The second plot, once seeded and receiving its nightly dose of enhanced water, sprang to life with the same quiet vigor as the first. Within days, the neat rows were dotted with green. Lin Feng watched it with a farmer's pride that was slowly becoming genuine, not just a cover for his secret.
His days settled into a new, more complex rhythm. Mornings were still for food delivery, but he now treated it like a warm-up, a way to stay connected to the city's pulse and earn a little guaranteed cash. His real work began at 10 AM.
The green tricycle became a familiar sight in three city zones. His customers, mostly young professionals and parents, appreciated the reliability and the shocking quality. "Veggie Uncle's" reputation grew quietly, fueled by social media posts of vibrant salads and glowing testimonials in neighborhood chat groups.
One Wednesday, a new customer, a stylish woman in her forties named Ms. Zhang, stopped him after he handed over her bag of tomatoes and cucumbers. "These are exceptional. Truly. Do you ever consider supplying to restaurants?"
The question caught Lin Feng off guard. He'd been thinking in terms of bags and individual customers. "Restaurants?"
"Yes," Ms. Zhang said. "I'm friends with the owner of a small, farm-to-table place called 'The Green Spoon' in the arts district. They're always hunting for local, quality produce. Your vegetables… they have a taste. A vitality. I think they'd be interested."
Lin Feng's mind raced. A restaurant would mean larger, consistent orders. Higher prices, probably. But also more scrutiny. "I… I don't have a huge operation," he said truthfully.
"They don't need huge. They need special. Here." She pulled out her phone, tapped the screen, and showed him a contact. "Just tell him I sent you. His name is Chef Luo."
Lin Feng saved the number, a mix of excitement and anxiety churning in his stomach. This was a new level.
Meanwhile, working with Ma Tao became easier. The young man was cheerful, hardworking, and asked few questions. He accepted Lin Feng's vague explanations about "special organic techniques" he was experimenting with. His focus was on the physical tasks—staking the tomatoes, training the cucumber vines, weeding—which he did with a careful, knowing touch.
One afternoon, as they tied up heavy tomato branches laden with fruit, Ma Tao shook his head in amazement. "I've never seen plants set fruit so evenly. No blossom drop. It's like every flower knows it's supposed to become a tomato." He said it as a compliment to the plants, not an accusation.
Lin Feng kept his tone light. "Lucky, I guess. Good soil, good water."
"Must be," Ma Tao agreed, not pushing further. He seemed content to enjoy the success of the work.
A week after Ms. Zhang's suggestion, Lin Feng gathered his courage. He selected his very best produce: perfect, blemish-free tomatoes, straight cucumbers, deep green spinach, and a few of his first, sweet eggplants. He arranged them carefully in a clean crate, not a bag, and drove the tricycle to the arts district.
'The Green Spoon' was a cozy, brick-walled restaurant with potted herbs in the windows. It was between lunch and dinner service. A man in a clean chef's jacket, with sharp eyes and a tired but focused expression, was examining invoices at a small bar. This was Chef Luo.
Lin Feng introduced himself, his voice firmer than he felt. "Ms. Zhang suggested I bring you some samples."
Chef Luo looked him over, then peered into the crate. His demeanor changed instantly. He picked up a tomato, held it to his nose, inhaled deeply. He pressed his thumb gently against the skin. He did the same with a cucumber, snapping it in half and listening to the crisp sound. He tasted a small piece of the raw eggplant, his eyebrows lifting.
"Where is your farm?" Chef Luo asked, his eyes not leaving the produce.
"East of the city, by the river. Small, personal plot."
"Organic?"
"No chemical pesticides or fertilizers," Lin Feng said, which was technically true. The Spiritual Spring water seemed to make pests uninterested and the plants incredibly robust.
Chef Luo finally looked at him. "This is good. This is very, very good. The flavor profile is intense. The texture is perfect." He set the tomato down. "Can you supply me regularly? I need a consistent list: tomatoes, cucumbers, mixed salad greens, eggplants when in season. Twice a week. Delivery before 3 PM."
They discussed quantities and price. Chef Luo named a figure per kilogram that made Lin Feng's heart skip a beat. It was double what he charged his residential customers. But the chef's demands were specific: consistent size, perfect quality, absolutely fresh.
"I can do that," Lin Feng said, forcing calm into his voice.
"Good. Start next Wednesday. We'll do a trial month." Chef Luo handed him a business card. "My direct number. Any problems, you call me."
Driving home, the empty crate rattling in the back of the tricycle, Lin Feng felt a seismic shift. This was a contract. A real business arrangement. He needed to plan. He needed to be reliable.
That evening, he sat on his small bed with his notepad. He calculated the yield from his four acres. Supplying Chef Luo would take about a third of his current harvest. He could keep his regular customers happy with the rest, maybe even add a few more. The income projection for the coming month was a number he had to check twice.
He looked at the jade pendant, now resting on the worn wood of his nightstand. It was no longer just a secret source of strange water. It was the silent engine of an enterprise. He felt the weight of it, not in his pocket, but on his shoulders. People were depending on him now—Ma Tao for work, Chef Luo for supply, Mrs. Chen and dozens of others for their weekly taste of something extraordinary.
He picked up the pendant. It was warm, as always. "Okay," he said quietly to the empty room. "We need to be consistent. No surprises."
The next day, he approached Ma Tao with a new proposal. "The work is getting steady. Would you be interested in a regular job? Two half-days a week, for harvesting and general maintenance. Fixed pay."
Ma Tao's face broke into a wide grin. "A real job? Yes. Absolutely, yes."
Lin Feng nodded, a manager making his first hire. "Good. We start properly next week."
As he watered the plots that night, the routine felt different. It wasn't just cultivation anymore. It was production. The rows of plants were no longer just a miraculous secret; they were inventory, assets. The water from the can was an investment.
He finished his rounds and stood at the edge of the second plot, where the melon vines were just beginning to creep. The city lights were a distant glow. Here, it was just the sound of the river and the scent of damp earth and growing things. He had built a life here, brick by brick, row by row. It was small, and it rested on a secret, but it was his.
He had a farm. He had a business. He had a helper.
The thought was so simple, so staggering, that he laughed out loud, the sound swallowed by the vast, dark sky. For an orphan who used to count every yuan for noodles, it was everything.