Thanks to KoshkaHP for the Kofis. Enjoy the bonus chapters!

━━ 🐈‍⬛ ━━

“Someone left the group.”

Someone in the group said.

Yang Hong looked over. It was someone named Changge, one of the original members from the beginning, and also one of the group admins.

As soon as Yang Hong saw the message and was about to respond, several replies suddenly erupted in the previously quiet group.

“Never seen anyone like this before. There are still so many fruits left…”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He must be sick!”

“He’s got me so mad my heart hurts.”

“I think he’s just mentally unstable…”

The flames from the livestream finally reached this side. In less than two minutes, the group notifications hit 99+.

As the complaints began turning into personal attacks, Yang Hong sighed, about to explain, when someone beat him to it.

“Those last fruits were actually tough to grow. Maybe he wanted to pull them up and plant the next batch quickly? If the next batch turns out as well as these, I think it’s actually okay.” The speaker was Changge.

Yang Hong shared this view and was about to agree, but before he could speak, the group exploded.

“So, because he wanted to plant the next batch faster, it’s okay to waste those fruits? Don’t be ridiculous! Do you have any idea how many people can’t buy them even if they want to? How many people rely on those vegetables and fruits to survive?”

“Even if they weren’t growing well, so what? They’re still edible and could save lives.”

“I think you’ve got a screw loose!”

“You’re not one of his hired shills, are you?”

“My family of three works dawn to dusk just to afford veggies for my dad. Even then, we often can’t get them. And he just says ‘no’? What kind of person is he?”

“Even if he’s rushing to plant the next batch, why pull this one out? Doesn’t he already have greenhouses? There must be soil in there…”

“Don’t forget, those greenhouses were built with the profits from those tomatoes.”

 ━━ 🐈‍⬛ ━━

Seeing everyone growing increasingly agitated, Yang Hong quickly interjected, “Hold on, let’s take a look first. You’ve seen the yield from this batch of tomatoes. If he could consistently produce this much every time, it would benefit everyone.”

“The group leader’s siding with him, too?”

“Got it. You’re all in cahoots, right?”

“We’re not in cahoots.” Yang Hong tried to explain.

“Brainless fanboy?”

“He just got lucky with this batch having higher yields, and now he’s getting all big-headed?”

“Why don’t you go get your brain checked along with your master?”

Seeing the words “brain-dead fan,” Yang Hong’s lips, which had been curled into a bitter smile, twitched uncontrollably.

Him, a brain-dead fan?

If he were Tong Zhanyan’s brain-dead fan, he’d eat his keyboard.

Back in the day, he’d stomped his feet, cursing Tong Zhanyan—probably even more fiercely than these people. A brainless fan?

“Actually, he grew a batch of tomatoes before…” The fish-loving kitten briefly recounted the earlier incident, trying to explain. “…I think he might actually have some real skill.”

“So what if he did?”

“Is that his excuse for wasting resources?”

“Great, so this isn’t even his first time…”

The anticipated calm didn’t come. Instead, an even fiercer wave of anger crashed in.

Unlike when facing Tong Zhanyan, Yang Hong and his group were right there in the group chat. The pent-up fury that had nowhere to vent because Tong Zhanyan ignored them instantly found an outlet, surging toward Yang Hong and his crew.

In an instant, the group chat erupted with curses and insults.

Changge and the others tried to explain, but by the time they uttered a sentence, dozens more had already flooded the chat.

Seeing the situation spiraling completely out of control, Yang Hong decisively opened the group settings and silenced everyone.

The group chat, which had been constantly popping with new messages, fell instantly silent.

The torrent of flames was abruptly cut off. After a brief silence, exit notifications flooded in like a tidal wave.

Thanks to the traffic from Tong Zhanyan’s livestream, this group had already surpassed five hundred members in just a few days. Now, exit notifications jumped by the dozens. Within moments, the group dwindled to just over three hundred members.

Yang Hong gave a wry smile.

