The alarm lights were still flashing orange. Chen Hao stared at the parasites raising their heads on the monitor screen, muttering, "Are these guys having a meeting? Waiting for the rain?"

Nana didn't reply; the optical lens was rapidly scrolling through the spectrum of crustal vibrations. Just as she was about to speak, the roof vent suddenly slammed shut, as if someone had kicked it from the outside.

Then, the wind came.

It wasn't the lukewarm breath of an air conditioner; it was a crosswind carrying the smell of earth and a powerful, backdraft that flipped all the record sheets on the control panel. One flew into Chen Hao's face, which he slapped away, cursing, "Who left the window open?"

“There are no windows,” Nana said. “This is air convection caused by a sudden drop in air pressure.”

Before she could finish speaking, a muffled clap of thunder struck the west side of the base, shaking the floor. The rain outside the granary had already begun to fall—not dripping, but pouring down, a torrent that drowned out all other sounds.

Chen Hao grabbed the waterproof jacket hanging on the back of the chair, putting it on as he rushed out: "Drainage ditch! We haven't finished clearing that pile of rice husks from last night, it'll be a disaster if it gets clogged!"

Nana followed closely behind, her robotic arm deploying a small excavation device, while the optical system simultaneously locked onto the flooded area in the northwest corner. Rainwater streamed down her metal casing like a flowing layer of silver.

When they arrived, the ditch was already blocked by mud and broken branches, and the water level had overflowed the field ridges, beginning to flood the wheat field. Chen Hao grabbed a shovel and started digging, ignoring the mud splattering all over his face, muttering, "I've been planting for three months, and you think you can just harvest it all with one rain? Dream on."

Nana maneuvered the excavator arm into the silt layer, the metal claws pulling out a clump of rotten grass roots wrapped in plastic sheeting. Just as she was about to continue, the acoustic detector detected an anomaly—a continuous low-frequency vibration was coming from upstream.

“The mountainside is loose,” she said. “A landslide is expected within three minutes.”

"Then hurry up!" Chen Hao shouted, plunging the shovel into the crack in the rock and trying to pry it open. But the handle snapped, and he stumbled and fell into the mud.

The next second, a thunderous roar rolled down from the mountaintop.

The entire hillside seemed to have been ripped open, with muddy water carrying rubble and broken trees rushing down and directly collapsing the temporary embankment. Chen Hao watched helplessly as the wheat field, which had just sprouted green shoots, was smoothed out as if by an invisible hand, turning into a yellowish swamp in the blink of an eye.

He scrambled to his feet and waded into the knee-deep mud, frantically digging with his hands. His fingernails were filled with mushy mud, and as his fingertips brushed against something hard, he suddenly grabbed it—it was a seed, swollen and easily crushed.

“It’s all gone…” He squatted in the mud, clutching the lump of mushy paste in his hand, his voice dry like sandpaper scrubbing a wall.

Nana stood at the edge of the field, her optical lens scanning the entire damaged area, the data stream constantly updating: soil loss rate 87%, organic matter concentration reduced to uncultivable levels, and seed survival rate zero.

"I recommend activating the Level B agricultural emergency response plan," she said.

"A contingency plan?" Chen Hao looked up, rain streaming down his neck from under his hat. "We don't even have land anymore, what are we going to do with contingencies? Are we farming or collecting corpses now?"

He shook his hands, stood up, dripping wet, his clothes clinging to his body like a shroud. But just as he turned to leave, Nana suddenly raised her arm to stop him.

“High-density metal residue was detected,” she said. “It comes from upstream riverbed sediments, and compositional analysis shows that it contains 92.3% iron and 15.6% nickel, with an unknown crystal structure—not belonging to common mineral veins on Earth.”

Chen Hao paused for two seconds, then suddenly grinned: "You mean... a job fell from the sky?"

“The literal meaning doesn’t hold true,” Nana said. “But if it refers to the possibility of resource recycling, the conclusion is ‘feasible’.”

