Chapter 50
The details of the second task weren’t anything special: a farmer who had contracted a piece of land was injured and could not harvest the wheat, so they needed someone to help.
The shopping funds given were essentially the fee for hiring help.
The reason it was rated two-star difficulty was because harvesting one ton required machinery. In addition, there was a certain chance of running into danger in the wild—such as mutated beasts that hadn’t been completely cleared.
If there was anything “special,” it was that the description briefly mentioned the new policies after the founding of the Republic. The new government encouraged the masses to go into the already-cleared wilderness to open land and plant crops.
The state would rent out tools and seeds. These seeds were purified, and generally would grow into adult plants of low to medium contamination.
It seemed that this newly-born Republic was friendly toward ordinary people. At the same time, the survival model was shifting from a foraging-based lifestyle to one of cultivation and farming.
Thinking of plants that grew much larger after mutation, Jiang Jitang felt that a regular harvester wouldn’t work well. He thought of the small tracked harvesters used locally for sugarcane.
Call in a favor, borrow a machine.
The owner said it would cost 80 yuan a day, fuel not included, and he’d throw in a 15-minute usage tutorial—straightforward prices.
“Alright.” This money had to go to him, after all; he was the owner of the sugarcane field.
After lunch and a half-hour walk to digest, Jiang Jitang went out to borrow the harvester, quickly learned how to drive and operate it, and hurried to the task world.
—
Unlike the previous barren desert, what lay before him was farmland far from human settlements but still showing traces of human activity.
Golden sunlight, golden wheat fields. Standing among the wheat and looking up, he saw the endless blue sky, and himself—so small within it.
At that moment, he felt like an insect on this land. Beneath his feet was brown soil, above him was sky sliced apart by wheat awns, and in his nose was the moist scent of grass and earth.
The wind pushed waves through the wheat.
The sunlight was just a bit glaring.
Jiang Jitang walked slowly and finally found a human dwelling—a house made of stone and mud, surrounded by wheat fields.
The wheat, about as tall as a person, was covered in a thin veil of negative energy, thicker than what he had seen on the catfish monster before. He wasn’t sure whether it was low-contamination or medium-contamination.
Was this entire endless field of wheat within his task scope?
“They need at least one ton.” Jiang Jitang wasn’t sure whether “at least one ton” referred only to the grain, so he decided to harvest extra.
The sugarcane harvester disrupted the peaceful rhythm of the field. It growled like a mechanical beast, loud enough to wake the sleeping farmer in the small house. Limping, she came out to see.
The first thing she saw was the huge pile of wheat stacked in front of her house.
“You’re the one who took my task?” Seeing the blurry figure inside the machine, the farmer looked stunned. “You came with a machine?”
With the little funds she had, she could only afford a regular worker with a sickle for two hours. A harvester—something so valuable—had actually been brought out?
That wasn’t even enough to cover fuel costs.
Jiang Jitang didn’t hear what she said over the loud engine, so he had to shut it off. “Is it okay if I just harvest this entire area?”
The wisher finally saw the person who took her job, and her eyes almost popped out.
He wore clothes clearly unsuitable for manual labor, sunglasses, and had a refined, otherworldly face with porcelain-white skin—yet here he was, grounded as ever, driving a harvester through her wheat?
“This whole area is fine?” Jiang Jitang asked again.
“Yes, yes, it’s fine.” The wisher woke from her daze. She limped to the wheat, plucked a head, peeled it, and scanned it with an instrument on her wrist.
“Low-contamination wheat. Edible.”
Her eyes lit up. She tossed the grain into her mouth, savoring the joy of harvest and the primitive fragrance of wheat, already imagining her future—she could pay off part of her loan now, maybe even buy new seeds.
Meanwhile, after getting a firm answer, Jiang Jitang put his sunglasses back on and continued harvesting the field.
The protective suit shielded him from the wheat awns. The exhaustion was drowned out by excitement.
Golden wheat waves flowed in the wind. The sunlight of June and July shone on him and the land. The cicadas hummed in the distance. It felt like he had stepped into a schoolbook chapter about harvest—momentarily forgetting all fatigue.
Immersed in this novel experience, time flew. When he turned around, he realized he had harvested everything. The wheat he had piled up formed several “mountains,” nearly burying the little house.
The injured farmer had been shelling wheat for over an hour. The hulled grains filled one basket, and the leftover straw filled another. The baskets were clearly not enough.
“The buy-back price for low-contamination wheat grains… turning them into flour is more cost-effective, but I don’t have the tools.” As night fell, the farmer covered the unprocessed wheat with a tarp and pondered her best options.
Low contamination meant edible. The grain could feed humans, and the straw could feed livestock—both were income.
As one of the first wastelanders to begin farming, she still owed many credit points. Her life required meticulous calculation. But thinking that this year she could eat wheat she grew herself, she felt all hardship was worthwhile.
Jiang Jitang had no idea what she was thinking. Even though his fingers were numb, he wasn’t satisfied yet. And he still had fuel left.
He wanted to keep playing.
“Are those corn plants yours too? I can help you cut them.” He pointed at the scattered cornfield. The corn plants were three or four meters tall, their stalks as thick as small trees—but being herbaceous, they weren’t that hard to cut.
“If you don’t mind… then thank you.”
The farmer forced herself to thicken her skin. Luckily her complexion was dark—her blushing didn’t show.
