A huge thanks to Lupeda for the kofis, hope you enjoy the bonus chapters!

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Tong Zhanyan had saved a lot of seeds this time—over twenty between eggplants and cucumbers. Both were exceptionally prolific seed-producers, meaning he had four or five thousand seeds of each variety.

Tong Zhanyan spent nearly an hour just processing them.

Many viewers in the livestream felt heartbroken for him.

Because there were so many seeds, Tong Zhanyan grew increasingly unhesitant to discard the poorly developed ones.

By the time he was nearly done, the basin beside the sink where he discarded pulp was packed solid with seeds.

Seeds were incredibly valuable—each one worth at least five or six thousand credits. This basin alone held a minimum of one or two thousand seeds, translating to a value of at least seven or eight million credits.

Not seven or eight hundred, but seven or eight million…

Tong Zhanyan saw the screen filled with wails of heartache, but he only smiled and said nothing.

Not only were private seeds hard to sell, but even if someone wanted them, even if he discounted them or gave them away, most of those seeds wouldn’t sprout.

Planting a batch of seeds required tending to them for at least two or three months, plus the costs of fertilizers, water, and soil. Honestly, it was better to just spend the money and buy good ones.

These two types of seeds were ready to plant after treatment, but Tong Zhanyan still spread them out on a plastic sheet on the table to air dry.

While they dried, he retrieved his hole punch and the plastic cups he’d recently bought, punching holes and filling them with soil once more.

He didn’t stop until nightfall made it too dark to see, then paused to rest.

By then, the nearly hundred-meter-wide empty space to the right of the small house was already filled with cups.

“Goodness, how much is the streamer planning to plant…”

“I’m going crazy. Why can’t we just skip to sprouting and harvesting?”

“He’s not seriously planning to plant several acres, is he?”

“Can’t even imagine how many pounds of fruit that would yield…”

“Ahhh, streamer, don’t go to sleep! I want to see the planting! I want to see the sprouting! I want to see the blooming! I want to see the harvest…”

…

Victims’ Alliance.

A whole bunch.

“I just counted—at least two thousand cups! Add in those little tomatoes from before, this streamer is planning something huge!”

“Stop talking, you’re getting me all hyped up.”

“Why can’t it flower and bear fruit in a single day? This is killing me.”

…

Yang Hong’s heartbeat quickened involuntarily.

As one of the original five who witnessed those first tiny tomatoes, this scene felt even more jarring to him—after all, those five tomatoes were just a few months ago.

“Hey, have you guys seen those streams lately where people are copying the seniors’ planting method? Seems super popular now—I’ve already come across several.”

“I’ve seen them too.”

“One streamer I follow has a big following. Just the other day, I noticed he started copying it too.”

“Ah, well…”

“Is that really okay?”

“What’s the problem?”

“Well… what if they end up growing better than the streamer?”

The group chat, bustling moments ago, fell briefly silent.

Then it erupted again.

“No way!”

“Exactly! That’s Senior!”

“But didn’t Senior share everything he knew? I saw people making compilation videos summarizing it—they’re getting tons of views.”

The group fell silent again, because many of them had seen those summary videos.

Some had even saved them themselves.

Most of them weren’t actually growing crops, but seeing Senior grow things so effortlessly had many of them itching to try. Some had even started preparing already.

“That can’t be right…”

“I trust Senior.”

Messages trickled in, but replies were noticeably fewer this time.

“Honestly, I’m more worried about something else. With that senior’s personality… Other streamers don’t even need to farm that well. Just be more talkative and enthusiastic, and they’ll attract tons of followers.”

This time, the group fell completely silent.

Yang Hong frowned.

The thought of that scenario left him thoroughly annoyed.

What annoyed him even more was that he’d raised his finger several times, yet couldn’t come up with a rebuttal.

Senior’s temperament was indeed a major issue.

Even now, many were still frequently driven to cursing and throwing their keyboards in frustration.

