Thank you KoshkaHP for the kofis, hope you enjoy the bonus chapters!

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After staring for a while longer, Tong Zhanyan returned to the small building.

Only one bag of nutrient solution remained; he’d have to go buy more tomorrow.

Tong Zhanyan downed it in one gulp.

Drinking it frequently had given him some tolerance to that bizarre taste, but that didn’t mean he could accept it—quite the opposite, it made him feel even worse.

He’d even begun to detect an aftertaste in that pungent, plastic saccharin flavor—the kind that lingered for half an hour.

After washing up, Tong Zhanyan climbed into bed with a pained expression.

Moments later, he climbed back out, looking just as miserable.

He’d forgotten to turn on the camera.

“The camera had some issues, so I took it to get checked.” Tong Zhanyan offered an explanation.

The camera lens, which had been hovering in front of the small building all along, extended and retracted silently, watching Tong Zhanyan lie.

Tong Zhanyan felt guilty.

In the livestream room, a group of people who had been waiting for who knows how long heard this and, while excited, couldn’t help but complain.

“Can’t you just buy another camera? This one malfunctioned before, right?”

“You’re hands down the stingiest streamer I’ve ever seen.”

“Penny-pincher.”

Tong Zhanyan said nothing, silently returning to the small building.

After rinsing his mouth again, he went to bed early.

Victims’ Alliance, in a group chat.

“Viewer count is so low, screenshot it.”

“Six thousand? Am I seeing this right? How can it be this low?”

“Seems like a lot of people switched over to the other stream.”

“The other stream?”

“There’s a farming streamer with over 700k followers learning from Senior’s farming methods. Today, they uncovered the seedlings’ plastic covers. I checked it out while waiting—the seedlings look really healthy.”

“What’s his name? Let me see.”

“Gu Xiaoming Loves Vegetables.”

Yang Hong, who’d been waiting by the screen, frowned. He desperately wanted to say, “Don’t mention other streamers in the group,” but ultimately said nothing.

The fact was, Senior Da Liu’s stream viewership was declining.

It wasn’t the first time Senior Da Liu had announced he’d shut down the stream, but back in the greenhouse days, even if he went offline for half a day, at least 20,000 to 30,000 viewers would still be waiting.

But now? Six thousand…

Even when he was growing crops in that room, the numbers hadn’t been this low.

Yang Hong felt anxious, yet he didn’t know what to do.

The group chat quickly fell silent.

The reason for the silence was obvious.

Yang Hong glanced at the stagnant viewership numbers in Senior Da Liu’s stream—even if he restarted, they wouldn’t surge immediately. He sighed, about to head to the bathroom, when someone spoke up in the group.

“I’ll always support Senior.”

The speaker was Changge.

Yang Hong couldn’t help but chuckle. It wasn’t over yet; it was too early to say that now.

Fish-Loving Kitten: “Forgive my bluntness, but I just can’t get to him. Otherwise, I’d be the first to punch him.”

Midsummer Madness So Cool: “Hahaha, I was thinking the same thing. How can there be such trash streamers in this world? Just shutting down their stream whenever they feel like it.”

“Hotpot Lover”: “Don’t even get me started. Talking about it just makes me angrier.”

Changge: “You guys are still here? I thought…”

As more and more groups formed, the number of people in them grew. She hadn’t seen these faces in ages and had assumed they’d never gather like this to chat again.

“We’re here. Just too crowded to get a word in, so we’ve been quiet.”

“Can’t get a word in +1.”

“I pop up often, but I haven’t seen you guys.”

“That’s great.” A warm feeling filled Changge’s heart. They were all still here.

“What’s great about it? That trash streamer nearly drove us all crazy. We’re just viewers! Why should we have to worry about the streamer?”

Changge didn’t explain, only her smile remained constant.

That night, the viewership in Senior Da Liu’s livestream never returned to its usual sixty or seventy thousand. The group chats remained quiet.

But that night, Changge and her group chatted freely for the first time in ages.

