The moment the words left his mouth, Tong Zhanyan knew he’d acted impulsively.

Sure enough, the old man’s eyes, previously filled with anger, instantly brightened.

Tong Zhanyan took a deep breath, trying to salvage the situation. “They look quite beautiful.”

Everyone froze.

Beautiful?

All eyes turned to the two oranges.

Fist-sized, perfectly round, and a vivid orange-red—they certainly deserved the label “pretty.” But Tong Zhanyan wanted to buy them just because he thought they were pretty?

The old man snorted coldly. “Don’t try that on me.”

He sat back down on the sofa, looking supremely confident. “You can have them if you want. Twenty thousand for both. Not selling them separately.”

Tong Zhanyan’s mouth twitched. Hadn’t he just said “150,000 is the absolute minimum”? He’d heard it clearly.

As the two spoke, Mr. Bai and Fang Yiguang also caught up.

They exchanged a glance. Though puzzled by Tong Zhanyan’s behavior, they didn’t intervene.

The elderly man, surnamed Jin, had dedicated over thirty years to cultivation. He was a longstanding customer, loyal to their shop since its opening.

He was utterly obsessed with growing things and possessed genuine skill. Most crops thrived under his care, and he excelled at cultivating one or two varieties particularly well. He was a well-known figure in their local gardening community.

However, he had one flaw: an insatiable love for novelty. Whenever he had a little extra cash, he’d rush out to buy new seeds for experimentation.

Since the core challenges of cultivation remained unsolved, his results were only marginally better than others’. Consequently, most new seed trials ended in failure.

Occasionally, though, he managed to grow something successfully. Whenever that happened, their shop faced a catastrophe.

New seeds were usually extremely expensive. Combined with the high failure rate due to lack of experience, costs naturally skyrocketed.

The simplest way to recoup losses was to sell the successfully grown, mature crops at a premium price.

But most people buy produce to suppress their frenzy—they seek what’s effective and affordable. Who would pay dozens of times more than ordinary produce for a novelty?

Those two oranges weighed only about eighty grams combined. He demanded two hundred thousand yuan upfront—over a thousand yuan per gram. Who would buy that?

If the shop purchased them, they’d be stuck holding the bag.

Tong Zhanyan took a deep breath. “One hundred thousand for both. If you’re willing to sell, I’ll take them.”

He was determined to secure them.

The reason was simple: orange peels are an excellent material for making phosphorus-potassium fertilizer, which is arguably the most crucial supplemental fertilizer during the flowering and fruiting stages of all fruits and vegetables.

More crucially, fertilizer made from orange peels differs from that produced from ordinary kitchen scraps. It’s remarkably economical. Just the fertilizer from these two oranges, if used sparingly, might last until the fruit ripens.

If possible, he truly didn’t want to use this world’s fertilizer solution. But buying fresh produce was prohibitively expensive—over a million yuan. Even in his previous life, he never had that kind of money.

Missing this chance meant those tomatoes would likely be left to fate.

Also left to fate were his greenhouse and his evaluation.

Hearing Tong Zhanyan’s offer of 100,000 yuan, Old Jin—who had already composed himself to negotiate—couldn’t help but twitch at the corner of his mouth. He wouldn’t sell it for 150,000.

He’d spent over thirty thousand just to buy the seed for this orange tree, then nurtured it meticulously for four years until it finally bloomed this season.

He’d been quite pleased—until blossom blight struck. Flowers rained down from the branches like snow, leaving only these two fruits behind.

One hundred thousand? That amount barely covered the fertilizer he’d used over the years.

“120,000.” Tong Zhanyan countered again.

“Youngster, if you don’t want to buy it, just leave. Stop bothering me.” Old Jin was getting annoyed.

Was Tong Zhanyan toying with him?

“This is all the money I have. Even if I wanted to give you more, I simply can’t.” Tong Zhanyan’s expression was sincere.

In the past, if someone told him they’d spend 100,000 yuan on two oranges, he’d have thought they were out of their mind.

But now, he was the one eager to buy from this man.

Old Jin froze.

He instinctively sized up Tong Zhanyan.

After three months, the sickly aura around Tong Zhanyan had faded considerably, and he looked a bit sturdier. Yet his complexion was far from rosy; he still clearly looked like someone “from the outer city.”

Noticing this, Old Jin hesitated.

