You just need to choose a good spot, and leave the rest to it. Drill through, and you'll find the spring.

You just need to choose a good spot, and leave the rest to it. Drill through, and you'll find the spring.

Choosing a spot is your forte. You know which plot of land has good soil, which slope faces the sun, which ditch holds water—you know it all. Years of farming have given you a thorough understanding of every inch of soil. Once you've chosen the spot, you stand aside and leave the rest to it.

The machine stands up, the drill begins to descend. A rumbling sound fills the air, and you stand by and watch. One meter, two meters, five meters, ten meters—soil is turned up, wet; sand is brought up, even wetter. You squat down and squeeze it; it's cool, and your heart skips a beat. But you still stand there, motionless, waiting.

It drills down on its own, brings up soil on its own, and finds the hidden underground waterway. You don't need to worry, you don't need to lift a finger, you don't need to urge it. It knows where to go, knows when to push harder, knows when the water is almost there. You just watch, wait, and trust.

Then, the water came. It gushed from the pipe, clear and icy cold, splashing all over you, but you didn't flinch. You squatted down, scooped it up, and took a sip—it was sweet. At that moment, you knew you hadn't chosen the wrong place, and it hadn't disappointed you. The spring hidden underground had finally been brought to the surface.

You only need to choose a good spot; leave the rest to it. Drill through, and you'll find the spring. From today onward, you trust not only your own judgment but also this machine that drills through everything for you.