Early the next morning, Tong Zhanyan was roused by Qing Jiyue’s voice. The people he’d arranged were already at the door.

In the video call, Qing Jiyue’s face bore obvious weariness—he clearly hadn’t slept at all last night.

Tong Zhanyan scratched his head and resignedly got out of bed.

He pulled up the five cherry radishes and four of the Chinese cabbage detected earlier, packing them separately. He then randomly selected over twenty additional plants in varying conditions, placing them in a separate bag. After loading everything into a cardboard box, he carried it to the door.

He left one plant with a reduced infection rate behind, intending to use it as seed to see if the next planting would yield different results.

On the deserted morning street, a black sedan was parked by the curb.

Tong Zhanyan jogged over.

Two people sat inside, looking as if they’d rushed over from elsewhere overnight.

They seemed unaware of the exact reason for their visit. Seeing the cardboard box filled with cherry radishes and bok choy, both men looked slightly surprised.

The car quickly drove away.

Tong Zhanyan stood there for a moment longer before heading toward the convenience store—his nutrient solution was running low.

The office building across the street.

Wang Yanzhou and Yuan Yuepeng were heading upstairs when they spotted one of their colleagues coming down.

“What’s up?” Yuan Yuepeng asked.

“He went to the convenience store.”

Wang Yanzhou headed downstairs. “I’ll go.”

The person about to go downstairs didn’t object; it was shift change time anyway.

At the convenience store, Tong Zhanyan bought two days’ worth of supplies in one go. Just as he was about to leave, he sensed a faint, almost imperceptible gaze.

He instinctively looked in that direction.

The street across was empty.

Tong Zhanyan frowned, summoned his spirit beast into his arms, and hurried toward the base.

His spirit beast had zero combat ability, so he wasn’t planning to use it for fighting. Instead, he intended to throw it like a bomb at the enemy’s face in a critical moment to buy some time.

As if sensing something, the chicken dangerously lifted its head to regard him.

Tong Zhanyan immediately flashed it a flattering smile.

The chicken ignored him, maintaining its scrutinizing expression.

Opening the door and stepping inside, he confirmed that even if someone was following, they couldn’t do anything. He exhaled in relief and casually tossed the chicken down. “Walk yourself.”

Upon landing, the chicken clucked twice in displeasure.

It had no complaints about being able to go outside.

Across from the base, in the office building.

When Wang Yanzhou ascended the stairs, only Yuan Yuepeng remained in the room; the other two had already left.

“Discovered?” Yuan Yuepeng had noticed Tong Zhanyan’s heightened alertness from the window.

Wang Yanzhou gave a low hum.

He was just standing a bit closer than usual.

Tong Zhanyan’s vigilance was commendable.

Tong Zhanyan actually had decent aptitude, mainly because he was willing to put in the effort. It was just a pity his starting point was too low, and his spirit beast offered little combat value.

“Should I go first?” Yuan Yuepeng glanced at the live stream of Tong Zhanyan on the nearby projection screen.

“Alright.” Wang Yanzhou headed toward the adjacent room, intending to catch some more sleep. It was still early.

They had promised Tong Zhanyan they wouldn’t actively disturb him, but knowing others would covet him, how could they take no protective measures?

At the base.

After finishing his nutrient solution, Tong Zhanyan didn’t go upstairs to sleep again. Instead, he began observing the chickens.

The chicken manure was ready for collection once more.

As they grew larger, they gradually transformed into fighting cocks, clucking incessantly day after day.

Transplanting was still some time away, and he still had crops in the greenhouses, along with cherry radishes and bok choy to compost…

Tong Zhanyan calculated that the earliest he could use this manure fertilizer would be a month from now. That meant he had over a month left to collect and ferment the droppings.

At this rate, they might just cover all his fertilizer needs.

Seeing this glimmer of hope lifted Tong Zhanyan’s spirits considerably.

He chopped some bok choy into the feeding trough, topped up their water, then grabbed his shovel and got to work.

By the time the chickens had finished eating, over ten minutes later, he’d finished collecting the manure.

