“It shouldn’t be low, right?”

“Go ask.”

“How do I ask?”

“There are a ton of people in the comments. DM them.”

With that, the group flooded back into the livestream.

Yang Hong followed suit.

He wasn’t looking for a side gig; he just wanted to see what kind of person and what kind of mind could come up with this method to deal with Senior Da Liu.

Moments later, the group was buzzing again.

“I sent a friend request.”

“Me too.”

“My private messages aren’t closed. I’ll ask.”

“What did you say?”

“…He said he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.”

“Send me the ID, I’ll handle it.”

Three minutes later, someone in the group couldn’t help but ask, “What’s going on?”

“…He told me to get lost. We’re just talking, why does he have to insult people? So uncivilized.”

“Maybe he thinks we’re troublemakers? Did you screenshot your old comments bashing him? We were way harsher back then.”

A momentary silence fell over the group.

They had always maintained an unspoken agreement never to mention this incident.

The speaker seemed to realize their slip and fell silent.

Inside the room.

One person at the table frowned, staring at the screen for a moment before hesitantly glancing at Yan Zhenwen, who was clearly in a bad mood.

“What’s wrong?” the operations team manager beside him noticed.

Yan Zhenwen looked over, too.

“Someone added me, saying they want to do part-time work…” The person quickly explained the situation.

Hearing this, before Yan Zhenwen and the other could react, the others at the table all spoke up.

“I got one too.”

“Me too. They asked if we’re paid commenters and if they could do part-time work…”

Yan Zhenwen remarked, “They sure are quick to respond.”

“…Is this the other team?” The operations team manager beside them realized the situation immediately.

“Probably trying to figure out who we are. Ignore them,” Yan Zhenwen said.

“Got it.”

“Is the other side ready?”

“Ready. I’ll have someone start reporting them later.”

Yan Zhenwen turned toward the door, adding a parting reminder: “Play it smart.”

“Got it.”

Stepping outside, the sight of his own cultivation room ahead lifted Yan Zhenwen’s spirits slightly.

He knew Senior Da Liu’s livestream followed a controversial path. His actions weren’t about smearing anyone, but about steering the narrative.

His goal was to get Green Shade to permanently shut down Senior Da Liu’s livestream—once and for all.

Growth hormones were explicitly banned.

After a brief silence in the group chat, the previous poster replied, “He blocked me…”

“Me too.”

“So petty.”

“Exactly.”

Changge frowned as she studied the personal homepage of the account named “Changge Xing” before her.

Only after the group fell silent again did she speak up, “I think I recognize one of them.”

“Know?”

“Acquaintance?”

“No, I just happened to see his Weibo,” Changge explained. “Because our names are so similar, I remembered it.”

“So what?”

“So?”

“That Weibo post was promoting another farming streamer,” Changge said.

“???”

“Could you have mistaken someone else?”

“Who?”

“Yan Family Planting House.” Changge quickly added, “Green Shade IDs can’t be duplicated. Judging by the profile picture, it should be the same person. But I just checked his page and that Weibo post is gone…”

“No way, Yan Family Planting House? I actually liked that livestream room before.”

“You followed him, too?”

“Who?”

“A super popular gardening streamer lately. Turns out he’s a newbie from the same batch as Senior Da Liu, but his fanbase already broke a million.”

“I remember him. Wasn’t he selling some liquid fertilizer? Heard it works pretty well.”

“Yep, yep, yep. That’s him.”

“Ah, this…”

“Could it just be a coincidence? I know about Yan Family Planting House, too. With his traffic, he wouldn’t need to antagonize Senior Da Liu, right?”

“No, don’t you guys think his rise to fame is kinda weird? I remember when I first came across him, he didn’t even have 200k followers, but suddenly there was this massive wave of discussions about him everywhere…”

“…No way.”

“So what should we do now? Should we tell Senior Da Liu?”

“What if we’re wrong?”

Everyone turned their attention to the livestream.

After peeling the film off the cherry tomato, Tong Zhanyan took the opportunity to check the other three crops still growing in their cups.

All three had sprouted around the same time, and their current growth stages were quite similar—each had just developed its second true leaf.

At this stage, they could still be kept under the plastic wrap for a while longer. No rush.

Replacing the cover, Tong Zhanyan got up and walked over to the cherry radishes and bok choy nearby.

