章節 4: 4. Farming the Code
The village woke with the rooster's cry, the sound rolling across fields still heavy with mist. He was already awake, not because of the rooster, but because of the gnawing thought that wouldn't leave his head.
Food.
He'd eaten more bread and goat's milk in the last few days than in his entire life. It was sustaining, sure, but the village's stores looked thin. The people didn't complain, but he could see the strain in how carefully they divided portions. They had welcomed him, fed him, honored him—and all he had done in return was patch a few bugs.
He needed to give back.
And food—food was a survival patch worth writing.
Later that morning, he followed the farmers to the edge of their tilled fields. The land stretched wide, brown and cracked in places, with thin shoots of barley struggling under the late summer sun. The soil looked tired, like an old battery running on its last charge.
The farmers worked with quiet determination, their tools crude but steady. Wooden plows. Bronze blades. He watched them, heart tugging. Logic itched at the back of his mind like a line of unoptimized code.
"Can I…?" he gestured awkwardly toward a patch of soil.
The farmers exchanged wary glances. Finally, one shrugged. "If the Oracle wishes to bless the land…"
Bless. Right. He crouched down, fingers brushing the dirt. And sure enough—glyphs pulsed faintly under the surface, tangled together in long strands, like spaghetti code.
growth_rate = slow;soil_nutrients = low;water_absorption = inefficient;
He exhaled. "No wonder your fields are struggling. It's like farming with an outdated API."
The farmers stared blankly. He winced. "Uh—never mind."
He started simple. He rewrote the absorption function, tweaking the flow:water_absorption = optimized;
The glyphs shifted, glowing faintly blue before fading into the earth. He grabbed a jug of water and poured it onto the soil. To his amazement, instead of running off, the dirt drank it greedily, holding moisture like a sponge.
The farmers gasped. One whispered, "The ground is alive."
Encouraged, he turned to the barley shoot. Its script flickered weakly:growth_rate = 0.5x;
He carefully adjusted the value.growth_rate = 2x;
The stalk trembled—then shot upward, doubling in size before their eyes. In seconds, it stood tall, green, and strong.
The farmers fell to their knees. "Miracle! Miracle!"
He laughed nervously. "Well… more like version update."
Word spread fast. By midday, the entire village crowded the fields, watching as he worked patch after patch. He strengthened roots, optimized sunlight absorption, balanced nutrient cycles. Each tweak brought visible results—plants growing faster, leaves greener, soil richer.
One farmer, emboldened, brought him a sack of seeds. "Oracle, can you bless these too?"
He examined them. Their code was dormant, waiting for conditions to trigger growth. He added a new line:germination_trigger = lower_threshold;
When planted, the seeds sprouted within hours instead of days.
The villagers erupted in cheers, clapping him on the back, calling him savior of the harvest. Children ran between rows, marveling at the sudden lushness.
For the first time, he didn't feel like he was faking it. This wasn't just debugging. This was building. Innovating. Farming the code itself.
But experimentation had risks.
That evening, he tried to push the growth-rate variable even higher on a patch of corn. At first, the stalks shot up beautifully—then kept going. Within minutes, they towered over the field, ten feet, twenty, thirty, the stalks creaking under their own impossible weight.
Leaves twisted, tassels drooped, kernels swelled grotesquely large before bursting with a wet pop.
The crowd screamed and backed away.
He scrambled to roll back the change.growth_rate = 1x;stability = true;
The code stabilized, and the mutant corn froze in place. He collapsed onto the ground, sweat pouring down his face, hands trembling.
"Okay," he panted, "note to self: don't push production into infinity loop."
The villagers murmured nervously. But Maren stepped forward, steady as ever. "Even miracles may falter when tested. He learns, as we all do."
Her calm tone smoothed their fear, and the villagers slowly returned to awe rather than terror. But the mistake lingered in his mind like a flashing red error message.
This world's code wasn't just flexible. It was volatile.
In the days that followed, he refined his farming experiments carefully. No more reckless overclocking. Instead, he focused on sustainability.
He debugged pest scripts, lowering infestation probabilities. He wrote efficient irrigation subroutines, channeling streams directly into fields. He even patched weather locally, coaxing rain clouds to pass over once a week, though each attempt left him drained for hours.
The fields thrived. Within a fortnight, the village had more food growing than they'd seen in years. Families laughed again. The air smelled of promise.
And every time they looked at him, their eyes shone with reverence.
It was intoxicating. Terrifying.
One evening, as he sat under the newly lush trees, Maren joined him again. She carried a woven basket of early harvest—plump berries, golden grain, herbs that gleamed with vitality. She set it beside him.
"You have given us abundance," she said. "The village will remember this season for generations."
He rubbed his face. "Yeah, well, let's hope they remember it as the 'good harvest' season, not the 'mutant corn apocalypse' season."
Her lips quirked, the closest thing to a smile he'd seen. "You take risks. But you also learn. That is what makes your gift strong."
He stared at the basket, then out at the glowing fields. For the first time in his life, he felt like his work mattered. No corporate bosses stealing credit. No endless bug tickets piling up. Just real change, real impact.
But Maren's next words brought a chill.
"News of such bounty travels quickly. And those who hunger may come—not to thank, but to take."
His chest tightened. He looked at the thriving village, the laughing children, the proud farmers.
And he realized—this wasn't just debugging for survival anymore.
This was responsibility.
That night, under a sky scattered with stars, he pulled up the code of the land once more. And for the first time, he didn't patch or fix or optimize.
He set a safeguard.
A firewall around the fields, subtle and unseen.unauthorized_access = denied;
As the glyphs sealed into the soil, glowing faintly before fading, he whispered, "This is your garden. No one else gets root access."
But far away, beyond the hills, that ripple in the system spread again.
And once more, someone noticed.
每周推薦票狀態
-- 推薦票
榜單 
-- 推薦票