My Crops Are a Bit Noisy

Mo Yun felt that he was probably crazy. Otherwise, when I was watering the cornfield, I heard a weak complaint coming from the soil: "... Just this little water? It's not enough for me to wash the roots. I should have been reborn as a cactus..." That summer, Mo Yun's family's contracted land was experiencing a third year of poor harvest. The cracked loess soil is like a wrung-out rag. Whatever you plant will die, and even the most drought-tolerant millet can only produce half-yellow ears. Dad squatted in the field and smoked cigarettes fiercely. The cigarette butts piled up into a hill, and his back was even more bent than the field ridge with worry. The family still owed money for treating grandpa, and if he continued to pay the debt, he would have to sell the only old house. Mo Yung had just finished his college entrance examination and wanted to drop out of school and work. However, when he was trying to save the last few corn seedlings on a rainy night, he was hit in the arm by a strange ball lightning. After waking up, the world became a "large-scale complaint site".