Gu Yunyang felt a surge of panic and was about to speak up, but two rows of question marks had already appeared one after another in the live chat.

Clearly, he wasn’t the only one finding this scene utterly baffling.

Tong Zhanyan paid no attention—or more accurately, he seemed not to notice.

After slapping the two healthiest tomato plants twice more, he flipped them into the two basins of water that had been sitting there, already cold, and walked away.

Gu Yunyang nearly choked on his own blood.

The same feeling struck the other two online viewers, and two rows of question marks drifted across the screen once more.

Tong Zhanyan never returned after leaving, leaving those two tomato plants to soak in the water.

Now Gu Yunyang understood what those holes in the pots were for, but instead of feeling enlightened, he was left even more speechless.

Watering plants was an art, especially for potted specimens—too much water drowned the roots, too little killed them of thirst.

After decades of research, they’d concluded the best approach was infrequent, generous watering. Determining the exact frequency and amount per watering was another science altogether.

Tong Zhanyan, however, found it too troublesome. He simply drilled holes all over the pot and tossed it into water—let it drink its fill, no questions asked.

Gu Yunyang glanced at the tomato plants, then at the delicate, bead-like green fruits hanging from them, and felt murderous.

Now he understood why those tomatoes looked so utterly devastated.

He grabbed the keyboard nearby, opened the comments section, and began typing furiously before hitting send.

Did Tong Zhanyan even know anything about gardening?

After venting, Gu Yunyang looked at those tomato plants again and couldn’t help but feel depressed.

Despite Tong Zhanyan’s mishandling, those plants were thriving and bearing fruit. But what about his own?

He’d tended them meticulously, only to end up with this pitiful mess.

It wasn’t until Tong Zhanyan brought out the tomatoes two hours later that he remembered he even had a livestream channel.

He hadn’t opened it in nearly a week.

He’d checked it closely during the first few days, only to find a handful of clicks daily, with zero followers or comments. Plus, the camera was smart and could charge itself, so over time, he simply stopped bothering to look.

Grasping the terminal, Tong Zhanyan walked toward his bed while glancing at the screen.

“Huh?” The moment he focused, his steps halted involuntarily.

Followers: 18

Comments: 6

Total Views: 356

For a split second, Tong Zhanyan wondered if he’d accidentally clicked into someone else’s stream. He immediately scanned the channel name.

His channel was called “Senior Da Liu’s Planting Space,” and his ID nickname was “Senior Da Liu Never Gives Up.”

This was his live stream.

Not only had the total views surpassed three hundred, but it had also garnered over ten followers. What had happened these past few days?

Surprised yet delighted, Tong Zhanyan immediately opened the streamer’s backend.

The platform he streamed on was called Green Shade, an integrated online entertainment hub combining live streaming, short/long videos, microblogging, and shopping.

Unlike the divided landscape of his previous world, Green Shade reigned supreme here, boasting massive traffic and highly refined features.

The host backend provided detailed analytics tracking views, followers, comments, and more.

The changes in his stream stats began a week ago. One day, his channel suddenly gained two followers, and then the view count started shifting, jumping from a handful daily to over ten per day. During this period, new followers also steadily increased by one or two each day.

Today, however, views had surpassed forty, and new followers had surged by a full six.

Tong Zhanyan was baffled. What had happened a week ago?

Back then, he’d been so distracted in class that the Devil King had tormented him relentlessly, leaving him no time to tend to his livestream—

Tong Zhanyan suddenly recalled that the little tomatoes seemed to have started blooming and bearing fruit en masse around that time.

With that thought, Tong Zhanyan immediately understood what was happening.

Gardening was indeed a hot topic, but few could actually grow plants successfully.

Out of a hundred seeds planted, maybe sixty percent would sprout. More would die during the seedling stage, leaving less than half by the time they flowered. If twenty percent made it to maturity, that was considered a good outcome.

Growing crops was a time-consuming endeavor. Most ordinary plants require two to three months to mature.

In other words, most crops in livestreams were either dead or dying—a “harvest” was a rare sight.

His five tomato plants had been sickly before, but after his recent care, though not fully recovered, they were visibly improving and looking more vibrant.

Especially the clusters of fruit—they were exceptionally pleasing to the eye and naturally drew attention.

Understanding what was happening and seeing hope, Tong Zhanyan sat back on the bed, unable to suppress a smile.

He eagerly scrolled down to the comment section, eager to see the new comments.

Then he spotted a lengthy comment, a thousand words long.

Tong Zhanyan’s smile widened. A thousand-word review? How much praise could that possibly be?

Then Tong Zhanyan felt a pang of disappointment.

The comment wasn’t praising him at all—it was “teaching” him.

The commenter had seen his earlier pollination of the tomatoes and began with a 500-word critique of his technique.

Pollination was a serious and delicate task requiring careful handling. Moreover, Tong Zhanyan’s tomatoes had previously suffered from blossom drop disease, making the connection between the flower and stem extremely fragile—demanding even greater caution.

But Tong Zhanyan was beating them. Tong Zhanyan was practically abusing them.

He strongly condemned this.

Then he meticulously taught Tong Zhanyan the correct method.

You had to do it flower by flower, carefully using a small brush to transfer pollen from the stamens to the pistils, ensuring even coverage.

The remaining four hundred-plus words instructed Tong Zhanyan on how to water crops, detailing over ten possible scenarios and listing solutions for each.

Tong Zhanyan looked up at the commenter, whose ID was: Melancholic Research Dog.

Hmph.

