Tang Xiaonan stopped and turned toward the source of the voice. A group of people were planting rice seedlings, all moving quickly. The rows were perfectly straight, as if measured with a ruler, but one man stood out. He was slow, and the seedlings he planted were crooked and messy.
The man said nothing, merely straightening up to pound his lower back a few times. He was handsome, but with fair skin and refined features—not the rugged, thick-browed, and large-eyed look currently in vogue. He was more of a pretty boy.
The man wore old clothes, his pant legs rolled up high, his feet caked in mud. Yet his aura was completely different from the farmers around him. He was like a crane in a flock of chickens—impossible to ignore.
"What's the rush? It makes no difference to your work points whether I plant slowly or quickly."