It filled nearly half a small basin.

Tong Zhanyan dumped it into a bucket.

This was already the second bucket.

Finished, Tong Zhanyan glanced at the patch of cherry radishes and bok choy before sending a message to Mr. Bai.

He planned to buy more chickens.

It was still early; Mr. Bai probably hadn’t even woken up yet, so naturally, there was no reply.

Tong Zhanyan grabbed a hoe and headed toward the plot further left of the cherry radishes and bok choy. Since he was buying chickens, he naturally needed to plant more of both.

He still had plenty of seeds—after all, he’d saved over ten plants of each variety from the last batch.

Two hours later, just as Tong Zhanyan finished preparing another hundred-square-meter plot, Mr. Bai finally replied.

Chickens weren’t available immediately; it would take another week.

If Tong Zhanyan wanted them, he could ask his friend to hold some aside in advance.

Tong Zhanyan ordered twenty.

He already had thirty; adding twenty would make fifty.

Considering long-term development, this was far from enough. But the cherry radishes and bok choy also needed fertilizer to thrive. All things considered, this was already the absolute limit.

Pondering this, Tong Zhanyan kept busy.

Irrigating, sowing seeds, covering the soil, then laying down plastic sheeting—by the time Tong Zhanyan finished, several hours had passed.

After a brief rest, Tong Zhanyan inspected the crops yet to be transplanted.

The thirty-odd low-infection-rate seeds purchased from the Planting Alliance had been sown alongside the eggplants and cucumbers. He had transplanted the eggplants and cucumbers the previous two days but hadn’t touched these.

As days passed, the gap between them and the eggplants and cucumbers grew wider. Far from transplanting, they looked like they might give up the ghost at any moment.

Compared to them, the corn, cowpeas, peppers, and carrots that had already been planted once looked much healthier.

The cowpeas weren’t strong seed producers, and since he’d saved a few flowers for breeding earlier, this batch only yielded sixty or seventy seedlings.

They were all growing quite well.

The peppers and carrots were better seed producers, especially the carrots. The two plants together yielded three to four hundred seeds, which Tong Zhanyan planted all of.

They were now taller than his fingers.

The corn yielded only one ear per plant. When ripe, the ears were barely three fingers wide, naturally producing a pitifully small harvest of less than a hundred usable seeds.

Since these were seeds from the previous batch, Tong Zhanyan had deliberately set aside ten well-preserved ones as reserves, leaving even fewer usable seeds.

These were seeds from the previous batch, with an infection rate already at 49%. Even if they sprouted, their infection rate remained uncertain.

The only silver lining was that the seedlings were growing reasonably well, not lagging behind the cowpeas, peppers, or carrots.

That very first seed had been sitting around for ages.

Besides the low-infection-rate varieties and corn that had already been grown once, the rest were melons, pumpkins, Chinese cabbage, and rapeseed he’d later purchased from Old Jin.

These four were planted last and still hadn’t had their plastic covers removed.

Tong Zhanyan took a look. The melons hadn’t even sprouted yet—probably a lost cause.

Tong Zhanyan left them untouched, focusing his attention on the single pumpkin plant.

Pumpkins were a valuable crop—nutrient-rich, easy to grow, resilient, prolific in yield, and high in seeds. More importantly, they contained substantial starch, making them highly filling feed for chickens and pigs. They were far superior to water-heavy crops like cherry radishes and bok choy.

The only regret was that he hadn’t timed it perfectly. The seeds were from the previous batch, with a high infection rate. After this planting, he could manage at most one more crop.

If he could find a way to precisely reduce the infection rate, then there might be some potential.

Beyond the pumpkin, Tong Zhanyan was also quite hopeful about the rapeseed plant. It could be pressed for oil, and the residue after oil extraction made excellent fertilizer.

Especially the oil extraction.

If his earlier planting was about avoiding being sent back to the outer city—about survival—then now, external factors aside, he was planting more for the simple chance to eat a proper meal.

For over half a year, he hadn’t tasted a single bite of normal food. God only knew how miserable he felt.

