Huge thanks to KoshkaHP for the Kofis. Enjoy the Bonus Chapter. Lots of love!

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…But now that he mentioned it, Tong Zhanyan found himself somewhat tempted.

Even knowing the Devil King meant well, it didn’t stop him from being deeply disliked—especially when his grades were rock-bottom, and he was constantly targeted.

Seeing Tong Zhanyan’s expression shift repeatedly, Tian Xinqing hurriedly cautioned, “You won’t win.”

Tong Zhanyan felt both amused and exasperated. Was the point that he wouldn’t win?

Tong Zhanyan said, “Don’t worry, it’s not that.”

Tian Xinqing shot him a skeptical glance, not entirely convinced.

The two headed toward the cafeteria.

Walking behind Tian Xinqing, Tong Zhanyan felt conflicted.

Truthfully, even if he wanted to hide it, he couldn’t keep it secret for long.

Once this batch of tomatoes ripened and the greenhouse was ready, he wouldn’t be able to plant just a few plants here and there like he did now. Daily chores would take up significant time, making concealment impossible.

Moreover, when that time came, he’d actually have to find ways to get the school to notice him.

But…

His current tomato seedlings might seem decent to the viewers in his livestream, but those popular streamers planted so many each time—among a pile of seedlings, they could always find a few in good condition.

The school wouldn’t keep him just for that.

If he wanted to stay, he’d have to deliver results compelling enough for the school to break the rules to retain him.

This thought alone gave Tong Zhanyan a headache.

Fertilizer was essential for healthy crops, yet he still had no clue how to obtain it.

The plant ash would only help the tomato seedlings survive the early stages. Once they reached the point of branching and flower bud differentiation, requiring more fertilizer, growth would inevitably slow if it wasn’t supplemented.

If he remained inactive, this batch of tomatoes would end up like the previous one—each plant bearing three or four clusters of fruit would be considered a success.

In that case, he could forget about the greenhouse.

The cafeteria wasn’t crowded on weekends.

With Su Yanran still clinging to him like a hungry baby back at the dorm, Tian Xinqing headed home immediately after buying the nutrient solution. Tong Zhanyan didn’t accompany him. After downing the solution in one gulp, he went to the back of the cafeteria.

Skillfully opening the trash bin, Tong Zhanyan didn’t immediately search for eggshells like before. Instead, he began sifting through other contents.

Besides eggshells, packaging bags, and miscellaneous debris, the bin mainly contained animal bones, hides, and offal.

Animal bones and eggshells were both useful materials, but he currently lacked the means to grind them into powder.

Animal hides were notoriously resistant to decay, especially the furry parts.

The offal consisted mainly of lungs, livers, and intestines. Inside the intestines lay partially digested food and feces that hadn’t been expelled.

In his former world, offal, intestines—especially the feces within them—were valuable resources. But here, the infection rate posed a major concern.

Meat is precious here too. Edible parts are never discarded; anything thrown away must be problematic.

Tong Zhanyan scraped some minced meat from the organs and intestines, along with a bit of feces, intending to take it to the street for analysis.

Finished, he looked up to meet over a dozen pairs of eyes.

A group of senior students entered through the back door, glancing at him frequently as they moved.

Tong Zhanyan quickly made his exit.

The streets were quite crowded on Saturday.

Two customers were already in the shop.

Spotting Tong Zhanyan enter, Fang Yiguang immediately approached. “What would you like today?”

Tong Zhanyan had bought quite a few things from the shop before, which had earned him a small profit.

“Can you appraise things other than plants?” Tong Zhanyan asked.

“Yes.” Fang Yiguang maintained her smile. Appraisals weren’t profitable.

“Could you please appraise this for me?” Tong Zhanyan handed over the plastic bag.

Fang Yiguang opened it to look inside. “What is it?”

“Internal organs and feces.”

Hearing this, Fang Yiguang couldn’t help but flash a momentary look of disgust.

“Can you appraise it?”

“Yes.” Fang Yiguang steeled himself and walked into the back room, holding the bag at arm’s length in obvious distaste.

Tong Zhanyan browsed the shop while waiting.

The shop owner, surnamed Bai, was absent—Tong Zhanyan had seen his name on previous delivery slips.

Ten minutes later, the results arrived.

“67%, 74%, 58%, and 63%.”

Tong Zhanyan took the report.

Though he’d anticipated it, disappointment still washed over him.

“You want to grow it?” Fang Yiguang asked.

“Yeah.”

“Then you might as well give up now.”

Before the Great Catastrophe, many things had been replaced by high-tech products—laborious farming, paper books, for instance.

During the Cataclysm, all electronic devices malfunctioned, resulting in the loss of most data.

Regarding ancient cultivation techniques, they could only piece together fragments from various surviving garbled files.

The most widely known tidbit was undoubtedly the phrase: “Animal manure makes excellent fertilizer.”

This statement was found in a folklore journal. The original text merely mentioned it briefly, but upon publication, it immediately caused a huge stir. For a long time, many people actively experimented with it.

But no matter how they tried, not only did it fail to make plants thrive, but it was a miracle if the plants weren’t killed by it.

Even if they survived, the infection rate would skyrocket after using this stuff.

Many believed the method was simply being applied incorrectly, so persistent attempts continued. The most extreme approach, undoubtedly, was “boiling feces.”