He’d been haggling with the shopkeeper for over three hours, and the other party showed no sign of budging. He truly had no better options—otherwise, he would have left long ago…

Seeing his hesitation, Tong Zhanyan looked at Fang Yiguang.

The latter nodded knowingly and fetched the ledger from the side. “Boss, he brought some cherry radishes and bok choy.”

Before Boss Bai could reach out, Old Jin interjected abruptly.

Seeing the price Fang Yiguang quoted for Tong Zhanyan, Old Jin couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. “Three hundred and twenty for cherry radishes? Why didn’t I get that price?”

Fang Yiguang choked slightly, quickly turning to bring in Tong Zhanyan’s cherry radishes and bok choy.

Old Jin wasn’t known for his temperament, and when it came to farming, he became even more irritable. If he truly felt they were taking advantage of him, he’d tear the roof off.

Seeing the cherry radishes and bok choy, the displeasure faded from Old Jin’s face. Even he had to admit the quality was exceptional.

These were likely the finest specimens from Tong Zhanyan’s entire batch.

Upon seeing the cherry radishes and bok choy, Mr. Bai immediately caught on. He recalled Tong Zhanyan purchasing seeds just a month prior.

Tong Zhanyan had grown these cherry radishes and bok choy to such size in merely a month?

And if he hadn’t miscounted, every single one was here except for one each kept for seed.

That meant Tong Zhanyan hadn’t just pulled out the tallest ones from a bunch; every single one he’d grown was of excellent quality. Such a yield rate…

Tong Zhanyan’s attention was entirely on Old Jin.

Knowing Tong Zhanyan was a fellow farmer didn’t make him budge. Instead, he grew even more nitpicky. “No way. The minimum is 150,000. There must be seeds among these fruits. I bought them for 30,000 each originally. You’d be making a profit just by getting three seeds from these.”

Tong Zhanyan immediately opened his terminal and displayed his balance.

After buying seeds and soil, he had only a little over 120,000 left. Renting the training room with tips left him with that five hundred, but a month had passed. Even buying only the cheapest nutrient solution daily had cost him a lot.

His terminal showed he was still dozens short of 120,000.

Old Jin was taken aback by Tong Zhanyan’s response, but now he truly saw that the young man was genuinely broke.

That made him hesitate.

He’d already haggled for three hours. Another three wouldn’t change much. If the shop wouldn’t take it, he could sell it himself, but he’d likely get no better price.

Though reluctant, he understood the market value.

“Fine,” Old Jin relented, then immediately added, “But 125,000. Transfer another five thousand over.”

Tong Zhanyan wasted no time haggling further, opening the transfer page directly.

Seeing Tong Zhanyan’s promptness, Old Jin’s expression softened slightly as he quickly opened the payment page.

“What’s the infection rate?” Tong Zhanyan confirmed one last time.

Bai Boss picked up the appraisal form from the table and handed it to Tong Zhanyan.

Infection rate: 46%.

Tong Zhanyan made the payment.

Beside them, Fang Yiguang had already thoughtfully fetched the store’s terminal from outside and handed it to Mr. Bai.

“Then on my end…” Mr. Bai looked at Tong Zhanyan.

Tong Zhanyan nodded.

Mr. Bai transferred the money directly to Old Jin.

Confirming the transaction, Tong Zhanyan exhaled in relief and bent down to pick up the two oranges.

“Give me back the box—I’ll need it next time,” Old Jin quickly interjected.

Tong Zhanyan couldn’t help but twitch his mouth again.

This guy really was…

But those two boxes were useless to him anyway. Tong Zhanyan only took the oranges.

The moment his fingertips touched the orange peel, a cool sensation immediately washed over him, accompanied by the distinctive fragrance of the fruit.

Having subsisted on nutrient solutions for three months, Tong Zhanyan helplessly swallowed hard.

“I’ll be going now.” Tong Zhanyan placed them in his backpack and turned to leave.

Watching Tong Zhanyan walk away, Fang Yiguang, inside the house, made a move to put the tomatoes and radishes into the refrigerator.

“Hold on, let me take a look,” Mr. Bai stopped him.

Across the room, Old Jin patted his butt and stood up, also preparing to leave. “What’s there to see? Just a bunch of radishes and cabbage!”

He still resented Mr. Bai for refusing to budge on the price earlier.