Take those chicks, for instance. Most people thought the senior was reckless for feeding them cabbage, convinced he’d never keep them alive.

Or those minor details—many felt he could’ve been more careful, but he insisted on being so careless.

“Should we go talk to him?”

“If he’d listen, we wouldn’t be worrying about this now.”

The group fell even quieter.

Most members were veterans—people who’d unfollowed in frustration only to return. Yet in this moment, no one felt Senior Da Liu deserved it. Instead, they all felt a gnawing, gut-wrenching unease.

In the silence, someone remembered: “Hey, Changge, didn’t you also plant cherry tomatoes using the senior’s method? How are they doing?”

Changge had been there all along and immediately sent a photo.

“How did they get so messed up?”

“Weren’t they doing fine before?”

In the photo, three tomato plants had all borne fruit, and the tomatoes were ripe and ready to pick.

But the fruits were barely the size of a fingertip, each plant bearing only a single cluster. The leaves were wilted and drooping, presenting a rather pitiful sight.

At that moment, everyone couldn’t help but smile.

Even if you wanted to learn, it wasn’t that easy to replicate.

Changge hesitated for a moment before explaining, “Although I followed the senior’s method, I didn’t have many of the things he used. The soil I started with was my old stuff, completely untreated. I only mixed in a little wood ash later on. I did manage to get some eggshell powder, but things like composting cherry radishes and bok choy…”

Actually, she had initially left three clusters of fruit on each plant. It was only after the gloomy research nerd pointed out she couldn’t keep that many that she pruned some off.

Even so, seeing those heavy clusters of fruit filled her with immense satisfaction.

The crowd, who had been laughing moments ago, now found it hard to smile. What Changge couldn’t grow, those streamers certainly could.

Even if they couldn’t cultivate it themselves, they could always buy it.

Money wasn’t an issue for them, and every penny spent would eventually return as traffic.

Silence fell over the group chat once more.

Live Stream Room.

“…Well, that’s all for today. See you tomorrow.” Yan Zhenwen gave a satisfied look at the delicate little tomatoes in the small pot before him and happily left.

The moment he stepped out of the camera’s frame, his smile vanished instantly, replaced by a furrowed brow. “So?”

“This…” The head of the operations team looked hesitant.

Yan Zhenwen handed the tomato to someone nearby and stepped forward to inspect the situation himself.

His livestream had already amassed 1.5 million followers. During non-harvest periods, concurrent viewers typically hovered around 10,000 to 20,000, while harvest events could surge to 60,000 to 70,000.

Yet now, despite it being harvest time and an announcement having been posted three days in advance, concurrent viewers barely reached 20,000.

Yan Zhenwen’s expression darkened alarmingly.

“Lately, many people have been following that Senior Da Liu. I noticed his traffic is pretty good. Maybe we could…” The operations team leader mustered the courage to speak, but before he could finish, Yan Zhenwen shot him a glare.

He immediately shut up.

Yan Zhenwen withdrew his gaze and rubbed his nose, forcing himself to stay calm.

With his follower count surpassing one million, his team implemented the second phase of their plan: physical stores.

His focus had been entirely offline during this period.

Only after the offline stores were largely set up did he turn his attention back online. That’s when he noticed his live stream’s follower growth had stalled. The online audience dwindled day by day, and the chat, comments, and even group chats were dead silent.

At first, he thought it was because he hadn’t been actively managing the livestream. That was until he saw people discussing that Senior Da Liu.

One hundred and seventy tomato seedlings yielding over two hundred pounds—nearly three hundred pounds—and that didn’t even include the eggplants, cucumbers, cherry radishes, and bok choy…

His immediate reaction was that this marketing was way over the top, so exaggerated that it seemed fake.

He searched online right away.

The results stunned him.

Because the photos and videos of branches heavy with fruit didn’t look fake.

That unsettled him.

Because if it was all real, what could he possibly compete with?

Before he could process the chaos, a habitual glance downward revealed the other guy’s follower count had already surpassed his by a full twenty thousand.

