I Transmigrated into a Garbage Incineration Plant and Generate Power Every Day [Farming]

Also known as: #I Burn Trash in a World of Magic

After dying from overwork, Guan Jian, who worked mixing concrete on construction sites, transmigrates to another world along with the work unit she built.

Here, natural disasters refresh on a weekly basis. Zombies, floods, extreme cold, acid rain: everything is on the menu.

She wears a hard hat, a reflective vest, and protective gloves, and carries a bucket of concrete she hasn’t finished mixing. From the start, all she has is a broken-down cave, with rain pouring down overhead.

But...

[Combustible: Grade 1 Corrupted, 18 MJ/kg]

[Combustible: Mutated animal fur, high fat content, heavy smoke when burned, 17 MJ/kg]

As Guan Jian watches the flames dancing at her fingertips, she vaguely recalls what HR asked her when she joined the company.

“There’s no more trash left to burn in the country. Are you willing to take a long-term overseas assignment?”

She said, “I am.”

And so, Asia’s largest mega-energy project, the Gray River Waste-to-Energy Plant, arrived in its faithful Middle World.

Guan Jian: I just want mages in another world to be able to drive new-energy cars and work for Didi.

“Top prices paid! Cow dung, kitchen scraps, rotten vegetables, broken bones, busted wands, old leather armor, and lots of Corrupted!”

“Trade for scissors, kitchen knives, and stainless steel basins!”

“Sir, you’ve stepped in my cow dung.”

Exchanging offerings for power: that is the very concept of a god.

The church’s gods require offerings of bread and wine. She eats rusty iron scraps, rotten dirt, and filthy animal carcasses, then produces an endless supply of baked bread, vegetable stew with meat, soft fabrics, and building materials.

Skeletons turn the soil, Myrtles water the fields, and dragons mix the concrete.

She is a benevolent evil god.

Her faithful clasp their hands in devotion and begin reciting their prayer

[The Safe Production Almanac]

#No mixing plant? Mix by hand. No tower crane? Carry it on your shoulders.#

#Seize the sunny days, make the most of the cloudy ones, and treat floods and acid rain as good weather.#

#Work through earthquakes, push on through avalanches, get it done during lulls in tsunamis, fight to the last against zombie sieges, and give it your all in frozen soil.#

#Work! Work! Work!#

P.S. A goofy, feel-good story with a couple.

Coming soon: I Became Famous Across the Stars for Selling Canes to a Warrior Race

Until the day she transmigrated, Tu Tang was still diligently working for the marketing department.

“Don’t write about dating tricks. Change the perfume copy to say it’s not about pleasing anyone. Whether they like it doesn’t matter; what matters is that I think the breeze smells lovely today.”

“I personally made that guest the star of the one-day store-manager event.”

“No matter what you’re selling, you need a good story. You could talk someone into a limp with a pair of great legs.”

Star-making, marketing, branding, advertorials... These tiresome, dishonest jobs were what kept her afloat.

When she woke up again, she found herself in a galactic federation with no stories.

War had run through generations of their bloodlines. The Steelborn drank too much, were numb to the world, and had grown emotionally dulled. Their birth rate kept falling.

They had the thickest history of war in the universe and the thinnest book of art. Their only poem was a longing for a homeworld they weren’t even sure existed.

Material wealth was abundant, but spiritual life was barren. All around her was the coldest, most brutal warrior race in the universe, while she was the frailest and most alien of all: a human from Earth.

Tu Tang gave a dry laugh.

“Could you give me two minutes to tell you a story?”

In stories about domineering CEOs chasing their wives, crazy animal towns, Snow White and the Minions, red flowers came to mean love, four-leaf clovers meant good luck, and burning paper offerings at graves meant longing. Designer toys and fast-fashion stores sprang up everywhere, while “TV dramas,” “pets,” “comics,” “actors,” “idols,” and “variety shows” began appearing on their wrist-computers...

For the first time, the Federation, a people who had fought wars for generations, had their spiritual needs acknowledged. They called stories “painkillers for the soul,” and this entire species suffering from postwar trauma gradually began to emerge from its grief.

A new life seemed to have truly begun. Everyone became peaceful, gentle, and courteous. They no longer talked about war, but about dining tables, movies, fashion, and literature.

Until the Silicon Empire, their archenemy for ten thousand years, seriously argued that the master storyteller was not actually one of the Steelborn.

She belonged to all life in the galaxy, whether nitrogen-based, sulfur-based, or plasma-based. She did not belong to this cruel, violent carbon-based species.

The Steelborn, who had known love and peace for only a few years, instantly put their uniforms back on.

What the hell? We’ll kill you! We’ll kill you! We’ll kill you!

Theme: Build tomorrow with your own hands