Knowing Old Jin’s temperament well, Mr. Bai just smiled and said nothing.

Old Jin left.

Mr. Bai’s smile vanished as he scrutinized the cherry radishes and baby bok choy. Their quality was indeed excellent—had he estimated their value, he would have offered more.

Fang Yiguang often said he wasn’t cut out for business.

“Did he mention these…”

“The seeds we sold him earlier? I asked about them.” Fang Yiguang hadn’t left; he’d been waiting nearby.

Mr. Bai was taken aback.

Their seeds?

So they really grew in just one month?

A crop with a fifty-day growth cycle, harvested in thirty days—this…

“Has it been tested?” Mr. Bai couldn’t help but suspect chemical intervention.

Many had attempted to crack this cultivation challenge, including large corporations. Such entities tended to be more utilitarian—growth accelerators were their creation.

“They’ve been tested. Most are around forty-five,” Fang Yiguang paused. “Come to think of it, the infection rates for these cherry radishes and bok choy don’t seem to have increased much either.”

Mr. Bai froze for a moment before rushing to the counter to check the records. Seeds were precious; they kept track of every single one sold.

He recalled that Tong Zhanyan’s seeds had always had an infection rate around forty-five percent. But how could that be?

Growing fifty-day crops in just thirty days with such excellent quality was already remarkable enough. If the infection rate hadn’t increased much either…

On the street.

Tong Zhanyan’s mind was filled with the tangy sweetness of oranges when he spotted Ning Langdong unloading goods at a meat snack shop from afar.

“Ning Langdong.” Tong Zhanyan called out.

Ning Langdong turned at the sound, about to respond, when someone inside the shop called him. He hurried inside.

Many students worked part-time jobs secretly, forcing nearby shops to keep wages rock-bottom. Ning Langdong hadn’t been here before—he must have switched jobs.

Tong Zhanyan recalled how Ning’s face had darkened the last time they met when work came up.

Tong Zhanyan returned to campus just as lunch break began.

Qing Jiyue was in the dorm, getting ready to sleep.

“Wait.” Tong Zhanyan called after him, then reached into his backpack and pulled out the two oranges.

After washing them and drying the surface, Tong Zhanyan took one, inserted his fingertip into the stem end, and gave it a firm twist. The orange split cleanly in two.

As the peel split open, a mist of moisture blossomed, filling the entire room with the distinctive fragrance of oranges.

Before Tong Zhanyan even tasted the flesh, the tangy sourness already filled his mouth.

Tong Zhanyan offered his half.

Qing Jiyue took it but didn’t eat. “You bought these?”

Wasn’t Tong Zhanyan short on cash?

“Yeah.” Tong Zhanyan’s attention was entirely on his own half, already eager to dig in. “There might be seeds inside. Be careful not to bite through them when you eat. I want the seeds, and don’t throw away the peel either—remember to give it to me.”

Hearing the word “seeds,” Qing Jiyue began to understand what was going on, yet he still didn’t move.

Tong Zhanyan could have kept it all to himself.

This wasn’t cheap.

“Why aren’t you eating?” Tong Zhanyan peeled a segment, about to take a bite, when he noticed Qing Jiyue still hadn’t touched his.

“It’s expensive.”

Tong Zhanyan froze for a second, then burst out laughing. “Next time, you treat me.”

For him, the peel was what mattered; the seeds were merely a bonus.

As for the flesh? He longed to ditch the nutrient solutions and eat something normal daily, but that was utterly unrealistic at this stage.

The orange touched his lips. One bite, and the intensely tart juice exploded in Tong Zhanyan’s mouth.

The orange wasn’t very ripe.

Tong Zhanyan’s features twisted in sourness.

Accompanying it was that familiar bitterness.

With his previous experience and having confirmed the infection rate, he didn’t overreact like last time. Yet his features contorted even more under the sourness. “So sour…”

Across from him, Qing Jiyue had already taken a segment.

Tong Zhanyan watched expectantly.

Qing Jiyue popped it into his mouth.

“Sour?” Tong Zhanyan asked.

Qing Jiyue shook his head, his expression serene.

Then, in the next instant, he turned his head away, his previously fair neck and ears flushing crimson.

“Ha ha…” Tong Zhanyan laughed without restraint.

The orange was bitter to begin with, and since it wasn’t fully ripe, the bitterness was even more pronounced. After finishing half the orange, Tong Zhanyan’s mouth was filled with sour and bitter flavors.