When he had hit a million followers, hadn’t the other guy only had a little over ten thousand?

And he had been marketing relentlessly, spending more on promotion than his entire greenhouse had cost.

“Still haven’t found his real information?” Yan Zhenwen looked up.

“We’ve been investigating, but someone is obstructing us—” the operations team leader amended, “But we’re close.”

Yan Zhenwen said nothing more.

The operations team leader exchanged a glance with someone beside him. The latter immediately opened a terminal. “The ‘Most Valuable Live Room’ event we secured connections for with Green Shade is set to officially launch in the next couple of days. They’ve promised to prioritize our placement as much as possible.”

Hearing this, Yan Zhenwen’s expression finally softened slightly.

The Green Shade event was open to everyone, even actively promoting itself externally. The traffic was massive—gaining another million followers over the next few months wouldn’t be a problem.

If they could secure first place, the traffic and attention would be secondary. The visibility the event itself brought would ensure everyone remembered the “Yan family.”

He was determined to win.

The next morning, the first thing Tong Zhanyan did upon waking was to soak the seeds.

After soaking the seeds, he checked on the chicks to ensure none had escaped again. He chopped some feed for them before heading to wash up.

The nutrient solution was depleted, so he made another trip to replenish it.

After breakfast, he dug up the soil mounds to inspect them.

The leaves had decayed extensively but weren’t completely rotted yet.

After finishing his tasks and resting a bit, he began sowing the seeds once they had soaked for the full four hours.

This time, he soaked nearly the same amount of eggplant and cucumber seeds as cherry tomatoes—together, nearly two thousand seeds.

One seed per cup—tiny and sticky—soon strained his eyes until they burned and swelled, forcing him to pause.

Stopping and starting, he fiddled with the task until past three in the afternoon before finally sorting all the seeds.

Adding soil and watering them took another two hours.

By the time he finished covering everything with plastic sheeting, the sky had already darkened.

After washing the dirt off his hands and feet, Tong Zhanyan downed a bottle of nutrient solution. Instead of rushing upstairs, he pulled up a small stool and sat under the eaves, lost in worry.

He had the land and the seeds, but fertilizer remained a problem.

This time, he was planting a lot. The compost from the greenhouse—from the cherry tomatoes, eggplants, strawberry seedlings, cherry radishes, and bok choy—wouldn’t even last through the first seedling stage.

He had money now. If push came to shove, he could buy meat to make compost. Meat was relatively cheaper than crops, but he didn’t want to resort to that unless absolutely necessary.

After all, a pig costing two hundred jin per head would fetch over ten million in sales.

Fertilizer worth tens of millions…

Tong Zhanyan felt he might as well not plant at all—it could even save him some money.

Tong Zhanyan glanced at the chicken coop nearby. They’d better step up.

The base was too vast; after nightfall, the outer lights couldn’t penetrate the darkness. Only the lights from the small building illuminated the entire base.

This cast a layer of solitude over the entire world.

Even Tong Zhanyan, with his furrowed brow, seemed to carry an added weight of solemnity.

After a busy day’s work, returning home to this scene, the viewers in the livestream chat fell silent.

Sadly, that stillness didn’t last long, because they soon spotted the extra cups.

There were already plenty of cherry tomatoes, and now with those two additional crops, everyone felt their blood rush to their heads.

Countless people tried to tally exactly how many there were, but there were too many cups, and the camera kept moving, making it impossible to count.

This only fueled their excitement further; their minds filled with visions of those seeds sprouting and growing.

After regaining his composure, Tong Zhanyan went upstairs.

He slept soundly through the night.

The next day, Tong Zhanyan entered the control room behind the small house and spent several hours adjusting the lighting around the area.

Later that day, Mr. Bai sent him a message: Old Jin had finally relented.

Seeds were typically released in ten varieties at a time. This batch included cherry tomatoes, dwarf cherry tomatoes, bok choy, cherry radishes, cucumbers, eggplants, stringbeans, carrots, watermelons, and chili peppers.