"Let's go!" he slapped his thigh. "We'll dig it up, melt it down, and make sickles! We've already lost the land anyway, so we might as well become blacksmiths."

The two walked upstream along the river, their vision blurred by the rain. Nana used thermal imaging to locate a black object half-buried in the rocks, its surface pitted and uneven, like charred charcoal that had been burned and then cooled.

"Is this the 'heavenly rice bowl' you were talking about?" Chen Hao reached out and touched it; his fingertips were burning hot. "It's quite heavy."

"The initial estimate is that it weighs about 68 kilograms," Nana said. "It will require the use of pulley systems and a three-stage traction cableway for transport."

"Alright then." He wiped his face. "Let's not be farmers today, let's be porters instead."

For the next twelve hours, they worked like two ants scrambling in the mud, building a cableway, tying steel cables, and prying rocks. Chen Hao fell three times: once hitting a rock, once slipping into a ditch, and finally tripping over the rope he had thrown out.

"I suspect this piece of junk is made of magnets, specifically to attract my bad luck." He lay on the ground panting. "Next time you find some extraterrestrial treasures, just give me the coordinates and I can sign for them while lying at home."

Nana didn't laugh, but she pulled up the blower modification plan and marked the anvil's position in the center of the drawing.

Inside the workshop, the furnace fire finally reached the critical temperature. Ordinary coke wouldn't work, so they mixed in manganese powder from discarded batteries and a little aluminum foil, and the flames instantly turned blue.

“If this thing explodes, we’ll be the first survivors in history to be killed by homemade farm tools,” Chen Hao said, pushing the meteorite into the furnace.

At high temperatures, the metal surface begins to glow red, and tiny sparks emerge from the pores, as if it is breathing.

For three days and two nights, they took turns blowing air, forging, and quenching. With the final hammer blow, the curved blade finally took shape, its edges gleaming with a dark bluish-green luster, like solidified lightning.

"Done?" Chen Hao picked it up and shook it; it was so light it didn't feel like iron. "If you were to sell this, I'd believe you if you said it was plastic."

“The density test result is 7.89 g/cm3,” Nana said. “It is 1.3 times higher than that of conventional steel, but due to its porous internal structure, the overall weight is reduced by 42%.”

"Sounds like an advertising slogan." He weighed it in his hand. "But... as long as it can mow the lawn, it's fine."

The next morning, they tested the wheat in the rebuilt experimental field. The land was newly turned, and the seeds were the last batch of hybrid wheat in the stockpile, sown sparsely and growing slowly.

Chen Hao waved.

The blade cut into the soil with almost no resistance, and the grass stems fell down neatly, the cut as clean as if it had been made by a ruler. Even stranger, around the cut soil, new seedlings sprouted leaves much faster, and the leaves spread out more gracefully.

Nana immediately set up the monitoring device: "The cutting vibration frequency is 12.7 times per second, which matches the resonance range of the plant roots. The soil electrical conductivity has increased, and the microbial activity has increased by 23%."

"What do you mean?" Chen Hao stopped, the tip of his knife touching the ground.

“This sickle is more than just a tool,” she said. “It stimulates crop growth.”

Chen Hao looked down at the sickle lying quietly in the mud and suddenly laughed: "So now it's not me farming, it's the sickle nourishing the soil?"

He bent down to pick up the sickle, the blade reflecting his mud-strewn face. In the distance, a crack appeared in the dark clouds, letting in slanting sunlight that shone on the freshly turned earth.

“Alright,” he said. “Then you are the God of Fields, and I am the monk in your temple, offering incense to you every day.”

He walked towards the next row of fields, his steps lighter than the previous two days. Nana followed behind, the robotic arm slowly rising to begin collecting leaf transpiration data.

The sunlight grew brighter, and the wheat seedlings swayed gently in the breeze.

Chen Hao raised his sickle, preparing to swing it down a second time.

Just as the blade left the ground, a muffled thud came from the distant mountains, as if something deep in the earth had turned over.