With Tong Zhanyan ignoring them in the livestream and Yang Hong silencing the group, the fuming crowd had nowhere to vent. Some flooded back to Tong Zhanyan’s livestream comment section, while more swarmed their personal GreenShade profiles.

Trash streamer—they weren’t done with him.

Suddenly, countless unsuspecting viewers were bombarded with the same wave of condemnation, leaving them utterly bewildered.

Senior Da Liu won’t just disappear?

Who?

In the livestream, Tong Zhanyan chopped all the tomato seedlings into pieces before dumping them into a bucket that had once held soil, preparing to let them decompose.

Finally, he began preparing to move.

Tools were packed away, used soil returned to empty buckets, stands dismantled, and lights boxed up. Empty flower pots and industrial crates were stacked—anything that fit into boxes was packed in…

Tong Zhanyan left the eggplant, strawberry, and cucumber plants untouched for now, but deliberately set aside several boxes nearby to pack them during tomorrow’s move.

Carrying them out like that would be too conspicuous.

He tucked the two packets of seeds into his pocket to take back to the dorm.

With so many moving items, mixing them up could easily lead to loss.

He also brought back several tomato plants he’d saved for seeds, intending to tend to them once back at the dorm.

Tong Zhanyan packed the camera last, along with the charging dock.

When Tong Zhanyan finally looked up after finishing, the entire training room was in utter disarray.

It had been like this when he first moved in—and that was only three months ago.

Tong Zhanyan took a deep breath and walked toward the corner where the terminal sat.

After moving, he planned to stop merely filming for the sake of it and instead run his channel like a true streamer. This meant reorganizing his livestream space—

The camera had already been disconnected, leaving the livestream homepage screen pitch black.

Tong Zhanyan glanced at the stats.

Followers: 141,366

Comments: 42,878

Tong Zhanyan had anticipated growth, but he was still surprised to see nearly 40,000 new followers in just half a month.

These viewers genuinely loved watching harvest streams.

Tong Zhanyan opened the backend.

His eyes lit up the moment he saw the figures.

He had already earned nearly 3,000 yuan.

Over two thousand came from Green Shade’s “salary” payments, while the remaining three hundred-plus were viewer tips.

The tips were mostly small amounts, but the sheer number of tipsters made the long list of names look quite lively.

The tips were mostly concentrated during the days of the harvest.

Tong Zhanyan glanced at his follower count again. Sure enough, the numbers were exceptionally high during those harvest days.

Tong Zhanyan returned to the homepage, planning to head back to his dorm and continue pondering later.

Just as he moved, his peripheral vision caught the follower count changing—140,953.

Hadn’t it just been in the 141,000s?

Tong Zhanyan instinctively swiped toward the comments section.

Seeing the frenzy there, he felt nothing but resignation.

Again?

These people’s energy was… boundless.

Stepping outside, Tong Zhanyan walked back while skimming through the more popular comments.

It seemed someone had dug up the story about his last batch of tomatoes, making this round of criticism even more targeted.

Even if the next batch turned out well, that wouldn’t justify abandoning those fruits. That would be a waste of nature’s bounty—he deserved divine retribution.

Besides, whether he could grow them successfully was still uncertain.

For a moment, he genuinely didn’t know how to respond to Tong Zhanyan.

To them, it might indeed seem wasteful, but to him, it was a virtuous cycle. Besides, he truly didn’t have much time left.

Sighing, Tong Zhanyan let go of the dilemma. He reposted an announcement about moving and resuming livestreaming tomorrow at exactly 10 AM, then switched tabs to research terminals.

He’d already decided to buy a secondhand terminal.

The greenhouse was too far from school, and without a terminal, it would be incredibly inconvenient. Plus, this was his first time using a greenhouse, so he couldn’t be certain everything was under control. He needed to pay extra attention.

He still had over 500,000 yuan in his pocket, but money had to be spent wisely. Only after getting through this immediate hurdle could he think about anything else.

New terminals were too expensive, but the secondhand market was quite large.