He was lucky—he got one seed, while Qing Jiyue got two.

One seed was clearly underdeveloped, shriveled, and misshapen. Tong Zhanyan tossed it aside—soil and fertilizer cost money—then washed and dried the remaining two.

He didn’t eat the last one himself. Instead, he took it to the dorm across the way, where Tian Xinqing and Su Yanran lived, and shared it with them.

Looking back, these past three months, those two had always taken care of him more.

The two were just getting ready for bed.

Tong Zhanyan said the oranges were from Qing Jiyue.

They were skeptical. These weren’t cheap, and Qing Jiyue wasn’t in frenzy mode here—this wasn’t the Qing Family’s territory. Where would he have gotten them?

But soon, they had no time to ponder this, because as they ate the fruit for the first time, their facial features began to contort uncontrollably.

Their luck was poor; they only managed to extract one seed, though it was plump and healthy.

After the spectacle, Tong Zhanyan returned to the dorm, washed the seeds, hung them to dry, and then began processing the orange peels.

The method was simple: cut the peels into small pieces, place them in a jar, cover with water, and let them naturally decompose for about a month.

If possible, adding yeast would catalyze the process, shortening the decomposition time.

Tong Zhanyan didn’t have yeast, so he simply chopped the orange peels as finely as possible.

Additionally, high temperatures accelerated the decay process. After preparing the mixture, Tong Zhanyan placed the bottles on the balcony where they could receive direct sunlight and higher temperatures.

He didn’t screw the lids on tightly, merely resting them loosely on the bottles. This was because the mixture, much like soda, continuously produced gas. If handled improperly, it could even explode.

By the time he finished, the entire room was filled with fragrance.

Tong Zhanyan washed his hands and headed downstairs to return the terminal.

He’d previously hesitated between buying a terminal or a camera that could stream without one. Now, it saved him the trouble—he couldn’t afford either anyway.

Tong Zhanyan didn’t linger in the training room. After setting down the terminal and checking the lone cherry radish and Chinese cabbage, each remaining, he left.

As for the orange seeds, there was no rush.

They couldn’t be rushed anyway. Direct planting yielded a low germination rate. To ensure sprouting, the seeds needed to be dried, soaked for several days to soften the skin, and then peeled before planting.

With only three seeds left, he had to be cautious.

Live Stream Room.

Noon, Cafeteria.

Yang Hong, mid-meal, stared at the pitch-black screen for a long moment before belatedly realizing Tong Zhanyan had once again shut down the stream without a word.

Growing crops remained compelling even without a streamer present, so most channels preferred to leave their feeds running constantly. But this wasn’t an absolute rule.

This wasn’t particularly unusual.

But unless unexpected circumstances arose, streamers would typically give advance notice.

Only Tong Zhanyan always did things his way.

Yang Hong felt a bit annoyed, but he didn’t close the stream either. Instead, he just ate his meal in front of the black screen.

Cardboard walls, water-filled basins and buckets, large barrels of soil, training mats and obstacles, and piles upon piles of clutter in the corners.

Clothes racks, pots riddled with holes yet painted in garish colors…

Tong Zhanyan’s livestream space was certainly not “good,” yet it possessed a peculiar charm. Ever since he got hooked, he’d lost interest in anyone else’s livestreams.

Especially those once-must-watch planting and harvesting streams he’d set alarms for—ever since joining Tong Zhanyan’s channel, no matter how emotionally charged other hosts’ commentary got, he always felt something was missing.

Yet if you asked him what exactly made Tong Zhanyan so good, he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

He never listened to viewer feedback, shut down the stream on a whim, and then there were those five tomatoes…

He could list Tong Zhanyan’s problems by the dozen.

Was he some kind of masochist?

Yang Hong shoveled another bite of rice. He hadn’t realized he had this problem before…

Maybe he should see a doctor?

As he pondered this, the previously pitch-black screen suddenly stirred.

Yang Hong immediately looked up.

The livestream reconnected.

The camera seemed to sense movement, turning its gaze from the tomato seedlings.

In the corner, a familiar figure set down their terminal and rose, walking toward the cherry radishes and bok choy as if inspecting the area.

The camera followed his movements.

Yang Hong watched along with him.

