Inside the training room.

After setting the camera’s range, Tong Zhanyan glanced at the livestream.

The moment he saw the numbers, his eyebrow shot up.

Followers: 973

Comments: 751

Last time he checked on Friday, followers were just over six hundred. Today is only Saturday, and it’s already surpassed nine hundred…

Tong Zhanyan opened the backend.

Sure enough, the live stream had gained over 150 new followers daily these past two days, with daily clicks exceeding 500 on average. The trend showed signs of accelerating.

Tong Zhanyan was speechless. Just days ago, he could recall days with single-digit clicks and zero new followers.

Amidst his astonishment, Tong Zhanyan realized what had happened. He scrolled back and saw the data had indeed skyrocketed after those tomato seedlings were planted.

For most people, simply keeping crops alive was an accomplishment; growing them with such “vigor” was a rarity.

This did remind Tong Zhanyan of something: Green Shade offered streamers a revenue share, provided they reached 5,000 followers. At this rate of growth, he might actually have a shot.

But it was just wishful thinking. Even at the minimum threshold, the daily earnings would amount to mere pennies—hardly enough to solve his current problems.

Setting down the terminal, Tong Zhanyan stepped outside.

On his way, the fertilizer issue continued to plague him.

Maybe he should try this world’s fertilizer solution?

Tong Zhanyan instinctively resisted the idea. Something about it felt unreliable.

Just as he pondered, a figure caught his peripheral vision, making his heart skip a beat.

Devil King stood gazing up at their dormitory building.

It was Saturday—why was Devil King here?

Had someone from their class gotten into trouble?

Before Tong Zhanyan could piece it together, Devil King spotted him.

Tong Zhanyan was about to pretend he hadn’t seen him and make a run for it when the Devil King’s voice called out, “Tong Zhanyan.”

Instantly, Tong Zhanyan regretted it so much he could have kicked himself. He should have bolted the moment he spotted the Devil King.

Now, it was clearly too late.

Gritting his teeth, Tong Zhanyan approached. “Teacher Wang.”

Devil King appraised Tong Zhanyan with a glance. “The second cafeteria is hiring. I’ve already arranged it. Just go report for duty.”

Tong Zhanyan froze. “What?”

“Aren’t you short on cash?”

Tong Zhanyan instantly realized—Devil King must have heard about him rummaging through trash bins everywhere—

A wave of warmth washed over Tong Zhanyan. With the Devil King acting like this, he couldn’t even bring himself to hate him. The next moment, he bolted toward the dormitory building. “No need! I have money for food!”

The moment the Devil King heard this, veins bulged on his forehead. His hand shot out to grab Tong Zhanyan. Tong Zhanyan had money for food, yet still pulled stunts? Did he want to die?

But his reaction was a split second too slow. Tong Zhanyan slipped past his grasp.

When he looked back, the hallway was already empty.

Devil King’s mouth twitched. “Damn kid.”

He’d never seen Tong Zhanyan run this fast during training.

He sprinted all the way to the sixth floor. Looking down from above, Tong Zhanyan saw the Devil King turning to leave.

Tong Zhanyan exhaled in relief, but his face quickly fell. The Devil King would never let him off. Right now, he was probably already scheming how to deal with him.

As if sensing something, the Devil King turned back.

Tong Zhanyan quickly ducked back behind the railing, terrified.

Tong Zhanyan hadn’t guessed wrong. The Devil King truly had no intention of letting him off. Starting Monday, he once again experienced what hell felt like.

It had been nearly three months since school started. While his grades remained at the bottom of the class, his body had grown considerably more muscular from the daily grueling training.

Yet that level of fitness was utterly insignificant before the Devil King. Almost every day, he was dragged back by Tian Xinqing and the others.

Finally enduring until Friday’s dismissal, Tong Zhanyan had planned to rest briefly before checking on the training room—he hadn’t been there in six days. But after lying down, he woke up only at noon on Saturday.

Qing Jiyue hadn’t returned from training yet.

Tong Zhanyan struggled to his feet and made his way to Tian Xinqing and the others’ room across the hall. They were just getting ready to go out for lunch.

Tong Zhanyan quickly asked them to bring him some nutrient solution.

His terminal had to stay in the training room, so he had transferred some money to them earlier, using the excuse that his terminal had broken.

Tian Xinqing’s suspicion that he was too poor to afford meals was partly related to this—he always bought only the cheapest plain flavor.

Half an hour later, after drinking the nutrient solution, strength finally returned to Tong Zhanyan’s aching limbs.

After resting for another half hour, Tong Zhanyan went to the training room.

The lights were still on, the fan still running, and the camera hadn’t been removed. Tong Zhanyan breathed a slight sigh of relief before immediately checking the seedlings.

The little tomato plants had grown significantly taller, their leaves increasing from five or six to seven or eight. The five or six healthiest ones were even showing signs of branching.

It was time to repot them into larger containers.

After checking the tomatoes, Tong Zhanyan turned to inspect the cherry radishes and bok choy on the other side.

The tomato seedlings’ growth was as expected, but what caught his attention upon turning back was surprising.

The cherry radish and bok choy seeds were of such poor quality that he hadn’t held much hope for them, treating them merely as seed-saving efforts. Yet, upon looking again, they too had begun to show vigorous growth.