The previous batch included corn, sweet potatoes, pears, muskmelons, pumpkins, green beans, Chinese cabbage, bitter melon, scallions, and rapeseed.

Of the previous batch, Old Jin had six types: corn, sweet potatoes, muskmelons, pumpkins, Chinese cabbage, and rapeseed.

Tong Zhanyan already had corn seeds. Old Jin still had sweet potato seeds, but he was truly reluctant to sell them—he only had two left. Selling them would mean they were truly gone.

He could sell one seed each of the other varieties to Tong Zhanyan.

The prices were quite high, ranging from a minimum of 150,000 to a maximum of 350,000.

Seeds with low infection rates were only 100,000 per seed.

Tong Zhanyan had no choice but to accept this.

While low-infection-rate seeds were rare, they were still available—at most, they could be considered limited editions.

The previous batch of seeds, however, had become completely out of print.

In another two years, when they became the “previous-previous batch,” they could enter the auction market, where their prices would only climb higher.

Seeds from the previous batch held onto until now were mostly high-infection-rate varieties. Crops grown from these seeds held little research value.

The Planting Alliance likely didn’t have any themselves. If he asked them to procure some, they probably could, but the price would likely be similar.

Tong Zhanyan’s purchase wasn’t for large-scale cultivation; he simply wanted to preserve the seeds.

Should a solution to the infection rate emerge in the future, at least he wouldn’t be left without seeds to plant.

Tong Zhanyan transferred the funds immediately.

The previous batch of low-infection seeds had cost him nearly four million; this new purchase was close to another million. Even with his current financial position, spending that much still stung.

Mr. Bai responded quickly, saying he’d have someone deliver the seeds to the base entrance shortly.

Tong Zhanyan thanked him.

The Jin residence.

After collecting the payment, Old Jin didn’t wait for Mr. Bai to speak again. He flung his sleeves and stormed off.

Later, he’d blacklist Mr. Bai and never sell goods at his shop again.

Mr. Bai kept siding with Tong Zhanyan.

The mere thought of Tong Zhanyan made Old Jin’s anger boil over.

“Grandpa!” A girl of eleven or twelve suddenly bounced around the corner.

Old Jin startled, though his expression softened upon recognizing her. “Trying to scare me to death?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it…” The girl wrapped her arms around his arm. “Grandpa, can I go play in your greenhouse later?”

“Sure. I need to go fertilize anyway.”

His greenhouse was off-limits to everyone except himself—even his own children.

But he genuinely adored this granddaughter, occasionally letting her play inside.

“Oh, Grandpa, have you heard about Senior Da Liu?”

“Who?”

“He’s this super-skilled farming blogger. He teaches people how to grow stuff in his livestreams, and tons of people follow him.”

The moment he heard it was about livestreaming, Old Jin lost interest instantly. “I don’t watch that stuff. It’s all fake.”

“But he’s really good! He harvested nearly 300 pounds of tomatoes from just 170 seedlings…”

Old Jin stopped in his tracks. Tong Zhanyan’s face flashed through his mind. “What did you say his name was again?”

The seeds arrived at noon.

Tong Zhanyan opened the package the moment he got it and took a look.

None of them was in great shape. Especially the larger seeds—like the pumpkins, which were particularly noticeable—were shriveled and small.

The only silver lining was that these four varieties could also be sown in spring.

Back at the cottage, Tong Zhanyan immediately soaked them in water.

While waiting, Tong Zhanyan took a nap.

After waking, he headed to the greenhouse before dusk.

Days passed, and that corn cob had grown larger, even sprouting a second ear below.

Without hesitation, Tong Zhanyan pinched it off.

The stringbeans and chili peppers, after being pinched and pollinated last time, had quickly set fruit and looked quite promising.

The carrots had passed their maturity stage and were beginning to bolt.

The cherry radishes and bok choy reserved for seed saving—the twenty-odd best specimens—had fully bloomed, while many others also showed flowers.