Tong Zhanyan knew little about this himself. After going upstairs, he headed straight to the room across the hall, where Tian Xinqing and Su Yanran were staying, hoping to get some advice.

Su Yanran also knew little about it, but Tian Xinqing immediately opened up, rattling off all the different models and features with impressive detail.

In the end, Tong Zhanyan only bought an outdated model.

Tian Xinqing knew Tong Zhanyan’s situation and said nothing.

After shopping and chatting for a while longer, Tong Zhanyan returned to his room.

It was almost lights-out time. Qing Jiyue looked ready to sleep.

Closing the door, Tong Zhanyan approached with his big tail swishing back and forth. “Xiao Qingqing…”

Qing Jiyue was making the bed.

“Xiao Yueyue…”

“Just say what you need,” Qing Jiyue replied, sitting down. He’d long since grown accustomed to Tong Zhanyan’s habit of calling him “Xiao Qingqing” or “XiaoYueyue” for no particular reason.

“I’m moving tomorrow morning. Are you free?” Tong Zhanyan’s eyes brimmed with anticipation.

There were too many things, including heavy items. Just him and Tian Xinqing didn’t know how long the move would take. Even with his thick skin, he had to ask for help.

“Sure.” Qing Jiyue looked at him with mixed feelings.

He’d been watching Tong Zhanyan’s livestreams, especially the recent harvesting segments.

He’d visited the Planting Alliance more than once, witnessing their “harvests” firsthand. But to his untrained eye, those so-called bounties looked no different from Tong Zhanyan’s tomatoes.

Tong Zhanyan was just an ordinary person, while the Planting Alliance gathered countless industry leaders and professionals armed with fifty years of research data.

By all logic, comparing the two should be an insult to the Planting Alliance. Yet Tong Zhanyan had grown crops on par with theirs. Was the Planting Alliance failing?

Having consistently failed to deliver results, the Planting Alliance did indeed bear a lot of criticism. But even so, they were undeniably the best growers among everyone.

“Don’t dwell on it,” Qing Jiyue advised.

Tong Zhanyan, who had been beaming with joy over Qing Jiyue’s offer to help, froze in confusion. “What?”

“The livestream.”

Tong Zhanyan paused, then couldn’t help but laugh. “Thanks.”

He hadn’t expected Qing Jiyue to offer comfort proactively.

But that “Don’t worry about it” made him think of someone—that “Charge Ahead” who had tipped him ten thousand before.

He hadn’t seen that person since.

Maybe the tip list was too long, and he missed them?

After washing up and lying in bed, Tong Zhanyan opened the livestream again. This time, he scanned the entire tip list from top to bottom.

Indeed, no further donations had come from that person since that day.

Tong Zhanyan felt a pang of disappointment—not over the money, but over the support that person had offered. Without them, he might not have made it this far.

Gritting his teeth, Tong Zhanyan scrolled through the comment section.

No sign of the person there either.

Hope they weren’t scared off…

Tong Zhanyan clicked into the person’s profile page. Their last online time was just half an hour ago.

The person didn’t have the habit of leaving comments in livestreams, and it seemed like Tong Zhanyan’s was the only livestream they ever tipped. That’s why his livestream was still pinned on their profile page.

Tong Zhanyan set down his terminal and closed his eyes, but his mind started mulling over the idea of a giveaway.

Many streamers held giveaways during harvest time to distribute crops. Maybe he could try that too?

He’d been desperately short on cash before, but his situation had eased considerably now. Plus, giving away crops didn’t cost him anything.

He could send some crops to the viewer then, assuming they were still around.

Lost in these calculations, Tong Zhanyan soon drifted off to sleep.

 ━━ 🐈‍⬛ ━━

The next day, Saturday.

After breakfast, Tong Zhanyan led Qing Jiyue and Tian Xinqing in a grand procession toward the training room.

Upon arrival, Tong Zhanyan packed up the potted crops, while Tian Xinqing and Su Yanran went nearby to find a vehicle.

Moments later, the vehicle returned.

