Thank you KoshkaHP for the kofis, hope you enjoy the bonus chapters!

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“Drop prices?”

“His base must be at least a thousand acres. If he planted crops across the entire area, the annual yield would easily reach millions of pounds… Could all our current farmers combined produce that much in a year?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Now that you mention it…”

Envisioning that scene, the group felt a complex mix of emotions.

Long-term consumption of the crops was the only way to suppress the rampage, but their notoriously difficult cultivation kept prices sky-high.

Many families struggled to afford them, scraping together every last resource, while countless others simply couldn’t.

Behind every case lay the hidden tragedy of shattered homes and broken lives.

If only the annual crop yield could increase, and the prices could come down…

Yang Hong took a deep breath.

His gaze fell upon the photo frame lying face-down beside his desk.

He reached out and lifted it up.

The photograph showed two people: a middle-aged woman with short hair and a slightly thin frame, and a boy of eleven or twelve, equally slender.

It was taken half a year after they had laid his father to rest. Back then, they made a promise: the past was gone, and they would move forward with strength.

They had indeed kept that promise.

Yang Hong sighed, hesitating over whether to take time off to visit the nursing home.

It had been nearly half a year since he last saw his mother.

Those in the late stages of Infection Rage must avoid intense emotional fluctuations, for any such surge could trigger an uncontrollable episode from which there is no return.

He didn’t want to worry his mother, nor did he want her to notice.

When his father discovered his own Infection Rage, he chose to conceal it. Given their financial situation, even if the entire family worked, they might not have been able to afford the treatment.

By the time they discovered it, his condition had already deteriorated significantly.

His mother hadn’t said much back then. She’d bravely endured those years, but as she grew older, she couldn’t help but reminisce and ask him: Had she been too neglectful of him back then? How else could he have hidden it for so long?

They lived together day and night—how could he have concealed it for so long?

That made Yang Hong dread spending time with her, convinced she would surely notice this time.

Yang Hong’s fingertip traced the face in the photograph before he finally turned it face down.

Planting Alliance.

Gu Yunyang, resting after finishing a phase of work, found his thoughts drifting away.

He barely remembered that period—too young then, and all those memories were drowned out by screams of rage and terror.

But his family’s situation certainly wasn’t prosperous enough for crops to be eaten freely.

After all, even the cheapest crops cost two or three hundred per gram, and even with mild rampage symptoms, each meal required no less than ten grams.

Even eating just once a day meant two to three thousand daily, adding up to at least sixty thousand monthly…

And that was for long-term consumption.

If only crop yields could increase, and prices could be driven down…

Gu Yunyang took a deep breath, about to review the cultivation techniques Senior Da Liu had shared in his livestream, when someone in the group asked: “Does anyone still have the crops bought from the senior?”

“None left.”

“I have a little, but I can’t bear to eat it.”

“Can’t bear to eat mine either +1.”

“Can you sell me some?”

“Hey, bring me along too!”

“I already asked—the store’s completely sold out.”

“That fast? I was planning to buy more.”

“Does anyone still have some to sell? I’ll pay extra. My mom says they seem more effective than the store-bought ones.”

“Probably just her imagination. Though I do think the seniors’ tomatoes are sweeter than store-bought, it shouldn’t be that extreme.”

“Why not just buy some from the store and tell her that?”

“That’s not really foolproof. The size and appearance are pretty different.”

“Auntie watches livestreams? That’s probably mostly a psychological effect.”

“She doesn’t watch livestreams. She’s not awake much,” the previous speaker said. “I just thought if she liked them, I’d buy some more.”

For a moment, no one knew how to continue.

Not much time awake meant she was already in a deep rage. That meant the next stop was either the containment facility or…

Teacher’s dormitory.

Wang Yanzhou looked at the last five tiny tomatoes before him. After a moment’s hesitation, he picked up the keyboard.

Devil King Wang: “I’ve got five left. Send me your address if you want them.”

Devil King Wang: “No need to add money.”

At the Base.

After rolling up the plastic sheeting, Tong Zhanyan turned to start soaking the seedlings in pots.

Seeds with low infection rates weren’t plentiful, but the combined total of eggplants and cucumbers neared two thousand plants. Tong Zhanyan used every pot and bucket available, finishing the task by evening.