The healthiest cherry radish seedling was already nearly as tall as his palm, sporting as many as five leaves.

Amazed, Tong Zhanyan quickly figured it out.

These seeds had infection rates well over forty percent. That meant they’d been through who knows how many rounds of abuse. The fact that they could still sprout at all was proof of their incredibly strong vitality.

Once he understood what was happening, Tong Zhanyan glanced back at the seedlings and, for a moment, saw a hint of patheticness in them.

Tong Zhanyan chuckled.

His amusement mingled with resignation—even the landlords didn’t have much grain to spare.

Sighing, Tong Zhanyan rolled up his sleeves and got to work.

Today he’d repot all the little tomatoes into larger containers, water the cherry radishes, and tackle other tasks.

Live Stream Room.

Seeing Tong Zhanyan suddenly appear, the lively group froze for a moment.

His stream had been in a state of neglect for so long, they’d grown accustomed to it—perhaps too accustomed. For a split second, they’d even forgotten there was a host at all.

When they snapped back to reality, their moods turned complex.

Other streamers in other rooms announce events in advance, draft every word carefully—who among them doesn’t coddle and flatter their fans, terrified of missing the mark?

Tong Zhanyan, however, never bothers to notify anyone about planting, repotting, or watering. His schedule is never fixed; he does whatever he feels like, whenever he feels like it.

Whether fans missed updates or grew dissatisfied? That never crossed his mind.

Sometimes they even wondered if Tong Zhanyan had simply forgotten he was growing vegetables, forgotten he even had a livestream.

Take this time, for instance. Tong Zhanyan vanished for a full seven days.

Seven days. A full seven days. The viewers in his livestream might be forgiving, but didn’t Tong Zhanyan worry about his seedlings?

What if something happened? By the time he returned, it would be too late.

Their discontent simmered, but what frustrated them even more was this: despite Tong Zhanyan’s careless, unprofessional approach, every single seedling in his livestreamed garden thrived remarkably well.

Even the cherry radishes and bok choy, which had seemed less promising compared to the little tomatoes, began to flourish vigorously.

That left everyone choking on their own frustration—unable to vent it or swallow it.

“This is the streamer?”

“Why’s he blocking camera access? All mysterious.”

“The streamer’s pretty young.”

“Why isn’t he talking?”

━━ 🐈‍⬛ ━━

Watching the comments flash by in the chat, Yang Hong’s mouth twitched, but his hands never stopped. “Watch more. Once you finish this time, if you want to watch again, that’ll be next time.”

As for when that next time would be, only his grandpa knew.

“Huh, is he repotting them?”

“He should’ve done it ages ago. Haven’t you seen how top-heavy those little tomatoes are?”

“Will repotting like this kill them? What was the streamer thinking, using such tiny cups to grow them?”

“I’m so worried. They’ve grown so well, it’d be such a shame if they died…”

“Worried +1”

Yang Hong wanted to say something. His finger hovered over the keyboard, lifting and lowering, but in the end, he typed nothing.

He’d said the same things before, only to end up with the scene now unfolding before the new viewers in the livestream.

Had he not experienced it himself, he’d never have believed it. Even now, he often doubted whether it was all a dream.

Plants need sufficient soil to grow—common sense. Yet Tong Zhanyan gave them nothing, and they still grew wildly.

“What did he just pour in?”

“Ash?”

“Looks like it.”

“Can’t be. Never heard of anyone growing vegetables with ash.”

“And what about that white powder?”

“Probably some kind of fertilizer?”

“I think it might be some kind of super-strength nutrient powder. Otherwise, how could such a small cup produce such healthy seedlings?”

The barrage of comments kept flooding in, severely obstructing his view. Gu Yunyang swiftly turned them off.

At the same time, he pressed his entire face against the screen.

He genuinely couldn’t fathom why the tomatoes he’d meticulously tended died, while Tong Zhanyan’s haphazardly planted ones thrived so spectacularly.

This was unscientific.

In fact, when Tong Zhanyan repotted those cherry radishes and bok choy last time, Gu had studied it meticulously and even recorded it. But back then, Tong had his back to the camera while mixing the soil, and he was quite far away, so Gu could only catch a general idea.

This time was different.

Tong Zhanyan was mixing soil right beside the tomatoes, directly under the camera.

“Huh… the streamer is mixing soil right in front of the camera?”

“Did he forget there’s a camera?”

“Should we remind him?”

“He’s growing them so well for once. If someone copies him…”

“Does anyone have the streamer’s contact info?”

“Should we call Green Shade and see if they have his contact details on file?”

“Would Green Shade even handle this?”

“They should. This isn’t a trivial matter.”

Watching the comment stream erupt into chaos, Yang Hong couldn’t help but feel anxious, too.

The seed bank was restarted fifty years ago. Countless people had waited fifty years, yet no one had managed to grow the crops successfully.

In this situation, anyone possessing an absolutely effective formula or method would undoubtedly hold immense wealth—or even power.

Tong Zhanyan’s previous soil mixes were far less successful; the seedlings didn’t grow as well as they do now, and he had only a handful of followers back then, so no one considered this possibility.

But now it was different. Tong Zhanyan had over seven thousand followers, with a whopping five hundred-plus online at the moment. If someone with ill intent recorded this and leaked it…

Yang Hong couldn’t spare a thought for anything else. He immediately stood up and made a call.