The tomatoes were undoubtedly the star attraction in Tong Zhanyan’s livestream. Planted and sprouted together, they had now grown into a dense forest. Everyone who saw them couldn’t help but admire them.

The cherry radishes and bok choy weren’t bad either—in fact, they looked better than most in other livestreams. Still, they couldn’t quite match the tomatoes’ appeal, so most viewers’ attention remained fixed on the tomato plants.

Yang Hong was no exception.

By his calculations, they should be ready for harvest in about a month and a half, right?

Fan, metal rack, industrial crate—

“Pfft.” Yang Hong sprayed out a mouthful of rice.

Inside the rough industrial crate, two lonely figures stood starkly against a barren expanse. Where were the other cherry radishes and bok choy?

Hearing the commotion, several people in the cafeteria turned to look.

Yang Hong paid them no mind, his face practically pressed against the screen.

He searched frantically, wondering if he’d mistakenly left another pot behind. But the training room was tiny—he scanned it thoroughly and found no second container.

Had Tong Zhanyan switched pots again?

Swapping a small pot for a large one made sense, but why would he switch a large pot for a small one?

A bad feeling washed over Yang Hong, yet he stubbornly searched again.

After circling the room once more, he still didn’t see those familiar shapes. Yang Hong’s heart, already enveloped by foreboding, plummeted to the depths.

What is Tong Zhanyan doing?

“Did I miscount? Have the cherry radishes and bok choy vanished?”

“They’re gone.”

“Did the streamer pull them up?”

“But it’s only been over thirty days!”

“They could still regrow—why pull them prematurely?”

Hundreds of comments flooded the screen almost simultaneously.

They were all like Yang Hong—staying put even though the stream was off and they couldn’t see anything. Some had waited two or three hours. But they never imagined that after finally catching the stream restart, this is what they’d see.

On screen, Tong Zhanyan gave a quick wave before leaving, showing no intention of explaining.

Faced with this, the chat exploded with even more fervor, and emotions began to boil over.

They had watched those cherry radishes and bok choy grow inch by inch. Though they hadn’t showered them with as much attention as the tomatoes, they’d still kept a close eye on them.

Seeing them ruined as this filled them with heartbreak.

“Does this streamer even know how to farm?”

“Maybe they’re broke? The streamer world…”

“Pulling them before they’re ripe? How desperate for cash is that?”

“Crops aren’t tools for money-obsessed people like you to exploit! They have lives too!”

“This streamer is way out of line.”

“I used to think this streamer was skilled at farming, but now it seems they just got lucky—they know nothing.”

“Trash streamer.”

As the crowd’s comments grew increasingly harsh, Yang Hong—who had been quite angry himself—suddenly felt a bit bewildered.

This scene… felt so familiar…

Gu Yunyang discovered it an hour later.

He’d just returned to the dorm after lunch with Shen Ye and the others, about to take a nap.

Opening the livestream, he saw the screen flooded with comments. His instinct was to mute them and check on the tomato seedlings first, but out of the corner of his eye, he caught glimpses of furious words.

His heart sank involuntarily.

This scene felt familiar.

The last time Tong Zhanyan suddenly snapped and dismembered those tomatoes, the chat had been exactly like this.

Gu Yunyang immediately blocked the chat and turned his attention to the tomatoes. The moment he got a clear look, he exhaled in relief.

They were perfectly fine, weren’t they?

Gu Yunyang made a move to unblock the comments to see what had happened, but his eye involuntarily twitched.

Across from the tomatoes, the once lush, large pot had, at some point, been reduced to just two bare stems.

Gu Yunyang’s brow immediately furrowed.

Had Tong Zhanyan pulled out the cherry radishes and bok choy?

Gu Yunyang immediately opened the chat.

Traffic during lunch break far exceeded that of the morning. The chat was flooded with people like him—those who had just logged into the livestream after lunch only to find the cherry radishes and bok choy gone. Questions kept popping up.

Gu Yunyang strained to make sense of it, taking a while to piece together what had happened.

Just like every other time, Tong Zhanyan had made the change without warning or explanation. By the time they noticed, it was already a done deal.

Gu Yunyang couldn’t quite put his finger on how he felt.

Anger? Of course, there was some.

But this wasn’t the first time. He wasn’t nearly as furious as last time, wanting to kill someone. And strictly speaking, those cherry radishes and bok choy were indeed ready for harvest…

Many understood this, so most just felt regret. They all thought Tong Zhanyan could have waited a little longer.

