The monsoon rains swept across Chen Valley in gentle sheets, drenching fields and roofs alike. Villagers tucked themselves into homes, sipping ginger tea, while smoke curled up from scattered chimneys. The scent of wet soil mixed with the faint aroma of camphor leaves, carried by the breeze.
But inside the central cooperative building, Lin Feng was far from idle.
A large table was spread with parchment sheets, satellite maps, and elevation data. Digital projections layered over physical topography, forming a quilt of intelligence. At its heart was a map that bore no names—just symbols.
Silver leaves.
A dotted trail from the southern coast to the inland rivers, zigzagging through counties, forgotten towns, and underdeveloped corridors.
The beginnings of a distribution web that no one had seen… yet.
Liu Qiang stood by with a pen in hand, scribbling annotations.
"So these nodes—are they officially registered?"
"No," Lin Feng replied without looking up. "Each operates as a separate entity, licensed to a different rural development initiative. The common thread is buried in service agreements, not ownership."
"Smart," Liu Qiang muttered. "Invisible ink on a visible canvas."
Lin Feng allowed a rare smile. "Even a spider doesn't announce its web."
---
Down in the valley, Xu Yuhan was filming an interview with a retired herb farmer, one of the cooperative's oldest members.
"The boy," the old man said, chuckling, "came to us with soft hands and big ideas. We laughed. But then he made water flow uphill."
Xu Yuhan grinned behind the camera. "And now?"
The old man leaned closer. "Now we don't laugh. We listen."
The footage, lightly edited and layered with acoustic guzheng music, was uploaded to a quiet subchannel titled: Stories from the Soil.
In three days, it racked up 400,000 views.
None were from official platforms.
They came from private groups. Whitelisted forums. Food blogs. Alt-health communities.
The legend of Silverleaf was spreading.
Not through PR—through mythos.
---
Back in the Inner Realm, Lin Feng moved with silent purpose.
He was in the fermentation chamber—an underground section built from natural stone slabs he had smoothed himself with spirit-imbued water. Large earthen vats lined the walls, their contents sealed with wax.
In one, pickled red-gold tubers aged with wild garlic and mineral salts.
In another, green plums soaked in honeyed liquor from his own rice grain distillate.
He opened a smaller vat and inhaled.
A pungent yet floral aroma—fermented black chrysanthemum paste—a concentrate rumored in old texts to invigorate blood and calm the spirit.
"Three more weeks," he murmured.
The Inner Realm wasn't just a growing chamber anymore.
It was becoming an alchemy lab.
---
That same night, a message pinged his encrypted line. From an alias known only to a handful in China's hidden agricultural circuits:
"Trade Ministerial Delegation seeking rural innovation pilot. Nominate one name. You're on the shortlist."
Xu Yuhan read the message and immediately turned toward Lin Feng.
"You're not seriously going to apply, are you?"
"No," Lin Feng said.
"Why not?"
"Because they want a face," he replied. "And I'm building a system."
---
Meanwhile, word reached the neighboring Qingshi Town that "premium green produce" from an unknown village was fetching triple price at underground markets in Nanjing.
A local factory owner, surnamed Hao, known for opportunistic ventures, decided to investigate.
He arrived in Chen Valley unannounced, rolling in with a convoy of SUVs. His men tried to talk to villagers, flashing cash and business cards.
"Where's your boss? We want to talk expansion!"
They got only silence, half-smiles, and confused head shakes.
When they reached the cooperative's front gate, a tall man in overalls stepped out.
It was Liu Qiang.
"Deliveries aren't accepted from unknown buyers," he said calmly.
"We're not here to deliver," one of Hao's men snapped. "We're here to buy in bulk. Triple market price."
Liu Qiang folded his arms. "Even if we were selling, we don't sell to anyone without a taste."
"A taste?"
"Try the product. See if it suits your conscience. Then we talk."
Confused, the men accepted two sample crates. They left, scowling.
A week later, they didn't return. Word had gotten back—whatever those vegetables were, they weren't replicable. Hao's own test crops failed miserably.
Because the soil hadn't listened.
---
Inside the cooperative's server room—a modest but secure chamber—Lin Feng checked the network logs. Usage spikes were rising across his applet-based traceability platform.
Every item shipped under the silver leaf now came with a six-digit authenticity key embedded in a biodegradable label. Consumers could scan it to trace the growth timeline, harvest date, and even weather conditions during cultivation.
It didn't mention a farm.
It simply listed:
> "Region: Southern Highlands. Network Node: 112-Green."
Verified by: Mountain Soil Collaborative."
Xu Yuhan looked over his shoulder. "It's becoming a world. Not just a business."
"No," Lin Feng said. "It's becoming a mycelium. It feeds quietly, spreads silently, and breaks through concrete when no one expects it."
---
That weekend, a small summit of regional cooperative leaders convened in the old town of Xiyan. The goal: share methods and resist takeover attempts by industrial agricultural giants.
Lin Feng was invited. He didn't attend.
But he sent something else.
A wooden crate containing:
One vacuum-sealed Silverleaf bundle
One root-stamped Red-Gold Tuber
A flask of fermented black chrysanthemum liquor
A slip of rice paper with only five words:
"Let your soil speak first."
By Monday, nine co-op leaders requested a quiet meeting in Chen Valley.
He scheduled them over tea—one at a time.
---
On Tuesday, the storm returned.
Not from nature. From power.
A provincial compliance team arrived with a clipboard and government badges, declaring a random inspection of Guanshi Storage Depot No. 3.
Lin Feng greeted them calmly.
"I hope you enjoy the rain," he said as they stepped into the depot.
They went room to room, measuring temperatures, opening crates, questioning staff.
Then, they found something unexpected.
A climate-controlled chamber holding experimental sprouting stations for watercress hybrids.
"These aren't registered," the inspector said flatly.
"They're not for sale," Lin Feng replied. "They're part of a drought-resistant research study funded by a local biodiversity grant."
He handed over the documentation—fully legal, fully vetted.
The inspector's expression froze.
Thirty minutes later, they left.
No violations found.
Outside, Xu Yuhan smirked. "You planned that?"
Lin Feng simply said, "Rain only exposes leaks if you're unprepared."
---
That evening, the power flickered briefly in the village. The generator kicked in smoothly. Children laughed in the dark for a moment before the lights returned.
Lin Feng sat in the Inner Realm under a willow tree, holding a small wooden box.
Inside were ten black seeds, sharp-edged and oddly warm to the touch.
They weren't from Earth.
They were from the edge of his realm—sprouted spontaneously, like the obsidian flower.
He called them: "Nightroots."
He didn't know what they were yet.
But he would find out.
Because the soil was now thinking with him.
---
End of Chapter 31