Chapter 198

The grain-yard shelter was nearly complete: a snug rest room and a wide, open shade pavilion now stood in place. Though the roof on the right side was still unfinished, the structure was already usable.

All the millet stalks raked into mounds were neatly gathered by ten sub-beastmen and tied into thick bundles with long straws serving as binding ropes. They remained vigilant for any stray millet grains stuck in the stalks—each lost kernel was precious and had to be plucked out.

Bundled stalks weren’t just waste materials—they’d serve as reliable winter fodder for the four-eared sheep and were carefully stored.

The heart of the activity pulsed at the center of the threshing yard. Muscular horned beastmen wielded wooden pitches, shoveling the millet into the air. The heavier kernels fell; the husks drifted away in the breeze. Repeating the motion several times separated grain from husk perfectly.

Qi Bai hadn’t witnessed such a scene in ages. Back on Earth, fully automated harvesters separated stalks and kernels instantly—rendering this hands-on method obsolete. Yet, Heishan’s traditional, organic process carried its own spirited joy.

At the threshing site, children reveled in the moment. With no more lessons—teachers were harvesting too—they basked in the freedom of an unexpected vacation. They stood downwind, arms linked, and played under a husk windstorm, giggling as light husk dust rained over them.

Giggles rang out—“Hee hee!” “Ha ha!”—echoing across the yard, spreading smiles among all: from roof-beaters to shade-loungers. Life in the Beastman world was often harsh, but here, all shared a rare outlet for care-free joy.

Elders quarter-mature from winter births watched them with softened hearts; these cubs would grow up knowing peace, plenty, and infinite love.

By day’s end, the grain and husks were swept into large baskets and loaded onto two full wagons—Heishan’s first grain harvest, complete from root to straw.

Admittedly, yields were modest compared to Earth’s engineered fields—many pods were hollow—but it was their first large-scale sowing; Qi Bai felt immense pride in what they’d achieved. In Heishan, it wasn’t the per-acre yield that mattered—it was heart, effort, and unity that counted. And they had those in spades.

At the cave entrance, the grain wagons stood, and Yang Luo scooped up large handfuls, exclaiming, “Overflowing!” He beamed at Qi Bai: “Where shall we store them?”

They’d organized vaulted cave storerooms by use. He picked a sunny cave: “Let’s put them here. Also, we can store the husks together.”

He called for Quan Liu—“Where are the stone jars? We need them for storing grain.” Kru Li promised to fetch them.

Yang Luo pressed a stalk with slight firmness. “And these shells—can we eat them?”

Qi Bai replied honestly: “They’re not for eating. Well…only if there’s nothing else to eat—they can fill your belly in a pinch.” In other words, normally fodder—but in desperate times, reserve food. Yang Luo nodded in agreement.

Golden millet tumbled into stone jars. Heishan’s first harvest was home safely. Still, there was more to do—the apricots in the orchard were now ripe, too.

In harvest seasons, the work never stops. Grain one day, fruit the next. But no one would complain—they called these “happy troubles.”

The orchard’s branches bowed with orange-red fruit. A gentle wind carried the scent of apricot blossoms and osmanthus. Jufeng tribe members joined the harvest—Qi Bai and Lang Ze had gifted some fruit in advance for Wurao and the other shamans.

The orchard was so vast that even the tribe couldn’t finish harvesting it alone. Thanks to wild fruit that naturally dropped—many still unripe—there was plenty to share before it rotted.

As the apricots were gathered and dried, the caravan led by Niu Shuo, Lang Ji, and Ma Ling finally arrived at Xushan Trading Day—deep into the north.

They stashed their wagons in the cave and loaded curve bags filled with salt, heading toward the wooden palisade entrance.

True to Qi Bai’s prediction, this year’s trading day had been opened earlier than expected. But the young men quickly sensed tension.

In prior years, tribes were allowed limited exits from the palisaded market when carrying the wooden tokens, enabling continued hunting. Not many tribes could rely solely on trade supplies. This year, the silence around the trading day was unsettling.

Storm clouds cast a shadow—this site felt more like a citadel than a festival. Lang Ji paused, his instincts on high alert.

Monkey Yan noticed and asked, “What’s wrong?”

Lang Ji said nothing and instead watched a group emerging from behind the palisade.

One sneered, “Which tribe are you?”

Niu Shuo answered quietly: “Heishan Tribe.”

The stranger frowned: “Heishan—what’s that? Never heard of it.”

Monkey Yan stepped forward calmly: “We migrated here after the Flood and traded last year with the Mabubo Tribe.”

The stranger watched skeptically. Monkey Yan added, “We’re back for this trading day. If it’s closed, we’ll leave.”

Then the stranger spoke: “Hold on. The trading day is open. But… not Xushan—we’ve renamed it Sanghuo Trading Day.”

At the mention of Sanghuo, some younger warriors tensed. Sanghuo Tribe had orchestrated annihilation of the Xiao Niu Tribe—and nearly destroyed them. Seeing that same tribe now presiding over the trading day stirred buried anger.

Lang Ji felt the tension and steadied Niu Shuo with a reassuring glance. Niu Shuo took a calming breath and kept his composure.

Sanghuo guards glanced at the Heishan salt. Niu Shuo took up the offering: Sanghuo allowed entry—an unspoken acknowledgment of Heishan’s bold clarity.

Heishan retained their same stall as the previous year, but with a larger team, it no longer sufficed. Monkey Yan eyed an adjacent stand—Sandie Tribe’s—now empty. Perhaps Sandie hadn’t arrived, or had been priced out.

Regardless, Heishan claimed it—some pitched tents there; others walked deeper into the market.

As they walked, unease grew. Scattered stalls were manned by guarded tribes. Niu Shuo and Monkey Yan recognized the millet-trading tribe from last time.

The merchant named Yan spoke up joyfully: “Niu! I’m Yan—we buy millet.”

Lang Ji asked quietly: “It’s… a small bag?”

Yan’s face folded. He lowered his voice: “The Beast God is wrathful. We… we could only gather so much, but we need more salt.”

He scanned the group—upon seeing the backing of strong horned beastmen, he tried to appear brave.

“They don’t like our millet here,” he continued, voice smaller. “Only a few folks even inquire—and when they learn how much salt we want… they turn away.”

He paused. “But you guys—only Heishan emptied my stall last time. I hoped you’d do it again.”

Lang Ji mentally crunches the numbers: millet yield was low, yet salt demand remained high. He frowned.

Yan pressed on: “No grass. No game. If I don’t get enough salt, my tribe will starve through the season.”

Pausing, he patted a pile of hides. “I brought skins to traded too—but nobody wants them—they already have enough.”

Fox-Qiao and Rhino-Zhou exchanged glances: Heishan wasn’t going to get as many goods as last year after all. The mood turned bleak.

Suddenly, a voice echoed behind them—angry and rough. The market quieted; traders ducked behind their stalls, pitching tents hurriedly.

Amid a deserted, hushed scene, only Lang Ji and the Heishan party remained—standing tall under the vapor of early harvest dust.