A Blessing from the Primordial God

Thoom!

The sheer absurdity of it rang through my skull like the great bell of Bosingak tolling at midnight.

Who on earth is this guy?

Here I was, in a remote mountain valley in Inje, Gangwon Province, receiving a blessing from someone whose name I could barely pronounce. It was like dropping carbonara sauce on a bowl of cold buckwheat noodles.

Still, what mattered wasn't the giver of the blessing — it was the blessing itself. I kept reading the next messages.

What is this even supposed to mean?

Kill zombies, and I could till fields?

Question marks swarmed through my head. Why would a being calling itself the Primordial God of Seasons and Agriculture be egging me on to hunt zombies? And what in the world was this "blessed farmland" supposed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to be?

One zombie equaled one ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠pyeong of field — and that raised another puzzle. Why would someone bearing a Western-fantasy name hand out rewards in pyeong, a unit of measurement that had fallen out of use everywhere in East Asia except, these days, basically Korea alone? That, too, made absolutely no sense to me.

I had endless questions, but no detailed explanations were offered. The messages floating before my eyes simply read:

I had already dispatched a considerable ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠number of zombies by now, but none of that past work was being counted retroactively. Which meant I'd have to take down a fresh one to earn a coin and till my first patch of "blessed farmland."

Only once I'd tilled the ground would I be able to find out what, if anything, was special about it.

Any zombies wandering around nearby?

I climbed up onto the footstool and scanned the area beyond the fence, sweeping the telescope across terrain far out from the house. They say even dog droppings are useful as medicine if you need them — but I couldn't spot a single one.

Impatience wasn't going to send me sprinting off to Inje-eup, where the zombies swarmed in packs. That would be outright suicide.

The warehouses and gas station in town were stacked with supplies and fuel essential for survival, yet nobody dared approach them, terrified of the zombie horde. Get surrounded by a few dozen of the things, and no amount of archery skill or swordsmanship would save you.

No rushing this.

All I had to do was pick zombies off during patrols or fence duty. At least one or two of them showed up every shift anyway.

That said, I was disappointed.

Why fields, of all things?

I already had a plot of about 1,000 pyeong under my own name next to the valley. I wasn't even farming the land I had — what was the point of clearing more?

But if it worked like the magic in fantasy novels and movies — sprouting seeds the instant they touched soil, or making crops shoot up with no water or fertilizer — then it was an entirely different story.

Produce prices fluctuated just as wildly as livestock and seafood, and vegetables, which couldn't be stored for long, swung harder than anything. In a single year they'd climb to gold prices and crash to trash prices several times over.

If my vegetables happened to ripen during a high-price window, I'd pocket serious money. If the price was bad, I'd break my back for pocket change. There were even farmers who plowed their carefully raised crops right back into the ground because the harvest wouldn't even cover labor costs.

Say I rushed to plant green onions because the price spiked — by the time they were ready to harvest, the market could well have collapsed.

But what if I could plant a vegetable whose price had skyrocketed today, and harvest it tomorrow?

That would be hitting the lottery, plain and simple!

If it really worked like that, I'd be handling sums in a completely different universe from some salaryman's annual pay. Once this zombie crisis was over, I wouldn't go back to the company at all — I'd farm and get rich!

Granted, a "job" is supposed to hold value beyond money — self-actualization and all that — but staring at earnings multiplied dozens or hundreds of times over, those noble notions could go to the dogs.

Now I'm actually looking forward to this!

I checked the time. Day shift would be starting soon.

Lunch first.

I slapped together a quick meal of cup ramen and kimchi, then headed out the gate. Normally I prayed I wouldn't run into a single zombie on shift. Today was the exact opposite.

When I reached the patrol starting point, an unexpected figure was already there — Kang Min-chae, the girl who'd led the outsiders.

She was young, but her nerve seemed to be made of steel. Or maybe she was simply pushing herself too hard.

During her time in Deoksu-ri, she had naturally let go of the leader role. Life here was far safer than drifting in that cargo truck, and she had settled back into a place fitting her age. These days the Deoksu-ri Village Chief dealt with the outsiders mainly through the woman in her thirties who had driven the truck.

In any case, I'd never had occasion to speak with Kang Min-chae before. I'd only seen her a few times hauling firewood up to the fence duty post.

"Where's the Youth Association President? What are you doing here?"

He was the one scheduled to patrol with me today.

"He said he's come down with something, so I took his place."

She had a bow and a quiver slung over her shoulder.

"You actually know how to shoot?"

"Yes, I learned since coming here. People say I'm pretty good."

"So that's why they sent you in his place?"

"Yep. I changed careers. From pack mule to archer."

