The early morning light spilled gently into the central greenhouse, dappling the leaves of the first cold-weather test crops. Lin Feng was already up, moving from row to row with practiced ease, inspecting moisture levels, adjusting reflective panels, and occasionally recording notes on his wrist-bound device.
There was a tranquility in these moments that he never took for granted.
Here, the world slowed down.
Here, the surface tension of the outer world didn't matter.
But the quiet didn't last.
At precisely 6:47 AM, a soft chime from his secure line alerted him. A message came through—not text, not voice. Just a symbol: a stylized compass rose, with a crescent at its center.
He froze.
It was from Uncle Guan.
And that meant something was wrong.
---
Guan Shiren had once worked in central logistics for the Ministry of Agriculture, a man who understood not just food systems, but the deep channels of rural influence—the kind that didn't show up on budgets or reports. He had retired quietly to a village on the northern edge of Jiangnan, and Lin Feng had kept in occasional touch with him.
The symbol he sent wasn't used lightly. It was a warning. Not of attack—but of interest.
Someone from the higher echelons was watching.
Lin Feng set down his tools, cleaned his hands, and walked to the orchard edge where Yuhan was checking for early blossom signs.
"We have company," he said quietly.
She didn't look up. "Expected or unexpected?"
"Somewhere in between."
---
By noon, a clean white SUV pulled into Chen Valley. The driver stepped out and opened the rear door.
The man who exited wore a modest grey tunic and round glasses, his hair parted neatly and his demeanor more academic than administrative. He smiled as he looked around, taking in the cooperative's newly painted walls and the organized tool racks.
"Lin Feng," he greeted, voice calm. "It's good to finally meet."
Lin Feng nodded slowly. "Professor Ye."
Ye Xinghua. Not a bureaucrat. Not a businessman. A senior researcher at the Rural Development Policy Research Institute, attached to the central academy in Beijing.
If he was here, it meant policy was stirring—and Lin Feng's model had crossed someone's desk.
They walked together through the valley paths.
"This place is more organized than most county-level demonstration zones," Ye said, looking impressed. "But you've done it without direct subsidies or government branding. Curious."
"I prefer autonomy," Lin Feng replied simply.
Ye chuckled. "So do I. But autonomy often attracts attention. Especially when it disrupts food logistics margins in three provinces."
Lin Feng didn't respond.
"I'm not here to threaten you," Ye said gently. "I'm here to learn."
---
Inside the operations hall, over a pot of fragrant spring tea, Lin Feng laid out a pared-down version of his approach: crop rotation using cold-hardy varietals, decentralized cold-chain routes, zero middlemen, and vertically integrated output under a neutral logo.
Ye sipped slowly, then set down his cup.
"And what's your long-term goal?"
"Resilience," Lin Feng said. "Food systems fail when they're rigid. I want flexible redundancy, region by region."
Ye's eyes gleamed. "You sound like a policy paper I once buried in a drawer fifteen years ago."
They both laughed.
But Lin Feng's smile faded. "You didn't come just to compliment me."
"No," Ye admitted. "Word is, Shengtai Holdings is planning to consolidate five regional agri-cooperatives under a pilot smart-farming alliance. And they're targeting this region as a foothold."
Lin Feng's fingers drummed once on the table. "They'll force standardization. Barcode seeds. Centralized warehouses. Monitored farmer behavior."
Ye nodded. "You understand the threat."
"They don't want food," Lin Feng said. "They want control."
Ye stood. "If you resist publicly, they'll crush you. But if you survive… you'll set precedent."
He reached into his jacket and slid a sealed envelope onto the table.
"This is unofficial. It's just… a bridge, if you need it."
Then he left, just as quietly as he came.
---
That evening, Lin Feng opened the envelope. Inside was a dossier: contacts, channels, and one critical access pass—a coded authorization to submit policy deviation models directly to a grey-zone subcommittee within the Ministry of Agriculture.
It was a backdoor.
And it meant he had been invited to the real game.
---
Meanwhile, in the Inner Realm, Tang Suyin was experimenting with ultrasonic frequency bands on the bioluminescent Silverleaf strain.
"We may be able to train it," she murmured. "Not just respond to environmental input—but to intention."
The plant's micro-root tips extended a fraction when she hummed at a certain pitch.
It was subtle.
But it was real.
Yuhan watched, both awed and wary. "So… we're raising an intelligent species?"
Lin Feng stood by the edge of the grove. "We're listening to one that was already here."
---
Back in the outer world, an anonymous package was delivered to one of the elite restaurants in Suzhou.
It contained a simple black envelope.
Inside, a card:
> "Thank you for your discretion.
Your next batch arrives in three days.
— The Silverleaf Grower."
Word was spreading.
But not publicly.
Only among those who knew how to whisper.
---
Two days later, in a high-rise in Nanjing, a meeting was held behind closed doors.
Zhao Yunhe, flanked by two analysts, stared at a map filled with dotted lines and red circles.
"No traceable links. But we've tracked the driver rotation schedule. It's like a ghost network."
A younger analyst spoke up. "There's one anomaly. A customs professor from Beijing visited the cooperative in person."
Zhao narrowed his eyes. "Interesting."
The analyst hesitated. "He's connected to the Central Policy Academy."
Silence fell.
Then Zhao spoke: "Pull back for now. Don't press. Not until we understand who's protecting him."
He turned to the window.
"But keep watching. He'll slip somewhere. They always do."
---
In Chen Valley, the moonlight spilled across Lin Feng's quiet compound.
He sat by the edge of the garden, watching the wind ripple the young rice shoots in the shallow test plots.
Yuhan brought him a thermos of warm chrysanthemum tea.
"You're awfully still tonight," she said.
"I'm thinking."
"About?"
"How long I can remain hidden."
She sat beside him. "You've built layers. Mist. Mirrors. Ghost trails. But eventually…"
"Eventually," he agreed, "the tide comes in."
She leaned her head against his shoulder.
"Then we plant higher."
He smiled faintly. "Yes. That's the plan."
---
The next morning, three unmarked crates arrived by rail at a secure location outside Hangzhou. Inside were nutrient-enriched substrate samples, experimental seed pouches, and internal documents listing only symbols and lot numbers.
Each box bore a logo.
A silver leaf. No origin. No name.
And on a small slip of paper inside:
> "Begin quietly. Watch the soil. Listen for answers."
---
End of Chapter 36