Thinking it, doing it—Tong Zhanyan turned and headed downstairs to inquire about training room fees.

The private training rooms were primarily for self-directed training by sophomores, juniors, and seniors. Tong Zhanyan had heard of them but never used one, though he knew where the billing office was.

On a Sunday afternoon, the dormitory building was nearly deserted, the hallways empty. So when he neared the bottom floor, Tong Zhanyan was startled to suddenly spot Ning Langdong at the stairwell entrance.

Ning Langdong stood before a full-length mirror, making a phone call to someone. His expression was troubled, tinged with a hint of pleading.

The person on the other end was quite rude, and even from a distance, Tong Zhanyan could faintly hear curses.

Hearing the commotion, Ning Langdong looked up and, recognizing Tong Zhanyan, quickly composed his expression and headed out of the dormitory building.

Ning Langdong had always been a proud person.

Tong Zhanyan didn’t pursue him, instead heading toward his own destination.

When Tong Zhanyan arrived at the billing office, it was empty. Instead, a group of upperclassmen stood at the entrance, discussing how Qing Jiyue had caused the training room to collapse.

“Is the person in charge here?” Tong Zhanyan asked from inside the room.

“What’s up?” The person in the center of the group, who had been speaking animatedly, paused to ask.

“I’d like to know what kind of training rooms are available and how they’re priced.”

“There’s a brochure on the desk.” The person casually tossed out the reply before resuming their conversation. Hearing the commotion, they had immediately rushed over to join the crowd, now standing front and center to watch the spectacle.

Tong Zhanyan scanned the area. The table was piled high with folders and documents, but nowhere was there anything resembling an information sheet. “I can’t find it…”

The man quickly returned while still chatting with the others, pulling a thin booklet from the pile of papers and thrusting it into Tong Zhanyan’s hands.

After handing it over, he turned to rejoin the discussion.

Tong Zhanyan quickly asked, “What’s the rate for the cheapest training room? Monthly plan?”

“Five hundred.”

Tong Zhanyan froze. The price was surprisingly low—he’d expected at least a thousand or more, especially since this was the Inner City.

Before Tong Zhanyan could ask more, the other person had already moved on.

Tong Zhanyan sighed and left.

When he returned, Qing Jiyue had finished showering. He stood on the balcony, drying his hair while examining his tomatoes.

He’d always been quite interested.

“They should ripen next week. After harvesting, I plan to move them. Might rent a training room,” Tong Zhanyan said briefly.

Qing Jiyue paused mid-towel. “Why?”

“This place is too small. There’s not enough room.”

Qing Jiyue considered this, then said nothing more.

Tong Zhanyan returned to his desk and retrieved a new notebook.

Delivery of the items would take time.

The tomatoes wouldn’t be harvested all at once, either—at least three rounds were needed, meaning the supplies would also need to be purchased in three batches.

He had to plan ahead how best to allocate that money for maximum efficiency and value.

After drying his hair, Qing Jiyue returned to his own desk. He opened his terminal and searched for Tong Zhanyan’s livestream channel.

Tong Zhanyan had disabled the “Nearby” feature, but the stream could still be found by searching relevant tags. Combined with the likely broadcast time, locating him wasn’t difficult.

As expected, Tong Zhanyan’s stream was deserted. His followers barely exceeded a hundred, and the online count was a pitifully low double-digit figure.

Qing Jiyue followed him.

After finishing his tasks, he glanced over at Tong Zhanyan. Tong Zhanyan was frowning, writing and pausing, utterly absorbed.

He went to bed early that night. The next day, Tong Zhanyan went to class feeling refreshed.

After a week of madness, the Devil King finally had a change of heart and stopped pushing them to the brink.

Tong Zhanyan couldn’t stop smiling, his mind preoccupied with his tomatoes. Tian Xinqing and the others assumed it was because the Devil King had mellowed, and Tong Zhanyan didn’t bother explaining.

Once tomatoes set fruit, they grow at an astonishing pace.

When Tong Zhanyan checked on them Tuesday morning, the largest fruits were nearly as big as a human thumb, and one had already begun to change color.

At the same time, new flower buds started to differentiate.

By Thursday morning, the two largest fruits had turned completely red, while the smaller ones had swollen to the size of a fingertip.

Each cluster bore at least six or seven fruits. With three or four clusters left on each plant, and the main stems still thin from poor nurturing during the seedling stage, the growing fruits soon bent the weaker plants sideways.

Fearing the main stems would snap, Tong Zhanyan quickly improvised, suspending them from the window with a rope.

By the time he finished, the prep bell had already rung. Tong Zhanyan hurried toward the classroom.

This was the scene Gu Yunyang encountered upon waking.

Five tomato plants, their stems bent under the weight of thriving fruit, were suspended by strips of cloth torn from who-know-where.

They resembled five people strangled and hung by the neck, swaying back and forth in the breeze.

Gu Yunyang had long been familiar with Tong Zhanyan’s “lack of care,” but witnessing it again nearly took his breath away.

He clearly wasn’t the only one feeling this way. Despite it being the least-trafficked time of day, Tong Zhanyan’s livestream was flooded with question marks.

This time, Gu Yunyang didn’t leave a comment.

Tong Zhanyan hadn’t replied to his previous message.

After over ten days of wilting blossoms, his tomatoes began dying off in large numbers.

By Friday evening, the calyx leaves on the first few reddening tomato blossoms had started curling—a sign of ripening.

