Lin Feng poured the hot water slowly over the dried lemon balm and snow chrysanthemum petals.
A faint golden hue bloomed in the glass pot. Steam curled up in soft ribbons, carrying a light citrus scent with faint floral notes.
He waited exactly three minutes.
Then poured the tea into a small ceramic cup.
He didn't drink it right away. Instead, he leaned forward and inhaled.
Clean.
Layered.
Alive.
He sipped.
And smiled.
It worked.
He had spent the past two inner realm days experimenting with dozens of herbal combinations—dried in varying humidity levels, steeped at different temperatures, brewed in different orders.
Tea wasn't just about ingredients. It was about time—and for once, time was the one thing he had more of than anyone else.
In the realm, he could process herbs for two months and return to the real world within 24 hours.
It changed everything.
Oxidation. Fermentation. Aging. None of it needed artificial tricks.
He could age tea leaves naturally—inside a realm where he controlled every variable.
No rushed production. No preservatives. No guesswork.
Only patience.
Only intention.
By the third batch, he had developed a line of blends:
Sunrise Mist – A calming morning brew with floral mint, dried lemon balm, and snow chrysanthemum. Light, refreshing.
Forest Breath – A robust afternoon blend with toasted barley, spearmint, and aged red shiso. Earthy, grounding.
Evening Rain – A sleep-supporting tea with lavender, passionflower, and hint of pear leaf. Subtle sweetness.
Each came with a handwritten card explaining the blend's profile and steeping notes.
He packaged them in small bamboo canisters, sealed with wax and linen string, labeled with the Chen Valley brand.
He only made 50 of each.
The rest stayed in the realm to age further.
Lin Feng uploaded the teas to his mini-program as a soft release.
He didn't promote.
No banners. No sponsored content. Not even a teaser on his main page.
They still sold out in under four hours.
And the feedback rolled in two days later.
"The mint hits like it was picked this morning. How??"
"My grandma cried drinking the barley blend. Said it reminded her of her childhood."
"Can I subscribe for monthly boxes? PLEASE?"
He didn't answer.
Not yet.
Instead, he took the tea sales as proof of concept—and moved on to the next test.
In the inner realm, he marked out a new stone-paved section near the river.
It would be his Preservation Zone—a place to store dried herbs, mushrooms, aged tea, seeds, and even wood.
He began experimenting with storing fresh-picked mushrooms for 60 inner days (less than 15 hours in the real world) to simulate long-distance shipping conditions. Then took them out and delivered them to a chef contact anonymously.
"Still fresh," the chef texted. "Better than my air imports. Are you using nitrogen packs?"
He wasn't.
Just a cave in a world where time bent to his will.
He also tested aging a set of cedar chips and sandalwood in a sealed clay jar.
In two outer-world hours, they had "aged" a full six months.
He burned a sliver.
The scent hit immediately—deep, smooth, resinous.
He smiled.
He didn't need a warehouse.
He didn't need a supply chain.
He was the warehouse.
He was the time machine.
By midweek, Liu Ying reached out again.
"You free this Saturday? There's a low-key tasting event at a design café. Invite-only, but they're allowing farm-to-cup producers. No banners, just quiet networking."
Lin Feng paused.
It wasn't his style.
But something made him say:
"Where?"
"Nanshan. 3 p.m. I'll add you to the list."
"Anyone I know going?"
"Maybe. Xu Yuhan might show up. She's working on a doc segment about ethical sourcing in niche cafés."
He paused longer this time.
Then typed:
"See you there."
Saturday came with soft sunlight and no wind.
Lin Feng wore a white shirt, clean black trousers, and a linen jacket. Simple. Neat. Non-descript.
The café was a converted warehouse space with hanging plants, long oak tables, and minimalist ceramic decor. Not trendy—tasteful.
The moment he stepped in, the mix of scents overwhelmed him—coffee, lemongrass, citrus oils, warm yeast.
People milled about quietly, speaking in low tones. Creatives. Chefs. Growers. Filmmakers.
He moved through them like a ghost.
Until he saw her.
Xu Yuhan.
Hair pinned up. Wide-leg slacks. Loose blouse with rolled sleeves. A camera bag slung across her back.
She saw him too—and smiled, not surprised.
"You came."
"You invited me."
"No," she corrected. "Liu Ying invited you. I just didn't stop her."
He laughed.
They found an empty table near the wall, far from the barista demos.
She pulled out a pocket recorder, placed it on the table, but didn't turn it on.
"Still off the record?"
"For now," he said.
She studied him.
"You really don't want credit, do you?"
He looked out the window. Sunlight filtered through a curtain of hanging vines.
"I want freedom. Not fame."
She nodded, then changed the subject.
"Did you try the herbal spritz from Table 3?"
"Not yet."
"They're using your mint."
He turned back to her.
She just smirked.
"Don't ask how I know. I've tasted enough herbs to recognize yours."
He chuckled.
"You've got a sharp palate."
She leaned forward.
"And you've got a sharp secret."
He didn't deny it.
Just smiled, slow and tired.
"Some things grow best in the dark."
Later, they sat through a short Q&A from a tea researcher.
At the end, the host invited audience members to share a tasting note or a unique blend.
Xu Yuhan nudged him. "Go. Talk about Sunrise Mist."
He shook his head. "It's not time."
"You're already in the room."
"Doesn't mean I have to speak."
She gave him a long look.
Not disapproving. Just… seeing.
"All right," she said softly. "But one day, people will ask. And you won't be able to stay quiet."
He sipped his tea.
And wondered if she was right.
That night, back in the realm, he added new shelves to the preservation zone.
Placed six more tea batches to age.
Set up cedar logs for carving.
And walked barefoot through the moss near the river, thinking not of markets or logistics, but of connection.
He had met someone who made him feel seen—without needing to explain the whole truth.
Not yet.
But maybe…
Eventually.
He glanced at the night sky.
A shooting star streaked across it.
In here, even time respected his silence.
End of Chapter 10