This craze emerged at some unknown point. It was claimed that thorough boiling rendered it harmless, leading to a long period where the aroma wafted through the streets.

Fang Yiguang struggled to suppress the expression on his face. He could almost smell the scent emanating from Tong Zhanyan.

Tong Zhanyan glanced at the nearby refrigerated display.

Disappointed, he had to consider other options. Now, only one solution remained: buying crops.

Properly processed fruit, vegetable, and kitchen waste could serve as fertilizer.

“What’s your cheapest crop?” Tong Zhanyan asked.

“Cheap? The ones with high infection rates.”

Crops with infection rates below sixty were still edible, but anything over fifty offered little to no treatment for frenzy and carried toxins. Only those strapped for cash yet unwilling to give up hope would buy them.

Tong Zhanyan fell silent.

Highly infected items contaminated crops, explaining why infection rates rose each time seeds were planted.

“What about around 45%?” Tong Zhanyan pressed, unwilling to give up.

“Bok choi, I suppose. If the quality’s a bit off, you’re looking at about 150 to 160 per gram on average.”

Tong Zhanyan did the math.

Forty plants would require at least fifteen to twenty jin of fertilizer to ensure sufficient fertility.

Fifteen jin is 7,500 grams—that’s over 1.1 million…

Tong Zhanyan nearly spat out a mouthful of blood.

A few pots of crops, over a million in fertilizer.

Would eating this stuff send you straight to heaven?

Tong Zhanyan rubbed his nose bridge, his headache intensifying.

Once the bok choy and cherry radish seeds arrived, mass-planting them for fertilizer might work—but the tomatoes couldn’t wait that long.

He was in a bind.

After factoring in time for the greenhouse, he had only two months left.

Relying solely on the tomatoes themselves without fertilizing wasn’t impossible, but the harvest would undoubtedly be severely compromised.

The greenhouse would definitely cost a pretty penny.

Tong Zhanyan didn’t know how he’d walked out. By the time he realized it, he was already standing at the training room door.

He’d finished his morning tasks and intended to return to the dorm, yet found himself here instead.

But since he was already here, he decided to take a look.

The bok choy and cherry radishes had only been repotted two days ago. Still in their acclimation phase, they showed no visible changes.

Tong Zhanyan crouched before the tomato plants.

Several days had passed, and now, through the transparent walls of the cups, he could see the new white roots sprouting—a sign of vigorous vitality.

Tong Zhanyan sighed silently and stood up to leave.

After taking two steps, he turned back.

Something felt off.

He scanned the area, but found nothing unusual. At least, none of the seedlings were missing, and their positions hadn’t changed.

Tong Zhanyan turned to leave again, but mid-motion, he suddenly snapped back to reality. The camera wasn’t visible inside the room.

That camera wasn’t very smart. When Tong Zhanyan told it to film the seedlings, it would just circle around them all day, often needing him to prompt it.

Yet now, its presence was nowhere to be seen inside.

Had someone stolen it?

With all those seedlings, why wouldn’t they take the camera?

Tong Zhanyan remembered something and immediately checked the cardboard box where he kept his terminal. The terminal was still there.

He hurried over. The livestream might have captured the thief.

He had the livestream set to auto-record, originally planning to edit some clips when he had time.

The camera hadn’t been turned off. Tong Zhanyan saw an extremely narrow field of view and over a dozen pitiful distress signals from the camera.

Tong Zhanyan rewound the footage. About two hours ago, the camera had started its automatic patrol, and then…

Tong Zhanyan walked to the farthest corner where training equipment was stored. Sure enough, he found it there.

“Are you stupid?” Tong Zhanyan rescued it.

Behind the round glass of the camera, resembling a Poké Ball, the lens slowly extended and retracted, almost seeming to accuse Tong Zhanyan.

It had been stuck. It had sent Tong Zhanyan a distress signal, but Tong Zhanyan hadn’t come to rescue it.

Tong Zhanyan chuckled.

After freeing the camera, Tong Zhanyan reconfigured it, shrinking the patrol range to focus on the seedlings.

This incident reminded him he needed to buy another terminal. Otherwise, he wouldn’t notice if anything happened to the seedlings.

Terminals weren’t cheap.

One problem hadn’t been resolved when another arose, making Tong Zhanyan’s headache worse.

Backstage in the livestream room.

The sudden “Are you stupid?” startled Gu Yunyang, who was busy working.

He had a habit of using the livestream as a backdrop, so even when the camera froze, it didn’t matter.

This was the first time he’d heard Tong Zhanyan’s voice.

Tong Zhanyan wasn’t old—his physique made that clear—yet his voice lacked any youthful edge, instead carrying a softer, more mellow quality.

Seemed like a gentle soul.

As Gu Yunyang pondered, the camera drifted back to the tomato seedlings, hovering low as if wanting to cuddle up with its little friends.

Up close, the tomatoes looked more like a lush, verdant forest.

Gu Yunyang felt a pang of melancholy.

His batch of tomatoes was nearing harvest, meaning it was time to sow again.

As secondary researchers, the seeds they could apply for were leftovers from the top-tier experts like Old Xu. Their infection rates were consistently below 20%.

This time, his harvest had reached a 26% infection rate. Anything over thirty percent held little research value and would be sold off collectively.

Meaning he had only one more planting cycle left.

This was his first time leading a project solo. His last planting attempt had already failed. If he failed again…