“Gardening has always demanded immense energy and patience. I never truly grasped how exhausting it was until I started growing things myself…” Yan Zhenwen crouched, gazing at the young bok choy seedlings beside him. His eyes brimmed with tenderness and the satisfaction born of hard work. “You must thrive. As long as you grow strong, everything I’ve done will be worth it—”

As Yan Zhenwen’s voice began to break with emotion, he caught sight of the production team waving at him from behind the camera.

His expression remained composed, but inwardly he felt a pang of irritation. Why did they have to interrupt at this moment?

“My apologies for the spectacle,” Yan Zhenwen said, wiping his eyes with a natural gesture. “I’ll just go wash my face.”

With that, he walked off-camera.

Once out of view, Yan Zhenwen’s emotional expression vanished instantly, replaced by a deep frown. “What is it?”

Couldn’t they see he was in the middle of something?

“Look at this!” The person ignored Yan Zhenwen’s irritation and quickly sent over their terminal screen.

Yan Zhenwen opened it.

The moment he saw it clearly, his brow furrowed again.

The link led to a livestream—Senior Da Liu’s planting channel.

Him again?

Unlike the previous cold reception, this time the stream was exploding with activity. The barrage of comments was so thick he couldn’t even see the footage behind them.

“What’s—” Yan Zhenwen was about to demand a direct answer when his peripheral vision caught phrases like “crazy,” “sick,” and “insane” among the comments.

He raised an eyebrow, shutting off the comments to watch.

As he grasped what was unfolding in the livestream, Yan Zhenwen’s frown deepened, and his lips tightened.

His displeasure wasn’t directed at the tomatoes, but at Tong Zhanyan’s ruthless tactics.

Did Tong Zhanyan really think this would make him famous?

He was being far too naive.

If it were that easy, Yan Zhenwen would have used this method long ago.

Glancing at the rapidly declining follower count, Yan Zhenwen closed the page. “Boring.”

Yan Zhenwen turned to head back to his own livestream.

But the group beside him looked hesitant, as if they had something to say.

“Speak,” Yan Zhenwen said.

“The viewers are all running off to watch the commotion…”

Yan Zhenwen’s footsteps halted.

He immediately opened his own livestream. Sure enough, the number of viewers in his stream was also rapidly declining.

In the training Room.

If the first flower bud on a tomato plant isn’t pinched off promptly, most of its nutrients will be diverted to it, compromising the development of subsequent buds.

The leaves below the first flower bud are already mature leaves from the seedling stage. They only consume nutrients and, clustered at the plant’s base, hinder airflow, leading to root rot. These, too, must be removed.

Finally, pruning the branches. The new branches growing now will eventually flower and bear fruit. Theoretically, keeping more is better, but only if the nutrients can keep up.

Although he now had those orange peels, they could only prevent starvation—far from enough to let the plants thrive.

Therefore, for the five or six healthiest seedlings, he retained two of the thickest branches on each. The remaining seedlings were each left with only one branch.

This batch of seedlings was in better condition than the last. Tong Zhanyan planned to allow each to bear five to six clusters of fruit, and this number of branches was sufficient.

As for any extra flower buds that might appear later, he would simply pinch them off when they emerged.

After finishing, he stuffed all the cut leaves and branches into a nearby bucket of decomposing soil. Tong Zhanyan washed his hands, dusted himself off, and left.

As for the livestream, he didn’t need to watch to know what the situation would be like.

As for explanations, the fact that the livestream had erupted so fiercely already spoke volumes about how utterly baffling his approach seemed to them. In this situation, even if he explained, only a handful would believe him.

Rather than waste breath, he’d show results instead.

Tomatoes enter a rapid growth phase at this stage. Within a week at most, all flower buds would differentiate, and within two weeks, fruit would appear. Right or wrong, the truth would reveal itself soon enough.

The next day, Tong Zhanyan returned.

This time, his main purpose was to check if the wounds from the pruned branches and leaves had become infected.

The situation looked promising.

Monday arrived, and the homeroom teacher for Class 1 still hadn’t returned. Devil King was substituting.

At this news, the entire Class 1 looked as wilted and lifeless as eggplants hit by frost.

With them as a contrast, Tong Zhanyan’s group fared much better.