"Pfft!"

Her deadpan joke cracked me up.

I pointed at a straw bale sitting far off in the distance. "Loose an arrow at that—"

Thwip—

The arrow left her bow before I'd even finished the sentence — and to my astonishment, struck precisely the spot I'd marked.

"One more, same spot."

Thwip—

Another arrow flew and smacked into the same point. Her aim time was astonishingly short, and her accuracy extraordinary. I couldn't help being stunned.

Is she a genius?

The outsiders had only started archery practice about ten days ago. They said among archery prodigies there were monsters who picked up a bow for the first time and, after a few days of practice, performed feats that hobbyists could never manage in a lifetime. Was she one of them?

Pit-pat-pat—

She sprinted to the straw bale and collected the arrows. She was a remarkably fast runner, too. Well, no problems on the patrol front, it seemed.

"Let's go."

I walked ahead, and she trotted along behind me. She'd been silent the whole way when she suddenly popped out with something absurd.

"Mister, can't I come live with you?"

"What?!"

"Not like that! There are three of us crammed into a room the size of a booger right now. The villagers say your house is a whole building all to yourself. So if you've got a spare room, lend me one."

I understood what she meant, but obviously I refused. "No."

"I'll clean and cook!"

"Don't need it."

"Just until next spring. After that, you couldn't pay me to stay."

"Watch your mouth, pipsqueak."

"I'm not a pipsqueak! I turn nineteen in February!"

"My house only admits residents thirty and over."

"Ugh, seriously! You are no fun at all!"

Right at that moment, a zombie appeared ahead. It had been shuffling along the ridge of a rice paddy, and the moment it spotted us, it started loping our way.

Thwip—

My arrow flew straight and punched through the zombie's skull. Practically in the same breath, Kang Min-chae's arrow buried itself in the zombie's temple — a targeted strike on a vital point, driving damage into the brain with a lightweight arrow.

I clicked my tongue inwardly.

She really can shoot!

With two arrows in its head, the zombie began writhing like a grub. I drew the kukri, closed the distance, and severed its neck.

A hoe — there were some in the storage shed. And they still bore the callus-worn patina of my grandmother's hands.

Patrol first, then home to try it out!

Rustle—

A sound came from a dry thicket in the distance. Another zombie emerged — one with a belly swollen taut. Judging by the state of decay, it wasn't bloated with gas.

It was a pregnant zombie.

Kang Min-chae faltered, unable to loose her arrow.

Thwip— Thwip—

I drove two arrows into its skull, then took the kukri to its neck. I split open the belly and destroyed the "little zombie" inside as well.

"This is the turnaround point. Let's head back."

Kang Min-chae nodded. The girl who'd been so cheerful just moments before didn't say another word until the patrol ended.

The moment I got home, I bolted the gate first, then went ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠into the storage shed and picked up a hoe.

Grandmother had left behind two hoes. I picked up the other one.

Apparently any secondhand hoe that had actually worked the soil would do.

Nice that the requirements aren't too strict.

In my hurry I almost brought the hoe down on the yard before freezing mid-swing.

Not here!

This might be the kind of field I'd need to hide from other people, and the yard around the house was far too exposed.

Where should I put it, then?

The plot next to the valley seemed like the obvious choice. Few visitors ever came looking for me at the house, but nobody — absolutely nobody — ever went to that field.

I hurried toward it. It wasn't far from the house, and I arrived in no time. Standing at the center of the plot, I brought the hoe down hard on the ground.

And then something extraordinary happened.

Shhh—

The accumulated snow vanished in an instant. It hadn't melted. A full pyeong's worth of snow simply ceased to exist in the blink of an eye.

And that wasn't all. The soil had been turned and readied perfectly, as if waiting for seed. The ground that had been frozen rock-solid now gleamed smooth and supple. One single swing of a hoe had tilled an entire pyeong of field — a scene straight out of science fiction.

The missions kept coming. What kind of reward awaited if I expanded the field to 100 pyeong?

For now, though, the first order of business was finding out what made this blessed farmland so special. I reached my hand across the boundary into the tilled zone.

It's warm.

A gentle warmth tingled at my fingertips.

I tilted my head. If two adjoining zones sat at different temperatures, heat exchange between them should have been inevitable — basic physics. Yet no such phenomenon occurred at all. Not a whisper of the blessed farmland's warmth leaked outward.

A hand could pass through, but heat could not. It was a flat-out violation of the laws of thermodynamics.

Thump-thump—

Heart pounding, I stepped inside the one-pyeong plot.

Oh!

Warm spring sunlight poured straight down onto the crown of my head.