After finishing, Tong Zhanyan didn’t rush upstairs. Instead, he pulled up a small stool under the eaves and sat down to take it all in.

As far as the eye could see lay vast stretches of barren yellow earth, but the area around the small building was completely transformed.

Chicken coops made of iron rods and nylon netting, large patches of leveled land not yet planted, mounds of soil still rotting with leaves, cherry radishes and bok choy either covered or uncovered by plastic sheeting, and vast fields of seedlings growing in disposable cups…

The terminal projected a brilliant afterglow from the sky, bathing even the seedlings on the ground in a golden hue.

It added a touch of vitality to the entire world.

Only after darkness had fully settled did Tong Zhanyan head upstairs.

Early the next morning, Tong Zhanyan cleaned the chicken coop again.

The chicks, fed for over a week on those old, hollow cherry radishes and bok choy, were quite resentful, clucking incessantly nearby.

Seeing him ignore them, the bolder ones even came over to peck him a couple of times, turning a task that should’ve taken ten minutes into a half-hour ordeal.

Chickens reach market weight quickly, usually within two or three months.

His flock ate poorly and grew slowly, yet nearly a month after purchase, they had all entered molting season.

Stripped of their distinctive duckling-yellow down, they looked utterly hideous before their new feathers could grow in.

As they grew larger, their pecks began to sting.

Feeling guilty, Tong Zhanyan didn’t bother with them.

With nothing to eat, he still couldn’t collect much chicken manure.

Tong Zhanyan dumped all the droppings into the same old bucket.

After several days of fermentation, the bucket now reeked of septic tank stench. Tong Zhanyan moved it to the far side of the warehouse, away from the small building.

After finishing, Tong Zhanyan watered the oranges and tangerines he’d also tossed nearby.

A full five months passed. He’d already planted and harvested a round of cherry tomatoes, yet the tallest trees barely reached forty centimeters, the shortest not even thirty.

Tong Zhanyan didn’t rush to plant them. With the soil at the base, planting them would be worse than keeping them in pots.

But every time he saw them, Tong Zhanyan couldn’t help but feel anxious, because it reminded him of the fertilizer issue.

There was still no word from Mr. Bai and Qing Jiyue. It seemed like he really wouldn’t be able to buy any oranges this time.

Tong Zhanyan turned his attention to the uncovered cherry radishes and bok choy. Several days had passed, and they had already sprouted another segment.

After pondering, he fetched the sprinkler, mixed some fertilizer solution, and gave them a thorough watering.

The fertilizer solution was made from the first batch of cherry radishes and bok choy grown in the greenhouse. Only a small amount remained.

At night, the chicks still ate hollowed-out radishes and bok choy.

Having been pulled up, they lost moisture even faster.

Three days later, seeing that the cherry radishes and bok choy had grown so thick they were hard to cut with a knife, Tong Zhanyan had no choice but to pull up a few bok choy plants, chop them up, and mix them in.

The bok choy was only about ten days old, not yet ready for harvest, but already over ten centimeters tall.

The chicks picked out all the tender bok choy to eat, leaving the older leaves behind.

And they squawked even louder.

It was as if he had something delicious but refused to give it to them, insisting they eat the unpalatable stuff instead.

“Should the streamer just feed them some synthetic feed? They look so pitiful…”

“I told you he’d never keep them alive. He’s just winging it.”

“Don’t get why the streamer’s so stubborn…”

“Isn’t this really just neglect?”

Sitting under the eaves, Tong Zhanyan listened to the chattering accusations and felt genuinely guilty.

He hesitated briefly between buying more crops from Mr. Bai and pulling up the cherry radishes and bok choy that hadn’t had time to grow properly. He resolutely chose the latter.

He wasn’t short on money now, but going to fight those infected ravers for crops still felt wrong.

His own crops were a different matter entirely.

Then the little chicks stopped squawking, happy.

But the livestream audience was anything but calm.

“We told you to buy synthetic feed! Who told you to pull those bok choy? They weren’t even grown yet!”

“They’re still babies themselves…”

“Help…”

“Veggies can be replanted, but I’m definitely raising these chickens.”