Without other branches and flower buds competing for nutrients, the remaining branches entered a phase of rapid growth. By the time Tong Zhanyan returned on Wednesday, the best-performing five or six branches were nearly as thick as the main stem.

Meanwhile, the original main stem also began sprouting flower buds. The most prolific had six or seven buds, while the least had four or five.

The newly emerged buds were still too small to pinch off, so Tong Zhanyan didn’t rush to do it.

By Saturday, when Tong Zhanyan went to water them, the five or six best tomatoes already had two or three flowers blooming. As for the retained side branches, they were essentially indistinguishable from the main stems now, some even sprouting flower buds themselves.

After watering, Tong Zhanyan promptly pinched off the flower buds again according to his original plan, leaving only five or six buds per plant.

After two rounds of pinching, the tomato plants’ main roots grew stronger and their leaves larger. Yet he couldn’t help but admit that compared to their lush seedling stage, they now looked top-heavy and scarred, undeniably unsightly.

After admiring them, Tong Zhanyan didn’t forget to mix a spoonful of eggshell powder into the soil of each tomato pot to prevent flower and fruit drop.

After tending to them, Tong Zhanyan took the opportunity to care for the other seedlings.

After nearly two weeks of stunted growth, the cherry radishes and bok choy reserved for seed production began developing flower stalks.

The cherry radishes grew faster; their flower stalks were already nearly 15 centimeters tall, though they still had some time before blooming.

Tong Zhanyan focused primarily on the two cucumber plants. Nearly two months after planting, they finally began producing vines, ready for trellising.

Sticks were hard to come by, so Tong Zhanyan opted for the simplest solution: he found a rope, hung it from the lamp bracket, and strung the vines along it.

Beyond these, after nearly two weeks of moist germination, the three tangerine seeds finally sprouted.

Unlike other crops, tangerines are perennial shrubs best grown in the ground.

If it were up to him, he wouldn’t have bought seeds at this time, but since he had them, he’d just have to take things step by step.

After finishing his tasks, Tong Zhanyan headed toward the playground, where he had arranged to train with Tian Xinqing and the others.

Passing through the small grove and exiting the dormitory area, Tong Zhanyan scanned the crowded playground. From afar, he spotted a line of over ten long-distance buses pulling in from the school gate.

He wasn’t the only one to notice. The once bustling playground gradually fell silent as all eyes turned to the scene.

The vehicles soon halted in front of the dormitory area.

Doors opened, and a group of people in uniforms identical to theirs stepped out.

“It’s the fourth-years.”

The crowd murmured.

Tong Zhanyan couldn’t help but crane his neck to look too.

Sidi Military Academy was vast.

Dozens of dormitory buildings, a running track on the playground spacious enough for thousands of students to sprint freely in their merged states, nearly a thousand massive training rooms—and these were only part of the academy.

In fact, the entire forested area visible beyond the training halls’ rear perimeter walls belonged to the academy. However, that region was reserved for second and third-year students undergoing practical combat training—rumored to even harbor mutant beasts.

As for the fourth-years, they spent most of their time off-campus, led by their instructors into real-world combat exercises that often lasted one or two months.

Nearly four months into the semester, this was the first time Tong Zhanyan had seen so many of them gathered.

Most bore visible wounds, looking as if they’d just stepped off the battlefield.

“They must have just returned from combat,” Su Yanran remarked, appearing out of nowhere.

“Is that the homeroom teacher of Class One?” Tian Xinqing asked from the car parked to the left of the male lead.

Tong Zhanyan immediately followed his gaze.

A figure was being helped down from a vehicle in the crowd. He was severely injured, struggling to walk.

“Why is he with these people?” Su Yanran instantly recalled the recent disappearance of the Devil King.

“I’ll go ask.” Tian Xinqing pushed his way forward, always fascinated by such matters.

The commotion didn’t last long. After everyone disembarked, they dispersed to their dormitories, leaving only a group of excited underclassmen on the field.

Especially the first-year freshmen—they weren’t yet qualified for combat training.

Half an hour later, as Tong Zhanyan and Su Yanran were jogging, Tian Xinqing returned.

“He came back from the Qing family’s base,” Tian Xinqing said, keeping pace with them.

“The Qing family?” Su Yanran was surprised.

Each of the Four Great Families guarded one of the four cardinal directions. Their posts weren’t just to prevent beasts from entering; they also protected the four weak points beneath the protective shields overhead. With some beasts possessing considerable intelligence, these areas were perpetual battlefields.