Qing Jiyue took charge, loading the plants into the truck according to Tong Zhanyan’s instructions.

The truck was too small, and the seedlings couldn’t be crushed, so it took four trips to finally transport everything.

Upon reaching the school gate, Qing Jiyue and the others unloaded the truck and stayed behind while Tong Zhanyan arranged for another vehicle.

For convenient deliveries, Mr. Bai’s shop had a small truck. Tong Zhanyan had already arranged to borrow it beforehand.

Tong Zhanyan had a driver’s license, but it was useless in this world. Thus, Mr. Bai sponsored a driver.

With Qing Jiyue present, loading and unloading were a matter of minutes.

After watching the truck depart, Qing Jiyue helped carry the items into the greenhouse.

As the last box touched down, Tong Zhanyan exhaled. This household was finally moved in, and simultaneously, his third phase officially began.

Knowing he’d be busy, the three lingered a while longer before leaving.

After seeing them off, Tong Zhanyan stepped back into the greenhouse. He took a deep breath before rolling up his sleeves and getting to work.

His first task was to bring out the eggplants, cucumbers, strawberries, and those three orange saplings for a thorough inspection.

He’d been careful during transport—the saplings showed no signs of damage, and the fruits remained intact.

Tong Zhanyan breathed a sigh of relief and moved them to rest beside the tool shed on the right as you entered.

The perforated flower pots weren’t needed yet. Tong Zhanyan placed them by the door, intending to move them to the small shed later.

He planned to do the same with the iron rods used for the previous trellis.

Tong Zhanyan kept the undrilled pots; the water still needed to be aerated.

Due to the infection rate, untreated soil was lethal to crops. Thus, the greenhouses here differed slightly from those in Tong Zhanyan’s previous world—they had solid bottoms.

This made them more akin to oversized flower pots than traditional greenhouses, requiring continued caution.

Tong Zhanyan didn’t dump the soil directly but moved it to a corner near the tool shed, planning to decide what to do with it after turning all the soil over.

He stored the tools in the tool shed.

With preparations complete, Tong Zhanyan glanced at the time: 9:50.

His heart skipped a beat.

He retrieved the camera and activated it.

Technology in this world was far more advanced than in his original one. The camera wasn’t merely a floating tracking lens—it also functioned as a terminal.

He didn’t know where the original owner had obtained this device. Its intelligence was limited, but it could still project a light screen, allowing him to monitor the livestream room in real time.

This was the first time Tong Zhanyan had formally used this feature.

The moment the light screen appeared, he saw a miniature version of himself appear above the camera.

Standing over 1.8 meters tall, his figure showed no obvious signs of illness but still revealed malnutrition. His appearance was certainly not good.

The only consolation was that this body’s face was identical to his original one. And the original him had been under the watchful eye of teachers and classmates since childhood.

Tong Zhanyan connected to the terminal but didn’t start broadcasting immediately.

He felt a bit nervous.

Though this wasn’t his first time standing before a camera or being seen by a live audience, it was his first time showing his face.

Moreover, this time, he was going live as a streamer.

He’d watched livestreams before, but watching others stream was entirely different from doing it himself.

More importantly, going on camera meant he’d completely severed his path to passing the exams.

He had no way out.

Tong Zhanyan ran his fingers through his hair, then glanced down at the casual clothes he’d deliberately changed into that morning—free of any school insignia. Taking a deep breath, he hit go live.

Yang Hong and the others had been waiting in front of the livestream room since early on.

The fruit had already been harvested, and the tomato seedlings had been cut down. There wasn’t much to see in Tong Zhanyan’s livestream room at this stage, but they all keenly picked up on one thing.

Tong Zhanyan had posted announcements before, but aside from the harvest, which had a specific time, the others were mostly just brief mentions of what he planned to do.

This final announcement, however, explicitly stated “10 PM” for the broadcast.

Those familiar with Tong Zhanyan sensed something was about to happen. By 9:50 PM, they were already glued to the livestream.

At exactly 10 PM, the livestream began.