“I don’t want to use synthetic feed because I can’t be sure the resulting manure is safe…”

“Only when the soil is properly nourished can everything else become simple. This soil is completely useless now—crops can’t even breathe…”

Tong Zhanyan explained this issue for what felt like the hundredth time.

Those cherry radishes and bok choy covered at least fifteen square meters, totaling four or five hundred plants. From a conversion rate perspective, he had indeed made a loss.

But chicken manure was far more potent than the fertilizer brewed from cherry radishes and bok choy. More importantly, the manure water nourished the soil.

It was a whole different level of soil enrichment compared to wood ash.

Those leaves didn’t offer much nutrition; they mostly just helped regulate soil pH.

Manure water, however, contains abundant beneficial microbial strains. Accumulate enough of it to achieve a certain equilibrium with the soil, and these microbes will spontaneously develop their own ecosystem and multiply indefinitely.

Add earthworms and ants to the mix, and even the deeper, unturned soil beneath will gradually loosen and aerate over time.

This plot differs from a greenhouse—he intends to cultivate this base long-term. He can’t focus solely on immediate gains, only to face the same soil fertility headaches next planting season.

“How can you know there’ll be problems if you haven’t tried? If you’re worried, just buy manure with low infection rates!”

“But we already have eggshell powder and wood ash…”

“Nurturing the soil? Hasn’t soil always been like this?”

“Are you saying that once the soil is properly nurtured, we won’t need to chop up bok choy for compost anymore? If that’s the case, I could accept it.”

Realizing it was utterly pointless to explain, Tong Zhanyan felt his head splitting.

Some actually spoke up for him, many thinking it was worth giving a try since his previous results had been solid.

But rational people don’t argue, making the irrational voices seem especially loud.

After pondering, Tong Zhanyan decided to stay silent.

Once he started, Tong Zhanyan stopped agonizing over it. Come mealtime, he’d pull them up—a whole bunch at a time.

As the chicks entered their molting phase, their bodies shot up rapidly, meaning they ate even more.

In less than a week, save for a dozen or so left for seed, that batch of bok choy was nearly wiped out.

This made the livestream incredibly lively.

Tong Zhanyan even had the illusion of returning to that earliest period.

The growth cycle of the baby bok choy was shorter than that of the cherry radishes. During the time they were growing, the radishes had already developed visible roots.

However, the largest ones were only coin-sized.

Without hesitation, Tong Zhanyan pulled them up after harvesting the bok choy.

Dissatisfied murmurs grew louder in the livestream chat. Pulling the mature ones to feed the chickens and compost was one thing, but harvesting the unripe ones too? Tong Zhanyan was truly getting crazier by the day.

They acknowledged Tong Zhanyan’s skill as a grower, but his methods were beyond their comprehension.

Moreover, Tong Zhanyan was no longer irreplaceable. Having shared all his knowledge, many livestreamers were now emulating his cultivation techniques.

After issuing warnings, seeing Tong Zhanyan persist in his ways, many viewers stormed off in anger.

Victims’ Alliance, group one.

“Is this really okay?”

“I’ve seen so many people posting condemnations, and some streamers are riding the wave to bash him…”

“Seems like a lot of people unfollowed him.”

Just as Yang Hong was about to speak, a group notification flashed in the bottom right corner. He managed over twenty groups, so such alerts popped up countless times daily.

Out of habit, he opened it to approve a request—only to find it wasn’t an invite but a leave notification.

The member leaving was an active participant from Group Ten.

Yang Hong’s brow furrowed.

Before he could process it, several more exit notifications popped up—all from Group 10.

Clearly, they were close friends who had coordinated to leave together.

Yang Hong’s frown deepened.

Meanwhile, the familiar sound of chopping vegetables drifted from his live-streaming room, left running in the background.

At the base.

Tong Zhanyan, however, was in a remarkably good mood.

After being fed again, the chicks that had grown larger were clearly producing more waste. In just over a week, his bucket was already eight-tenths full.

Tong Zhanyan switched to a larger bucket and ordered five large boxes of the same nutrient solution cups he’d used before.

Three days later, the cups arrived.

That very afternoon, he began transplanting the cherry tomato seedlings.

Though not much taller than last time, the seedlings now sported noticeably more leaves and sturdier stems. Each felt surprisingly heavy in his hands.

Using the same size cups as before, he immediately sensed they were top-heavy upon transfer.

