The summer sun loomed low in the sky, casting long amber shadows over Chen Valley. As the village moved through its daily rhythms, a quiet hum of transformation stirred beneath its surface—far beyond what the eyes could see.
Inside the central cooperative office, Lin Feng sat surrounded by blueprints, spreadsheets, and a thick notebook. He wasn't just expanding anymore—he was fortifying. The warning that came with the drone images hadn't left his mind for a second.
He sipped the herbal tea—his own blend—and stared at a handwritten list.
"If they know my farms, what don't they know yet?"
Beside the list were circled names: cold-chain drivers, greenhouse laborers, compost suppliers, and courier subcontractors.
"Every system leaks through people," he murmured to himself. "Time to tighten the net."
He called Liu Qiang.
"From now on," Lin Feng said as the man entered, "all satellite site personnel shift to a rotational system. No one works more than three weeks per site."
Liu blinked. "That'll complicate training."
"I'll train the trainers," Lin Feng replied. "They won't know where they are long enough to leak anything critical."
"You're preparing for war?"
"No." Lin Feng's tone hardened. "I'm preparing for exposure."
---
Elsewhere, Guo Ming finally called.
"I traced the origin," he said. "That USB came from a compromised journalist's laptop. Someone planted surveillance tools on her machine and used her network to send you the images."
"Anyone we know?"
"She's freelance. Covers food security and rural revitalization. Was planning to publish an exposé on ghost farms."
"Ghost farms?" Lin Feng asked.
"Farms that exist on paper for subsidies, but produce nothing. She thought you were one."
Lin Feng's lips twitched. "And what changed her mind?"
"She did a deep dive. Didn't find corruption. Found excellence. And something more: invisibility."
"So she switched sides?"
"No. Someone used her curiosity to deliver you a message. Which means they knew she'd reach out to you eventually."
Lin Feng exhaled. "Keep her safe. She's not the enemy."
"You still want to know who is?"
"I will. When the time is right."
---
Back at the valley, Lin Feng joined the villagers for an evening rice harvest ceremony. Under the golden haze of the setting sun, the fields looked like molten gold. The rhythmic sounds of sickles and laughter filled the air.
Children ran through the muddy furrows. Old men passed around sweet rice wine. And the elders began singing an old folk song—something that had echoed in this valley long before asphalt roads and WiFi signals had arrived.
Xu Yuhan stood next to him, wearing a wide straw hat and holding a camera.
"This doesn't feel like work," she said, grinning as she snapped photos of a laughing grandmother tossing a handful of rice grains into the sky.
"It's not," Lin Feng said. "This is memory."
She turned to him. "That's why you're really doing this, isn't it? Not just for control or secrecy."
He nodded. "Cities forget too fast. I want to build something that remembers."
---
The next day, Lin Feng drove two hours west to visit the third satellite site—an abandoned terraced field near the base of Mt. Bilu.
He had sent a team weeks ago to test the soil and reinforce the access road. Now, rows of young tea saplings lined the mountain's shoulder like emerald steps ascending to the clouds.
A local woman, Auntie Mei, greeted him with a sun-warmed smile. "You came!"
Lin Feng grinned. "How's the soil treating us?"
"Like family," she said. "This land was thirsty for work. Now it sings."
He walked among the terraces, inspecting the drip irrigation lines and the mulch coverage. The air was thick with the scent of earth and budding leaves.
"What kind of tea will it be?" Auntie Mei asked.
"Fermented black," Lin Feng replied. "A blend with chrysanthemum and smoked orange peel."
She tilted her head. "Sounds like medicine."
"It will be," Lin Feng said. "In every cup."
---
As dusk fell, he sat on a wooden stool, looking out over the glowing fields.
This, he thought, was the real secret.
Not the magical space. Not the logistics web.
The soil spoke. He just listened better than most.
---
Meanwhile, in a sleek Beijing office, an investigative journalist named Luo Wei stared at a blank document on her laptop. The file was titled:
"The Myth of the Invisible Farmer."
She had traveled to three provinces. Spoken to distributors, chefs, truckers, and even a former rural affairs official. And yet, no one could give her a name.
Just a logo: a silver leaf over green soil.
And a feeling: warmth, trust, mystery.
She picked up her phone.
"Mr. Lin?" she said when he answered.
Silence.
"I just want to write the truth. No exposure, no threats. Just… understanding."
After a pause, Lin Feng replied, "Come to Chen Valley."
Luo Wei blinked. "Really?"
"You'll see what you need to see. Nothing more."
And then he hung up.
---
Back in Chen Valley, Lin Feng prepared for her arrival. He arranged for her to stay with one of the elders, not at a hotel. He told the villagers she was a friend researching oral history.
She arrived two days later—jeans, glasses, notebook in hand.
"I expected… more glass, more tech," she said as they walked the dirt path through the valley.
"You expected Shenzhen in the mountains?" Lin Feng asked.
She shrugged. "Something modern. This feels like a painting."
He smiled. "That's the point."
She watched a young boy carry a bamboo basket filled with sweet potatoes.
"And all this... happens without outside funding?"
"No subsidies," Lin Feng replied. "Just patience. And soil."
They walked past the greenhouse, which she wasn't allowed to enter, and along the herbal terraces. She noted everything in silence.
Later, as the sun dipped low, Lin Feng made her a cup of Morning Dew.
She took a sip and closed her eyes.
"This tastes like a childhood I never had," she whispered.
Lin Feng said nothing.
---
That night, Luo Wei sat on the porch of her host's home, watching fireflies dance.
She opened her notebook.
And instead of writing an exposé, she began a memoir.
---
By week's end, a letter arrived at Lin Feng's desk.
Not an email. A handwritten letter, sealed in red wax.
It read:
"To the cultivator who walks among roots—
You are noticed. Your model is impossible.
Yet it thrives.
That threatens too many.
We offer two choices:
Join our consortium. Or face systemic barriers.
This is not a threat.
It is a forecast."
There was no signature. No contact. Just coordinates to a private meeting spot in Hangzhou.
Lin Feng stared at the wax seal. It bore no logo—but the edge had a faint indent: a coin shape. An old network. Legacy capital.
He folded the letter, placed it in his drawer, and stood.
"Forecasts can be wrong," he said to no one in particular.
---
The next morning, he opened the Inner Realm and spent six hours transplanting lemon balm and lavender into a new pollinator garden near the aquaculture lake. Bees buzzed happily in the simulated sun, and the water glistened with life.
He watched the ecosystem he had created—every layer supporting the next. Roots feeding stems. Fish feeding plants. Plants feeding breath.
It was harmony. Invisible to the world. Unshakable.
And not for sale.
---
End of Chapter 27