Four days had been just enough for them to acclimate. While their size hadn’t changed—still pitifully small with only three or four leaves—their condition was visibly robust, radiating a sense of vigorous growth.

After circling them once, Tong Zhanyan returned to the tomato seedlings, ready to water them.

Thanks to the plastic cover, the soil in the cups dried more slowly, but after all these days, it was about time.

Tong Zhanyan brought over a large industrial crate, filled it with water, and carefully placed each tomato seedling inside.

The cups were small with little soil, so two or three minutes were enough.

Once sufficiently soaked, Tong Zhanyan carefully removed them one by one and returned them to their original spots.

Watering was always a tedious and time-consuming task, especially with so many seedlings now. By the time he finished, Tong Zhanyan was already feeling drowsy.

After gathering the pots, Tong Zhanyan activated the ventilation system.

The ventilation system came standard with the greenhouse, considered one of its basic features in this world. However, its purpose wasn’t to ventilate the plants but simply to make the greenhouse smell better.

Damp soil can develop a strong odor if not aired out regularly.

This actually worked in Tong Zhanyan’s favor.

Seeds and seedlings thrive in moist environments during germination and early growth, but once planted in soil, excessive moisture must be avoided to prevent root rot and leaf decay.

After finishing his tasks, Tong Zhanyan glanced at the time and headed back to his dorm.

 ━━ 🐈‍⬛ ━━

Green Shade Customer Service Center.

Li Yuanchen was reviewing the internal planning document for the upcoming event when a knock sounded at the door.

“Brother Li,” the Team 2 leader entered. “We just received complaints about a live stream heavily using growth accelerators—the situation is quite severe.”

“Growth accelerators?”

“Yes, numerous complaints have come in—over a hundred already.”

Li Yuanchen frowned. “Send me the stream link.”

“Sending it now.” The team leader was already acting as he spoke.

Li Yuanchen clicked to view it.

A planting room cluttered with miscellaneous items immediately appeared.

The moment he saw it clearly, Li Yuanchen’s attention was instantly drawn to the tomato seedlings amidst the clutter.

The seedlings were thriving remarkably well. Though many were mysteriously bent to one side, it was precisely this curvature that made their sturdy main stems all the more conspicuous.

This did indeed look like growth hormone use.

“What should we do? Should we request a ban?” the team leader asked.

Growth hormones were explicitly banned, and someone had already reported this to them. If they didn’t handle it, they might get implicated too.

“Retrieve the cached videos from his livestream for me to review,” Li Yuanchen said, not rushing to conclusions.

The livestream platform stored videos for fifteen days, after which they were deleted.

The team leader’s lips twitched, but he said nothing, only bowing his head to operate the system.

Li Yuanchen was being overly cautious—this was already blatantly obvious.

Moments later, Li Yuanchen received the link.

He clicked it open and began watching from the start.

 ━━ 🐈‍⬛ ━━

At the Planting Alliance.

Gu Yunyang, who was recording the status of those little tomatoes, suddenly jerked his hand. The pen tip skidded across the paper, leaving an ugly, long scratch. But he couldn’t care less about that now.

He felt a chill run through his entire body.

Because the thing he feared most had finally happened.

Before him, on the deep brown soil, stood a small white flower in full bloom.

Above it, a bare stem stretched out pitifully.

Gu Yunyang took a deep breath, trying to push the thought away, but his heart still plummeted.

He couldn’t help but let out a bitter laugh.

This was the second time.

This time, he had been far more cautious and careful than last time.

This time, he had truly given it his all.

Gu Yunyang looked at the twenty plants in the innermost corner, their buds and leaves pinched off. The ground before them remained clean and dry. But the flower at his feet was merely the first to fall; the others hadn’t even begun yet.

Could they truly hold out?

If they couldn’t…

 ━━ 🐈‍⬛ ━━

Tong Zhanyan arrived at school just after nine in the evening.

He’d expected the dormitory to be empty again, but upon climbing the stairs, he saw several people in the hallway.

They were discussing something.

Tong Zhanyan approached. “What’s going on?”

Had another of the Four Great Houses been breached?

“Class One and Class Five got into a fight,” Tian Xinqing explained.

“What?”