Although fourth-year students had combat experience, they generally didn’t venture this far to the front lines.

“Didn’t the Qing Family send out an exploration team recently? That left them short-handed, so they requested reinforcements,” Tian Xinqing explained. “The Devil King and Class 1’s homeroom teacher both went to assist the fourth-years. They’re taking turns guarding, each for a fortnight. Unfortunately, Class 1’s homeroom teacher got unlucky—their sector seems to have been attacked.”

“Is he okay?”

“Seems pretty badly injured.”

Due to the protective shield’s unique properties, battles involving the Four Great Families inevitably carried an aura of awe-inspiring gravity. Even someone like Tian Xinqing, who had no desire to walk that path, wouldn’t casually joke about it.

Tong Zhanyan couldn’t resist glancing back once more.

The area was already deserted.

The sudden appearance of the fourth-year students had kept the first-year freshmen bustling all afternoon.

That night, Tong Zhanyan even found himself asking Qing Jiyue—as the designated successor of the Qing Family, he might know something.

“Not entirely sure. The Qing Family’s jurisdiction is vast. I usually stay with my father in the main city,” Qing Jiyue replied.

Tong Zhanyan fell silent.

“But every year around November or December, many students do report to that area,” Qing Jiyue paused. “And then die there.”

As far back as he could remember, it had been like this every year.

As a child, the sight of those faces frozen in terror and despair always terrified him. Yet his father showed no fear whatsoever. He would even carefully excavate the mangled corpses from the ruins and personally deliver them to the morgue.

He never understood it as a child. Later, when he did understand, the fear faded.

Tong Zhanyan was momentarily at a loss for words.

Temperatures remained constant within the protective shield, yet outside, the seasons still cycled.

Snow fell in winter, and many beasts hibernated. Consequently, every year during October and November before winter set in, and again in February and March as spring began, these beasts would erupt into violent unrest driven by the need to forage and reproduce.

And October and November each year coincided precisely with the time their school’s graduating students reported to the front lines.

The outcome for inexperienced students encountering the most savage beast waves was all too obvious.

Had he stayed at Sidi Military Academy, he would still have faced three years of military service after graduation.

With his abilities, he wouldn’t even pass the final assessments, let alone combat.

But now wasn’t the time to dwell on such distant concerns.

Tong Zhanyan took a deep breath, gathered his thoughts, and returned to his cultivation research.

 ━━ 🐈‍⬛ ━━

Monday still saw the Devil King substituting for class.

Although Yuan Yuepeng had returned, he was clearly not in a state to teach. The entire class had gone from searching the world for their mother to eagerly hoping he would recover soon.

Perhaps surprised by his own popularity, Tong Zhanyan spotted Yuan Yuepeng from afar on Wednesday as he headed to the training room. Passing the faculty dormitory, he saw Yuan Yuepeng leaning on crutches, grinning so widely his mouth stretched almost to his ears.

Entering the training room, Tong Zhanyan’s own lips soon curved upward.

Days passed, and most of the tomato plants had blossomed.

The tiny snow-white blossoms dotted the space like stars, lending a touch of pleasant charm to his otherwise sparse training room.

Tong Zhanyan watered all the plants, then gently patted each tomato plant to encourage pollination. Finally, he carefully pinched off all the new flower buds that had sprouted later.

Judging by the timeline, the nutrients in the soil should be nearly depleted. Yet his orange peels still needed time to take effect, so now was definitely not the moment to let new buds sprout.

After finishing his tasks, Tong Zhanyan headed home early.

The following two nights, he returned again.

Last time, with fewer tomatoes, two pollinations sufficed. This time, with more plants, multiple pollinations were needed to ensure every flower was fertilized.

The pollinated tomato blossoms soon withered and fell naturally. When Tong Zhanyan returned on Saturday, the once-starry scene had been replaced by branches laden with dried flowers.

Beneath the withered blooms lay tiny, rice-grain-sized emeralds.

Seeing them, Tong Zhanyan couldn’t help but exhale a long breath.

He hadn’t started growing the previous batch of tomatoes from scratch, only taking over partway through. He couldn’t be sure if his methods would work, but now, his heart, which had been hanging in suspense, finally settled.

Next, he just had to wait for the greenhouse.