But discovering it was already a done deal, too late to stop, left them thoroughly annoyed.

That afternoon, Tong Zhanyan and Tian Xinqing trained on their own.

By nightfall, the atmosphere in the dormitory building felt unusually heavy.

Tong Zhanyan asked around before finally getting an answer under the resentful stares of everyone.

They had already confirmed it in the faculty dormitory area that afternoon. Tong Zhanyan hadn’t misread the situation—the Devil King had truly returned.

If before they’d been overjoyed at the prospect of not seeing the Devil King for two months, practically wanting to run hundreds of laps around the track, now they wished they could just die.

Earlier, their joy had been utterly unrestrained—they’d nearly beaten gongs and drums in celebration.

Given the Devil King’s temperament, retaliation was inevitable.

Realizing this, Tong Zhanyan’s smile quickly faded. If Su Yanran and the others couldn’t handle it, how could he?

The Devil King did not disappoint.

Less than ten minutes into Monday’s class, he made it crystal clear he knew exactly how thrilled they’d been that he couldn’t teach them.

The only slight consolation was that although the Devil King had returned, Class 1’s homeroom teacher was on leave. They still shared classes with Class 1’s students.

This allowed Class 1 to experience a taste of their daily grind.

First-year students faced evaluations, so all their teachers were strict—but none more so than the Devil King.

Within a single class period, Class 1 scattered like tadpoles searching for their mother, frantically hunting for their homeroom teacher.

 ━━ 🐈‍⬛ ━━

Thursday afternoon wasn’t Devil King’s class, so Tong Zhanyan finally had the energy to visit the training room that night.

After five days, the two cherry radishes and Chinese cabbage he’d saved for seeds showed little change, just as he’d expected.

However, the strawberries, eggplants, and cucumbers placed beside them had grown significantly and were ready for larger pots.

The most astonishing growth remained with the tomatoes. Still drawing nourishment from the soil, nearly every plant had surpassed thirty centimeters, with many leaves reaching a width of four fingers.

Most gratifyingly, many had already developed flower buds.

Tong Zhanyan left them untouched, deciding to tend to them all together on Saturday.

Tomatoes require leaf pinching and branch pruning, but this can’t be done immediately after growth begins.

The stage of branching out and swelling the first flower buds also marks their transition from seedlings to mature plants. Pinching too early can confuse them into thinking flowering time hasn’t arrived, causing them to continue growing leaves and main stems instead.

On Saturday, Tong Zhanyan slept in to recover from fatigue, then headed over early in the afternoon.

He brought along the three orange seeds.

After several days of soaking, their skins had softened considerably. Tong Zhanyan used tweezers to peel them off in just a few quick motions.

Finally, Tong Zhanyan took out a piece of cloth and a disposable cup. He wrapped the seeds in the cloth and placed them inside, then added a little water to keep them moist and encourage germination.

After preparing the seeds, the next task was repotting the strawberries, eggplants, and cucumbers.

The decomposed soil from before was nearly depleted, and the new soil hadn’t arrived yet, so Tong Zhanyan used the soil he’d purchased later.

He burned some more plant ash and didn’t forget the eggshell powder.

The flower pots were all planted with tomatoes. This time, Tong Zhanyan used trash cans, which already had holes drilled in them.

After repotting, Tong Zhanyan soaked all the plants, including the tomatoes, in water.

He returned the tomatoes to their original spots and installed another light under the left shelf for the new plants.

Finished, Tong Zhanyan washed his hands and crouched down before the tomato seedlings.

Live Stream Room.

A week after the cherry radishes and bok choy were pulled up early, viewers saw Tong Zhanyan again. The chat was still filled with discontented comments.

But they could tell he wasn’t going to engage with them.

This only fueled more anger in some, who continued ranting, while others simply gave up.

Ultimately, anyone could see Tong Zhanyan’s circumstances—he clearly wasn’t flush with cash. Besides, those cherry radishes and bok choy were already ready for harvest; at worst, it was just a slightly early pick.

As long as Tong Zhanyan took good care of those little tomatoes, as long as he didn’t treat them like that, it wasn’t unforgivable.

Tong Zhanyan seemed to understand this. After finishing his work, he crouched down before the tomato plants, gazing at them with an expression of tender affection.