Today she had run into a naïve sweetheart. Such a good machine, such expensive fuel. Who in the wasteland still acted so selflessly?
She loved it. Please, more.
Jiang Jitang only stopped once the fuel ran out. Time hadn’t expired yet, and he accepted the farmer’s invitation to sit and eat a few shelled grains.
They didn’t taste very good—there was a strange flavor—but the farmer savored them as if they were delicacies.
“Any news lately? Are people still clearing land outside?”
Jiang Jitang wanted to ask about the young regiment commander, but he didn’t know if she was still alive at this point in time.
As soon as he spoke, the farmer reacted like a fangirl hearing her idol’s name: “The General is currently leading teams to clear several islands along the coast. I believe we’ll be able to eat seafood soon.”
“Because of the General, I can live like this now. Otherwise, I’d be roaming between bases like my parents, not knowing which mutant beast’s mouth I’d die in.”
She then talked endlessly about the deeds of the Heaven-Gifted War Star. Clearly, she worshipped the Republic’s unseen war god.
She’s still alive. How wonderful. Jiang Jitang thought, smiling. Even separated by mountains and oceans, just knowing they looked at the same sky felt unbelievable.
That mischievous, adventurous child had grown into an incredible hero.
Like a dream.
When the ninety minutes ended, he declined the farmer’s warm invitation and left this newly-reborn land.
—
As leaves fall and signal autumn, this small corner alone showed that the world was recovering. Human civilization was getting back on track.
One more task, and he would say goodbye to this world.
Carrying that strange, bittersweet emotion of parting with a companion, he opened the details of the final task.
Prepare a relay meal for the migrant workers clearing the river—this task was funded by the workers themselves.
In the dead of winter, they stood in mud, digging with crude tools, at risk of being attacked by mutated beasts hiding beneath the riverbed. In every aspect, this was a terrible job.
But for survival—and for their new country—they still came.
Men and women alike, each forging the new nation in their own way.
They had been digging the mud for half a month. With only thin winter clothes and government-provided hot water energy meals, they had endured.
But today was too cold; three people had already collapsed. So the workers pooled their meager money together in hopes of drinking something thick and warm to restore their strength.
They had a fifteen-minute break in the afternoon. In that short time, they needed to drink hot water and replenish energy. They had no tables, only a thermal cup for hot water. Conditions were harsh.
“350 yuan, twenty-seven people. That’s 12.9 yuan per person—about thirteen. Oh, that’s not bad. Enough starch and meat.”
Jiang Jitang calculated mentally.
From the task details, they weren’t starving. Hunger was not the first problem.
High-intensity labor. Minus forty-five degrees. They needed high-fat, high-salt, high-calorie food—preferably spicy—and portable, with no utensils required.
They also had thermos cups, so he could make a warming soup for them.
Spicy chicken burgers and brown sugar ginger tea?
The fryer was heating premium vegetable oil. On the counter were seasoned domestic white-feather chicken breasts, beaten eggs, dry breadcrumbs, a tray of farm eggs, washed lettuce leaves, and store-bought hamburger buns.
Looking at the prepared ingredients, Jiang Jitang rolled up his sleeves, put on an apron, and tied a small bow behind his waist.
The sliced chicken breast was dipped in egg, coated in breadcrumbs, and fried. Once wasn’t enough—crispy chicken required double frying. With his experience, he handled it easily.
The rest was simpler: eggs fried into round patties, ingredients assembled, sauce drizzled, buns closed, and wrapped in oil paper.
Jiang Jitang ate the first one himself.
The moment he bit into it, the tang of the bun, the aroma of the fried chicken, and the crispness of the lettuce all burst forth. The soft bun brushed his nose, and the scent of sesame drifted in. His eyes curved happily.
Eating was always such a joy.
“Will they like it?”
A soft bun with one egg, two lettuce leaves, and a freshly fried chicken cutlet, topped with spicy yellow salad sauce—crunchy and satisfying.
Starch, fat, protein—whatever the combination, it couldn’t taste bad.
After finishing the burgers and putting them into a thermal box, he moved on to brown sugar ginger tea.
The best cold-resistant tonic was ginger tea, which came in salty and sweet varieties. The salty used pepper and salt; the sweet used brown sugar. Since these workers performed intense labor, some sugar would help, so he chose the sweet kind.
Ginger tea was simple—sliced fresh ginger in boiling water, then brown sugar added to taste.
All items ready, he still had 35 yuan in gift allowance.
The cheapest fever medication costs 2.5 yuan per sheet of 24 pills. He took three sheets. At the herbal stall beside the wet market, dried ginger slices were 8.6 yuan for half a jin; he bought one jin. The remaining money went to pepper powder and salt.
He used a household grinder to turn the dried ginger slices into powder, mixed it with pepper and salt, and packed it into 27 small sealed bags.
From the description, they had thermos cups and two refills of hot water per day. Adding a bit of this ginger mix might help them survive the harsh cold.
And if they still fell ill, at least they had fever medicine.
Beyond that, he could do no more.
After everything was done, Jiang Jitang put on heavy winter clothes and snow boots before submitting the task. Even so, when he arrived, the world’s cold winds still made him shiver violently.
Yet in such weather, there were still people digging mud in the dried-up winter riverbed.
The river mud had been piled high along the bank like a long wall. Looking closely, one could see the immense power of humanity reshaping the world.
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