This batch of tomato seedlings numbered over five times the previous one, consuming every single cup he had saved up.

Transplanting proved more troublesome than sowing. Tong Zhanyan spent the entire first day and most of the second day finishing the job.

Meanwhile, he removed the plastic cover from the second batch of cherry radishes and bok choy.

They had long surpassed ten centimeters in height, and their sheer number far exceeded any previous crop. Once the plastic was removed, the area truly resembled a green meadow.

Tong Zhanyan felt like lying down and rolling around in it.

After uncovering them, Tong Zhanyan watered them with a low-concentration fertilizer solution.

The fertilizer was made from the second batch of bok choy and cherry radishes grown in the greenhouse. After over a month, they had fully decomposed.

Because he had planted so much, Tong Zhanyan made over ten trips back and forth, mixing the solution that many times.

That really hurt Tong Zhanyan’s wallet.

The fertilizer was already scarce.

If it weren’t for the chicks waiting to eat it, he absolutely wouldn’t have used it to water them.

The soil brought from the greenhouse retained some fertility, and the water was mixed with fertilizer. The growth of those cherry radishes and bok choy didn’t disappoint him.

Five days later, when the first batch of cherry radishes was fully harvested, the bok choy here had already grown to three fingers wide and was barely ready for pulling.

Tong Zhanyan randomly selected over fifty plants, pinching off leaves from each to send to Mr. Bai.

This batch marked his fourth harvest since purchasing the seeds.

When he bought the seeds, their infection rate hovered around 45%. Without using fertilizer solution, he’d managed to keep the rate relatively stable, though each planting still saw a 1% to 2% increase.

Last time, the rate had already climbed to about 48%. This time, it was likely to surpass 50% outright.

Exceeding 50% was toxic—even for chicken feed, he’d have to reconsider.

Test results came back quickly: over twenty samples at 49%, another twenty at 50%, and seven or eight at 48%.

And one at 42%.

The instant he saw that 42%, Tong Zhanyan’s heart gave an uncontrollable, violent thud.

“This one might be an error,” remarked Mr. Bai, the owner who personally received him, with some confusion. Ever since learning about Tong Zhanyan’s livestream, he had been keeping a close eye on him.

He had witnessed Tong Zhanyan mixing all those seeds together and scattering them into the soil with his own eyes.

The seeds were saved from Tong Zhanyan’s greenhouse. During the move, he had seen the seedlings set aside for saving seeds.

Tong Zhanyan had purchased these cherry radish and bok choy seeds from his store. To him, achieving a 50% infection rate after planting four batches was already astonishing—most others would barely manage two batches.

Under these circumstances, even if there were seeds with low infection rates, it was impossible for them to be mixed in with these high-infection ones.

Once mixed, separating them would be nearly impossible.

Especially given Tong Zhanyan’s method of broadcasting seeds over large areas.

Mr. Bai leaned toward the theory that a machine error was responsible.

“I must have mixed them up. I had someone buy a batch of seeds with very low infection rates from the Alliance.” Tong Zhanyan didn’t go along with Mr. Bai’s suggestion, because he genuinely had a batch of low-infection seeds.

Mr. Bai’s attention was immediately piqued. “The Alliance?”

“Yes.”

Mr. Bai was stunned. Seeds with such low infection rates, only available from the Alliance, never circulated outside. Even large institutions and corporations couldn’t obtain them.

Tong Zhanyan smiled. “They wanted to see if I could grow them successfully.”

Mr. Bai grew even more astonished, yet amidst his surprise, a hint of understanding dawned.

Given Tong Zhanyan’s yield, it made perfect sense for the Planting Alliance to want to test him. He would have done the same.

But this was the Planting Alliance…

For those in the cultivation field, the Alliance was akin to a sacred temple. For such an entity to proactively contact Tong Zhanyan…

“I’ll head back now.” Tong Zhanyan stood up. “Thanks.”

After becoming acquainted, Mr. Bai never charged him for appraisals at the shop, nor for those chicken manure samples earlier.

He stepped outside and got into his car.

As the car moved, the smile faded from Tong Zhanyan’s face.

His batch of seeds definitely hadn’t been mixed with any low-infection-rate seeds. They were entirely grown from the 45% infection rate seeds he’d bought from Mr. Bai’s shop before.

