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

━━ 🐈‍⬛ ━━

After his moment of delight, Tong Zhanyan quickly gathered the books from the table and began examining each piece of fruit one by one.

There were eighteen in total—twelve tangerines and six oranges.

Fve hundred thousand for eighteen pieces meant each cost less than thirty thousand.

Tong Zhanyan quickly asked again, “These are really only 500,000?”

Last time he’d paid over 100,000 for just two—this was more than a bargain.

“I said I wanted 500,000 worth, so they gave me this much.” Qing Jiyue turned toward his desk. It was nearly noon, so he wasn’t rushing back to the stadium.

Tong Zhanyan thought about it and felt relieved.

Last time, Old Jin and Mr. Bai had haggled for hours without Mr. Bai budging—proof that his asking price was genuinely high. With the Qing Family standing behind him, there was no chance of the seller inflating the price.

“I’ll transfer it to you,” Tong Zhanyan said, opening his terminal. They’d added each other as contacts after their last call.

Qing Jiyue accepted the payment immediately.

“Thank you.” Tong Zhanyan’s gratitude was sincere—Qing Jiyue had truly been a tremendous help.

“Mhm.” Qing Jiyue didn’t dwell on it.

Tong Zhanyan peeled off the protective bumpers covering the surface of the oranges and tangerines.

None were particularly large, and several were clearly the type with thick skins and underdeveloped flesh—not very tasty.

Each tangerine had a helpful sticker showing its infection rate assessment. Probably because they were multi-year-old trees with higher infection rates, they all hovered between forty and forty-five percent.

The air carried the distinctive tart scent of citrus.

Tong Zhanyan rolled up his sleeves to begin processing them, but hesitated just before starting.

The pulp could be composted, but compared to pure citrus peels, the resulting fertilizer would be closer to kitchen waste compost—less potent and decomposing much more slowly.

Last time, with just two oranges, the pulp was negligible. This time was different—there was quite a lot.

After a moment’s hesitation, Tong Zhanyan washed them, found a clean bag, and began peeling.

He planned to separate the peels and pulp for composting.

Compost was what he needed most right now. Any amount was better than none.

When Qing Jiyue stepped out after his shower, the entire house was filled with the scent of oranges. He couldn’t help but look.

Tong Zhanyan was peeling them with a pained expression.

He hadn’t had a proper meal in half a year. Even knowing these oranges tasted awful, the scent still made his mouth water uncontrollably.

After finally persevering through peeling every last orange, Tong Zhanyan couldn’t resist any longer. He picked the one that looked sweetest and most delicious, breaking off a small section.

He gave Qing Jiyue two segments, then eagerly popped one into his own mouth.

The familiar sour bitterness hit him the moment he bit down.

The thing he craved was right in his mouth, yet the hunger it stirred showed no sign of being satisfied. Instead, the stark difference from the taste he remembered only made him crave it more.

Tong Zhanyan felt only more tormented.

Qing Jiyue, however, showed little reaction, seeming to quite enjoy that intensely sour sensation.

Tong Zhanyan first dealt with the orange peels.

He spent some time cutting them all into fine granules, then found a five-liter jar and dumped them all in at once, filling it with water.

He had been collecting eggshell powder for a long time, keeping various jars and bottles stocked on the balcony. This time, they came in handy.

Tong Zhanyan also used a large jar for the pulp, making sure to remove all the seeds before bottling it.

By the time he finished, two hours had passed, long after lunchtime.

But it was Saturday, so there was no rush.

Stepping outside, Tong Zhanyan was heading toward the cafeteria when he spotted Tian Xinqing across the way, idly sipping from a nutrient solution tube.

Su Yanran wasn’t in the room.

“Did he skip his noon rest again?” Tong Zhanyan called out a greeting.

Ever since the test results came out, Su Yanran had been pushing himself relentlessly in extra training. The intensity worried Tong Zhanyan a little.

Tian Xinqing seemed lost in thought, completely oblivious to him.

Tong Zhanyan paused at the doorway, reconsidered entering, and turned to head downstairs.

Tian Xinqing hadn’t come to Sidi Military Academy voluntarily. Failing the assessment would have been a blessing for him. Yet ever since both he and Su Yanran began fighting desperately to stay, he often drifted into a daze.