A glass wall, an empty plot of land, and a figure standing before the camera.

The moment they recognized the face, everyone froze. The next instant, they all leaned forward instinctively, straining to see more clearly.

The face in the livestream wasn’t obscured by a blur; it was revealed directly.

The person was far more handsome than they had anticipated.

It was a quiet, reserved presence—not flashy at all. Just meeting their gaze felt like it could calm a restless heart.

Though malnutrition made them look somewhat haggard, that aura remained undiminished.

Did Tong Zhanyan forget to turn on anti-recording?

Regardless of why Tong Zhanyan activated anti-recording, he surely had his reasons—especially given his current tarnished reputation.

Just as the group was about to warn him, a calm, measured voice echoed: “Hello everyone, I’m Senior Da Liu, host of the Planting Studio. Senior Da Liu will never quit.”

Hearing that voice, everyone froze mid-motion before instantly realizing—he hadn’t forgotten to turn on the camera; he’d deliberately turned it off.

He was preparing to…

Hearts began racing uncontrollably.

He’d never acknowledged them before, let alone spoken directly to them.

Sure enough, his voice soon echoed again: “Starting today, I’ll be cultivating here.”

Uncontrollable smiles curved the corners of everyone’s mouths.

Though he hadn’t said much, this change alone was enough to fill them with delight.

If only they’d done this sooner.

“Today…” Tong Zhanyan glanced around, then pointed toward the tool shed nearby. “We’ll loosen the soil.”

The others followed his gaze.

Most greenhouses looked remarkably similar; they’d long since grown accustomed to the sight.

Everyone waited patiently.

Opening the door, Tong Zhanyan retrieved a hoe from inside. He walked to the farthest corner on the right side of the greenhouse, raised the hoe, and began digging.

The others continued to wait.

This greenhouse hadn’t been cultivated for quite some time. The soil had become hard and compacted, coming out in clumps.

Tong Zhanyan tapped the clods with the hoe. They broke apart easily enough, but only from large clumps into smaller ones.

Tong Zhanyan crouched down, picked up a clump, and squeezed it. It felt like squeezing a stone.

Even for ground planting, the ideal growing medium remains loose, soft, nutrient-rich humus. But this soil? Forget about nutrients or aeration—it was doubtful any plant roots could even penetrate it.

Everyone waited.

Tong Zhanyan stood up, grabbed the hoe, and began digging furiously at a spot.

Twenty centimeters, forty centimeters… When he reached nearly fifty centimeters deep, he thrust the hoe forward with all his strength. It felt like striking solid iron—the force he applied was met with equal force rebounding back.

Feeling the numbing sensation, Tong Zhanyan’s expression darkened further, tinged with resignation.

Not even fifty centimeters deep. If anything could survive here, it would be nothing short of a miracle.

Taking a deep breath, Tong Zhanyan pushed aside his thoughts and focused intently on the task at hand.

“…Is that it?”

Finally, someone in the livestream couldn’t hold back.

As that comment flashed across the screen, the previously quiet livestream instantly erupted.

“???”

“Seriously, he calls this a livestream?”

“Does he have some kind of misunderstanding about livestreaming?”

“Did I sign up to watch him dig dirt?”

“He’s not going to spend the whole day digging in silence, is he?”

“Highly likely.”

Yang Hong nearly choked on his own spit.

The moment he saw Tong Zhanyan appear on camera, Yang Hong thought Tong Zhanyan had finally changed his ways. He’d been filled with anticipation, only for Tong Zhanyan to briefly state his name, declare he’d be digging today, and then start hammering away.

Tong Zhanyan was deliberately trying to get under his skin, right?

Ten minutes later.

On the screen, Tong Zhanyan had already dug a hole one and a half meters wide and waist-deep into the ground, showing no signs of stopping.

“Seriously, is he planning to bury himself in a hole?”

“Why is he digging so deep?”

Twenty minutes later.

The hole was now deep enough to swallow Tong Zhanyan whole.