Tian Xinqing continued, “Everyone’s been doing extra training lately, right? So space on the field got tight. Seems like they were arguing over territory, and before they knew it, they were fighting.”

“Both homeroom teachers had to intervene to finally separate them.”

“Seems someone got hurt.”

“Yeah, more than one. I saw it,” someone nearby chimed in. “Looks like it was someone from Class 1.”

Tong Zhanyan frowned.

The pressure from the test results weighed heavily even on him, someone who had already abandoned that path—let alone the others. But he never expected it would escalate to a fight.

Tong Zhanyan glanced at Su Yanran, concern visible in his eyes.

Feeling his gaze, Su Yanran tried to smile but couldn’t quite manage it.

“Alright, everyone, disperse.” Seeing Su Yanran’s expression, Tian Xinqing—usually the most enthusiastic about commotion—actually began shooing people away.

The crowd quickly dispersed.

“Stop thinking about it.” Tian Xinqing looked at Su Yanran.

“Mm.”

The three returned to their respective rooms.

Lying down, Tong Zhanyan couldn’t resist checking on the greenhouse.

He’d looked just an hour ago, and nothing would have changed now. Yet seeing the lush green tomato seedlings and the cherry radishes and bok choy ready to burst forth still lifted his spirits a little.

The next day, nearly the entire first-year class buzzed with talk about last night’s incident.

The number of injured was confirmed: four in total, two of them quite badly, since they’d fought while in fusion state.

The school hadn’t issued an official notice yet, but many already speculated that those involved in the fight would likely be expelled, which made everyone’s expressions darken further.

Tong Zhanyan made another trip to the greenhouse that night.

The school’s tense atmosphere had rubbed off on him, making him anxious too.

Unlike Su Yanran and the others—who could at least do extra training—he could do nothing but wait for his seedlings to grow on their own.

Upon entering, Tong Zhanyan immediately checked on the tomato seedlings.

Two days had passed, and most of them had stood upright, only a few still tilting their heads slightly.

This made them resemble a lush carpet of grass, a dense, vibrant expanse.

He approached, crouched down, and examined the eggplants, strawberries, and cucumbers again.

The seedlings grew rapidly during this stage; two days were sufficient for them to develop another set of true leaves.

At this stage, their morphological differences began to emerge: eggplant leaves were rounder with purple stems, while cucumber and strawberry leaves featured serrated edges.

Without exception, they radiated vitality.

Tong Zhanyan’s tense nerves relaxed further. He felt a surge of life.

After inspecting them, Tong Zhanyan turned to check on the cherry radishes and bok choy.

This time, noticeable changes were evident—many had sprouted new leaves, though still small buds.

After confirming this, Tong Zhanyan didn’t rush away. Instead, he instinctively circled them, wanting to examine them more closely.

Mid-stride, his feet halted abruptly.

The row of bok choy near the leftmost edge of the greenhouse had leaves noticeably yellower than the others.

Tong Zhanyan glanced up at the overhead lights, then stepped back to shift his perspective.

The yellowing persisted.

And it was becoming more pronounced.

He moved closer and crouched down.

As he drew near, he immediately spotted the issue. The two larger outer leaves were indeed more yellow than the others, and the seedlings themselves looked somewhat listless.

Yellowing leaves at this stage…

Did the roots get damaged during transplanting?

But he had been so careful, and it was unlikely he’d only damaged this particular patch.

Was the soil the problem?

Tong Zhanyan felt his heart sink halfway.

The infection rate for this soil was around 20%, as tested by Mr. Bai’s shop—a clause explicitly stated in the lease agreement. That seemed unlikely to be the cause.

But beyond infection rates, many other factors could harm seedlings. Perhaps they’d been watered with something undetectable yet toxic to plants, like certain fertilizer solutions…

If that were the case, then the problem wouldn’t be confined to this one patch of soil, but would affect the entire greenhouse.

He’d already spent the money and nurtured the seedlings. The cherry radishes and bok choy had even been transplanted. If the soil turned out to be problematic at this critical juncture, then his evaluation… …

Tong Zhanyan instinctively scooped up a handful of soil and rubbed it between his fingers—a common habit among those who work the land. The soil’s moisture levels and quality reveal themselves with a simple squeeze.

“Hm?” Tong Zhanyan had indeed uncovered a problem.