Tong Zhanyan had enabled anti-recording mode, blurring his face into a hazy mist, but that didn’t stop everyone from seeing his thoughts.

“Honestly, the streamer must be the saddest one. He personally nurtured those cherry radishes and bok choy from seeds, bit by bit. They were like his own children. How could he not feel attached?”

“I feel the same way.”

“When I first followed him, those cherry radishes were barely thumb-high, and several were all twisted and crooked. They struggled so hard to grow into what they were recently. Unless it was absolutely unavoidable, how could he just pull them out like that?”

“Honestly, I’ve wanted to say this for a while—the streamer looks like he’s from the outer city.”

“Sigh…”

“Are you from the outskirts, streamer? Life there is tough. You’re often away—working, I assume?”

“Did you start working young?”

“That’s how it is out there. Many struggle just to survive, let alone anything else…”

“I used to grow things myself. There are things only those who’ve done it truly understand. To have them grown to that stage only to be uprooted early—it’s like stabbing yourself in the heart.”

As the stream filled with increasingly emotional comments, the crowd that had been cursing and ranting gradually fell silent.

Their gazes turned to the figure crouched on the ground in the livestream, their emotions suddenly tangled.

Clearly, only a teenager, yet standing over six feet tall. But his frame was thin, almost skeletal. They couldn’t see his face, yet even so, they’d seen the exhaustion in him more times than they could count…

Life must be tough, huh?

To endure such hardship at this age… it wasn’t hard to guess what his home life was like. Frenzy didn’t care whether you were from the Inner City or the Outer City.

Perhaps farming wasn’t just about making a little money for him. It was more than that—it was hope. Hope to keep his loved ones together.

Such tragedies were far too common in the outer city.

So common that many eyes welled up in that moment.

They shouldn’t have been so harsh on Tong Zhanyan. He had done well. He was remarkable.

He—

He pinched off the flower bud from the small tomato plant before him.

Then he removed every branch except the lowest one.

Finally, he circled his hand around the main stem and stripped down, wiping away four leaves in one swift motion.

Everyone held their breath, feeling a sudden darkness before their eyes.

The next moment, they snapped back to reality and looked again.

They must have been too overwhelmed with grief, so much so that hallucinations had taken hold.

Those tomatoes were thriving so beautifully—how could anyone deliberately pinch off their leaves and buds?

The moment they saw clearly, that suffocating sensation struck again.

They hadn’t misseen it, nor was it an illusion. That very same person that had filled them with heartache just moments ago was indeed wreaking havoc on those tomato seedlings.

His movements were astonishingly swift. Seizing one plant, he swiftly stripped off a large patch of leaves with two sharp snips, then swiftly grabbed another plant and repeated the action.

In mere moments, the tomatoes around him were stripped bare, their stems standing stark and naked.

What made their despair even deeper was that he had pinched off nearly every single flower bud.

Those were the very first flowers the tomatoes had ever produced!

They had struggled so hard to bloom.

Watching those hands reach for the next tomato plant, seeing the plants tremble with each of his movements, the group felt darkness wash over them again and again in that instant.

They could even hear the screams.

The screams of those tomato seedlings.

You idiot.

Damn kid!

Does Tong Zhanyan even know what he’s doing?

Those are tomatoes! Tomatoes that took so much effort to grow to this stage! Is Tong Zhanyan just going to destroy them like this?

“Aaaaaaah!”

“Help!”

“Someone, please stop him!”

“Good heavens, has he lost his mind?”

“Should we call Green Shade?”

“Green Shade wouldn’t know where he is anyway.”

“Stop it, please! This is tearing my heart out. My little tomatoes…”

“Has he gone completely mad? Someone stop him!”

 ━━ 🐈‍⬛ ━━

Watching the screen fill with screams, Gu Yunyang and Yang Hong behind the monitor couldn’t help but lose their minds too. They were going crazy, truly going mad.

They’d already lost it once when Tong Zhanyan dismembered those five tomato plants. This second bout of madness didn’t become any easier to bear with experience; if anything, it felt even more intense.

Because this batch of little tomatoes was clearly far superior to the previous five. At least the last ones showed signs of malnutrition, but this batch was visibly thriving, with a future that seemed limitless.

Yet even so, after putting in so much effort, they still couldn’t escape Tong Zhanyan’s clutches.

Tong Zhanyan was going to kill them.