30: Chapter 30 High-Yield Crops Appear, Black Legion Vanguard Invades

The good news and the bad news arrived on the same day.

Lin Mo received two reports simultaneously at the entrance of the Town Hall. In his left hand was Marcus's STC agricultural data, and in his right was a black paint chip from a scout. He looked at the left first, then the right, and then fell silent for a few seconds—not making a choice, but adjusting his expectations for the timeline.

Marcus returned six days after setting out. He brought back a fragment of an STC agricultural module—a palm-sized data slate, half-charred. The edges of the data slate were curled from high temperatures, but the central portion remained intact, its micro-circuitry shimmering with fine silver light in the sun. Marcus's clothes were covered in dust, and a fresh wound from shattered glass marked his face. He didn't explain what had happened; he simply placed the data slate on the table, said, "The communication station is trashed, but this thing can still be read," then walked over to the wall, sat down, and fell asleep within seconds. He was so exhausted he forgot to even tend to his wound.

Old Tom spent the entire night reading a genetic sequence for a high-yield crop from the data slate. Sitting under an oil lamp, he used a homemade probe to interface with the reading contacts on the data slate one by one, recording each segment of data on slips of paper nearby. When he stood up at dawn, his chair tipped backward—not because he was too old to stand steadily, but because he hadn't moved all night and his legs were numb. He handed the paper with the genetic sequence to Lin Mo and said, "A tuberous plant capable of rapid growth in barren soil. The growth cycle is less than a month, and the yield per mu per season is nearly ten times that of rye." After speaking, he yawned, his eyes bloodshot, but he didn't go to sleep; he stood by, waiting for Lin Mo's reaction.

[Uncertain,] Lin Mo said without looking back, [but moving forward is better than waiting to die.]

Lin Mo looked at the data and remained silent for a long time. He did the math: if this genetic sequence—if it could truly take root in Hope Star's soil—if the scale of cultivation could keep up with population growth—then Blackstone Town's food shortage would be significantly alleviated, and the resource cost of maintaining population growth would drop drastically. He had nearly two thousand people, a functional agricultural STC data slate, and an impending warning of a Chaos omen. He looked away from the data and glanced out the window. Wisps of cooking smoke rose from the tent area on the outskirts of town—the smoke was thin because there was less and less to burn. He made a decision that was extremely cold-blooded, yet in hindsight, somewhat risky—he decided to bet that the germination rate of this seed would be faster than the speed of the Chaos advance. He ordered the reclamation of the largest wasteland outside the town and divided the STC seeds into several batches for experimental planting. Less than three hours after the order was issued, Locke had already organized a team with tools to head to the wasteland.

Distant starlight shone upon the ruins, casting mottled shadows. He didn't know how long he had been on this planet—time lost its meaning in the flames of war, leaving only instinct: survive today.

The bad news arrived that evening. While patrolling the northern defense line, a scout discovered footprints about a day's journey from Blackstone Town—not Orks. They were human-sized, but the stride was nearly double that of a normal person. The edges of the footprints bore scorched marks, the grass they stepped on was withered and dead, and a faint smell of burning lingered on the ground. The scout said he crouched at the spot where he found the footprints for a long time before daring to continue—not out of fear, but because he wanted to confirm that the footprints only led forward, with no path back. Near the footprints, he found a paint chip that had fallen from armor—black, without any markings, the surface coating possessing an unnatural, congealed petroleum-like reflection that felt inexplicably greasy to the touch. Locke looked at the paint chip for a long time, turning it over and over, before uttering the name the scouts of Blackstone Town had been reluctant to say: Chaos Space Marines.

The vanguard of the Black Legion.

chaos attention level broke sixty. Lin Mo looked at the STC agricultural data and that black paint chip—one seed could feed a town, one warband could destroy it. He stood up and walked toward the Arsenal, the Flag of the Shattered Dawn snapping in the night wind behind him.

[Why are you still here?] Lin Mo asked the young man who had been following him.

The young man paused, then said: [Because the direction you're walking in is right.]

[How do you know?]

[I don't. But I'd rather die following someone going the right way than live following a crowd going the wrong way.]

Lin Mo stood by the window of the Archon's office, the STC agricultural data on his right and the black paint chip on his left. He didn't hesitate for long—he took the STC data and walked toward Wang Defu's farmland. As he passed Locke, he didn't stop, but said in a low yet clear voice: "The speed of a seed isn't necessarily slower than a footstep." Locke paused, then said nothing, turning to walk toward the Arsenal. The two men headed in different directions, one holding a seed, the other reaching for the weapon rack.