He even feared he might snap if this continued.

The problem was that with new seeds purchased from both the Alliance and Old Jin, plus plans to raise chickens and plant more cherry radishes and bok choy, his original two mu of land was clearly insufficient.

The soil here was as hard as concrete, and he needed to dig deep. On his own…

Just thinking about it made Tong Zhanyan cringe.

After finishing his research and giving the plants a light watering, Tong Zhanyan got up and left.

Around ten o’clock, Tong Zhanyan was debating whether to go for a ten-kilometer run to boost his stamina when the faint, lingering gaze from earlier reminded him—his terminal buzzed.

He’d expected news from Qing Jiyue, but it was Ning Langdong contacting him instead.

The training room was already full again.

Before, he’d been alone; now, with three people, efficiency was higher.

Tong Zhanyan’s mind was filled with images of Tian Xinqing and Su Yanran being beaten down by society.

Tong Zhanyan headed back to the school.

He borrowed a truck and driver from Mr. Bai, hauling away a large load.

He processed the leaves as before: half buried in pits to decompose, half left out to dry for burning to ash.

The soil was too hard, and by the time Tong Zhanyan finished, it was already past six in the evening.

After feeding the chickens, it was already seven o’clock.

After dinner, just as Tong Zhanyan was about to head upstairs, his terminal buzzed again.

This time, it was Qing Jiyue contacting him. The results were in, and he was waiting at the base entrance.

Tong Zhanyan disabled the anti-recording feature on the security cameras and hurried to the gate to meet him.

A few minutes later, on the second floor of the small building.

“You mean those crops are fine?” Tong Zhanyan frowned.

“More accurately, they’re exactly what they should be for their infection rate,” Qing Jiyue replied.

Tong Zhanyan pondered thoughtfully.

As they should be?

Highly infected crops contained more toxic components and fewer elements that suppressed rampage, while low-infection crops were the opposite—they had fewer toxic components but more elements that suppressed rampage.

If they were “as they should be,” that meant as the infection rate decreased, the components suppressing rampage also increased?

This wasn’t exactly a novel idea—it had long been a hypothesis. But since no one had ever managed to reduce the infection rate before, it had always remained just that: a hypothesis.

Now, it had become a reality.

Qing Jiyue’s hand, which had been hanging naturally at his side, gradually clenched into a fist. The look in his eyes as he watched Tong Zhanyan grew increasingly complex.

He hadn’t held much hope initially. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Tong Zhanyan—he genuinely wished Tong Zhanyan could find a solution—but he knew all too well how difficult this task was.

Yet, from that night until now, it had only been a little over three months. In just over three months, Tong Zhanyan had managed to reduce the infection rate in the crops.

What they had failed to achieve in decades, Tong Zhanyan accomplished in just three months.

“Tong Zhanyan…” Qing Jiyue was momentarily at a loss for words, for no words could express the surging emotions within him.

“Thank you.”

In the end, Qing Jiyue could only manage those two words.

His father, his grandfather—perhaps they truly had a chance now.

Snapping out of his reverie, Tong Zhanyan offered only a faint smile. He didn’t feel much of a sense of accomplishment, after all, he hadn’t deliberately done anything extraordinary.

 Tong Zhanyan asked, “What are your plans moving forward?”

”Focus on researching those crops with reduced infection rates.“

”I’ll do my best to cooperate, but the growth cycles of cherry radishes and bok choy…” Tong Zhanyan briefly outlined his thoughts, including that he needed to keep raising chickens, and that cherry radishes and bok choy would be followed by more of these.

Upon hearing Tong Zhanyan intended to feed the cherry radishes and bok choy to the chickens, Qing Jiyue hesitated. After all, this matter directly affected whether his father and grandfather could survive. Yet he managed to suppress his reservations.

He chose to believe—to trust that Tong Zhanyan could absolutely succeed again.

Besides, Tong Zhanyan was right—they couldn’t possibly develop the antidote before the bok choy and cherry radishes withered away.

