Lam Pham thought back to the water fetching. Every trip to the stream in the dead of night was a gamble. If seen even once, the secret would shatter.
Lost in thought, he looked up to find the sky above suddenly darkening. Black clouds gathered as fast as a closing curtain. There was no wind, no thunder, but an all-encompassing humidity draped over the earth.
He blinked, skeptical. Could it be... if I desire it, it can rain?
Hardly daring to believe it, he focused his intent: "Rain."
A moment later, rain actually fell.
But it was strange: the rain fell strictly within the boundaries of the newly sown plot, not straying an inch outside. The droplets were even and cool, soaking deep into the soil. In less than fifteen minutes, it stopped. The earth was drenched, and the cabbage sprouts swayed gently under the residual moisture.
Lam Pham gasped. He tried again, concentrating hard to call the rain as before.
This time... nothing happened. The sky remained bright, the ground as dry as if the rain had never existed.
He stood still, pondering. Only once?
Exiting the space, he glanced down at the bracelet. The second spirit bird, which had just opened its eyes the night before, was now tightly shut as if it had never stirred.
Lam Pham understood.
It wasn't that the sky obeyed him. It was that this land had "paid" for that rain using the very life force of the spirit bird.
If growth caused it to wake, then using powers beyond the natural limit forced it back into slumber.
He didn't regret it. But from now on, he knew: every use of this power came with a price.
Lam Pham decided to use the rain only when absolutely necessary. To find more life, he began venturing deeper into the forest behind the mountain, hunting sparrows, catching field mice, and gathering edible wild greens. He even tried digging up a young Panax notoginseng (pseudo-ginseng) plant, bringing it into the space to replant, hoping it would grow as fast as the cabbage.
But the medicinal plant didn't change. Its leaves remained yellowed, its roots stunted. No warmth radiated from the bracelet.
He observed closely and realized:
The Bronze Jade Circle didn't just boost everything; it only "accepted" what began from within.
* Seeds sown inside → Grew fast.
* Plants transplanted from outside → Remained as they were.
Undeterred, he expanded his efforts to the adjacent plot, tilling a new section. Lam Ngu asked to help, but he shook his head. "Stay outside and watch. I don't fully understand everything in there yet."
In truth, he had another reason.
The other night, while fetching water, he felt something following him—not a person, nothing with a clear shape, just a chill running down his spine. He couldn't see it, but he knew it was watching.
Fortunately, it couldn't enter the space. That gave him peace of mind: when in the dangerous forest, the "inner world" was the safest haven.
That evening, he gathered more ash, husks, and dried droppings for a new batch of fertilizer. As he passed the coop, his eyes landed on a straw nest: three white eggs were being brooded by a hen.
An idea flashed like lightning.
If seeds sown inside are boosted... would an egg hatched inside count?
He hesitated for a beat, then stealthily took one egg, hiding it in the folds of his shirt.
Tonight, he would test it.
Lam Pham used dry straw and old cloth to fashion a small nest amidst the newly tilled soil. He placed the egg in the center, covering it with a thin, warm layer of straw, just like a real nest.
The bracelet didn't vibrate or glow. There was no sign it "recognized" the egg.
But Lam Pham wasn't disappointed. He remembered the cabbage seeds; the circle had been silent the first night then, too. It only stirred once the sprouts emerged.
He had to wait. If this egg hatched here, the chick would be the first sentient being to begin its life from within. Only then would he know if the circle "accepted" it.
Days passed.
Lam Pham quietly tended the barren land. Mung beans sprouted, cabbage turned lush, and the glutinous rice began to head. With every bit of new growth, the second spirit bird opened its eyes a little more. By now, its wings were nearly half-unfolded, emitting a faint green glow at nightfall.
Finally, the day came for Lam Ngu to return.
He hadn't let her in for days, using the excuse of "experimenting." But seeing her standing by the door with a trace of sadness in her eyes, he smiled.
"Come in. I have something to show you."
Lam Ngu entered, her eyes immediately scanning the area. She froze.
In just a few days, the barren earth had transformed into a lush vegetable garden. The young cabbage was a hand-span high, bean vines climbed their trellises, and the rice stalks bowed their heads—everything was at least three times healthier than the outside world. The air was cool and damp, the soil soft, smelling of silt... the place had truly come alive.
"Brother... you did it," she whispered.
Lam Pham nodded, but said nothing. He led her to the corner of the new plot, where the straw nest was sheltered under a small leaf roof.
"Wait for it."
They stood in silence.
Suddenly, a small crack rang out—very faint, like a pebble hitting damp earth.
Then another.
The shell fractured. A tiny yellow beak pecked repeatedly, patiently. A few breaths later, a sodden little chick struggled out, shivering, its eyes not yet fully open, but already letting out a weak cheep-cheep.
Lam Ngu gasped, covering her mouth with her hands. Her eyes shimmered, not with fear, but with wonder and emotion.
"This... this was your surprise?" she asked, her voice thick.
Lam Pham nodded, his gaze gentle.
"Yes. The first living soul... born into our world."