t you do something about this?”

“It’s not just about cooking—there’s nothing decent to drink around here! Something good happens, and a bunch of adults all crowd around and toast with cola. Anyone who doesn’t know better would think we have some supermarket promotion—‘over thirty, get five off’ or something… Ow! That hurt!”

He might have deserved the smack he got, but Nidhogg’s point was valid.

The woman who posted the proposal was named Wang Meng, daughter of a distiller. The Wang family’s old spirits were renowned throughout the region. Her father had long since died in the game, leaving only his daughter, a student then, now a capable woman. She met with Si Zhiyan and discussed the technical side of brewing in detail.

How many types of grain flour for high-purity baijiu, how to ferment sorghum, how often to turn and dry it, how to seal the fermentation vats, how to distill, how to blend, how the bottles must be sterilized… how much modern equipment, what the principles were, and how they could use enchanted items or players’ powers to substitute for certain processes—Wang Meng described it all with the ease of long familiarity.

This was not a plan one could implement in a matter of days.

Clearly, over these past seven years, Wang Meng had spent countless sleepless nights, turning over all the details in her mind.

In truth, virtually no one had paid attention to her proposal. It was just too unrealistic—for brewing, she needed starter cultures, and especially sorghum, which the Farm had never sold or even provided in any form.

She pooled all her own meager savings and the tiny bit she’d raised, and at last approached Si Zhiyan, close to tears, begging him to find a way to source coarse grains.

By the end, she was nearly choked with emotion.

Si Zhiyan smiled, patted her hand—a gesture intimate but never overstepping. Then he stood, fetched a key, and handed it to her.

When first arriving at Tianman Fudi, Si Zhiyan had set up dozens of enchanted windmills around the Farm, to scatter the fog from the forest.

[Heartless Mill (Enchanted: Level 1)]
A basic grain mill. Feed it a set amount of grain, and it will produce flour equal to about 40% of the original grain’s weight.
Good enough. Back in medieval times, 40% would have gotten you taxed sixfold as processing fee.
[Level 1 Enchantment: No matter what kind of grain you feed it, you can produce whatever grain flour you wish.
—Is flour something to be had so easily?]
[Level 1 Upgrade Option – Automated Windmill (flour output +50%)]

Actually, Si Zhiyan just liked having a windmill on the property—it mostly sat idle.

Now, it was finally coming into use.

He slid the key across to Wang Meng.

“No need to specially source mixed grains. Just feed it with ordinary rice—the mill can produce whatever kind of grain flour you need.”

“This counts as my investment. Once distilling begins, we’ll share the profits as agreed.”

Wang Meng was stunned. When it hit her, her vision blurred at once. Hugging the key, she stammered out her gratitude.

“Thank you, sir—thank you, Farm owner…”

“No need for that. We’re partners in this. You owe me nothing,” Si Zhiyan said with a smile, tapping the table, “I’ll be waiting for news of our dividends. I trust you; you won’t let me down, will you?”

Through her tears, Wang Meng saw the Farm owner’s gentle, composed face. For a moment taken aback, she nodded furiously, full of determination.

She turned and left, her steps steady and light.

Si Zhiyan watched her go, smiling, before settling back into his chair.

It was dusk. The lakeside promenade was busy with walkers.

Liu Zhengchu was there now as well. He had taken two days’ leave, and was supporting Nannan as they strolled together. The way he hovered, as if she were the world’s most precious, fragile treasure, made Nannan—whose condition was still fine and not at all obvious—giggle at his ridiculousness. She jogged a few steps ahead, laughing as she made him keep up.

The setting sun shone on the surface of the lake.

In the Hunger Game, people survived by the skin of their teeth—they were always on the run, exhausted, expending every resource just to live. The things they loved, good food, vibrant love, the smallest dreams… these delicate beauties were crushed like dust, unworthy of mention.

But when people finally left the edge of death behind, when life quietly grew better, new hopes would sprout and grow, like bamboo after spring rain.

The yearning for a lakeside park and a good drink had always rooted itself deep in every heart, never fading no matter the hardship.

Si Zhiyan lifted his eyes, looking up at the massive eye hanging in the sky—its gaze fierce, ruthless, resolved. He thought in quiet defiance:

—I will not lose.

…………
……

Seven days slipped by in an instant.

Swiftly, the time arrived to set out for the “Nest.”