The skies over Chen Valley were unusually clear that morning. The kind of crystalline blue that made everything beneath it feel purer—richer. Lin Feng stood atop the new cold-storage facility's rooftop, breathing in deeply. The wind carried the scent of loamy soil, mountain pine, and flowering buckwheat.
But his mind was elsewhere.
The red-wax letter still lay in the drawer of his office. He hadn't responded, and he didn't intend to—not in words, at least. If they wanted to see his answer, they would have to study his next move.
And his next move had to be unpredictable.
---
Inside the Inner Realm, time flowed slowly. A day inside meant only 14 minutes outside. Lin Feng had taken full advantage of this during the night.
The bee colonies in the new pollinator garden were thriving. Each flower bed of calendula, lavender, and lemon balm pulsed with life. He had added a border of wild thistle, carefully trimmed, to attract rare alpine bee species that improved pollen diversity.
In the aquaculture pond, he adjusted the water flow so that oxygen saturation remained optimal. His herbal fish feed formula had improved both fish growth and flavor profile. Soon, these would enter his silent supply chain—coded only by lot number and expiration date. No brand. No trace.
Lin Feng paused for a moment, letting the silence surround him. The Inner Realm was still a secret no one knew, and yet it was the root of everything.
"I grow empires," he whispered, "the same way I grow basil. From the soil up."
---
Back in the real world, a subtle disruption rippled through the cooperative.
One of the courier trucks had been pulled over by provincial inspectors. Not for traffic violations, but for "random agricultural audit." The driver, Wu Tao, had been questioned for over two hours about the origin of the produce, destination records, and pesticide usage data.
They had nothing, of course. Every record Lin Feng kept was perfect. But the message was clear: they were starting to probe.
Wu Tao returned shaken. "Boss, they weren't just checking documents. They asked why we don't use fertilizer."
Lin Feng remained calm. "What did you say?"
"That the soil is enriched naturally. Compost cycles. Cover crops. They didn't believe me."
Lin Feng nodded. "Next time, say less. Just point to the records."
"But why now?" Wu Tao asked. "Why care about a small village truck?"
Lin Feng's voice was steady. "Because someone wants me to feel watched."
---
In response, Lin Feng rolled out Project Camouflage.
All delivery manifests would now use a randomized rotation of farm names—legally registered but wholly synthetic. Each shell farm had been filed over the last six months, each one with a fictional head farmer, distinct GPS plots, and dummy sales histories.
The real produce moved invisibly through this veil of bureaucracy.
Liu Qiang, now familiar with Lin Feng's operations, called it "an agricultural witness protection program."
It worked.
Within a week, no delivery could be linked back to the valley with certainty.
But Lin Feng knew this was temporary. He needed another angle of defense.
---
That angle arrived unexpectedly.
Xu Yuhan burst into the office with a flash drive in hand.
"You need to see this," she said.
On the screen: a video clip from an investor conference in Shanghai. The stage bore the logo of ZhenHua Agricultural Holdings, one of the most powerful conglomerates in East China. A tall man in a navy suit was presenting.
"Our next acquisition target is an anonymous organic supply chain gaining traction in four provinces," he said. "We've traced several products back to a central logistics algorithm. The quality is unrivaled. But the origin is... untraceable."
He paused for dramatic effect.
"We will find it. And own it. Or outproduce it."
Xu Yuhan turned to Lin Feng. "They're naming you without naming you."
He didn't look surprised. "Let them try."
"They have billions in capital, Lin Feng."
He met her gaze. "Capital doesn't grow flavor. Soil does."
---
Over the next few days, Lin Feng initiated Operation Seed Memory.
He began storing and cataloguing seeds from every heirloom crop he grew inside the Inner Realm. Tomatoes, eggplant, scallions, ginger, and the rare Silverleaf Greens. Each seed variety was sealed in climate-controlled vacuum capsules and labeled by growth pattern, nutrient curve, and optimal soil type.
He was creating his own genetic vault—not for protection, but for permanence.
If the world outside turned hostile, he could disappear into the realm and return years later with the power to regrow everything from scratch.
Legacy, encrypted in seeds.
---
Meanwhile, Luo Wei had returned to the city, her notebook now filled with more emotion than facts.
She published her article not as a piece of journalism, but as a creative short story, titled:
"The Farmer Who Hides in Mist."
It told the tale of a nameless cultivator who grew food of such perfection that it healed the bitterness in city dwellers' hearts. No names were used. No locations. Just metaphors, poetry, and longing.
It went viral.
Readers from Shanghai to Kunming commented:
> "I want to taste this food."
"I wish this farmer were real."
"This story feels like a memory I never lived."
Lin Feng read the piece quietly. It revealed nothing. But it stirred something even more dangerous: desire.
---
Days later, orders tripled.
Chefs began requesting anonymous samples with silver leaf logos. Online gourmet influencers posted cryptic unboxing videos. One even cried on camera after tasting Lin Feng's cured white radish chips.
But Lin Feng didn't increase production. He cut it by 20%.
He knew the rules of scarcity. He wasn't chasing virality.
He was crafting myth.
---
Yet not all attention was silent.
Late one evening, a man knocked on Lin Feng's door.
He was in his late fifties, sharp eyes behind rural-worn features. His name was Old Master Yuan, a retired official once in charge of the region's agricultural bureau. No one had seen him in years.
"I came to talk about your father," he said.
Lin Feng tensed. "You knew him?"
Yuan nodded. "He tried to do what you're doing. Too soon. Too loudly."
Lin Feng's breath caught.
"They crushed him," Yuan continued. "Not with violence. With paperwork. Loans revoked. Certification denied. Rumors planted."
Lin Feng's voice was low. "Why are you telling me this now?"
"Because you've done something your father never managed—you made yourself a myth before they made you a memory."
Lin Feng said nothing.
Yuan leaned closer. "But myths don't last forever. You'll have to choose: do you become a legend... or a ghost?"
---
Later that night, Lin Feng stood at the edge of his hidden aquaponics tunnel. The hum of pumps echoed gently. He dropped in a few herbal pellets. The fish glided through the moonlit water.
He thought of his father. The quiet man who once taught him how to recognize healthy soil by smell alone. Who died with debts but no regrets.
"I'm not here to be remembered," Lin Feng whispered. "I'm here to remain."
---
And so he began his final countermeasure.
He encoded his farming systems—nutrient formulas, soil enhancement cycles, cold-chain logistics protocols—into a decentralized database.
Then he split the code into 23 parts and distributed them across trusted rural nodes: village libraries, temple servers, even a weather station on the Tibetan plateau.
A digital root system. Untraceable. Unbreakable.
If anything happened to him, the system would regrow.
---
By week's end, he received another letter. No wax seal this time. Just a printed card.
"You are clever. But the earth shifts constantly.
Meet us in Hangzhou.
Final invitation."
Lin Feng stared at the card for a long time.
Then he lit a match.
And watched it burn.
---
End of Chapter 28