Whether he was actually melancholic or not, Tong Zhanyan couldn’t tell. But seeing him now certainly made Tong Zhanyan feel rather gloomy.

What made Tong Zhanyan even more melancholic was that this single lengthy comment—the only substantial one among his sparse comments section—had already attracted a string of replies.

Many expressed heartfelt condemnation upon hearing Tong Zhanyan had actually “hit” those tomatoes, while the remaining minority were busy showering the Melancholic Research Dog with praise.

The Melancholic Research Dog clearly had professional expertise.

Tong Zhanyan clicked on the user’s ID to check their profile. It was filled with traces of their visits to popular livestreams. Whether they were professional or not was unclear, but they were definitely a planting enthusiast.

Tong Zhanyan returned to his own livestream. He made a move to reply—tomatoes weren’t exactly precious crops, and he hadn’t actually hit them.

But just as he started typing, Tong Zhanyan reconsidered and stopped.

His words would be useless. Cognitive limitations bound these people’s horizons.

It wasn’t their fault, though. For them, this was a completely uncharted territory with no proven success stories—they could only fumble their way through.

Suddenly, Tong Zhanyan thought of his previous world.

In truth, even in that world, not everyone could grow crops well. Many countries, despite decent conditions, still had to import food.

Pondering this, Tong Zhanyan glanced at the remaining encouraging comments before setting down his terminal.

He lay back on his bed, pondering the next steps.

Those tomatoes would ripen within a week at most. He planned to sell them to the shop that had inquired earlier, but there was a problem.

Just as flowers don’t bloom all at once, the tomatoes wouldn’t ripen on the same day. Once ripe, if left unpicked, they’d overripen and fall off. Picking them raised the issue of preservation.

He couldn’t possibly commute to the main city every single day.

After selling the fruit, he planned to immediately buy new seeds—and as many as possible.

Their semester ran from early February to late October. Over two months had already passed since the start of term, leaving him just over seven months remaining.

To be considered for special retention, he couldn’t just present a few tomato pots. At minimum, he’d need to build a greenhouse.

Crop growth takes time, meaning beyond this tomato harvest, he had at most two more planting opportunities.

He could save seeds from crops he’d already grown, but for new varieties, he’d have to buy them—and seeds weren’t cheap.

Moreover, cultivation here isn’t just about seeds—he’d also need to buy soil, lights, and pots.

He didn’t plan to use fertilizers from this world either. While making his own wasn’t a major issue with the current small-scale planting, large-scale cultivation would make scavenging for waste materials impossible…

Where to place the next batch of crops was another major problem. A few pots were manageable now, but he couldn’t possibly keep the next batch in the dormitory.

Even if Qing Jiyue didn’t mind, the balcony was too small to fit them.

Renting a space far from the dorm would mean paying rent. This was the Inner City—three months’ rent would likely cost thousands.

Seeds start at five or six thousand each—twenty seeds alone would cost a hundred thousand. Then he’d need to buy lights, soil, pots, plus rent…

After crunching the numbers, Tong Zhanyan felt a headache coming on. Even if those tomato plants performed well enough to yield a pound of fruit that sold for a hundred thousand, it still wouldn’t cover the expenses.

“BOOM—”

As Tong Zhanyan pondered this, the entire world began violently shaking, followed by the sound of collapsing structures.

An earthquake?

Tong Zhanyan immediately scrambled out of bed.

The shaking didn’t last long and soon subsided.

At the same time, commotion erupted within the school.

The noise came from the training area, located on the opposite side of the dormitory building.

Tong Zhanyan went out to the building across the way. Su Yanran wasn’t there, but Tian Xinqing was craning her neck from the balcony, looking toward the training area.

“What’s going on?” Tong Zhanyan asked.

Tian Xinqing shook her head while pointing for Tong Zhanyan to see. “A training room over there collapsed.”

A row of paid training rooms to the left front had indeed collapsed, dust billowing from the debris above.

“How could that happen?” Tong Zhanyan exclaimed in surprise.

Sidi Academy was a military institution where most courses involved combat. Naturally, all facilities on campus were reinforced and built to withstand heavy use.

Not only would a complete collapse be unlikely, but even if they, in their fused beast forms, charged directly into the walls, they probably wouldn’t crack.

“Could it be due to years of neglect?” Tong Zhanyan speculated.

“That can’t be…” Tian Xinqing, who loved a good spectacle, was already running downstairs as he spoke, eager to get closer to the commotion.

Tong Zhanyan watched for a while longer before returning to his room.

Half an hour later, the door opened.

Tong Zhanyan thought it was Tian Xinqing and immediately looked up, only to see Qing Jiyue instead. He was covered in dust and dirt, looking more disheveled than Tong Zhanyan had ever seen him.

Tong Zhanyan instantly understood what had happened. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” Qing Jiyue walked toward the wardrobe.

“Why did you tear down the training room?” Tong Zhanyan couldn’t help but ask with a laugh.

Of course, Qing Jiyue hadn’t done it on purpose—otherwise, he wouldn’t have ended up looking so disheveled. But his pale-faced appearance was simply too comical.

Qing Jiyue shot Tong Zhanyan a slightly aggrieved glance. “It’s clearly their fault for not building it sturdy enough.”

His own wouldn’t collapse.

“Haha…” Tong Zhanyan laughed out loud.

Qing Jiyue did remind him that if the dorm couldn’t accommodate him, he could rent a private training room.

Their school offered both shared and paid training rooms. Since tuition was free, the fees for paid facilities were relatively low, which could save him some money in the short and long term.