At the foot of Low Mountain, Yellow Bud Rice Fields.
Even though the harvest had been completed, the yellow bud rice plants remained lush and green.
At this moment, accompanied by a buzzing sound like a swarm of bees flapping their wings,
a grey cloud of insects descended into the yellow bud rice fields.
Wherever they passed, the tough stalks, which were almost as hard as sticks, instantly turned into a green, moist powder that fell to the ground.
The scent of fresh grass spread all around the fields.
In the middle of the insect swarm, a man in his fifties, draped in a black cloak, was slowly moving forward.
He carried a black ceramic urn almost as tall as a man on his back; wherever he went, the grey cloud of insects followed.
"Haven't seen this before, have you?" Old Hao squatted at the end of the field, puffing on a cigarette.
"Tsk tsk, quite the eye-opener." Chen Mu, also squatting at the field's edge, observed the insect swarm at work with great interest.