Tian Xinqing never disliked discussing matters concerning the Four Great Families or the front lines. He probably didn’t truly dislike the path of military service. Yet he displayed considerable resistance toward it.

He also rarely spoke about his family.

Tong Zhanyan and Su Yanran had discussed it privately several times, but ultimately, it remained a mystery.

Graduating from Sidi Military Academy came with mandatory military service. Persuading him to stay might actually be doing him a disservice.

The cafeteria was nearly empty after mealtime. After finishing his nutrient solution, Tong Zhanyan didn’t head straight back to the dorm. Instead, he stopped behind the cafeteria to collect eggshells and fallen leaves.

When he returned to the dorm, Qing Jiyue was already gone, and Tian Xinqing from the opposite bunk was nowhere to be found.

He checked the greenhouse from the backend, then browsed shopping apps to buy cups for transplanting.

With so many plants this time, using collected cups wasn’t impossible, but the subsequent cleaning and drying would be too time-consuming.

After paying half a million, he still had over six thousand left. Barring any surprises, that should last him three months.

For the next two days, Tong Zhanyan didn’t visit the greenhouse, only checking periodically from the backend.

He finally went over when the cups arrived on Wednesday.

Nearly a week had passed, and almost all the seeds had sprouted. Through the plastic sheeting, a hazy green haze was visible.

Tong Zhanyan lifted one side of the plastic to take a look.

Beneath the dew-covered film, many of the cherry radishes and bok choy that had sprouted earlier had already developed true leaves, forming a lush green carpet.

The cherry tomatoes were the third batch. Their seeds proved even more vigorous than the previous ones. Though they sprouted later than the cherry radishes and bok choy, their condition looked just as robust.

The eggplants, strawberries, and cucumbers were only the second batch, looking relatively less impressive. Yet compared to when he’d first bought the seeds from the store, they were already much better—at least their germination time was nearly half as short as that previous attempt.

That scene was also witnessed by the viewers in the livestream.

They had long noticed the gradually intensifying green beneath the plastic sheeting. But after Saturday, Tong Zhanyan vanished without a trace, leaving them to suppress their curiosity and anticipation.

Until this very moment.

“Ahhh… my little darling.”

“So adorable.”

“Looks like most of them have sprouted?”

“Yeah, the germination rate is definitely over 90%.”

“More like 95%. I checked just now—only a few cups are empty.”

“95%…”

The hearts of the eagerly awaiting crowd melted at the sight of those tiny, round, vibrant leaves, yet their emotions were complex.

They weren’t sure about the Planting Alliance’s results, but they knew the live-streaming scene well. Most streamers reported germination rates between 60% and 70%, while the rest barely reached 60%.

While germination rates above 70% weren’t unheard of, anyone achieving such a rate would have enough bragging rights to last years.

Yet Tong Zhanyan had achieved a 95% germination rate—and not just with dozens of plants, but hundreds, across multiple seed varieties.

If word got out, people would think they were dreaming.

What made their feelings even more complicated was that the seedlings looked exceptionally healthy. Especially that batch of tomatoes—almost every one had stems as sturdy as the five or six best specimens from the previous batch.

“These seedlings… they’re going to be something when they grow up.”

“More than just incredible—I bet the whole Green Shade will be shocked. Might even rattle the Planting Alliance.”

“I’m already picturing the scene.”

“The last batch of twenty tomato seedlings yielded over twenty pounds of tomatoes. This batch has at least two hundred tomato plants. Based on previous yields, that’s two hundred pounds… Am I dreaming?”

“Two hundred pounds? We’ll need large crates to harvest that much…”

“Don’t forget the cherry radishes and such.”

“Hmph, are you really not part of the Planting Alliance, streamer?”

“Does the Planting Alliance get yields like this?”

“Who exactly are you, streamer?”

 ━━ 🐈‍⬛ ━━

After reviewing the footage himself and having the camera check it again, Tong Zhanyan unpacked the purchased cups and began punching holes in them.

He had bought five hundred cups in total.

An hour later, he finished punching holes in all of them. Tong Zhanyan packed them back into the boxes and headed back to school.