Then he could plant to his heart’s content.

As his thoughts raced, Tong Zhanyan found himself calculating the time needed for the orange peels to fully decompose.

They would take at least another week to mature.

Meanwhile, these tomatoes had already entered a stage demanding substantial nutrient supplementation.

A week’s gap—a bit late, but not too late.

There was still time.

After crouching beside the tomatoes for a while longer, Tong Zhanyan stood up and glanced behind him.

Four weeks after pulling the other cherry radish plants and bok choy, the remaining two cherry radish plants and the bok choy finally began to flower one after another.

The bok choy bloomed yellow, while the cherry radishes produced white-purple flowers.

Since subsequent nutrients couldn’t keep pace, the blooms relied almost entirely on depleting their own reserves. They weren’t large, and the older leaves at the base of the main stems began turning scorched yellow. Still, they had bloomed.

This time, Tong Zhanyan didn’t resort to the vigorous flapping he’d used on the tomatoes. Instead, he pulled out a small brush he’d prepared earlier. He tapped it twice in his palm to fluff the bristles, then carefully pollinated each flower one by one.

The structure of these two crops’ flowers differed from that of tomatoes; flapping couldn’t guarantee pollination. Their optimal pollination relied on wind and bees.

Wind was available, but he felt uneasy. After all, he had only one plant of each, and he couldn’t afford failure.

By the time he finished, it was already past eight o’clock.

Tong Zhanyan didn’t leave immediately. Instead, he used the remaining time to prune the two eggplants and cucumbers.

With poor seed viability and nutrient-depleted soil, the eggplants had only reached about thirty centimeters after two months. The cucumber vines stretched over fifty centimeters, but their sparse foliage made him doubt whether they could even flower.

Under these conditions, he dared not leave any side branches or old leaves. Tong Zhanyan stripped the eggplants down to their main stems, leaving only one main vine for the cucumber.

As for the strawberries, Tong Zhanyan left them untouched.

They now had seven or eight leaves each, but every leaf was so small and stunted that Tong Zhanyan couldn’t quite figure out what they were trying to do.

Logically, they should have started flowering by now, yet not a single bud was in sight.

By the time Tong Zhanyan finished, it was almost lights-out time, so he hurried back to the dormitory.

After washing up, just before bed, Tong Zhanyan remembered to soak the two bottles containing orange peels in hot water.

Nearly a month had passed. After extensive degassing, their color gradually shifted toward brown.

That was the sign of decomposition.

Just as Tong Zhanyan had anticipated, a few days later, the tomato fruits that should have rapidly enlarged at this stage stopped growing after reaching the size of mung beans, as if someone had pressed pause on them.

Tong Zhanyan grew anxious, even considering using the orange peel fertilizer solution prematurely. But he held back.

Fully decomposed liquid could burn roots, potentially backfiring.

He patiently waited another week until the orange peels had completely changed color and no gas escaped, even when the bottles were tightly sealed overnight. Only then did Tong Zhanyan hurry them to the training room.

A week had passed, yet the fruits that should have grown to thumb size were still no larger than soybeans.

The fertilizer solution made from orange peels was concentrated and required dilution at a ratio of 1:1000 to 1:1500 before use.

After dilution, it had two applications: one for soaking pots, allowing plants to absorb it through their roots, and another for spraying onto leaves, enabling absorption through foliage.

Tong Zhanyan began by soaking the pots.

Twenty tomato pots were no small number. A single soaking session consumed nearly half the bottle.

Tong Zhanyan felt the sting of the expense, but there was no alternative.

After soaking the pots, he mixed more into a small spray bottle to tackle both methods.

Soaking pots was easy, but spraying leaves proved difficult.

Typically, fertilizer application occurs before flowering. While it can be supplemented after blooming, it’s almost always done by soaking the pots without spraying the leaves, as water on flowers and fruit can cause rot. But now, he had no other choice.

The fertilizer had already arrived late; if he didn’t supplement enough now, the fruit would surely suffer.

After nearly two hours of finally spraying all the tomato plants, Tong Zhanyan took a short break. He then poured the remaining water from the spray bottle into the pots of cherry radishes and bok choy.

He poured every last drop of the leftover water from the previous soaking into the pots of eggplants, strawberries, and cucumbers.