Tong Zhanyan pollinated the seed-saving plants, then selected and brought back some additional ones with abundant blooms.

Back home, judging the timing right, he planted the pumpkin seeds.

As night fell, Tong Zhanyan chopped the cherry radishes and bok choy he’d brought back to feed the chickens.

The bok choy was just a bit past its prime, while some of the cherry radishes had started to hollow out inside.

The chicks seemed to have noticed, eating while lifting their heads to look at him, lacking their usual voracious scramble.

Tong Zhanyan could only spread his hands at them. The newly planted seeds had only just sprouted—it would be a while yet.

The next day, Tong Zhanyan cleaned out the chicken coop.

Having eaten little, they naturally produced little waste. Using a small shovel, he collected it bit by bit, gathering about half a plastic bagful along with the soil.

He loaded it into a barrel, then poured in enough water to submerge it completely for fermentation.

Manure requires fermentation and decomposition before use. The process of breaking down into nutrients absorbable by crops generates heat, and applying it directly can burn the roots.

This is also the function of septic tanks used in rural areas.

Stored long-term in those tanks, the manure mixes with kitchen scraps and water, effectively diluting it. So it’s usually applied directly without adding extra water or waiting.

Zhan Yan didn’t seal the lid tightly; he just left it ajar. The fermentation process produces methane gas.

Methane is the primary component of biogas, and that stuff packs a punch far stronger than orange soda. It can genuinely explode if exposed to fire.

Seeds in cups awaited germination, while the greenhouse crops still needed time before harvest. With these tasks completed, Tong Zhanyan suddenly found himself with nothing to do.

Busy times were hectic, while idle times left him with nothing to do—Tong Zhanyan had grown accustomed to this rhythm.

Five days later, just as Tong Zhanyan was planning another trip to the greenhouse, Ning Langdong contacted him.

The training room was nearly overflowing with leaves.

Recalling the training room’s dimensions, Tong Zhanyan couldn’t help but twitch his lips.

He gathered his things and headed back to campus.

Tian Xinqing and Su Yanran clearly hadn’t dared to cross Ning Langdong, looking utterly defeated as if they’d been beaten by life.

Ning Langdong, however, showed no reaction. Seeing Tong Zhanyan approach, he simply led the way toward the training room.

The door opened, and Tong Zhanyan breathed a sigh of relief.

The floor was indeed piled high with bags, but it hadn’t reached the point of being stuffed to the rafters.

If it had gotten that bad, he’d genuinely have to look into the compensation clauses for death by overwork.

Tong Zhanyan contacted Mr. Bai and borrowed the truck again.

The truck was loaded to the brim with leaves.

The eggshell powder wasn’t excessive, but it still filled more than half a bag—and it was the finely ground kind.

Tong Zhanyan followed the truck back.

The truck only unloaded near the main gate. Tong Zhanyan then made seven or eight trips himself before finally hauling everything back to the small building.

Staring at the mountain of materials, Tong Zhanyan grabbed a hoe and resignedly began digging pits further ahead in the previously tilled plot.

Three pits took him most of the day.

Tong Zhanyan didn’t bury all the leaves. He spread out the dried portion on the ground, intending to dry them further before burning them to ash for later mixing into the soil.

He controlled the wind at the base, so there was no need to worry about the leaves being blown away.

With that settled, Tong Zhanyan hurried to check on the greenhouse.

A week had passed. The corn stalks were nearly four fingers thick, the stringbeans stretched close to twenty centimeters, the carrot flowers were in full bloom, and the chili peppers had grown to the length of a finger joint.

The chili peppers were sky-pointing peppers. Though still green now, every time Tong Zhanyan saw them, his mind filled with visions of minced beef with chili paste, spicy chicken cubes, stir-fried pork with chili peppers…

It was quite the mental torture.

Tong Zhanyan finished pollinating the carrots, then turned his headache toward the cherry radishes and bok choy.