One seed can feed a thousand people.

A fragment of a warrior's armor can tell you only one thing:

[According to the map, three days.]

—Written by Lin Mo late the same night, in the margin between two documents.

On the afternoon the STC agricultural data was confirmed for planting, Wang Defu personally went to the field to plant the first row. He used a sharpened wooden stick to poke small holes of uniform depth into the ground, placed a seed verified by genetic sequencing into each hole, then covered them with soil and packed it down. He didn't say a word while doing this—but every movement carried the solemnity of an old man who had farmed his whole life facing a new crop. His knees weren't great, and they ached from squatting too long, but he didn't stop to rest. After finishing one row, he stood up to stretch his knees and then knelt back down to plant the second. Lin Mo stood nearby and watched for a while, but didn't go over to help—not out of a lack of respect, but because he knew an old farmer doesn't want someone meddling while he's planting.

Lin Mo stood on the ridge of the field, watching Wang Defu's hunched back as he planted. The area of grayish-white dead grass was less than a few days' journey from this experimental field. Wang Defu knew this—but he didn't ask about the dead grass. He simply kept his head down and finished planting his seeds. When he was done, he stood up, brushed the dirt off his knees, looked at the distant gray horizon, and said: "The speed of a seed isn't necessarily slower than a foot." He wasn't talking about the crop; he was talking about the approaching Chaos Forces.

The germination rate of the STC agricultural seeds in the first week exceeded Lin Mo's expectations. Wang Defu crouched on the ridge, brushing away soil to check the root development. He lifted a seedling, roots and all, and measured the length of the root hairs with his fingers—about two knuckles long, nearly double the growth of normal crops in the same period—then carefully replanted it. He stood up, clapped his hands, and crouched down to check another. He repeated this four or five times before finally standing up. There was no smile on his face, but there was something in his eyes—not relief, but a confirmation that the land had not betrayed him.

Lin Mo stood at the other end of the ridge, watching Wang Defu's back for a moment, then turned toward the Intelligence Center. After a few steps, he stopped and looked back at the tiny, bright green sprouts just emerging in the experimental field. The Black Legion vanguard was advancing in this direction, Ork movements were flickering on the borders, and there were dark circles under his eyes from chronic sleep deprivation. Yet, in a corner of an ordinary farm in northern Hope Star, a crop verified by STC genetic sequencing was breaking through the soil. He turned and continued walking. There was no need to stop and stare—the seeds wouldn't sprout any faster just because he watched them. Back at the Intelligence Center, there was more preparation to be done: sentry placement, ammunition reserve allocation, and townspeople evacuation plans. He quickened his pace. Seeds indeed wouldn't grow faster if watched—but he could be a little faster than the footsteps of Chaos.

On his way back to the Intelligence Center, he passed the medical station and slowed his pace. A light was still on in the window—not the front hall light, but the one in the dispensary. He paused for a moment but didn't knock. He knew she was inside—she always organized the next day's medicine at this time. She also knew he would pass by at this time; there was only one path from the Intelligence Center back to his quarters. That lit window shone in the deep night of Blackstone Town, like a silent confirmation of something that didn't need to be said. He stood for a few seconds, then continued on.

—Self-Diagnostic System · Automatic Supplemental Entry

But he did not know that tonight's moonlight was more suitable for hunting than any other night's.

He turned off the lights in the Intelligence Center. After standing in the darkness for a moment, he reached into his pocket and touched the medicine list—the edges of the paper were curled from being folded repeatedly. He folded it neatly, put it back, and walked toward his quarters. A faint scent of herbs drifted from the direction of the medical station in the night breeze.

He stood there, looking at everything before him, and suddenly had a very strange feeling—if someone had told him a month ago that he would be on a planet an unknown number of light-years from Earth, using high school chemistry to make gunpowder, college club experience to build guns, and a product manager's logic to plan a village's defense system—he would have thought that person was insane. But now he was here, and every bit of it was actually happening.

The way time passed on this planet was different from Earth. There were no cell phones to remind him of meetings, no calendars to tell him what day of the week it was. There was only sunrise and sunset, battle and peace, living and dying. He used vertical lines in his notebook to record the days, crossing every five with a horizontal line. This primitive counting method made him feel grounded—at least he knew which day he was on.

[The moonlight deepens, half the house in shade, the Big Dipper and the Little Dipper slant across the sky.]

[Tonight I feel the first warmth of spring air, as insect songs first pierce the green window silk.]

—Liu Fangping, "Moonlit Night." Memory fragments sealed within the mirror of the emperor emerged quietly in the darkness.