Seeds with a 45% infection rate produced a 42% infection rate…

The cherry tomatoes that time could be considered a seed mix-up, but what about this time?

Moreover, the cherry tomatoes were only the second batch. At that time, the infection rates of other cherry tomatoes were around 46%. Suddenly dropping to 42% meant a decrease of about 4%.

This batch of cherry radishes and bok choy, however, was the fourth batch of seeds. The infection rates were already around 49% to 50%, and the test results confirmed that these two infection rates were indeed the most common… …

Suddenly dropping to 42%? That’s a 7% decrease?

7%…

Once seeds are planted, infection rates inevitably rise and cannot be reversed.

This is precisely why cultivation is so difficult and seed selection from the seed bank is so meticulous. If he truly managed to lower the infection rate through cultivation—and by a full 7% at that…

Should he tell Qing Jiyue?

Tong Zhanyan recalled Qing Jiyue’s words from that night. Qing Jiyue had helped him; now it was his turn to help Qing Jiyue.

“We’re here.”

The driver’s voice snapped Tong Zhanyan back to reality. He realized the car had stopped right before the base gates.

Tong Zhanyan stepped out.

Entering the compound, he headed back to the small building and ascended to the second floor, out of the cameras’ view.

He sat down in front of the living room sofa, contemplating his next steps.

Over an hour later, he opened his terminal and began searching for crop infection rate analyzers.

The machines were expensive, ranging from over two million to five million credits, and each test required detection fluid—also not cheap.

Without hesitation, Tong Zhanyan placed the order.

He purchased the top-of-the-line five-million-credit model, along with the highest-grade testing solution.

After completing the purchase, he descended the stairs and resumed his usual tasks.

The following day, he began transplanting the eggplants and cucumbers.

These were the third batch of seedlings. Though not as robust as the cherry tomatoes, they were in better condition than those previously grown in the greenhouse.

With nearly a thousand seedlings of each variety, it took Tong Zhanyan a full three days to complete the transplanting.

Meanwhile, the testing machine he ordered arrived.

The machine was expensive, so the manufacturer personally delivered it. Along with the delivery driver came a technical instructor.

Throughout the entire training session, the technical instructor kept glancing between the seedlings and Tong Zhanyan.

Tong Zhanyan initially thought the man had recognized him. But just before leaving, the technician asked if he was doing live streaming.

Tong Zhanyan admitted it.

The next moment, the technician immediately brought up business.

He could sell the machine in Tong Zhanyan’s livestream, offering a commission of 100,000 credits per unit sold.

Tong Zhanyan was momentarily at a loss for how to respond.

After finally seeing them off, Tong Zhanyan returned to the small building and looked at the patch of cherry radishes and bok choy.

He had sown at least two thousand seeds of each variety in this batch. Thoroughly testing every single one was impossible.

He shut down his livestream, gathered ten lengths of string, and retrieved ten disposable plastic test tubes. Gloves on, he began marking plants while carefully selecting the healthiest specimens for sampling.

The machine could process fifty samples at a time, but his goal wasn’t to screen them all—it was to find the 42% cases.

If any truly existed, it was unlikely they’d be isolated to a single plant.

The samples sent to Mr. Bai were randomly plucked from the field. Since the leaves were sparsely picked, the results weren’t conclusive. Rather than meticulously searching each one, it made more sense to start over.

The first batch yielded nothing.

The second batch also came up empty.

In the third batch, Tong Zhanyan detected a 46% rate.

This left him silent for a long time.

Because the first seed had been 45%, and four more had been sown since then. No matter what, the infection rate shouldn’t have been only 46%.

Yet it existed.

Tong Zhanyan sampled it again, placing it in the fourth batch for another test.

The result was the same.

Tong Zhanyan marked it and continued.

Over an hour later, when Tong Zhanyan reached the eighteenth batch, he detected one with a 44% infection rate.

That halted him once more.

The 46% hadn’t proven anything, but this time, he could no longer find excuses.

The infection rate had indeed decreased.

A few minutes later, Tong Zhanyan refocused and resumed testing.

He began around 2 PM and continued until night had fully fallen, finally completing a rough pass through all samples.

By then, he had marked five plants.

