Within the Immortal Mansion, in a specially designated area, pile after pile of Spirit Rice was being preserved by special means.
Fang Qingyuan's consciousness floated over, gazing at the glistening white, dense, fragrant mounds of Spirit Rice. A look of pure satisfaction spread across his face.
'All this Spirit Rice... I finally have a way to pour it into the market without holding back.'
This was the fourth year since the Immortal Mansion had been greatly expanded, and the Spirit Rice within had already been harvested three times.
Aside from the first year, when the harvest was relatively small due to a lack of Spirit Field Puppets, the other two years had both yielded bumper crops.
As the harvests of Spirit Rice continued, Fang Qingyuan discovered a problem: the rate at which he sold the grain could no longer keep up with the Immortal Mansion's production speed.