The playground was bustling with trainees, yet the dormitory building remained unusually quiet.

Qing Jiyue continued reading according to his usual schedule, completely unfazed by the outside world.

Tong Zhanyan stayed in the dorm for a while before heading downstairs. Though he had given up on passing the assessment through exams, he wasn’t prepared to abandon building his own combat strength.

The field was too crowded; he didn’t spot Tian Xinqing or Su Yanran.

Two hours later, when Tong Zhanyan returned, it was nearly 10 PM. Tian Xinqing was already in the dorm, but Su Yanran still hadn’t come back.

On Saturday, Tong Zhanyan went to check on the greenhouse.

Seedlings grew rapidly; in just three days, they had transformed beyond recognition.

Especially the cherry radishes and bok choy—already short-cycle crops—were now in a frenzied growth spurt, shooting up leaves. The healthiest specimens had even pushed up the plastic sheeting covering them.

Tong Zhanyan promptly peeled back the plastic.

The camera flew over.

Tong Zhanyan opened the light screen in the livestream room to take a look, rolling up his sleeves as he did so. “They’re almost ready for transplanting. Let’s do it today.”

Cherry radishes and bok choy had short growth cycles and were exceptionally easy to grow. In his previous world, no one would have bothered with seedling cultivation—he’d only gone to the trouble out of necessity.

“This is weird. Aren’t crops supposed to grow in soil? Why do they thrive better in cups?”

“Could it be because the cups are transparent?”

“Does light help them sprout faster?”

“But they’re covered with plastic film—how much light could get through?”

“Still better than none.”

“The host also mentioned not using fertilizer.”

 ━━ 🐈‍⬛ ━━

Tong Zhanyan, who had only glanced casually, paused midway through rolling up his sleeves.

Whether it was his imagination or not, the atmosphere in the livestream seemed to have shifted.

This change wasn’t the harmonious quiet that followed when his critics grew tired of arguing and left. It was different in a completely other sense.

His livestream had been mired in constant arguments since it began. Partly, he hadn’t intervened, but mostly, it stemmed from distrust.

That distrust was so pervasive and utterly subversive to their perceptions that he’d come to believe explanations were pointless.

But now it was different. Though the screen was still flooded with question marks, those marks no longer carried only condemnation and discontent—they now held traces of thought.

They were trying to understand why he had done this.

Tong Zhanyan paused again.

Rolling up his sleeves, he turned to fetch a hoe from the adjacent workroom while gathering his thoughts. Turning back, he spoke again, “Seeds sprout faster in cups not because of light, but because I soaked them in water before planting.”

“To get seeds to germinate, the two most critical factors are sufficient moisture and maintaining a temperature between fifteen and twenty-five degrees.”

“Seeds assess their environment too. They only sprout in suitable conditions and temperatures. Most seeds thrive in warm, humid environments—soaking them and covering them with plastic film creates that environment.”

“Once sprouted, seeds do exhibit phototropism, so during germination, it’s best to place them in diffused light…”

Tong Zhanyan briefly addressed the questions in the live chat.

He wasn’t opposed to this level of interaction if they genuinely wanted to listen—he simply lacked the energy to do more.

From the initial trial with five tomato plants, to the accumulation of the second batch of tomatoes, cherry radishes, bok choy, eggplants, cucumbers, and strawberries, and now this last-ditch effort—if even one step went wrong, his entire plan would collapse.

He was barely managing to survive himself. How could he possibly have the energy to care what others thought of him?

The live chat went momentarily silent as everyone behind their screens froze in stunned silence.

This was the first time Tong Zhanyan had ever directly addressed their doubts.

It wasn’t one of his usual concise announcements, nor a simple statement about what he planned to do next, like the ones from days prior. This was a genuine response.

“…,” Yang Hong tried to say something, but his fingers slid across the keyboard several times without typing a single word.

The same situation played out for Gu Yunyang, Cat Who Loves Fish, Crazy Cool Midsummer, Changge, and the rest.

They all wanted to say something, yet in this moment, none knew where to begin.

At first, they’d hoped Tong Zhanyan would come out and explain. Later, they realized even if he did explain, they probably wouldn’t believe him. Eventually, they’d given up hope entirely—even if Tong Zhanyan showed up for a live stream, it wouldn’t change anything.

