The moonlight was cold, like a thin layer of silver frost draped over the barren soil of the Serenitea Pot. The night wind whimpered, whipping up dry dust. Limeng pulled his wash-faded coarse cloth jacket tighter around himself, making his way with heavy, uneven steps as he patrolled that precious patch of "Chisui Double-Resistant No. 3" experimental crops. This was the Kindling he had brought with him, the sole stubborn defiance in this land of despair.
Days of high-intensity labor had scraped against his nerves like a dull blade. The dark circles under his eyes were impossibly thick, and his shoulders ached dully from hours of bending over. Yet when he saw those cornstalks standing tall as spears in the moonlight, swaying vigorously in the wind with the edges of their leaves reflecting a faint, cold light, a wave of exhausted yet satisfied warmth overrode his body's protests. These ears of corn were hope.
*Rustle, rustle—*
Chapter 18