“Is he planting vegetables or burying people?”

“What the hell?”

Thirty minutes later.

Tong Zhanyan was finally buried so deep his head was invisible.

“Sorry, I must be brain-dead for ever having hope in him.”

“Did he forget he has a livestream?”

“Is he planning to turn over every inch of soil in the entire greenhouse?“

”Pretty much.“

”Seriously, what kind of streamer digs like this? Why mess with the perfectly good soil below? Is he just looking for trouble?“

”What did I do in a past life to deserve a streamer like this in this one?”

Forty minutes later.

“Honestly, if we’re still here after all this, we’re pretty messed up too.”

“…”

“…”

“…”

“Don’t say anything.”

Fifty minutes later, as everyone chatted about everything under the sun and completely forgot this was a farming livestream, Tong Zhanyan crawled out of the pit, covered in dirt and dust.

He had finally dug to the bottom.

Fifty minutes, one and a half square meters. Tong Zhanyan looked at his hands, each ring finger sporting a blood blister.

Sighing, he decisively sought outside help.

He grabbed the nearby camera, cut the stream, then walked to the tool shed. Finding the terminal atop the soil bucket, he contacted Tian Xinqing.

“Qing Jiyue?”

“Yeah, do you have his contact info?” Tong Zhanyan brushed dirt from his clothes and hair.

“Well, I do…” Tian Xinqing’s tone was odd. “Don’t you? I thought you two were pretty close.”

“Wasn’t my terminal always in the training room?” Tong Zhanyan reminded him.

“Right, I’ll send it to you.” Tian Xinqing snapped back to attention.

Tong Zhanyan quickly received the contact card.

Without hesitation, he initiated a video call request.

The video call was cut off.

Tong Zhanyan immediately dialed again.

This time, it was cut off in less than two seconds.

Tong Zhanyan didn’t persist. Instead, he sent his name.

A connection request came through almost immediately.

Tong Zhanyan accepted.

Qing Jiyue was training, his ponytail standing high, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead that made his eyes appear especially sharp.

Judging by the ceiling height, it was likely the same gymnasium as before.

Tong Zhanyan cleared his throat. “Xiao Yueyue…”

“Pfft.” A choking sound came from nearby.

Completely unprepared for others being present on Qing Jiyue’s end, Tong Zhanyan startled.

He quickly realized who it was—Gu Yinfeng.

He thought Qing Jiyue had a good personality, but perhaps because he was the Qing Family’s only son and the future Qing Family Head, neither his classmates nor anyone at school seemed particularly close to him. There was certainly no one who trained alongside him.

Qing Jiyue glanced back.

Gu Yinfeng frantically wiped the water from his body while looking over with utter astonishment.

Xiao Yueyue?

Who?

Qing Jiyue?

Gu Yinfeng’s entire expression twisted into something peculiar.

Qing Jiyue ignored him, turning back to the screen before him.

See clearly, he raised an eyebrow.

After just an hour apart, Tong Zhanyan looked like he’d rolled in mud—dusty and disheveled.

“Need something?”

“Help me,” Tong Zhanyan pleaded, his expression pitiful.

Qing Jiyue raised his eyebrows again. Why did he feel Tong Zhanyan was treating him purely as a tool?

Qing Jiyue made a move to refuse, but just as the words reached his lips, Tong Zhanyan on the screen blinked rapidly, as if sensing something.

Already covered in grime, Tong Zhanyan’s pitiful expression did indeed tug at the heartstrings.

Qing Jiyue changed his mind. “I’ll come over.”

With that, he ended the call before Gu Yinfeng could peek curiously.

“Who was that?” Gu Yinfeng asked.

Qing Jiyue offered no explanation, grabbing water and his spear before turning to leave.

Gu Yinfeng immediately followed. He was curious to see who dared call Qing Jiyue “Xiao Yueyue.”

The person must be brave.

Qing Jiyue glanced back. “I’m going alone.”

Gu Yinfeng halted.