They’d even convinced themselves to accept it.

But Tong Zhanyan…

Changge took a deep breath, regaining her composure first.

Then came her hysterical shrieking, “Help! I didn’t catch that! What do I do?”

“Can you repeat that, streamer?”

“Aaaah… what was the temperature again? Fifteen degrees?”

Seeing those sudden bursts of comments, the people behind the livestream finally snapped into action.

The next moment, more comments flooded the screen.

Some were already pondering, while others hadn’t caught a word due to the suddenness of it all.

Tong Zhanyan, already at the plot reserved for cherry radishes and bok choy, caught a glimpse of this scene while digging holes. A faint smile escaped his lips.

“I was saying the key factors for seed germination are…”

He repeated what he had just said.

This time, everyone in the livestream heard him.

“But I saw other people watering when they sowed seeds.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe they didn’t water enough?”

“But the soil was always damp.”

“I’ve seen some streamers water every two days.”

“Watering like that will make germination very slow. Seeds need to absorb a significant amount of water to be sufficient. The best method is still pre-soaking.” Tong Zhanyan’s hands kept moving as he spoke.

Cherry radishes and bok choy served as fertilizer for other crops in their third growth stage. Considering that other plants would be flowering and fruiting then, desperately needing nutrients, he reserved a full quarter of the plot just for them.

That section was rectangular. To facilitate later harvesting, he had divided it into separate plots during the intermediate stage.

He had already divided the soil when mixing it earlier, and trenches had been dug between the plots. Now, all that remained was to dig some holes so the seedlings could be planted directly.

Digging holes while planting would be too inefficient.

Half an hour later, the holes were ready.

Tong Zhanyan returned the hoe to the tool shed, fetched a large basin nearby, and picked up the seedlings.

Filling the basin, he walked to the dug holes and planted one seedling per hole.

The lively crowd in the livestream paused, their faces instinctively contorting.

The reason was simple: Tong Zhanyan was tossing them in.

These seedlings, painstakingly cultivated, thriving so well, still so small and fragile—and Tong Zhanyan was literally hurling them in—

“Can’t you just set them down? They’ll get crushed! Even if they don’t break, what if you damage the leaves?”

“They’ll die—”

“Help! My seedlings…”

“Host, you got the guts to duel?”

What transformation? What connection? What heartwarming moment? Those were just delusions born from their minds going haywire.

Tong Zhanyan never changed. He was still the same old him, still that damnable person!

Trash streamer, let’s settle this once and for all!

Tong Zhanyan was busy when he saw the screen flooded with “Aaaah!” He couldn’t help but chuckle before continuing to toss.

Though he called it tossing, he actually bent down—just didn’t set them gently but flung them instead.

These seedlings mattered far more to him than the viewers in the chat. But with two or three hundred pots, handling each one carefully would’ve consumed his entire day.

“I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him someday.”

“Waaah… my seedlings, my babies.”

“He’s laughing. He’s actually laughing.”

Amid the howls of the livestream audience, Tong Zhanyan made several trips back and forth, finally tossing all the seedlings into their designated holes.

Finally, he pulled out a small trowel and began carefully removing each plant from its pot to transplant it.

“Don’t bury them too deep,” Tong Zhanyan reminded himself before burying his head in the work. “If buried too deep, the lower leaves and stems won’t get enough air and will rot.”

The livestream wasn’t his main focus—these crops and this plot of land were.

The cherry radishes and bok choy had looked lush and vibrant when clustered together, but separated, they instantly appeared pitiful.

Most still had only three or four leaves, their initial cotyledons not yet fully retracted.

At this stage, their leaves and roots were extremely fragile—the slightest pressure could snap them.

Tong Zhanyan worked as carefully as possible, yet inevitably bruised a few plants.

He didn’t need to look to know what a spectacle the livestream must be.

This was something he truly couldn’t explain.

He planted the cherry radishes first, followed by the bok choy.

By the time he finished, over three hours had passed.

After completing the task, he took a look.

Now planted in the soil, the seedlings looked somewhat better. Though still pitiful, at least they appeared neat and orderly.

