Chapter 182

The morning mist had not yet fully dispersed, and the newly reclaimed land on the periphery of the Serenitea Pot was already a scene of bustling activity. The freshly turned soil exuded a damp, earthy scent, mixed with the salty smell of sweat and the faint metallic aroma drifting from the distant rail-transit station. Limeng, with his trouser legs rolled up and stained with mud, stood on the edge of a field, sweeping his gaze across the newly leveled ground. Dozens of Snezhnayan refugees—mostly robust men with sallow complexions, along with a few silent but nimble women—were carefully pressing plump corn seeds into the loose soil under his guidance. Their movements were slightly clumsy, yet extraordinarily earnest, as if they were holding not seeds, but a recovered hope in their hands. "Koviat, make the furrows half an inch deeper," Limeng's voice was not loud, but it clearly reached the young man who was working hard nearby. "Crimson Grain: Deep Root likes its roots to go a bit deeper so it can better resist erosion." He squatted down to demonstrate personally, his fingers carving out the precise depth in the soil. The young man named Koviat nodded repeatedly, replying in Teyvat's common language with a heavy Snezhnayan accent, "Understood, Mr. Limeng!"