By the time Tong Zhanyan finished his chores and headed back, lights-out had already passed.

As he climbed the stairs, he happened to meet Ning Langdong returning from work.

They exchanged a few brief words.

The next night, when Tong Zhanyan returned to the training room, the tomatoes he had paused earlier still showed no signs of life.

On the third day, he visited again.

They remained unchanged.

By the fourth day, just as Tong Zhanyan began to worry, they finally stirred, resuming their growth.

Tong Zhanyan breathed a huge sigh of relief.

At the same time, he glanced at the terminal in the corner for the first time in a month.

The greenhouse project could now be scheduled, and the move was imminent.

After relocating, he planned to abandon the hidden camera setup. Instead, he would stand before the camera like a true streamer.

Over five months had passed since the start of the semester, leaving just over three months until the final assessments. It was time to fight with his back against the wall.

Everything he had done up to this point had been for these crucial three months ahead.

Resolved, Tong Zhanyan still couldn’t help but take a deep breath before opening the livestream.

This past month, he’d been pinching off branches, pruning leaves, and removing flowers. He didn’t even need to look to know what kind of spectacle the livestream would be.

Opening the livestream was one of his preparations for the next three months, but he’d only intended it as a tool to document his daily planting—a kind of testimony, making it easier for him to find a school or be found by one later.

He hadn’t anticipated things turning out this way.

But none of that mattered anymore, because he had no way out.

Opening the livestream, Tong Zhanyan immediately spotted his little tomatoes, the camera circling them in a patrol.

On the screen, bullet comments dominated nearly half the display, drifting by in an orderly stream. Their content was harmonious, devoid of blame.

Tong Zhanyan exhaled slightly in relief before glancing at the livestream’s bottom panel.

Followers: 74,253

Comments: 32,541

Tong Zhanyan braced himself—even if his follower count dropped back into the three-digit range, he wouldn’t be surprised. Yet the moment he saw the numbers, he froze.

One, two, three… five digits?

Thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands…

Over seventy thousand?

Tong Zhanyan double-checked, even rubbing his eyes, but the numbers remained unchanged.

Realizing he hadn’t misread, Tong Zhanyan was momentarily at a loss for how to react.

The last time he checked, it was just over seven thousand. Sure, a month had passed, but seven thousand versus seventy thousand was a world apart. How could it have skyrocketed like this?

And wasn’t he supposed to be losing followers?

Filled with suspicion, Tong Zhanyan scrolled down.

The comment section was filled with long-standing posts, mostly in Q&A format, all about his flower-pinching and leaf-plucking.

Tong Zhanyan skimmed through a couple and quickly grasped the situation.

The anticipated follower loss and criticism weren’t absent—they had indeed occurred. And since his follower count had grown far beyond the original few hundred by the time this incident happened, the uproar was massive. It even drew tens of thousands of onlookers and condemnation.

His comments, which had also multiplied dozens of times over, were left during that period.

But unlike last time, when his small fanbase had quickly cooled off after venting, this time the uproar was so massive that newcomers kept hearing about it and flooding in, keeping the backlash going.

The result of this prolonged backlash was that as people kept ranting, their anger gradually faded. They soon realized something unexpected: the anticipated death hadn’t come. Instead, the tomato seedlings grew more vigorous by the day…

Especially during the flowering stage.

Gazing at the screen filled with white blossoms, even the fiercest critics’ anger faded, replaced by confusion and concern.

Generally, the more splendid the bloom, the higher the risk of blossom drop disease.

Tong Zhanyan’s tomato blossoms were exceptionally vibrant.

Instead of blossom drop, they were met with Tong Zhanyan’s flower-pinching and slaps.

The anger they’d barely managed to quell flared up again instantly. But before they could fully ignite, the tomatoes began showing signs of successful pollination—the flowers started withering and falling off.

They confirmed repeatedly: this was the natural shedding after successful pollination, not blossom rot.

The rage that had already surged to their throats choked in their throats.

Even if they weren’t the sharpest tools in the shed, they could see by now that Tong Zhanyan wasn’t deliberately harming the tomatoes. It might actually be a “cultivation technique.”

When this thought first surfaced, everyone found it laughable. They’d never heard of persecuting crops being good for the crops.

They refused to believe it, so they sought other explanations for the tomatoes’ remarkable growth.

