Growth hormone?

For over fifty years, since the seed bank’s restart, they had failed fifty-plus times. Naturally, many unconventional methods emerged during this period, growth hormone being one of them.

But that stuff got banned less than half a year after it hit the market. It worked by draining the plant’s life force, and once the period of accelerated growth ended, the plant was doomed.

Those tomato seedlings did fit that pattern. Tong Zhanyan had a history—a pretty extensive one at that—but…

For some reason, Gu Yunyang felt deep down that Tong Zhanyan wouldn’t do something like that.

Tong Zhanyan might be ungentle—even cruel—toward crops, but his disregard didn’t feel like hatred. It seemed more like familiarity.

As if everything was meant to be this way, and it was the others making a fuss over nothing.

Besides, Tong Zhanyan didn’t seem to be streaming for fame or profit. He’d never shown his face and consistently ignored his viewers—how could that possibly attract followers?

But if it wasn’t growth hormone, then what was happening to those seedlings?

The more Gu Yunyang thought about it, the less sense it made.

At school. Tong Zhanyan arrived at his destination.

The uninhabited dormitory building, the row of training rooms built along the wall—not a single soul in sight, even during the midday break.

Tong Zhanyan had already scouted the location before. Returning now, he grew increasingly satisfied with what he saw.

What pleased him most was the long strip of small trees separating the dormitory area from the training zone.

With them in place, collecting leaves would become much simpler.

Locate the training room by its door number. Tong Zhanyan swiped his card to enter.

The training room was over 150 square meters—a vast, rectangular warehouse.

Having sat unused for quite some time, the space felt stuffy. Tong Zhanyan turned on the ventilation and took the opportunity to check other basic facilities.

The bathroom had no hot water, but the plumbing worked fine.

The training room had power; while the outlets couldn’t be tested, the lights functioned perfectly.

Basic equipment, like a fall mat, needs to be stored in the corner.

The concrete floor required sweeping.

Lost in thought, his lunch break ended quickly.

Tong Zhanyan hurried back to the dormitory to reconnect the camera to the terminal for live streaming, then joined Tian Xinqing and the others heading to the classroom.

That night, Tong Zhanyan borrowed tools from the front desk and tackled the cleaning.

The tasks weren’t extensive, but as a first-timer, Tong Zhanyan was meticulous. By the time he finished, two hours had passed.

After lingering by the entrance for a moment, Tong Zhanyan returned the tools and headed back to his dorm.

Tian Xinqing was visiting neighbors again; Tong Zhanyan heard his laughter the moment he stepped onto the floor.

Qing Jiyue was reading with the door closed. He merely glanced up when he returned before resuming his book.

Tong Zhanyan took a shower, changed into clean clothes, and lay on his bed to check his terminal.

The pots and lights he’d ordered were already en route and would arrive tomorrow afternoon.

Tong Zhanyan contacted the store, instructing them to deliver the soil tomorrow evening as well. That way, he could transport everything to the training room together.

The next day at noon, Tong Zhanyan popped by the training room again. Nothing urgent needed attention; he just wanted to check in.

True cultivation required real soil and real land; greenhouses were essential. This place was at best a transit point, but reaching this stage proved his plan had been executed successfully so far.

By afternoon, the pots and lights arrived at the guardhouse as expected.

Just before class ended, the store sent a message confirming they’d also delivered their items to the guardhouse.

When the evening bell rang, Tong Zhanyan didn’t rush to the guardhouse. Instead, he joined Tian Xinqing and the others for dinner before returning to the dormitory.

Inside the room, Qing Jiyue had just returned. As Tong Zhanyan entered, Qing Jiyue was gathering clean clothes to take a shower.

Even during self-directed training, Qing Jiyue never slacked off, working himself into a sweat almost every day.

Tong Zhanyan waved his big tail as he approached, “Xiao Qingqing…”

Qing Jiyue paused his movements and turned to look.