This required a long-term strategy.

As for confidentiality, Qing Jiyue had no objections.

Given the current circumstances, avoiding further complications was for the best.

For Tong Zhanyan. For himself.

By the time they finished discussing these matters, over an hour had passed.

“Are you staying here tonight?” Tong Zhanyan realized his words were awkward the moment they left his mouth. There was only one bed here. “Or would you rather find a hotel?”

“Stay here.” Qing Jiyue made his choice immediately.

Tong Zhanyan glanced around. “Then you take the bed, and I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

Fortunately, he had bought a sofa earlier.

Qing Jiyue said nothing, only watching Tong Zhanyan quietly.

Tong Zhanyan opened the wardrobe, pulled out a barely-worn set of clothes that could serve as pajamas, and handed them to Qing Jiyue. “Go wash up first.”

Qing Jiyue didn’t refuse. Setting down the long rifle he carried with him, he headed toward the bathroom.

Tong Zhanyan retrieved the bedding Qing Jiyue had bought during his last visit and spread it out on the sofa.

Over ten minutes later, Qing Jiyue emerged, and it was Tong Zhanyan’s turn to freshen up.

When Tong Zhanyan came out, Qing Jiyue was already lying on the sofa.

Living alone, Tong Zhanyan had bought a three-seater sofa, which was a bit small as a bed. Qing Jiyue’s long legs felt cramped.

“You sleep in the bed,” Tong Zhanyan said.

Qing Jiyue must have headed straight here after their call; his face showed even more weariness than before.

Several new wounds had appeared on his body.

None were deep, some were nearly healed, but they were definitely there.

“No need. I can sleep anywhere,” Qing Jiyue said truthfully. Before coming to Tong Zhanyan’s place, their group had been staying in that dilapidated office hall.

Tong Zhanyan couldn’t possibly drag him up. “Then get some rest early.”

With that, he headed toward the bedroom, leaving the living room for Qing Jiyue.

It was barely past nine—a bit early for sleep, but Qing Jiyue likely hadn’t slept at all last night.

Closing the door, he lay down on the bed. Tong Zhanyan glanced at his terminal, replied briefly to Tian Xinqing and the others, then turned off the light.

The living room lights were already out.

Tong Zhanyan couldn’t quite fall asleep. His attention drifted between the door outside and thoughts of his crops.

Suddenly, footsteps sounded outside the door, followed immediately by it opening.

Tong Zhanyan looked up.

Bright moonlight streamed through the terminal projection outside the window. At the doorway, Qing Jiyue stood with his hair loose, hugging a quilt, watching him.

“What’s wrong?” Tong Zhanyan asked.

“Can’t sleep.”

Tong Zhanyan was speechless. Why come to him if he couldn’t sleep? Did he want him to sing her a lullaby?

The problem was, he didn’t know any.

“Can I sleep with you?” Qing Jiyue asked.

Tong Zhanyan’s breath caught slightly.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” Qing Jiyue added.

Tong Zhanyan’s tense body slowly relaxed a little. “How about I sleep on the couch?”

Qing Jiyue didn’t speak, just watched quietly.

Holding the quilt, still bearing injuries, he looked rather pitiful.

Tong Zhanyan conceded, “Alright.”

Since he refused to mention the reduced infection rate to others, Qing Jiyue could only discuss it with him. Even as ordinary friends, he couldn’t kick him out now.

Besides, it wasn’t the same bed, and they hadn’t done anything.

Qing Jiyue closed the door, glanced around, chose a spacious spot, spread out his own quilt, and lay down.

His movements were swift, as if afraid Tong Zhanyan might suddenly change his mind.

Tong Zhanyan lay back down.

The darkness remained still, the moonlight filtering through the curtain slits unchanged, yet the atmosphere inside the room grew strangely tense.

“Thank you,” Qing Jiyue’s voice came.

“You already said that before,” Tong Zhanyan replied.

Qing Jiyue said nothing more.

He placed one hand over his eyes, using it to mask the unnatural pang of bitterness welling up inside.