But as they watched most of the blossoms fall away, revealing vast swaths of pea-sized, pebble-like fruits under the camera’s gaze, they fell silent.

Believe it or not, those tomatoes truly thrived.

Just as no matter how much they cursed, Tong Zhanyan remained unfazed, continuing his own course as always.

Silence.

Growing silence.

As the fruits swelled to the size of soybeans, the scolding ceased entirely, replaced by bewilderment, confusion, and curiosity.

Yes, curiosity.

Watching the fruits grow larger and larger, they found themselves increasingly unable to control their curiosity. They wondered what kind of sight these fruits would ultimately become?

The reason they rushed over to confront Tong Zhanyan after hearing about his “abuse” of the crops was, at its core, because they cared about those plants.

Perhaps it was out of affection, perhaps out of frenzy, but without exception, they all cared.

How could a group of people who cared about plants not care when they saw a group of plants thriving right before their eyes?

Tong Zhanyan’s follower count also skyrocketed around that time. They were determined to see what Tong Zhanyan was all about.

Once he figured out what was going on, Tong Zhanyan had only one thought: he was probably doomed to walk the path of black and red.

Tong Zhanyan shook his head helplessly, then felt a sense of resignation wash over him.

Just as he’d anticipated, facts were the best explanation.

No amount of words or explanations could outweigh these undeniable truths staring him in the face.

Taking a deep breath, Tong Zhanyan ended the livestream, grabbed his terminal, and headed resolutely for the door. He planned to use the weekend to inquire about the greenhouse project early.

He’d already researched some information beforehand.

Many in this world attempted cultivation, but due to the high cost of seeds, most started with potted plants. However, there were also corporations and those with deep pockets, and this group tended to go straight for greenhouses.

Compared to potted plants, greenhouses offered clear advantages.

Yet cultivation proved far from simple. Many struggled for years, losing money before gradually giving up.

Tong Zhanyan’s target was precisely such a secondhand greenhouse.

Greenhouses in this world were far more than mere glass structures. Due to infection rates, everything inside required disinfection and purification.

Those willing to invest heavily often equip them with complete groundwater circulation systems and facilities simulating ancient climates and temperatures.

Brand-new ones cost several million yuan, but secondhand ones are much cheaper, typically rentable for a few hundred thousand.

Tong Zhanyan’s optimal strategy was to rent. After all, the future was uncertain, and the money from his cherry tomatoes might not even cover a brand-new one.

When Tong Zhanyan arrived, the shop was bustling with activity, looking like they’d just received a new shipment.

Tong Zhanyan stated his purpose directly.

“Greenhouses?” Fang Yiguang was surprised.

Their shop specialized in crop-related goods, and having worked there for years, he’d certainly seen people grow viable crops.

As for greenhouses, most folks like Tong Zhanyan would inevitably gravitate toward them—almost as if it were some life goal for their kind. He’d long since grown accustomed to it.

What surprised him was that Tong Zhanyan had set his sights on a greenhouse so quickly.

“Greenhouses aren’t cheap,” Fang Yiguang couldn’t help but remark.

“Mhm.” Tong Zhanyan merely smiled, offering no explanation.

Fang Yiguang didn’t feel comfortable saying more. He paused his work, grabbed his terminal, and headed out. “Wait here for me.”

Moments later, he returned.

“Our boss is on his way back.”

Tong Zhanyan nodded and found a place to sit.

Half an hour later, Boss Bai entered through the back door.

Spotting Tong Zhanyan, he led the way into the meeting room.

“He said you want to set up a greenhouse?”

“I’d like to rent one,” Tong Zhanyan emphasized the rental aspect.

Boss Bai placed a glass of water in front of Tong Zhanyan. “What are your requirements?”

“Close to Sidi Military Academy, around 100-200 square meters. Must have a groundwater system and temperature control. Preferably with adjustable lighting too.”

“Adjustable lighting?” Mr. Bai was taken aback.

Greenhouses with groundwater and temperature control were common—most had those. But adjustable lighting? He’d rarely heard of it.

Could Tong Zhanyan’s exceptional cherry radish crops be due to lighting?

The thought lingered, but he didn’t press. Truthfully, most who survived in this business had their own tricks up their sleeves.

Old Jin had his, and so did he.

Nothing unusual about that.

“Right.”