Tong Zhanyan repeatedly reminded himself that these were money—crucial to his future survival—and resisted the urge to pluck two for a taste.

He held back before bed, but once lying down, his mind was flooded with visions of tiny tomatoes bursting with juice in his mouth, their unique sweet-tart flavor…

For over two months now, he’d been surviving solely on nutrient solutions, his cravings nearly driving him mad.

Tong Zhanyan had no idea how long he tossed and turned before finally drifting off.

The next morning, the first thing he did upon waking was pick tomatoes.

If he didn’t get some real food soon, he doubted he’d make it to the future.

“Qing Jiyue.” After picking two tomatoes and washing them thoroughly, Tong Zhanyan tossed one through the window to the person inside, then quickly popped the other into his mouth.

Feeling the fruit’s coolness, Tong Zhanyan hadn’t even bitten down yet when saliva already pooled in his mouth.

He bit down hard. The fruit burst with juice, releasing the characteristic sweet-tart flavor of tomatoes—

“Ugh…” Tong Zhanyan grimaced, spitting the fruit out immediately.

Why was it bitter?

Not just sour, but bitter and astringent.

As the bitter taste faded with the discarded fruit, Tong Zhanyan’s previously jubilant heart plummeted.

Tomatoes weren’t supposed to taste like this.

Crops in this world had an infection rate. Once it exceeded 60%, they became inedible and toxic.

Tong Zhanyan felt as if a bucket of cold water had been dumped over his head.

Before purchasing these seedlings, the seller had shown him the certification when the tomatoes were still seeds. The infection rate was around 45%—no problem.

Had he been deceived?

Or was his cultivation method flawed, causing the infection?

Countless thoughts raced through Tong Zhanyan’s mind in that instant.

“Don’t eat it yet—it’s bitter,” Tong Zhanyan warned Qing Jiyue inside the house.

Qing Jiyue hadn’t planned to eat one yet either; he was still staring at the fruit.

The crops were valuable, and Tong Zhanyan’s financial situation didn’t look great. He hadn’t expected Tong Zhanyan to be willing to share one with him.

There was only one way to confirm whether those tomatoes were infected: testing.

Tong Zhanyan returned inside, quickly changed out of his pajamas, retrieved his backpack, and then brought tissues, adhesive tape, and a pen back to the balcony.

He picked one tomato from each pot, wrapped it in tissue paper secured with tape, labeled each sample, and packed them all into his backpack.

Finally, he hurried downstairs.

That shop could handle the testing.

Luckily, today was Saturday—no classes.

After nearly two months of intense training, Tong Zhanyan felt its benefits for the first time. He sprinted straight to the shop.

It was still early; the staff had just opened.

Seeing Tong Zhanyan rush in, several people entering the shop turned to look.

“Can you test the infection rate of these cherry tomatoes?” Tong Zhanyan asked before they could speak.

“Yes.”

“How long will it take?” Tong Zhanyan inquired.

“Ten minutes,” replied the same clerk who had assisted him last time.

Tong Zhanyan took a deep breath. “Please run the test for me.”

Saying this, he opened his backpack and took out the five tomatoes.

The clerk was a bit puzzled, but there was no reason to turn away walk-in business. He grabbed a tray from nearby, placed the tomatoes on it, and carried it into the back room.

“How much does it cost?” Tong Zhanyan asked.

“One hundred per sample.”

Tong Zhanyan’s mouth twitched. Five samples meant five hundred?

Weren’t they just robbing people?

Though reluctant, Tong Zhanyan nodded. “Go ahead.”

The clerk continued into the back room.

Seeing this, some of the others followed to assist, while the rest opened the main gate.

One of them gestured toward a sofa in the corner, signaling Tong Zhanyan to sit and wait.

Tong Zhanyan didn’t move. He simply couldn’t calm his nerves.

If it really got infected, everything would be over. Even if he wanted to come back again, even if he worked to scrape together the money, it would be too late.

Once he was expelled back to the outer city, merely surviving would be a struggle—let alone any of this.

Tong Zhanyan had expected a fifty-minute wait, but the attendant emerged after only half an hour. The tomatoes remained intact on the tray, each now accompanied by a small note.

Tong Zhanyan immediately scanned them. “How are they?”

“Safe. Infection rates hover around 45%.” The clerk placed the tray on the glass counter, pointing each tomato to him in turn. “This one’s 46%, this one 45%, this one also 46%…”

Tong Zhanyan stopped listening to the rest. He was stunned. “Then why is it bitter?”

The clerk froze, and the few onlookers nearby also paused in surprise.

“Aren’t tomatoes supposed to be sweet and sour?” Tong Zhanyan asked.

The group exchanged glances, torn between laughter and exasperation.

“Theoretically, they should be sweet and sour, but that’s only for infection rates below 20%. Rates over forty percent turn out like this,” explained the clerk who had greeted Tong Zhanyan.

He finally understood why Tong Zhanyan had rushed over so urgently early that morning.

Amidst the bittersweet amusement, the clerk couldn’t help but give Tong Zhanyan a second look. “Did you grow these tomatoes yourself?”

He remembered Tong Zhanyan, so he was genuinely surprised to learn that Tong Zhanyan had actually grown something.

Once he grasped the situation, Tong Zhanyan felt completely drained. Leaning against the display rack, he exhaled a long, weary breath.

That was terrifying.