He hadn’t hidden his fondness for Tong Zhanyan, and Tong Zhanyan must have sensed it, avoiding him quite obviously.

He wasn’t stupid. He figured out the reason almost instantly.

Tong Zhanyan didn’t like him.

Early the next morning, Qing Jiyue prepared to leave.

But Tong Zhanyan stopped him.

Are you kidding? Free labor just handed to him on a silver platter—was he going to let that slip away?

Before, he might have felt awkward about it, but now, with that infection rate business, bossing Qing Jiyue around felt perfectly justified.

Tong Zhanyan turned off the camera. Qing Jiyue’s abilities were too unique. “Dig up another two mu or so over there, and also work the plot at the foot of the mountain. I want to plant oranges. Make sure to break up the soil thoroughly…”

Qing Jiyue watched the man gesturing beside him, his eyes filled with resignation. He felt he’d taken another step closer to becoming a tool.

He muttered to himself, then got down to work diligently.

The soil was indeed rock-hard. If Tong Zhanyan had to do it himself, who knew how long it would take?

Last time, when Tong Zhanyan tried digging in the greenhouse, he ended up with hands covered in blisters.

While Qing Jiyue worked, Tong Zhanyan hauled over a small stool and sat under the eaves to wait.

His attention was entirely on the little tiger.

After turning the soil thoroughly as before, Qing Jiyue deliberately spent extra time smoothing the surface again, but the effect was minimal.

Watching Qing Jiyue finish, Tong Zhanyan promptly asked to pet the little tiger again.

Qing Jiyue remained unyielding.

At first, he’d resisted the request of touching his spirit beast, especially when Tong Zhanyan wore that peculiar smile. Now he no longer resisted Tong Zhanyan, but in Tong Zhanyan’s eyes, he was merely a tool—except for being a spirit beast that was liked.

Qing Jiyue had squeezed in this visit during his patrol. The route they monitored was frequently haunted by dangerous beasts, making it too perilous for him to leave the team for long. Thus, he departed immediately after finishing his task.

Tong Zhanyan saw him to the door.

Tong Zhanyan didn’t rush to deal with the soil. It wasn’t needed right now, and the corrupted earth wasn’t sufficient to cover that area yet.

After returning, Tong Zhanyan activated the camera.

The livestream inevitably erupted with a flurry of curses.

Some viewers left, while others with keen eyes spotted the freshly turned soil.

That soil hadn’t been like that before the camera was turned off. A new person had arrived at Senior’s place recently, and they quickly connected the two events.

That person was hired by the streamer to dig the soil.

“Come to think of it, something similar happened in the greenhouse. The moment the camera turned off and back on, the soil was already dug up.”

“Yeah, I thought it was the streamer’s own spirit beast that was good at digging.”

“But it’s just digging. Why shut down the stream for that?”

“Maybe the footage wasn’t visually appealing?”

Good at digging, but the footage isn’t appealing…

Weird images started popping into everyone’s minds.

Spirit beasts are mostly birds or fierce animals, but there are some odd ones, too. The streamer’s spirit beast was just a chicken.

“More importantly, they already dug up two acres earlier, and now another two. How much is the streamer planning to plant?”

“Ahhh, now you’ve got me freaking out.”

“I’m more worried about whether the streamer can handle transplanting them all. This batch alone has nearly four thousand seedlings, not counting the cherry radishes and bok choy…”

“The streamer’s planted so many cherry radishes and bok choy again…”

“Two hundred square meters of vibrant green, teeming with life…”

Just mentioning cherry radishes and bok choy got everyone hyped.

In Senior Da Liu’s livestream, the cherry radishes and bok choy were the most popular plants besides the little tomatoes.

Especially the sight of them sown directly and growing into a vast, lush green field—for a long time, just seeing that image could make them grin like fools.

But after seeing it so often, they’d naturally built up a tolerance.

But this was a full two hundred square meters!

Not just a few plants here and there, but two hundred square meters packed solid…

“So what if it’s two hundred square meters? It’s all going to feed the chickens anyway.”