After a brief rest, Tong Zhanyan began watering.

He had prepared the water by letting it stand earlier, so it was ready to use now.

The only problem was that the seedlings were too small. He dared not use too much water, afraid it would wash them away, so he had to water them with extreme caution throughout the entire process.

That was even more exhausting than transplanting. At least transplanting involved squatting on the ground; this required bending over the whole time.

By the time he finished, Tong Zhanyan’s entire back ached so badly he could barely stand straight.

After refilling the empty pots and washing his hands, he rested while pondering another matter: what to do with those orange and tangerine seeds?

Both were perennial small trees. Even with the best care, they’d take two or three years to bear fruit, yet he’d only rented this greenhouse for half a year.

Moreover, once planted in the ground, moving them later would be extremely difficult.

But if he didn’t plant them now and waited until conditions were right later, there was no guarantee the seeds would still be viable. And even if they were, he’d have to wait several more years for fruit.

Hesitating, Tong Zhanyan glanced at the three tangerine seedlings he’d planted last time.

Over a month had passed, and they had long since sprouted, but they were still only about ten centimeters tall.

If only he had a plot of land.

Not a greenhouse, but real, open ground.

Tong Zhanyan dismissed the thought.

Beyond the greenhouse, the infection rate of the land was over 60% almost everywhere. While it wasn’t dangerous to eat directly, growing vegetables or fruit trees?

He’d better not even consider it.

After resting, Tong Zhanyan got up again. He went to the plot reserved for tomatoes, scooped up some decomposed soil, and planted seven seeds.

He’d plant them for now. Once the assessment phase was over, if conditions allowed, he’d see if he could get a large greenhouse and then transplant them into the soil.

After finishing, Tong Zhanyan departed.

As he left, Tong Zhanyan switched on the overhead supplemental lights for the first time.

He had purchased over a hundred of these lights, connected in series to three switches—capable of being turned on individually or in combinations.

The seedlings required relatively little light, and the transparent greenhouse roof provided some natural diffused light, so he hadn’t used them before.

But now things were different. Photosynthesis requires light.

However, since the seedlings were still very young, he only turned on one-third of the lights this time to avoid scorching them.

 ━━ 🐈‍⬛ ━━

Watching the livestream world before him grow quiet once more, Gu Yunyang took a deep breath and turned to look at his cultivation room.

This time, he had sown two hundred tomato plants. The germination rate was around 75%, and a few more died during growth, leaving him with about one hundred and fifty plants now.

A week ago, they began differentiating flower buds.

And today, they started blooming en masse.

Instead of feeling joy, Gu Yunyang’s stomach clenched in pain at the sight of the vast expanse of snow-white blossoms—pain born of sheer tension.

He tried desperately to distract himself, even deliberately seeking out tasks unrelated to planting. Yet no matter what he did, it felt utterly futile.

The moment he paused or found a lull, those flowers immediately flooded his thoughts.

Please don’t fall. Please, don’t fall.

 ━━ 🐈‍⬛ ━━

By the time Tong Zhanyan returned to campus, it was already afternoon. His dorm room remained empty.

After a brief rest, he headed to the sports field.

After warming up with two laps, Tong Zhanyan summoned his Spirit Beast.

Landing, it looked around. The chicken shook off a few feathers from its body, then turned and headed straight for an unoccupied green space nearby.

Approaching, it hopped in, found a gap just the right size, plopped down, then turned to look at Tong Zhanyan with an expression that clearly said, “Don’t you dare touch me.”

Tong Zhanyan always wanted to boss it around, telling it to do this and that.

Tong Zhanyan took a deep breath.

That was his own soul.

Tong Zhanyan approached with a smile. “Just run a couple laps together.”

The head, brimming with disdain, turned away.

The smile on Tong Zhanyan’s face cracked. “If we fail the assessment, we’ll both have to pack our bags and get lost.”

The chicken couldn’t be bothered to even glance at Tong Zhanyan.

Though their minds weren’t truly connected, the chicken still had a rough idea of what Tong Zhanyan was up to.