Three cherry radishes and two bok choy.

He hadn’t found the one with a 42% infection rate, but he did discover a bok choy with a 43% rate.

He altered the markings to make them less conspicuous, then gathered his things, moved a stool, and sat down in front of the small building.

Under the night sky, he didn’t open his livestream. Instead, he stroked the terminal while staring blankly at the seedlings.

He couldn’t fathom why this was happening.

Was it because he hadn’t used those synthetic fertilizer solutions?

But fertilizer solutions didn’t exist in the years immediately after the seed bank’s reopening. Such phenomena hadn’t been reported back then either.

And why hadn’t this occurred with the third batch of cherry tomatoes?

Because by then it was the third batch, the quantity was too large. He only had a rough idea of the infection rate, not precise data for every single plant. So this kind of situation existed, but he hadn’t noticed it?

It started with the cherry tomatoes, this time, it was the cherry radishes and bok choy. That made three different crops already. The problem clearly wasn’t the variety…

Unable to figure it out, Tong Zhanyan stopped thinking about it.

Rubbing his nose, he opened his terminal, found Qing Jiyue’s contact information, and sent a communication request.

The call connected quickly.

Qing Jiyue was in what appeared to be some kind of office hall, but it was clearly unused for many years, as one side of the wall had collapsed.

Several people surrounded him, each looking utterly exhausted.

“What happened?” As Tong Zhanyan studied Qing Jiyue, Qing Jiyue studied Tong Zhanyan.

After returning to the Qing estate, he had joined one of the Qing family patrol squads, following their designated route through the estate’s guarded perimeter.

They’d been on the move all day. Only after nightfall did he find a chance to visit Tong Zhanyan’s livestream, only to discover it was offline.

The comment section had been buzzing for quite some time.

It was through the comments that he learned Tong Zhanyan had shut down his stream around two in the afternoon.

“Can we talk privately?” Tong Zhanyan asked. “I’d like to speak with you alone.”

Qing Jiyue frowned. Had someone gone after Tong Zhanyan?

He quickly stepped outside and found a deserted corner.

This area was very close to the protective shield. Abandoned years ago, the buildings were dilapidated and crumbling.

In the moonless night, they looked eerily foreboding.

“Do you know anyone researching crops?” Tong Zhanyan asked. “I mean, specifically regarding treating rampage.”

“I do. Why do you ask? Qing Jiyue’s words trailed off as a bad feeling washed over him.

Tong Zhanyan had no reason to suddenly take an interest in this unless he too had been infected—

Tong Zhanyan never turned off his livestream, yet today he had shut it down abruptly and kept it off for the entire afternoon.

In that instant, Qing Jiyue felt as if a bucket of ice water had been poured over him from head to toe.

First his grandfather, then his father, and now Tong Zhanyan?

“Do you trust them?” Tong Zhanyan hadn’t noticed Qing Jiyue’s change in expression, as Qing Jiyue’s side was pitch black. He could only make out a faint outline by the light from his terminal.

“What?” Qing Jiyue’s mind froze, his blood nearly turning to ice.

“I said, do you trust those people?” Tong Zhanyan repeated.

“Trust?” Qing Jiyue sensed something was off.

If Tong Zhanyan had sought him out because he’d contracted the Rage infection, asking this question seemed unnecessary.

“I want to send something over for you to test,” Tong Zhanyan stated.

“You’re not the one infected with Rage?” Qing Jiyue asked.

“What?” Tong Zhanyan froze at the question.

Qing Jiyue’s heart, which had been hanging in suspense, finally settled back into place. “You mean the researchers?”

“Yes. They must be trustworthy.”

Qing Jiyue considered it briefly. “I don’t know anyone in that field, but the Qing family does.”

The Qing family knew someone, meaning they had connections in that industry.

Qing Jiyue didn’t know them personally, indicating he wasn’t close enough to handle the introduction himself.

Tong Zhanyan hesitated.

Growing viable crops and reducing infection rates through cultivation were entirely different matters.

The former might attract the attention of some greedy individuals.

The latter? Forget influential figures—even the ordinary viewers in his livestream would likely hope he stopped being so impulsive and prioritized the greater good.

But he himself hadn’t even figured out what was going on yet. How could he prioritize the greater good?