Mr. Bai pondered for a moment. “There are a few greenhouses nearby up for lease or sale, but the closest one is still over ten minutes away.”

“Over ten minutes?” Tong Zhanyan had braced himself for this, yet his brow still furrowed involuntarily.

Ten minutes each way meant half an hour round trip, and their lunch break was only two hours total.

“This area is all commercial and residential zones. There’s nowhere to build a greenhouse.”

Tong Zhanyan considered this and said nothing more.

Inner-city land was worth its weight in gold.

“Shall we go now?”

“Let’s go.” Tong Zhanyan stood up.

Those tomato clusters would be ready for picking next week, with the harvesting process likely taking about half a month.

He needed to secure the greenhouse in advance. Otherwise, after moving, he’d have less than three months left.

Several greenhouses were in the same location, all relatively close to each other. They were situated on the outskirts of the city, near the wooded area bordering Sidi Military Academy.

The first greenhouse wasn’t large, only about a hundred square meters total. It looked like it had changed hands many times. Though it had groundwater access and temperature control, the equipment was relatively outdated, and the soil infection rate seemed quite high.

The second greenhouse was much larger, over three hundred square meters, approaching four hundred. It was divided into four rooms and included a lounge, which was lavishly decorated—clearly a big investment.

The price was also quite attractive.

The third greenhouse, around 300 square meters, had also changed hands several times. The equipment showed significant wear, but the soil seemed reasonably well-preserved.

The fourth greenhouse was the one Tong Zhanyan favored most. It was about 200 square meters and relatively newer, likely having changed hands only a second or third time.

What pleased Tong Zhanyan most was that, while it lacked adjustable lighting, the ceiling was densely packed with light fixtures. Evidently, the previous owner had put considerable thought into sunlight management.

It’s no secret that in ancient times, they had no protective shields overhead.

But knowing that wouldn’t help them now—they couldn’t return to the past anyway.

Direct sunlight today could kill you.

The fifth unit was likely under 100 square meters.

Smaller spaces were cheaper, hence more tenants, but the equipment was outdated, and the interior looked cluttered.

There were more options beyond these five, but they required traveling farther. Tong Zhanyan quickly calculated and decided against them.

On the way back, Tong Zhanyan kept mulling it over.

Overall, he leaned toward the fourth one, but its rent was truly steep—a six-month minimum lease at three million yuan.

Three million for six months averaged out to half a million per month.

For a 200-square-meter plot, paying 500,000 yuan monthly—even during the peak of prosperity in his previous world, it hadn’t been this expensive.

More importantly, his tomatoes probably only weighed around 20 jin total. Even if every single one was in perfect condition, they’d only fetch about three million yuan.

He had the money, but should he invest it all like this?

What if it all went to fertilizer?

He’d solved the fertilizer crisis for those tomatoes, but he still had no fertilizer on hand. All he had was a bit of wood ash and decomposed soil.

With the greenhouse, he planned to grow specialty crops on a large scale. Without fertilizer, what would he plant?

Or should he rent a smaller space first?

This couldn’t be rushed. Mr. Bai didn’t press further, knowing Tong Zhanyan would return to school afterward. He simply dropped him off at the campus gate before leaving.

Upon entering the school, Tong Zhanyan didn’t head back to his dorm. Instead, he went straight to the training room.

He reconnected to his livestream and crouched before the tomato plants.

After growth resumed, the tiny tomatoes visibly plumped up within a single day. Seeing them clustered in bunches brought particular delight.

Tong Zhanyan stroked them gently. Grow faster, he urged. Grow bigger—ideally, reach twenty-five pounds.

Only then could he take their seeds to a better place. Only then could he find ways to secure more fertilizer. Only then could he ensure they’d never have to endure hunger again.

As if hearing Tong Zhanyan’s thoughts, the tomatoes swayed gently in the breeze, nodding their heads.

Tong Zhanyan’s expression softened as he reached out to pat them.

Good girls.

 ━━ 🐈‍⬛ ━━

Hi, translator here. Since chapters from 20 onwards go from 2500 words to over 6000 (ranging from 3000 to 10000 characters in RAW), we need to alert you that if the chapter is more than 5000 words long, we’ll only be publishing a chapter per week. This announcement is only applicable for this story, no worries, for the others, even if they go beyond 7000 words, I think their translators are still uploading two chapters per week. Thanks for the understanding.