CHAPTER 50: CHAPTER FIFTY: RICE PLANTING MAYHEM(4)

Meanwhile, on another row, Zhao Guangyao was attempting to demonstrate that he was still useful.

He planted a seedling with exaggerated care, then looked up. "See? it is not so bad. Once you get into rhythm, it is quite manageable."

Sun Qiaolian, who had just felt mud seep into her socks, smiled sweetly. "You are very capable."

She watched him closely, her expression gentle, but her eyes sharp.

She had noticed the way he looked at Wu Shiyun earlier.

Brief.

Hopeful.

Regretful.

It was hard to miss when she was standing right beside him. Not because she was interested in him, since there was absolutely nothing about him that attracted her, but because that subtle shift in his gaze felt like being quietly labelled as someone’s second choice. And Sun Qiaolian had never been fond of second place.

And that feeling was unpleasant no matter who you were. Still, Sun Qiaolian was not the type to crumble over a bruised ego. If someone pushed her down a rung, she would simply pull the whole ladder with her.

Worse still, if she caught it so easily, then it was almost guaranteed that other people would catch it as well. Cameras, cast members, viewers, none of them were blind.

The knowledge settled over her like a thin layer of dust, annoying and impossible to ignore.

He bent again and pushed another seedling into the mud. "You should try. I will stabilise the basket for you."

Sun Qiaolian stepped forward, careful, her steps measured. The mud clung to her shoes, heavier with each move.

She maintained her graceful posture, shoulders relaxed and chin lifted slightly. It was the posture of someone used to cameras, used to performing.

Inside, she was calculating.

She reached into the basket and took a handful of seedlings, fingers slender and pale against the green.

"I will do my best," she said.

She placed the first seedling correctly.

The second went in slightly crooked.

The third bent sideways like it regretted being born.

Zhao Guangyao hesitated, then said, "If you press down a bit more here, it will stand straighter."

"Like this?" she asked, adjusting her angle.

He moved closer, hand lifting as if to guide her wrist, then thought better of it and pulled back. "Yes. That is better."

To the cameras, they were a cooperative pair.

To Sun Qiaolian, he looked like a man whose mind was already somewhere else.

She smiled regardless.

[They look compatible but I feel a strange distance]

[Guangyao is here planting rice but his soul is in Wu Shiyun’s row]

[Sun Qiaolian is working overtime to look gentle and fine]

The mud sucked louder with each step.

Sun Qiaolian felt her muscles protest. The lack of sleep from the couch the night before crept in, a dull ache behind her eyes. Still, she smiled and continued.

f she had to suffer, she would suffer beautifully. Even if the mud tried to swallow her shoes, it would not get a single bite of her dignity.

*****

Not far away, another pair faced their own unique brand of tragedy.

"Left foot here," Chen Yiming instructed calmly. "Then right foot, slightly diagonal so you do not sink too deep."

Wu Shiyun followed, concentration written all over her face.

Her first step was careful.

Her second was cautious.

Her third was immediately regretted.

She felt the mud swallow more of her boot. "I think it is pulling me down."

"It is not," Chen Yiming said. "You are simply light."

"That is a very polite lie," Wu Shiyun replied, clinging to the seedling basket for balance.

Chen Yiming bit back a smile. He could have said something far less flattering, but Wu Shiyun was genuinely trying, so he decided to be kind for once. "Focus on the planting."

She bent forward, grabbed a seedling and pushed it into the mud.

It leaned.

It wobbled.

It stayed.

One done.

Wu Shiyun inhaled deeply. "I did it."

"Yes," he said. "Now repeat that two hundred more times."

Her smile cracked.

[Princess Wu is fighting for her life]

[You can see her soul ascending a little with every seedling]

[Chen Yiming is incredibly patient, I respect him]

Wu Shiyun grimaced, then straightened her shoulders. "It is fine. I will endure. I have endured worse fitting sessions for haute couture."

"That sounds painful," he said.

"It was," she replied. "At least this mud does not judge my hip measurements."

Chen Yiming paused, unsure whether he was supposed to laugh, apologise on behalf of the mud, or pretend he didn’t hear it.

She planted another seedling.

And another.

Her movements were clumsy at first, but she adjusted quickly. Her breathing evened out. Her steps became steadier.

Chen Yiming watched her from the corner of his eye, impressed despite himself.

"You are adapting faster than I expected," he said.

Wu Shiyun lifted her arm to wipe a mix of sweat and possibly tears from her face. Her sniff was soft but dignified. "I am not made of glass. I am made of very expensive, limited-edition material."

For the first time that morning, Chen Yiming’s lips twitched.

He almost laughed.

Almost.

*****

Back in An Ning and Zhou Zhenyu’s row, progress was noticeably smoother.

Zhou Zhenyu had fallen into a simple pattern. Step, plant, step. His focus was steady, his hands practiced from a lifetime of helping with small chores during his trainee days.

An Ning followed neatly behind, filling gaps and correcting spacing.

"You have good balance," Zhou Zhenyu remarked quietly.

"I have filmed in worse terrain," An Ning replied. "There was once a war drama. Smoke, debris, fake explosions. This is mild in comparison."

Zhou Zhenyu thought about that for a moment. "I see."

They continued in companionable silence.

The audience adored it.

[Peaceful working couple, my eyes are resting]

[Zero romance, one hundred percent functional efficiency]

[I nominate them as the unofficial team captains]

The little melon hovered above their row like a smug supervisor. "Host, compared to the others, you look like a promotional video for agricultural tourism."

"That is because we are not screaming," An Ning murmured.

*****

The mud beneath Jiang Shuyue shifted ominously, as if sensing weakness. From the middle of the field came a sudden sharp cry.

"Ah!"

Everyone turned.

Jiang Shuyue had shifted her weight wrong again. Her foot slid. Her arms flailed. This time, even Shen Xiyu’s reflexes were a beat too slow.

She pitched forward. A dramatic splash followed. Silence stretched across the field. Shen Xiyu froze, watching his morning unravel in slow motion.

A dramatic splash followed.

Silence stretched across the field.

Then the barrage exploded.

[OH NO SHE FELL]

[This is so bad but why is it also funny]

[Shen Xiyu’s face just died inside]

Shen Xiyu quickly moved to help her up. Mud clung to her clothes, streaked across her arms, and dripped from the ends of her hair.

"I am fine," she said immediately. "I am fine."

Her smile trembled.

Her eyes did not.

The humiliation burned bright behind them.

An Ning watched from her row, expression unreadable. The little melon practically vibrated with glee, tiny body flickering.

An Ning simply adjusted her grip on the seedlings.

The sun climbed higher. The mud clung tighter. The mission had only just begun. And fate, it seemed, was only warming up.