He had selected the twenty-plus healthiest plants for seed saving. After pollination, their flowers had all wilted. They’d be ready for harvest in another two or three days.

What gave Tong Zhanyan a headache were the others. Though they’d bloomed a bit later, it was only a matter of days, and now they’d all entered full bloom.

This also meant they’d all started to hollow out, even the bok choy.

Tong Zhanyan pulled up two plants and pinched them with his fingers. The hollow parts felt like foam.

That night, the chicks proved uncooperative.

Each stretched its neck toward him, chirping incessantly, yet refused to eat.

“There’s nothing else,” Tong Zhanyan attempted to explain.

This earned him an even louder chorus of chirping.

Tong Zhanyan sheepishly retreated back to the small building.

He hadn’t eaten yet either.

That night, Tong Zhanyan inquired again with Mr. Bai and Qing Jiyue about the status of the oranges and tangerines.

Both replied quickly, with the same result.

None available.

The next morning, when Tong Zhanyan woke, the chicken coop’s feeding trough still held some whitish crumbs.

Tong Zhanyan could only go check on the newly planted cherry radishes and bok choy.

Those seeds were from the third batch. The soil was still fairly loose and retained some residual fertilizer, so they’d all grown as tall as a finger.

Through the plastic film, they pulsed with vitality, poised to burst forth.

They were edible at this stage, but pulling them now would leave nothing for later.

Tong Zhanyan had no choice but to chop up more hollow stems and dump them into the chicken coop feeders.

The chicks, already hungry from the previous night, immediately swarmed around.

After a flurry of pecking, they discovered it was still that unpalatable stuff. When they lifted their heads to chirp at Tong Zhanyan, their expressions carried a hint of grievance.

They were clearly hungry.

Tong Zhanyan made a hasty retreat.

Two days later, Tong Zhanyan returned to the greenhouse.

The cherry radishes and bok choy set aside for seeds were ready for harvest.

Tong Zhanyan brought them all back to the base.

While the seeds dried, Tong Zhanyan dug up the mound he’d buried at the start. He burned some leaves, added eggshell powder, and mixed it with soil from the base to prepare a plot of about 100 square meters.

He planned to use all that land for cherry radishes and bok choy.

Besides feeding the chicks, they also served as fertilizer.

With a larger planting this time, more fertilizer was naturally needed.

He divided the plot into sections—four roughly equal-sized squares on each side—making it easier to sow seeds, cover with plastic sheeting, and later pull up the plants.

By noon the next day, the soil preparation was complete. After finishing, he soaked the seeds.

After lunch and a nap, he began irrigating the soil.

Using the water pump was far more comfortable than driving back and forth with water. Soon, all the buckets and containers were filled.

Tong Zhanyan avoided directly spraying the soil with the hose, as that would have washed away the freshly prepared soil.

After setting up the water source, he thoroughly soaked the entire plot using a sprinkler. Then he scattered the seeds, covered them with soil, and finally laid down the plastic sheeting.

By evening, when he finished work, the once-empty plot had transformed beyond recognition.

It wasn’t exactly prettier—the plastic sheeting over the raised beds made it look rather out of place.

But the live stream audience understood exactly what this meant, and they were incredibly excited.

Many of them worked day jobs and could only tune in at night, which allowed them to witness the plot’s changes even more clearly.

Yesterday, there was nothing. Today, things suddenly appeared. Tomorrow, there would be more. The day after tomorrow, even more.

They hadn’t lifted a finger, yet it felt as if they’d participated in everything.

This made the future vision of that plot of land crystallize even more clearly in their minds.

Here, Chinese cabbage; there, cherry tomatoes; on the left, eggplants; on the right, cucumbers…

The day after the new seeds were planted, Tong Zhanyan removed the plastic sheeting covering the earlier batch of cherry radishes and bok choy.

The plastic had long since been pushed up, something the live stream audience had noticed earlier.

Armed with prior experience, they no longer fretted about the plastic crushing the seedlings. Instead, they reveled in the vibrant life eagerly awaiting the moment the film was lifted.