The soil in his hand was damp. He had watered after transplanting, so the soil was naturally moist. But several days had passed since then—it shouldn’t still be this wet.

Tong Zhanyan turned to examine the soil in other areas. Though subtle, the soil near the entrance and the central section was noticeably lighter in color. He hurried over, scooped up a handful, and rubbed it between his fingers.

After rubbing, his tense nerves slowly relaxed. The next moment, he looked up. The greenhouse’s ventilation openings were at the top. Because the greenhouse was so large, two had been installed, one on the left and one on the right. Tong Zhanyan looked around, went to the tool shed, tore off a piece of plastic sheeting, then returned to the trench between the cherry radishes and bok choy. 

He squatted down, grabbed a corner of the sheeting, and let it hang down. The plastic film was incredibly thin and lightweight, yet it remained completely still. There was absolutely no breeze below. Despite all precautions, the seedlings still suffocated from the heat.

Tong Zhanyan looked up again at the two ventilation openings. The fans attached to them appeared to be quite powerful. Choosing not to dwell on the mistake already made, he turned and headed toward the small shed.

He had bought two fans when growing plants in the training room earlier. He’d moved them over during the relocation, but hadn’t brought them inside, assuming they wouldn’t be needed. Finding them, he carried them into the greenhouse. Near the tool shed, he located outlets and plugged them in, immediately turning them on.

The blades spun, blowing out air. Tong Zhanyan adjusted the angles, directing the breeze to cover as much of the cherry radishes and bok choy as possible. To avoid further mistakes, he deliberately went to the corner where the seedlings showing signs of root rot were located to check them one last time.

Only after confirming everything was fine did he finally breathe a sigh of relief. Green Shade Customer Service Center. Li Yuanchen entered the livestream room and immediately saw this scene.

Blowing air at the crops? What on earth was he doing?

The next moment, he focused his attention on the seedlings beneath the camera. Having already watched all fifteen days of this livestream’s videos in a flash, he knew exactly what those seedlings were. That knowledge made the corners of his mouth curl upward uncontrollably.

Nothing was more soothing to the soul than crops during their growth period. The people in the livestream left. The camera rotated in a circle, drifting toward the plastic sheet and the cherry tomato seedlings. Drawing closer, it circled once before hovering above the tomato seedlings. It remained there, watching them quietly, only occasionally shifting its position.

It seemed particularly fond of those tomato seedlings. Seeing the distinctly sturdy stems of those tomato seedlings up close, Li Yuanchen’s expression softened further. After staring for a moment, he hit the follow button, then took a deep breath and messaged his former team leader.

Moments later, the person arrived. Li Yuanchen said, “You mentioned that many people have reported Senior Da Liu’s livestream?”

“Yes. We’ve received over three hundred complaint letters so far.”

“Over three hundred?” Li Yuanchen pondered thoughtfully. “Just in the last couple of days?”

“Yes.” Li Yuanchen was beginning to understand the situation. “Tell them there’s no concrete evidence at this time. Reject all complaints.” The team leader seemed surprised but quickly caught on. “But it’s growth hormone, right? Those seedlings clearly…” He almost blurted out “looked abnormally healthy,” but stopped himself just in time.

Some streamers, jealous of others’ success, resort to underhanded tactics to sabotage competitors—and reporting is their go-to trick. 

“These people really…” The team leader’s anger flared momentarily. Just sorting through those reports had kept his team busy for two days.

“Alright, get back to work,” Li Yuanchen said. The team leader said nothing more and turned to leave. Li Yuanchen looked back at the livestream. The sight of the greenery instantly lifted his mood. It reminded him of something. He opened his terminal and found the internal proposal he hadn’t finished reading earlier.

Every three years, Green Shade hosted an official event to vote for the most valuable livestream channel. The initial 200 spots were pre-selected by Green Shade, with the top three determined by audience votes during the event period.

The event had existed almost since Green Shade’s founding and had been quite successful over the years, making it highly renowned.

Naturally, the prizes were substantial. The last time, they included five types of seeds that had been previously banned and were now almost impossible to find on the market—a fact many still talked about enthusiastically.

Beyond Green Shade’s prizes, the traffic generated by such an official event targeting all users was itself a major reward.

Li Yuanchen patiently finished watching the remaining portion.