A discordant comment suddenly slid across the screen.

Then more followed.

“I think he’s just lost his mind.”

“With this much, if he sold it, it could feed who knows how many people. But he insists on feeding it to chickens.”

“I really can’t stand watching this. Is this really not intentional?”

“I just want to see when he’ll drive those chickens to their deaths.”

Five days later, Tong Zhanyan was happily scooping droppings while crouched in the chicken coop when Mr. Bai contacted him. The chicks he’d requested had hatched.

Tong Zhanyan quickly tidied up and headed out.

Three hours later, he returned with a bunch of chicks that looked brand new.

He didn’t put the chicks directly into the chicken coop. Instead, he kept them in the old swimming pool.

The chickens in the coop were already half-grown. If the chicks were kept together, they wouldn’t just struggle to get food—they might even get bullied.

After finishing his work, Tong Zhanyan gazed at the brand-new chicks, his eyes brimming with joy.

Seeing them, however, the livestream chat erupted with discontent.

“These chickens might not even survive, and the streamer still buys them?”

“I’m done with this. Goodbye.”

“Good riddance.”

“I knew it—why else would he suddenly plant a huge patch of cherry radishes and bok choy? Turns out he was waiting for this…”

Watching the flood of comments about “Senior Da Liu” scroll through the chat, Gu Xiaoming—the streamer behind “Gu Xiaoming Loves Veggies”—felt a pang of irritation. Yet his smile grew even more humble.

“Well… I don’t think wanting views is wrong—earning your keep through skill isn’t shameful. But knowing how vital crops are and still messing around like this…” Gu Xiaoming didn’t name names, yet his meaning was crystal clear.

Sure enough, the previously angry comments instantly turned supportive.

Gu Xiaoming smiled, saying nothing more. Instead, he focused intently, carefully misting the small tomato seedlings growing in disposable cups as if they were fragile treasures that might shatter with the slightest breath.

He had been streaming for nearly five years, but his crops had always struggled to survive, leaving his follower count barely over half a million.

But since he started learning Senior Da Liu’s cultivation methods, his follower count had surged by over 200,000 in just over twenty days.

Especially after he expressed his disagreement with Senior Da Liu’s approach, his follower growth became even more explosive, gaining nearly 20,000 followers in just yesterday alone.

This prompted him to immediately change his strategy, having originally intended to use Senior Da Liu’s cultivation as merely a gimmick.

“Next, we’ll be composting. Um… I don’t have any ready crops here, so I went out and bought some. I know this isn’t ideal,” Gu Xiaoming said, looking genuinely troubled. “So I plan to take half of these cherry tomatoes once they’re ripe and give them away in a giveaway. I hope it can help more people in need and make up for… …“

Hearing that half would be raffled off, the viewers who’d witnessed Senior Da Liu’s greenhouse yields in the livestream couldn’t help but get excited.

”Looking forward to it.“

”Go streamer!“

”No one will blame you for necessary investments, as long as you grow well.“

”Still, your stream is the most comfortable to watch.”

In the livestream, under the camera, he saw the comments about Senior Da Liu. Heihei, who had been frowning while studying Senior Da Liu’s edited video, suddenly stopped what he was doing and opened Senior Da Liu’s livestream.

Seeing those twenty extra chicks, he frowned. “Why buy so many again?”

Is it really that important?

Does he need to start preparing early?

Raising chickens…

But he hasn’t even figured out farming yet.

Lost in thought, he noticed the questioning comments in the sparse stream of messages in his own chat. Unable to hold back, he spoke up, “I think Senior must have his reasons for doing this. It’s best not to jump to conclusions.”

“Uh…”

“As long as you’re happy, streamer. Bye.”

Watching his hard-earned 100,000 followers instantly drop back to 90,000, Heihei chuckled bitterly, a pang of pain in his heart.

But he said nothing, because this wasn’t the first time it had happened.

He was among the earliest to champion the seniors’ farming methods. The moment he did, he felt the power of traffic for the first time in his life. Even before he’d done anything, his channel’s followers surged rapidly.