Tong Zhanyan felt like he could strangle the chicken. “I’ve never seen a Spirit Beast like you! Look at others, then look at yourself. Those who know better might think you’re just sitting on eggs—”

The scolding on the tip of Tong Zhanyan’s tongue abruptly stopped. His expression suddenly turned strange.

The next moment, he couldn’t resist grabbing the chicken by its tail and peering at its rear. Though it sported a comb and the large tail typical of a rooster, its appearance was so scruffy and its voice so peculiar that Tong Zhanyan still couldn’t determine what kind of chicken it truly was.

“Cluck-cluck-cluck—”

Before Tong Zhanyan could get a clear look, a sharp pain struck his forehead. Instantly, the chicken lunged at him, pecking furiously.

“Ow!” Tong Zhanyan, unable to think of anything else, clutched his head and fled.

By the time Tong Zhanyan returned to the dorm, two distinct bumps had formed on his forehead.

One on each side, perfectly symmetrical.

Once he grasped what had happened, Tian Xinqing slapped his thigh and laughed heartily. Even Su Yanran, who’d been on edge lately, couldn’t help but smile.

“It’s normal at first,” Su Yanran reassured him. “After all, your minds aren’t in sync yet.”

“Hahaha…” Tian Xinqing was still laughing.

Tong Zhanyan shot him a sullen look.

“But I suspect your situation might also relate to your Spirit Beast undergoing a complete form change. Perhaps it dislikes its current form or something,” Su Yanran suggested.

Tong Zhanyan was momentarily at a loss for how to respond.

His original Spirit Beast was a leopard. After the core within his body was replaced with his own, even the Spirit Beast transformed into its current form.

Such cases were rare but not unheard of, typically occurring when the master experienced life-altering upheavals.

However, Tong Zhanyan didn’t believe that the chicken was a transformation of his original Spirit Beast. Though he had no proof, he simply felt it was his own.

That only deepened his frustration.

After chatting for a while and feeling better, Tong Zhanyan returned to the dorm.

Hearing the noise, Qing Jiyue turned around and saw the two perfectly symmetrical bumps on Tong Zhanyan’s forehead. She couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. “Who hit you?” “

Tong Zhanyan touched his forehead, wincing in pain. ”What? You’re going to avenge me?“

Qing Jiyue considered it seriously. ”Not impossible.”

Tong Zhanyan, who had only meant it as a casual joke, froze. Was Qing Jiyue serious?

Tong Zhanyan looked up.

A hint of displeasure flickered in Qing Jiyue’s eyes. He was angry.

A strange flutter stirred in Tong Zhanyan’s chest.

Before he could decipher what it was, Qing Jiyue had already averted his gaze.

When he looked back again, Qing Jiyue’s face bore only faint confusion, devoid of any other emotion.

Tong Zhanyan touched his still-aching forehead, convinced he must have been pecked out of his mind.

It was four days later when Tong Zhanyan returned to the greenhouse.

This time, his purpose was to remove the plastic film covering the tomato plants.

Having been planted nearly half a month ago, each plant now exceeded ten centimeters in height. The plastic film covering them no longer served its purpose of insulation; instead, it had become an obstacle.

“You lousy streamer, you’re finally back! I was about to call the police to report you missing.”

“Ah, they’ve already been bent over.”

“Heartbreaking.”

“Heartbreaking +1. We should’ve removed the film ages ago.”

“Are these really seedlings only half a month old? You could tell them they’re a month old and people would believe it.”

“The stems are so sturdy. I can’t imagine how many fruits they’ll bear later.”

“Goodness, how did so many bend? Will they survive?”

Seeing the long-awaited tomato seedlings finally, everyone’s hearts softened. Yet beneath that tenderness lay a tinge of bitterness.

Because so many seedlings had been bent by the plastic film, it was heartbreaking to look at.

“They’ll be fine. They’ll straighten up on their own in a couple of days.” Squatting on the ground, Tong Zhanyan casually remarked while rolling up the plastic sheeting.

Hearing Tong Zhanyan speak as if commenting on pleasant weather, the group—already deeply distressed—immediately felt their anger welling up.

Tong Zhanyan never spoke without reason, and they instinctively believed him to some extent. Yet that didn’t lessen their heartache.

“How could it be fine?”

“Without that plastic wrap, they might have grown even taller by now.”