After confirming it was no different from previous sessions, he turned his attention back to the senior’s livestream.

Though employed by Green Shade, his role exposed him to too much of the darker side of streamers, so he rarely watched live streams himself.

They, the administrators, all had recommendation quotas.

He thought this Senior Da Liu was quite capable.

He found the planting advice Senior Da Liu shared somewhat dubious—who would be foolish enough to reveal their own methods? But the fact remained that his seedlings were superior to others’.

Because of the root rot incident, Tong Zhanyan visited the greenhouse every night for the next two days.

He was lucky—or rather, fortunate to have caught it in time. Two days later, though the outer leaves of the bok choy were still slightly yellow, new leaves had begun sprouting steadily. They all looked quite vigorous.

Victims’ Alliance.

“Pictures.”

“Pictures.”

Changge sent several photos in succession.

The images showed the seeds she’d sown following Senior Da Liu’s instructions—they had finally sprouted.

“These are sprouted?”

“Congratulations.”

“It’s been over a week now, right?”

“Nine days,” Changge replied.

The seedlings in Senior Da Liu’s livestream had sprouted in three or four days. Hers were probably delayed because she removed the plastic cover too late. Still, she usually had to wait half a month for her plants to sprout, so this was actually the fastest she’d ever seen them grow.

“All four sprouted?”

“All of them.”

“Can you get a clearer shot?”

“Pictures.”

Changge replied to each message in turn.

“Looks like they’re growing pretty well. It’s got me itching to try it myself.”

“So everything he said is true?”

“You don’t believe it?”

“It’s not that I don’t believe it, it’s just…”

The person being questioned couldn’t quite articulate it himself.

Back in the livestream chat, Yang Hong and the others understood exactly what he meant.

Crops are valuable. Anyone who knows how to grow them well would normally keep their methods secret. But Senior Da Liu just blurted it out.

Wasn’t he afraid others would learn and grow them better than him?

On the other side of the screen.

Gu Yunyang exhaled.

As the breath escaped, his taut nerves finally relaxed a little, leaving his entire body aching and limp.

The seed germination time had indeed shortened. Senior Da Liu’s method worked; he hadn’t deceived them.

The next moment, he sprang to his feet and dashed toward his cultivation room.

He had only returned a few minutes ago.

He moved with urgency, his pace so hurried it bordered on running.

Entering the room, he ignored the white blossoms already strewn across the floor. His eyes darted straight to the twenty leaf-pinched tomato plants tucked in the back, eager to inspect them.

Ever since the first blossom fell, the second and third followed swiftly. In just a few days, nearly a third of the tomatoes had experienced flower drop.

This batch of pruned plants hadn’t started dropping yet, giving him hope while fearing disappointment. Until this moment, he could finally feel a slight—

Gu Yunyang’s outstretched hand froze mid-air.

For as his hand moved to touch them, a white blossom fell.

Gu Yunyang’s heart, racing from running and excitement just moments before, froze instantly. Simultaneously, a chill swept over him, as if he’d stepped into an ice cellar.

The flower… fell?

Gu Yunyang looked down. He hoped the flower at his feet was a hallucination, but his gaze confirmed it remained there.

He picked it up.

Flowers could be touched, too.

His hand reached for the cluster of buds before him, then gave it a gentle shake. A second flower, then a third, immediately followed…

It wasn’t an illusion. Truly, it wasn’t an illusion.

Why?

Weren’t they supposed to stop falling once pinched?

Did Senior Da Liu deceive them?

Was Changge’s seed just a coincidence?

Or had he messed up the process?

He’d followed the video instructions exactly…

Gu Yunyang quickly opened the livestream.

In the stream, Senior Da Liu had finished inspecting the seedlings and was about to turn off the camera’s light screen and leave.

Snap, send—Gu Yunyang didn’t know where that lightning speed came from. By the time he realized, he was already typing in the chat.

“My tomato flowers are dropping. Can you take a look?”

“I posted the picture in the comments. Can you help me?”

“Check the comments.”

“Don’t leave yet.”

Gu Yunyang stared intently at the figure on the screen, his palms sweating from nervousness.

Other streamers practically lived in front of their cameras twenty-four/seven, but this guy had only been showing up more frequently these past couple of days. Even so, his next appearance would likely be tomorrow night.