But the good times didn’t last. Before his followers hit 100,000, the senior’s chicken-raising project sparked controversy.

He couldn’t resist saying a few words in support of the senior, and the traffic that had been pouring toward him instantly dried up.

At first, he didn’t quite understand. He thought he’d been throttled by the platform. After researching for a while, he finally figured out why from other livestreams.

The audience didn’t like what he said.

Watching other livestreams gain followers rapidly, he felt anxious and considered learning new strategies. But after much hesitation, he gave up.

Learning others’ techniques only to secretly sabotage them felt too underhanded.

More importantly, he genuinely believed Senior Da Liu must have had his reasons for acting that way.

“Don’t bury them too deep when planting, or they’ll rot easily… …but no one said the leaves would turn yellow…“ He chuckled darkly and went back to watching the edited video.

He was one of the earliest to start learning. While others were still raising seedlings, his had already been in the field for half a month.

Then yesterday, he discovered that those seedlings, which had been growing so well, suddenly started turning yellow.

”This is weird…”

He’d followed Senior Da Liu’s method exactly—so why were his leaves turning yellow?

Had he missed something?

The question was: what exactly had he missed?

The biggest difference between those who know and those who don’t is this: those who know can solve problems when they arise, and often even fix them before they surface. Those who don’t might even realize what the other person did.

At the base.

After settling the chicks and watching them for a while, Tong Zhanyan turned to his seedlings with a headache.

The cherry tomatoes were ready for transplanting. The eggplants and cucumbers still needed time, but once he finished preparing the soil and planted the tomatoes, they’d be ready too.

Tong Zhanyan planned to transplant them all at once.

That meant he’d be swamped for at least the next ten days.

Just imagining it made his hands ache.

After dawdling for another half-hour, seeing the afternoon nearly half gone, he reluctantly picked up the hoe.

He’d already tilled the soil once before; this time, the main task was mixing decomposed soil, wood ash, and eggshell powder into the mounds.

It wasn’t difficult, but the area requiring work was simply too vast.

He spent the entire afternoon at it, then another full day the next, finally finishing by evening.

But that wasn’t the end of it. He still had to shape the soil into long, gentle slopes.

This would improve air circulation and prevent waterlogging that could rot the roots.

With so many plants this time, the seedling stage was manageable, but later, he would definitely need to irrigate using a rain-like method. Raising the beds was essential.

After another long half-day, the preparatory work was finally wrapped up.

He rested for the remainder of the time, then got up bright and early the next morning.

Digging holes, spacing seedlings, then bending over to plant.

The tomato seedlings had been sown early and were thriving, each already a small tree. Planting them didn’t require such careful handling, so it went quickly—though a thousand seedlings still took time.

It took Tong Zhanyan nearly another full day to finish.

He didn’t rush to water them. The next day, Tong Zhanyan continued working.

Compared to the cherry tomatoes, the eggplant and cucumber seedlings had been in their temporary pots for a shorter time, so they were smaller and sturdier. Transplanting them required extra care.

This took Tong Zhanyan considerably longer.

Two days later, when the last seedling was planted, the nearly two acres of land he had previously tilled were almost completely filled.

The long furrows, with the seedlings appearing quite small against the vast expanse of land, didn’t make for a particularly beautiful sight.

Tong Zhanyan himself didn’t feel it, but the livestream presented a completely different picture.

They had known beforehand that they were planting a lot this time, but it wasn’t until all the seedlings were transplanted into the field that they truly grasped just how many there were.

Inside the greenhouse, the camera could sweep from one end to the other in minutes. Now, patrolling along a single furrow, it took half an hour just to cover half the distance.

These were merely seedlings now. What about when they grew? When did they bloom and bear fruit? When harvest time came…

This might genuinely be exhausting work.

Harvesting crops until exhaustion…

At this thought, the corners of everyone’s mouths curled upward uncontrollably. They’d love to share the senior’s exhaustion, but they wouldn’t get the chance.