“Can we straighten them out?”

“Better not. The branches are so tender right now. What if we break them?”

On screen.

Six or seven people seated around a table glanced between the live stream and Yan Zhenwen at the far left, hesitation flickering in their eyes.

“Are we really going through with this?”

“Isn’t this a bit much? Posting everywhere to drive traffic was one thing, but this…”

Yan Zhenwen shot them a cold glance. “They started it. Besides, this kind of thing happens all the time. Stop making such a big deal out of it.”

The group exchanged another glance and fell silent.

“So, did you find out about that humus? Which company makes it?” Yan Zhenwen turned to the operations manager beside him.

“Well…” The man immediately looked troubled.

Yan Zhenwen’s brow furrowed. His mood had been sour these past two days.

“Maybe it hasn’t been released yet? Or perhaps it’s like us…”

The Yan family had long intended to enter the cultivation industry, having made two previous attempts. But fierce competition had stalled their progress. It was Yan Zhenwen who later proposed the live-streaming route, leading to their current venture.

And so far, the plan seemed to be going smoothly. The fertilizer solution they’d launched as a test product was selling quite well.

Yan Zhenwen’s expression darkened further.

It wasn’t impossible.

This only reinforced his suspicion: the other party intended to follow the same path as him, perhaps even using him as a stepping stone.

“Keep investigating. Report back to me immediately if you find anything.”

“Understood.”

Yan Zhenwen turned his gaze to the terminal.

The camera in Senior Da Liu’s livestream was circling around the newly uncovered tomato seedlings. It seemed particularly fond of those tomatoes, and the regular viewers in the livestream were quite excited to see the seedlings up close.

Yan Zhenwen’s mood instantly sank another notch.

Even if he didn’t want to admit it, he had to concede that those seedlings were indeed growing exceptionally well—perhaps even too well.

At least, the professional consultants in his own livestream room, who were watching closely, hadn’t managed to grow seedlings of that caliber.

Were the people he hired useless?

Or did the other party really have some special fertilizer?

Was it that “humus soil”?

“They must have used growth hormones, right?”

“No need to say it—it’s obvious!”

“Growth hormones disgust me the most.”

“I was wondering how they grew so fast. Turns out it’s growth hormones. These days, anyone can grow plants and livestream.”

“Disgusting. Using such tricks just to grab attention.”

The already lively stream of comments suddenly grew even more chaotic, with nearly every new comment pointing in the same direction—questioning whether Senior Da Liu’s tomato seedlings had been treated with growth hormones.

The contrast was too stark, the turn of events too sudden. Yang Hong’s originally boisterous group fell silent.

“What is this…” Yang Hong froze, then snapped back to reality.

He immediately opened the Victims’ Alliance group chat. The live stream comments were now almost entirely filled with accusations.

Sure enough, doubts were already surfacing in the group.

“Did we get hit by paid trolls?”

“Feels like it.”

“Did the streamer cross someone?”

“Starting with growth hormones? Looks like competitors.”

Amidst the discussions, everyone kept watching the live stream.

In just a moment, not only the bullet chat but also the comment section began to fill with condemnation.

Moreover, the attackers were quite sophisticated. They didn’t just blindly insult; many stepped forward to speak on behalf of Senior Da Liu. Yet, no matter how you looked at it, their words seemed like post-facto rationalizations after the deed was done.

“Paid trolls? What does that mean?” Yang Hong couldn’t help but speak up.

“It’s people flooding the chat on purpose. Probably hired to smear Senior Da Liu. Otherwise, why would they immediately accuse him of using growth hormones and sound so authoritative, answering every question?”

“I know what paid trolls are. What I mean is—” Yang Hong paused. “Does Senior Da Liu’s stream really need someone specifically hired to bash him?”

The crowd, who had been frowning, collectively choked on their words before falling silent.

Senior Da Liu’s livestream had its biggest troll right there in the chat. If not for him, would the channel even have surpassed 100,000 followers by now?

“…Do paid trolls get paid well?” Changge fought to suppress a dangerous impulse in her mind. Truthfully, she felt she could watch while ranting—after all, it was practically their daily routine.

“…Why don’t we ask?”