He couldn’t wait that long.

In that moment, he even found himself praying.

Don’t leave. He was almost seeing him.

“Check the comments section. My little tomatoes have flower buds falling off. I pinched off the flower buds, leaves, and side shoots just like you showed before, but they’re still dropping…”

Tong Zhanyan was about to press the power button when he caught sight of the sudden flood of text.

Pinched off the flower buds?

Tong Zhanyan withdrew his hand and swiped down the screen.

At the top of the comments section sat a photo of cherry tomatoes.

Unlike his dwarf cherry tomatoes, the other person’s were regular cherry tomatoes, each plant towering above waist height.

This stage was precisely when they bloomed. The other person’s tomatoes were indeed flowering, but those blossoms had fallen before setting fruit.

The white blanket on the ground was proof.

The moment he saw it clearly, Tong Zhanyan froze.

Not because of the tomatoes, but because of the other person’s ID: Melancholy Research Dog.

The one who left the first comment the moment he started streaming, the one who tried to teach him pollination, the one who made him feel melancholy just by looking at them…

He was still here?

Tong Zhanyan felt a wave of frustration wash over him.

Tong Zhanyan looked toward the camera.

Gu Yunyang, who had been nervously staring at the screen, jumped. For a split second, he felt an illusion of locking eyes with the other person.

Did he see it?

Did he see those comments in his livestream?

Gu Yunyang’s heart raced as the familiar voice came through: “You’re pinching off too few.”

Gu Yunyang’s brain buzzed.

Senior Da Liu really saw it.

Tong Zhanyan glanced again at the small tomatoes in the picture, trying to keep his explanation simple. “Flower drop is a self-preservation mechanism plants activate when nutrients are insufficient to support both flowering and fruiting. Pinching off flowers and side shoots aims to reduce blooms, concentrating nutrients on the flowers and fruits that can be sustained.”

“These little tomatoes of yours are severely undernourished. Leave just one branch per plant, and keep no more than five or six flower buds.”

“These tall tomatoes of yours consume more nutrients just growing leaves and stems than dwarf varieties. You’ve left nearly twice as many branches and flowers as I did—of course, they can’t handle it.”

After initial surprise, Gu Yunyang quickly regained his composure. He promptly started recording the screen while listening intently.

By the end, his face burned with embarrassment.

He had indeed followed the other’s method, but when pinching, assuming his seedlings were twice as large, he’d left twice as many branches and flower buds…

“After adding that, sprinkle some eggshell powder.”

Eggshell powder?

Gu Yunyang froze.

The other person had never mentioned this in their livestream before.

And eggshells?

“Eggshells are rich in calcium, which helps set flowers and fruits effectively and prevents flower drop.”

“Just use the shells from edible eggs like those in restaurants. Wash them clean, grind them into powder, and mix about two tablespoons per tomato plant into the soil.”

As he finished speaking, Tong Zhanyan glanced at the time.

It was getting late, and he still needed time to get home.

“You go ahead, I’ll head out first.”

With that, Tong Zhanyan checked the chat one last time to make sure no more questions were popping up before closing the screen and leaving.

By the time Gu Yunyang realized it, the figure had vanished from the camera’s view.

Only then did it dawn on him that he hadn’t even said thank you.

But that was the last thing on his mind now.

He pulled up the recording and listened to the entire conversation again. Then he hurried to the tool table nearby.

He disinfected the scissors and immediately began working according to the video instructions.

This time, he held nothing back. How much worse could it possibly get?

Minutes later, the twenty tomato plants, already in a pitiful state, looked even more wretched.

Gu Yunyang couldn’t suppress the pang of regret, but gritting his teeth, he turned his gaze to the ones beside them that hadn’t been pruned.

How much worse could it possibly get?

Half an hour later, a pile of branches and leaves lay at his feet, and every single tomato had been reduced to a pitiful state.

Taking a deep breath, Gu Yunyang set down the shears and looked at his terminal.

He’d been experimenting with growing plants long before joining the Cultivation Alliance. Even during his time as a handyman in Old Xu’s cultivation chamber after joining, he never gave up. That persistence finally paid off when he saved enough to get his own independent cultivation chamber…

It wasn’t until noon the next day that Tong Zhanyan discovered Gu Yunyang had tipped him—a whopping thirty thousand.