“What exactly happened?” Qing Jiyue asked.

Tong Zhanyan paused briefly before replying, “I have some crops. Take them to someone for inspection. See if there’s anything wrong with them.”

After a moment, Tong Zhanyan added, “This is regarding the treatment for rampage.”

Long-term consumption of these crops could suppress the rampage. The lower the infection rate, the more pronounced the effect; the higher the infection rate, the weaker the effect.

The official explanation for this was that the crops contained a component capable of soothing the violent emotions within their spiritual bodies.

This component was more abundant in crops with lower infection rates, especially those below 20%.

The Planting Alliance maintains a cooperative relationship with relevant research institutions. A portion of the low-infection-rate crops they cultivate is saved as seeds for continued planting, while another portion is sent to these research facilities.

Only after this process are crops with infection rates between 20% and 30% distributed to the Four Great Houses and those in need.

However, much like cultivation itself, decades of research have yielded no progress.

Consequently, many believe that cracking the cultivation challenge—finding ways to reduce the stubbornly high infection rate—is the key to treating the rampage.

Tong Zhanyan wasn’t sure if that was the case.

He had only one thought now.

He could take the crops with reduced infection rates to Qing Jiyue for their research, but he no longer wanted to be trapped in that passive situation again.

Qing Jiyue could protect him once, but what about the next time?

He believed Qing Jiyue would keep his word even if it meant fighting until his head was split open, but the cost was too great.

Before, he’d exposed himself out of necessity to pass the assessment.

This time was different.

This time, he had a choice.

And it wasn’t a bad one.

“You—” Qing Jiyue wasn’t stupid. He sensed the issue almost instantly, his expression darkening.

“Let’s wait until the test results come back,” Tong Zhanyan interrupted. “We’ll meet then. Discuss it face-to-face.”

Qing Jiyue’s expression shifted repeatedly before he finally replied, “Alright.”

After a pause, he added, “I’ll send someone to retrieve it as soon as possible.”

With that, Qing Jiyue ended the call to make arrangements.

Tong Zhanyan lowered his hand from the terminal, stretched his legs, and gazed silently at the world before him—too quiet, too dark.

Only after a long while did Tong Zhanyan rise.

After a whole afternoon of running around, he still hadn’t eaten.

The moment he moved, discontented chirping erupted from the chicken coop. He wasn’t the only one who hadn’t eaten yet.

Tong Zhanyan paused as he headed toward the house.

He glanced at the chicken coop, then at the cherry radishes and bok choy, and a headache began to throb in his temples.

Who knew how many of those radishes and bok choy had reduced infection rates? Even those without reduced rates could become crucial comparison materials for research.

But he had nothing else to feed the chickens.

Seeing him stand motionless for so long, the chirping grew louder.

A hint of grievance mingled within their cries.

They were starving.

Tong Zhanyan resignedly headed toward the patch of cherry radishes and bok choy.

Minutes later, fresh shredded bok choy hit the feeding trough, and the chicks immediately swarmed over it.

Tong Zhanyan didn’t leave right away. Instead, he crouched nearby, watching them eat.

If word got out about the infection rate—that he knew about their special status yet still used them as chicken feed…

Given how fiercely his livestream audience protected their crops, the defenses around his base would be breached within five minutes.

If fists didn’t land on his face within ten minutes, it would mean they were having an off day.

“See how good I am to you…” Tong Zhanyan couldn’t help muttering.

No chicken paid him any mind.

They’d been starving for far too long.

Tong Zhanyan was both amused and exasperated.

He could certainly save the cherry radishes and baby bok choy, then buy other crops to feed the chickens.

But the growth cycles for cherry radishes and baby bok choy were so short. Once past their prime, they’d hollow out, die, or even rot.

Unless those researchers could develop the antidote before they perished, long-term planning was the only viable option.

He himself didn’t understand what was happening now. Even if asked to replicate it, he might not succeed.

Therefore, in his view, the best course of action was to let things continue unfolding as they were.

Only one plant mutated in the first batch of cherry tomatoes, yet a significant proportion of the cherry radishes and bok choy in this batch had mutated.

This meant that, though he didn’t understand why, he was doing the right thing.

This meant that as long as he kept doing things his way, the same situation would surely happen again.