When sickness clouded the human world,
Shennong bent his back to the fields of fate.
Not with blade nor thunder did he fight —
but with roots, leaves, and earth’s quiet breath.

Bitter herbs burned his veins,
poison scorched his heart time and again.
Yet he did not turn away.
For every pain, a cure discovered;
for every sacrifice, a life preserved.

He sought not power — but truth.
A warrior of soil and spirit,
whose battlefield was the body,
whose victory was survival.

And in the rustle of leaves and whisper of wind, his promise endures:
to heal, to endure, to seek beyond fear.