Autumn, the golden rice fields swayed with the wind, resembling waves rippling.
At Lazhi Village, the villagers, as always, hastened to harvest the rice while the sun's heat was still mild.
"I asked yesterday, and this year's rice purchasing price is much lower than last year's."
In the fields, a dark-skinned man in his twenties complained to his fellow villagers as he wielded a sickle to cut the rice.
"We earn so little from the grain, when will we ever make enough money to move to the city, I'm even considering growing poppy."
His companion was equally resentful, cursing this dog's age.
"I would never grow that harmful poppy even if it killed me."
Miao Lun's face darkened, and he shot an angry glance over.
The poppy, indeed opium, was the very reason his father had died, and he held a profound loathing for it.
"Alright, alright, I was just saying, those things are grown in the north, no one here messes with that."
His companion gave a sheepish laugh and quickly explained.