Tong Zhanyan didn’t announce it beforehand—he just suddenly peeled back the plastic. Those who caught it were ecstatic; those who missed it were filled with regret, some even voicing complaints.

But that didn’t dampen their admiration for the sprouts.

Especially when Tong Zhanyan watered them immediately after uncovering, leaving the leaves glistening with dewdrops.

Those who only discovered it upon returning at night felt even more regret, as the base was lit only by the small building’s lights after dark, making it impossible to see clearly.

The more level-headed blamed Tong Zhanyan, grumbling that the stingy streamer couldn’t even spare the cost of a streetlight.

The less level-headed were already considering switching to day-off, night-shift jobs, fearing they might miss crucial moments for cherry tomatoes, eggplants, cucumbers, and other crops.

Others took a different approach, starting 24-hour screen recordings, ready to capture crucial moments and send them to their accounts.

The keyword “Senior Da Liu” was now generating significant traffic.

Three days after sowing the second batch of cherry radishes and bok choy, Tong Zhanyan revisited the greenhouse.

He took leaf samples from several breeding crops for Mr. Bai for analysis. After confirming an infection rate between 46% and 47%, he harvested the carrots for seeds.

The cowpeas had ripened, and the peppers had long since turned deep red, though the seeds could still be nurtured a bit longer.

The corn was in a similar state.

That same afternoon, Tong Zhanyan prepared cups and soil for the carrots, planting them the next morning.

At the same time, he removed the plastic cover from the first batch of cherry tomatoes.

Half a month later, their true leaves had grown to five or six, each plant standing over ten centimeters tall. With this batch being far more numerous than before, the moment the plastic was removed, they instantly transformed into a dense little forest.

Tong Zhanyan watered them as usual.

After finishing his work, Tong Zhanyan left, but the camera immediately zoomed in.

As the camera zoomed in, the already excited live stream audience grew even more animated. This batch of seedlings was even better than the previous one.

This superiority wasn’t the stark contrast seen between the training room and greenhouse batches, but rather a different kind of excellence.

They were similar in height and had roughly the same number of leaves, yet most of their stems were thicker and more robust.

At this stage, only about one-fifth of the previous batch had thick stems. They had even gotten quite excited comparing them, trying to pick the thickest one.

This batch, however, had less than one-fifth with thin stems. Many of the thick ones were nearly as thick as a pinky finger.

They’re only half a month old, yet they’re already nearly as thick as a pinky finger.

That’s not just thick—it’s downright chunky.

It made them all involuntarily recall Senior Da Liu’s oft-repeated phrase: “This batch of seedlings is no good.”

At the time, they’d thought he was exaggerating. After all, if even those seedlings weren’t up to par, what would the “good” ones look like?

Back then, they couldn’t even begin to imagine it, let alone understand.

But in this moment, they gained a crystal-clear realization: the previous batch of seedlings really wasn’t up to par.

It left them momentarily dazed.

Outside this livestream, countless people struggled just to keep crops alive. And here they were, daring to call seedlings that produced nearly 300 pounds of fruit from 170 plants “no good”?

“I’m at a loss for words.”

“My understanding has been completely outstripped.”

“Sorry, I spoke too loudly earlier…”

“I wouldn’t dare dream of this…”

“Are these really cherry tomatoes? Not some other mutant variety?”

“I’m so stunned I can’t even imagine how much fruit this batch might yield…”

On screen.

Gu Yunyang, who was helping Old Xu decompose leaves, noticed the changes in the tomato seedlings on the large screen in the corner. He took two steps closer to look. “Huh? They are cherry tomatoes…”

The moment he recognized them, his breath caught in his throat.

Hearing the sound, Old Xu, Shen Ye, and Tang Xin, who were busy working, turned to look.

Seeing clearly, all three sucked in their breath simultaneously.

The next moment, Old Xu abandoned the leaves and hurried forward.