Qing Jiyue never went back on his word. Gu Yinfeng could insist on tagging along, but Qing Jiyue would undoubtedly knock him unconscious without mercy.

Gu Yinfeng’s smile grew even broader.

Qing Jiyue was a celebrity at school, yet Gu Yinfeng hadn’t heard of him being particularly close to anyone.

Not someone from his class?

Or had he neglected his own best friend?

The moment the call ended, Tong Zhanyan dashed to the main gate and crouched down.

When Qing Jiyue arrived, this was the scene he witnessed, instantly lifting his spirits.

“What are you doing?” Qing Jiyue asked directly.

Tong Zhanyan led the way into the house.

After briefly explaining the situation inside, Tong Zhanyan took Qing Jiyue to inspect the hole he’d dug.

Qing Jiyue better not have dug through his greenhouse.

“Digging?” Qing Jiyue looked puzzled.

“Yes.”

Qing Jiyue remained silent.

While he didn’t mind using his abilities for daily tasks—it was good practice for control—had Tong Zhanyan summoned him all this way just to help dig soil?

Tong Zhanyan held out both hands to show Qing Jiyue the blood blisters on his palms. If he had a choice, he’d certainly do it himself.

Glancing from the blisters to Tong Zhanyan, Qing Jiyue said nothing more and summoned his Spirit Beast.

He could use his abilities without summoning the Beast, but the power was far weaker than when it was present. The greenhouse spanned two hundred square meters, and this was precision work.

Scanning the area, Qing Jiyue returned his gaze to the hole Tong Zhanyan had dug earlier. He’d start from there.

“Try to crush as much as possible,” Tong Zhanyan advised.

Qing Jiyue focused his attention.

Large chunks of soil were torn apart by an invisible force, lifted, crushed into fine particles, and then dropped.

Half an hour later, Qing Jiyue turned after finishing a cycle to find Tong Zhanyan crouched with arms splayed wide. Like a crab, he’d cornered his Spirit Beast, eyeing it with a sly, sneaky look.

Trapped, the little tiger bristled its fur, flattened its ears, and stood up on its hind legs like a human. Its stance screamed, “Dare to come near, and I’ll scratch you to pieces.”

Qing Jiyue promptly summoned his Spirit Beast back.

Watching the little cat slip away right before his eyes, Tong Zhanyan’s grin, which had nearly stretched to his ears, dimmed slightly. He turned back with a look of regret. “Just one pet.”

Qing Jiyue refused. “No.”

If he gave Tong Zhanyan the chance, it would never be just a quick pat.

A Spirit Beast was a part of its master’s soul. Though their thoughts weren’t connected, Qing Jiyue still didn’t want to see anyone kissing and hugging his Spirit Beast.

Especially when that someone grinned like a pervert.

“Stingy,” Tong Zhanyan grumbled indignantly.

Qing Jiyue ignored him. “Okay.”

Tong Zhanyan immediately scanned the area behind Qing Jiyiyue.

In just half an hour, nearly the entire greenhouse soil had been turned over, save for the tool shed area.

Only the edges remained untouched, about half a meter wide.

Qing Jiyue’s abilities were formidable, but precisely because they were so powerful, meticulous tasks proved difficult for him.

“Thanks,” Tong Zhanyan exhaled in relief. “I’ll treat you to all the strawberries you can eat.”

Qing Jiyue glanced at the two strawberries in the corner, looking even more pitiful now that they were covered in dust. “Mhm.”

Qing Jiyue didn’t linger. Already drenched in sweat, he was now coated in dirt, looking hardly better than Tong Zhanyan.

After seeing Qing Jiyue off, Tong Zhanyan reopened his livestream.

The moment the feed went live, a barrage of comments instantly flooded the chat.

Tong Zhanyan glanced over.

It was as lively as ever.

Relieved, he turned back to his work.

Qing Jiyue couldn’t work too meticulously, so the soil he’d turned over was littered with basketball-sized clumps, and fist-sized chunks were everywhere.

