A squad of refugees, carefully handpicked by the Millelith for their relatively nimble hands and feet, stepped into this "miraculous field" under the close guard of soldiers with drawn swords and notched bows. They moved with a clumsy, tentative reverence, almost like pilgrims holding their breath. When their fingertips brushed against those plump, firm ears of corn that still carried the faint warmth of life, they trembled uncontrollably. It was as if they were holding not food, but the lost treasures of Liyue Harbor's Jade Chamber.
The golden, heavy ears of corn were carefully plucked one by one by trembling yet intensely pious hands, and gently placed into custom-made wicker baskets lined with soft, dry grass. Soon, a small and steadily growing "golden mountain" rose beside the field. The unique fragrance, a blend of crisp sweetness and the earthy scent of soil, spread rapidly across the landing zone—which had been heavy with despair and the stench of sweat—like the gentlest of promises. It was the breath of life, the most generous gift of the earth, and the most direct, intoxicating taste of survival!
Among the crowd, a frail, emaciated old farmer could no longer hold back. Trembling, he sank to his knees at the edge of the ridge, plunging his callus-covered hands deep into the loosened soil. Turbid tears rolled down onto the newly turned clods, darkening them with wet spots. "We've lived... We're saved..." he muttered repeatedly, his voice hoarse yet filled with the delirious joy of the newly survived. Nearby, a woman holding an infant carefully picked up a fallen kernel of corn, wiped it clean with the hem of her clothes, and pressed it into the child's mouth. The baby sucked on it unconsciously; the long-overdue sweetness of grain made him stop crying, and a flicker of peace settled over his tiny face. This minuscule peace carried more power in the despair-ridden landing zone than any grand declaration.
Keqing had not left. Like a purple guardian deity, she stood quietly by the edge of the field. A fine current of Electro energy flowed silently around her, forming an invisible cordon. Her calm gaze swept across the fields, finally landing on Limeng, who was busily and intently guiding the harvest among the ridges. He moved with swift efficiency, weaving through the plants like a fish in water. His instructions were clear and precise, and he knew the growth status of every single stalk inside and out—which ears were ready to harvest and which needed a little more time. When he peeled back the husks to check the plumpness of the kernels, his focused gaze, steady fingers, and precise judgment carried an absolute sense of pragmatism and practical skill rarely seen even among the scholars of the Agricultural Research Institute.
A subtle sense of dissonance brushed quietly across Keqing's mind. The young agricultural researcher in the files—a bookish youth absorbed in pest and disease atlases—seemed somewhat different in temperament from the pragmatic commander before her, who moved with such calm authority and radiated an aura of high-efficiency precision among the crop ridges. This difference lay not in the agricultural knowledge he commanded, but in his style and rhythm of action. Yet, Keqing's gaze was immediately drawn back and firmly held by that steadily growing, golden "mountain." Hope was so tangible, so heavy, and emitted such an alluring radiance. This tangible weight, heavy enough to alter the internal landscape of the Serenitea Pot, completely occupied her thoughts for the moment. Minor discrepancies could be temporarily set aside; the results before her were the reality she needed to grasp firmly right now!
Limeng cupped a handful of golden corn kernels just scooped from the wicker basket, still smelling faintly of damp earth and the lingering warmth of the sun. The plump grains filled his palms, heavy and imbued with the unique warmth of life and an indescribable sense of solidity. Every single kernel was round and firm, rolling slightly against his palm and exhaling a unique, almost sweet aroma characteristic of newly harvested grain. This warm touch, this heavy weight, traveled straight through his palms to the depths of his soul, bringing a strange sense of comfort.
In a momentary trance, deep within the soul of the coder, there seemed to echo the ceaseless, high-speed hum of server room cooling fans. That sound represented stability—the underlying logic supporting a vast digital world.
He snapped back to reality with a start, realizing with absolute clarity: in this broken Teyvat, in this crumbling Serenitea Pot, food was the core, indispensable foundational code that maintained every "system"—whether it was human flesh and blood, the order of the sanctuary, or the continuation of civilization! Without a single exception!
A sense of responsibility unlike any he had ever known, heavy as a massive boulder, crashed down with a resounding thud, pressing silently yet immovably against his heart where it took root and sprouted. He instinctively raised a hand stained with corn silk and soil, pressing it firmly against his chest as if to confirm whether his heart was still beating strongly in the face of this heavy burden.
Night descended upon the landing zone of the Serenitea Pot like a massive, ink-soaked velvet cloth, slow and irresistible. The last ear of corn, full and nearly perfect, was sealed away under the watchful eyes of countless witnesses as though it were the Imperial Seal itself, placed carefully inside a special cold-jade casket guarded heavily by several elite Millelith. The slight "click" of the lid snapping shut was exceptionally clear in the silent night.
Bonfires were lit. The orange-red flames leaped and tore through the heavy darkness, illuminating the exhausted faces of the survivors—faces lit for the first time by a flame called "hope." Their eyes were no longer the hollow, dead ash of before; instead, reflecting the dancing firelight and that slightly diminished yet still golden mound of corn, they flickered with a primitive, burning glow—the light of survival!
Limeng instinctively raised his head and looked toward the direction of the Serenitea Pot's massive, translucent barrier wall.
Outside lay the endless void. The thick, cold, and utterly ominous black tides of the Abyss crashed silently and violently against the barrier, over and over again. Every impact caused the seemingly resilient barrier wall to ripple with circles of blinding, golden light, resembling the death throes of a dying creature. There was no deafening roar, but each silent impact landed with the weight of a thousand junks, heavily striking the heart of everyone looking up at the barrier.
In the center of the experimental field, the tallest and most robust mother plant—intentionally preserved like a king—stood proudly in the deepening night. The night wind grew stronger, rustling its broad, sword-like leaves into a continuous whisper. In the flickering, uncertain light of the bonfires, the deep purple-red mysterious veins on the leaves appeared and disappeared like some ancient, silent brand, or perhaps like unknown eyes quietly opening in the dark.
It stood there in silence, a voiceless monument to tonight's "miracle" and "hope." At the same time, the eerie purple glow flashing across its leaves seemed like a silent warning—a dark gateway leading to a deeper, more unfathomable vortex.