Leaning in with a frown, he bent over as if desperate to crawl inside.

“Are those really cherry tomatoes…” Shen Ye murmured in disbelief.

Tang Xin’s mouth opened, but no words came out for a long while.

After the livestream incident, both had been reassigned to assist Old Xu, with Gu Yunyang participating as a researcher alongside him.

“It feels like a dream…” After a long while, Tang Xin could only manage the same phrase most viewers were typing in the chat.

But no one in the room spoke, as they themselves were caught in a similar sense of unreality.

“It really does get better each time,” Gu Yunyang remarked. “I had this feeling last time too—that he could do even better…”

Old Xu snapped out of his reverie and turned to look.

Gu Yunyang gave a wry smile. “I still feel that way now…”

Better?

How could it possibly get better than this?

He couldn’t even begin to imagine it.

Because it was beyond his comprehension.

Master Xu looked at Gu Yunyang, then at the figure rolling plastic sheeting in the corner of the screen. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Continue.”

Sometimes, a gap that wide could be quite demoralizing.

Gu Yunyang and the others exchanged a meaningful glance at the screen before returning to their tasks.

They cleared a 400-square-meter greenhouse, preparing to follow Senior Da Liu’s instructions to the letter.

At the base.

After rolling up the plastic sheeting, Tong Zhanyan returned it to the warehouse.

This material was typically reused repeatedly. Even when worn out, it wasn’t discarded in the fields, as it was highly resistant to degradation.

Tong Zhanyan waited five days before harvesting the cowpeas, chili peppers, and corn. By then, they had all fully ripened.

Tong Zhanyan didn’t plant these seeds directly, especially the cowpeas and corn. Their high moisture content meant direct planting carried a high risk of mold growth.

Back at the base, he removed the seeds and laid them out to dry.

During the waiting period, Tong Zhanyan enlisted Tian Xinqing, Su Yanran, and Ning Langdong. He then purchased ten more buckets of soil from Mr. Bai and borrowed a vehicle. They uprooted the last cherry radishes and bok choy in the greenhouse and dug up the soil reserved for growing bok choy seedlings.

Tong Zhanyan replaced the overhead light with the original one.

This trip would be the last.

As he departed, Tong Zhanyan felt a pang of reluctance.

But that sentiment faded the moment he entered the base.

Stepping onto the vast expanse of bare, yellow earth, he couldn’t help but take a deep breath. Much work lay ahead.

After Tian Xinqing and the others departed, Tong Zhanyan proceeded to sow the cowpeas, chili peppers, and corn.

Once finished, he took the opportunity to remove the plastic sheeting covering the eggplants, cucumbers, and the batch of seeds with the lower infection rate.

This was the first time the low-infection seeds had been planted. Though sown earlier than the eggplants and cucumbers, their seedlings were far less vigorous, with sparse leaves and spindly main stems.

Tong Zhanyan hadn’t held much hope for them to begin with.

By comparison, the eggplants and cucumbers looked much more promising. Though still mostly weak seedlings in this third planting, they were at least passable.

“I get it, ‘this batch of seedlings is no good’.”

“I get it too, ‘still a bit lacking’.”

“Don’t forget ‘barely passable’.”

“Hahaha…”

“But seriously, I get this feeling the world on screen is different from ours. Could this all be fake? Is this a virtual video?”

“Stop talking about it—now I’m getting that feeling too.”

“I really want to visit the streamer’s base. Even if I don’t do anything, just letting me look around would be enough…”

“Me too +1.”

“Alright, tonight’s dream material is set.”

Before the screen, many were lost in fantasy at that moment.

Branches heavy with crimson fruit, trellises covered in vines, plump purple eggplants, strawberries exuding an enticing aroma, the cool morning air… and they were strolling through it all…

The Victims’ Alliance group was buzzing with excitement, too. But having bought a ton of crops earlier by begging “Take me with you!”, their chat and bullet comments were completely different.

“You know, is there any chance that one day, crop prices might drop because streamers bought them all up…”