Tong Zhanyan, who hadn’t planned on charging tuition, felt somewhat helpless about this. But the money was already in his account, and arguing about it now was pointless.

Tong Zhanyan didn’t visit the greenhouse for the next three days.

On the fourth day, Saturday, Tong Zhanyan arrived early.

Today was quite busy.

He’d already checked the greenhouse conditions via the backend, but upon entering, his attention was immediately drawn to the patch of small tomato seedlings.

They were thriving remarkably well—nearly two-thirds had reached the condition of the top five or six plants from the previous batch, making them appear crowded.

The tiny plastic cups were indeed insufficient now. Today, they needed to be transplanted.

Before that, Tong Zhanyan looked at the eggplants, strawberries, and cucumbers.

After another half-week had passed, they too had pushed up from within the plastic film, just like the little tomatoes before. They seemed like children brimming with curiosity about the world, their eagerness palpable even through the plastic.

Tong Zhanyan granted their wish and peeled back the film.

Leaves rustled, droplets of water from the plastic and leaf tips scattered, the entire scene bursting with vitality.

“Am I really not dreaming?”

“Ahhh, I just want to go for a run!”

“My goodness, can crops really grow like this?”

“Such beautiful seedlings.”

“This is the first time I’ve seen such sturdy seedlings, truly.”

Before the screen, Yang Hong and the others had anticipated this moment, yet their hearts still raced when the film was finally lifted.

For it wasn’t just one or two seedlings, but a full four or five hundred—a sea of vibrant green sprouts.

Such a sight had never even crossed their wildest dreams.

Especially when droplets splashed onto the seedlings, and they swayed in response—in that instant, their hearts seemed to ripple along with them.

Tong Zhanyan’s expression softened. Compared to the last batch, these seedlings were finally passable.

Tong Zhanyan turned to fetch a large cup with pre-drilled holes from nearby. After scooping some decomposed soil from the plot reserved for the cherry tomatoes, he sat down beside the tomato seedlings.

“Today we’ll do transplanting. Transplanting utilizes the characteristics of plant roots and leaves…” Tong Zhanyan continued speaking while his hands remained busy.

This batch of tomato seeds had even higher viability than the last. The resulting seedlings weren’t just taller and sturdier; within the same timeframe, the roots in the cups were also much more abundant. Picking up any cup revealed a dense mass of white roots.

Only such robust seedlings could thrive in the subsequent growth stages.

Listening to the stream, Gu Yunyang and his group hurriedly took notes.

While Gu Yunyang and his team remained quiet, the chat stream remained a bustling hub of activity.

The amazement continued, but now it was tinged with more confusion and incomprehension.

Why plant seedlings in cups? Without enough soil, they’ll die.

Why are they growing so well? Did you use chemicals?

These were new viewers drawn in after the plastic covering the tomato seedlings was lifted.

At this, Gu Yunyang and his group couldn’t help but smile bitterly.

They had asked these very questions themselves.

How familiar…

But what made them smile bitterly most wasn’t these questions, but what was about to unfold next.

The astonishment and delight these viewers felt now would soon turn to anger and shock.

As for explanations…

They wanted to give them, but the viewers wouldn’t believe them.

After all, when they tried explaining things months ago, no one believed them. They’d even been scolded for it.

Amidst these complex emotions, everyone couldn’t help but glance at the people in the livestream.

After briefly explaining the situation, that person quietly got back to work as usual.

The same motions, repeated dozens, even hundreds of times. Even they, watching, felt exhausted, yet his movements never showed the slightest hint of impatience or carelessness.

Over three hours later, Tong Zhanyan finally finished repotting the last tray of cherry tomato seedlings. By then, his back, bent over the task the entire time, ached intensely.

Tong Zhanyan stood up and walked around, taking a moment to inspect the cherry radishes and bok choy.

The camera, which had been fixed on him throughout the repotting process, shifted its focus.

In just a few days, the cherry radishes and bok choy had sprouted several new leaves, each noticeably taller and larger than the previous ones.

Seeing them, Gu Yunyang and the others, who had been feeling somewhat down, instantly perked up. So lush and green—what splendid seedlings!

Watching them, Tong Zhanyan’s expression softened.

What excellent fertilizer.