He didn’t have the energy to turn the lower layer again, but at least the top layer needed more breaking up.

“Trash streamer!”

“Can you fix this damn habit of yours? Who else just shuts down their stream whenever they feel like it?”

“Couldn’t you give us a heads-up? Even just a few minutes’ notice?”

The crowd, still grumbling after Tong Zhanyan abruptly ended his stream for the first time since moving, suddenly noticed that the soil in the background seemed thoroughly turned over.

“Huh? Finished already?”

“Did he use a Spirit Beast for this?”

“Doubtful. Could a Spirit Beast really dig this finely?”

“One skilled at burrowing might manage it…”

“Wait, if he could use a Spirit Beast, why did he spend an hour digging by hand?”

“This is planting soil, after all. Is using a Spirit Beast for this really wise…”

Soil for planting requires strict sterilization and a complex process, which is why it’s always been expensive.

Because of this, most streamers treat it with respect, though not quite as meticulously as they would plants.

Using Spirit Beasts directly? Well, this was their first time seeing that.

But this was Tong Zhanyan’s livestream.

If he dared to chop fruit crops into pulp, what else couldn’t he do?

While the crowd debated, Tong Zhanyan had already bent back to work, never once offering an explanation.

This sparked another wave of discontent, but it wasn’t the first time. After some grumbling, the group naturally shifted to other topics.

Watching this scene, Gu Yunyang—who’d been busy tending seedlings lately—felt conflicted.

The streamer streamed, the viewers chatted, and amid the conversation, many noticed people returning to the stream just to rant. Such an odd livestream was truly one of a kind.

After watching, Gu Yunyang turned to look at the tomato seedlings behind him.

Nearly two months had passed, and his batch of seedlings now stood nearly half a meter tall. Yet this didn’t bring him joy, for as they grew larger, the gap between them and the seedlings from Tong Zhanyan’s stream became increasingly obvious.

Their sparse leaves and spindly main stems were actually better than his previous batch of tomatoes. But after seeing Tong Zhanyan’s tomatoes, he now just wanted to pull these out.

Even if these seedlings bore fruit, there wouldn’t be many.

With a silent sigh, Gu Yunyang turned back to his work.

Tong Zhanyan worked until ten at night before heading back to campus.

The next day, before going to the greenhouse, he stopped by the shop first. The oranges needed more time to ripen; he had to hurry.

Mr. Bai still hadn’t found any more oranges or tangerines.

Such plants were rare to begin with, let alone perennial ones.

Lost in thought, Tong Zhanyan worked for a full hour after arriving at the greenhouse before remembering he was still live-streaming. He quickly outlined his plans for the day.

Digging soil again today.

This prompted a chorus of grumbling from the live-stream audience.

Tong Zhanyan had clearly forgotten about them.

After another day of toil on Sunday, just as night fell, Tong Zhanyan finally finished turning the soil.

It was the same soil as before, but at least it looked much looser now.

Tong Zhanyan didn’t linger any longer and headed back to campus.

The moment he entered the school grounds, Tong Zhanyan immediately sensed something was off. Not only were the paths nearly deserted, but the few people passing by all wore distinctly grim expressions.

Tong Zhanyan hurried back to the dormitory.

Tian Xinqing and Su Yanran were talking to someone in the hallway. Tong Zhanyan rushed over.

Two minutes later, Tong Zhanyan understood what was happening.

With only three full months left until the final assessments, the school officially opened the comprehensive testing portal today. Those interested could now schedule their evaluations.

They had long known about the assessments, but without concrete data points, everyone had simply been pushing forward with all their might.

But now, things were different.

Three months wouldn’t change much. Those hovering near the cutoff might still have a chance with extra effort, but for those with massive gaps…

In a way, this alone could determine their fate.

Tong Zhanyan looked at Su Yanran. “Did you schedule yours?”

“Yeah, I booked for tomorrow night.” Su Yanran’s face had already turned pale from tension and pressure.

Seeing him like that, Tong Zhanyan felt his own stomach tighten.