“Xiao Yueyue…”

“Get to the point.” Qing Jiyue glanced at his long spear nearby, feeling an urge to crack open Tong Zhanyan’s skull and see if his brain had malfunctioned.

“Ahem…” Tong Zhanyan cleared his throat. “The stuff I ordered arrived, but it’s too much and too heavy. I can’t move it alone. Could you help me?”

The basin lamp wasn’t heavy, but the soil was solidly weighty—and he’d bought four large buckets at once.

Outsiders weren’t allowed on campus freely. Even if he could get the delivery guy to load them onto the campus shuttle, he’d still be stuck trying to unload them at the training room.

Qing Jiyue was the only one who knew what he was up to.

“Now?” Qing Jiyue set down the laundry.

“Yeah.” Tong Zhanyan beamed. “I knew you’d be the best, Xiao Yueyue.”

Qing Jiyue stared at the top of Tong Zhanyan’s head. “Shut up.”

Tong Zhanyan quickly made his escape.

The gates of Sidi Military Academy were both imposing and enormous, necessitating two guardhouses. The left one housed the actual security personnel, while the right served as a large parcel collection point.

Entering, Tong Zhanyan began searching for his packages with practiced ease.

The soil delivered by the store was right by the entrance—he’d spotted it before stepping inside.

Minutes later, Tong Zhanyan presented Qing Jiyue with a towering mountain of packages.

Though he’d anticipated the volume, Qing Jiyue still raised an eyebrow.

“I’ll go find a vehicle,” Tong Zhanyan said, dashing off.

The Sidi Military Academy was vast—too vast, in fact—so the school provided four-wheeled electric carts for convenient transportation.

Tong Zhanyan returned with two carts.

Parking them, he rolled up his sleeves. “Let’s load the heavy stuff first. We’ll carry it together—”

Before Tong Zhanyan could finish, the four buckets of soil flew into the air on their own, landing precisely on the back seats of both vehicles.

Tong Zhanyan was stunned. This was the first time he’d witnessed Qing Jiyue using his ability.

Several people nearby looked over.

Even in this world, Qing Jiyue’s ability was an extremely rare superpower.

While Tong Zhanyan stood dumbfounded, Qing Jiyue had already loaded everything into the vehicles and was walking toward one of them.

Tong Zhanyan hurriedly got in to lead the way.

After about ten minutes, they arrived at the training room.

Tong Zhanyan opened the door and watched as the items flew in, lining themselves up inside.

“Thanks, I’ll handle the rest myself. You can go rest now,” Tong Zhanyan said, pulling out a utility knife.

Qing Jiyue didn’t leave but instead looked around.

Tong Zhanyan didn’t shoo him away; instead, he lowered his head to focus on his task.

There was a lot of stuff. Just unboxing everything would likely take half an hour.

After watching for a while, Qing Jiyue joined in to help unpack.

Neither spoke until everything was unpacked.

“Phew…” Tong Zhanyan exhaled deeply at the sight of the floor covered in items, then continued working.

He bought two fans to improve ventilation—sealed environments were detrimental to plants.

Instead of flower pots, he’d bought a stack of small trash bins and several shallow industrial plastic bins measuring one meter by sixty-five centimeters.

All these containers needed holes drilled, or the roots would suffocate.

This time, he hadn’t bought the same desk lamps as before. While convenient, those lamps were too low-wattage and had a limited coverage area.

This time, he planned to grow dozens of pots; unless he bought twenty of them, it simply wouldn’t be enough.

This time, he bought a basic model where a single wire connected to one bulb, which came with its own lampshade and spectrum regulator.

The concept of plant grow lights didn’t exist here; this was industrial equipment, and it had taken him some time to finally find it.

Bulbs alone weren’t enough—he also needed stands.

The stands were the simplest design possible. More accurately, they had no design at all—just a bunch of metal rods of varying lengths.

He planned to build tripods himself, then connect two tripods with a crossbar to hang the bulbs from.

He planned to build two such frames, separating the tomato seedlings from the others, with three bulbs hung on each frame.

Additionally, Tong Zhanyan didn’t plan to throw away the dismantled cardboard boxes. Instead, he stacked them all at the door, forming a wall.

On one hand, this prevented people from seeing inside the house at a glance from the doorway. On the other hand, once he had a greenhouse, these boxes would need to be moved again, and he would still need them then.

These tasks looked simple but proved time-consuming. By lights-out, Tong Zhanyan had only managed to assemble the fan and set up the frame.

And that was only with Qing Jiyue’s help.

By the time they returned, the lights were already out.

After washing up in the dark, Tong Zhanyan collapsed onto his pillow and was out like a light.

The next day at noon, Tong Zhanyan continued the work, but this time Qing Jiyue didn’t come.

With one less person, efficiency dropped significantly.

After finishing the midday work, Tong Zhanyan labored through the night until everything was finally complete.

The next day, Tong Zhanyan had planned to move during the day while the momentum was high. But having gone without naps for several days straight, he was already at his limit. He had no choice but to postpone the move until nightfall.

The tomato seedlings had been planted for nearly two weeks and were almost ready for the next step: transplanting.

Fortunately, the day after tomorrow was Saturday. Moving at night would allow the seedlings to acclimate tomorrow, freeing him to work on Saturday.

With that plan settled, Tong Zhanyan quickly drifted off to sleep.

Lying in bed, Yang Hong, however, lay awake for a long time.

Out of habit, he opened Green Shade.

Having been in the gaming community for ten years, he followed nearly every popular gardening livestream.

He tapped open a few he remembered fondly to browse.

Traffic was decent during the lunch break, with several hosts streaming live. Yang Hong chose one currently fertilizing seedlings.

The host worked meticulously, yet the seedlings under his careful tending looked sparse and half-dead.

The seniors’ tomato seedlings, however, were thriving.

Yang Hong rolled over, focusing his attention on the stream before him.

In the brief moment he’d zoned out, the camera had shifted to several other seedlings. Their leaves were already yellowing—clearly, they wouldn’t survive much longer.

Death rates were high during the seedling stage anyway.

But the seniors’ batch of tomato seedlings was thriving.

Yang Hong rolled over again.

He hadn’t opened that guy’s livestream for three days since then, but he had to admit, those seedlings really did grow well.

Should he take a look?

Yang Hong hesitated for a moment, but eventually searched for it.

The page loaded.

The familiar corner, the familiar plastic cup—only this time, the five little tomatoes were gone from the frame.

A sharp pain shot through Yang Hong’s chest, as if someone had plunged a knife into his heart.

Then he realized something was off.

Those tomato seedlings had transformed beyond recognition.

When he unfollowed them, they had only one true leaf each. Now, every single one had at least two leaves, and many were even sprouting a third.

Too many leaves for such a small space, creating a dense, lush green mass at first glance.

They’d also shot up considerably in height, the tallest ones already bent double under the weight of the plastic film covering them.

The sight was heartbreaking.

Yang Hong couldn’t help but sit up.

Why hadn’t Tong Zhanyan removed that plastic film yet?

Couldn’t he see how miserable those little seedlings were?

They’d die.

Yang Hong instinctively started typing a comment to warn Tong Zhanyan, but paused mid-keystroke, remembering his own past. He’d definitely been one of the harshest critics.

He’d cursed, he’d unfollowed, and now he was back… How could he…

Yang Hong slid down to the comment section, hoping someone had already warned him.

Indeed, several people had already posted warnings, though their tone was dry and their IDs felt oddly familiar…

Yang Hong scrolled down quickly and, sure enough, spotted those few among the sea of angry comments.

Complex emotions instantly flooded Yang Hong.

Tong Zhanyan’s stream had never attracted more than a few hundred followers at its peak, and the concurrent viewership was pitifully low—just thirty or fifty people.

They weren’t exactly Tong Zhanyan’s die-hard fans, but they genuinely enjoyed the stream. Otherwise, why would they ignore all the popular channels and fixate on this little corner?

Seeing things turn out this way, they felt terrible too.