Chapter 8

With people outside, Qiao Ning abandoned the idea of Spirit Spring-forcing more strawberries into existence.

There’d been quite a commotion earlier today—no sound, but that strawberry fragrance had pickled him to the bone.

One more round, and that couple out there would assume he was hiding under his covers gorging on strawberries.

He wandered the bedroom looking for something to do. No more pot experiments tonight. His Graduation Design Project had been finished before rebirth, already discussed with his Academic Advisor; after rebirth he’d given it a simple upgrade—it hadn’t taken long.

Suddenly he had nothing to do.

Too idle.

He’d never been this idle. Idle to the point of not knowing what to do with himself.

This wouldn’t do.

Qiao Ning thought: was he fated to toil, born and bred?

No. My fate is mine, not Heaven’s!

Nothing to do? Then lie down. Lying down definitely beats standing.

Qiao Ning grabbed his change of clothes and went out to the outside bathroom to shower—the rental had two bathrooms: one en suite in the Master Bedroom, one in the hall. The hall one was tacitly Qiao Ning’s, since he obviously couldn’t barge into the master bedroom’s bathroom.

Though the male housemate sometimes used the hall bathroom too. Qiao Ning thought that fair enough—two people, there were bound to be awkward moments.

When he came out with his clothes, the young couple was tangled on the sofa, kissing like they couldn’t bear to part. Qiao Ning crossed the living room with eyes perfectly straight ahead.

Shower done, hair dried, he flopped onto his bed and explored his new phone.

After some idle chatting with the roommates in the group, Qiao Ning started playing the games Sixth Brother had recommended.

Perhaps out of contempt for his little dress-up game, everything Lu Zeyu recommended had a real learning curve. Qiao Ning got stonewalled the moment he entered. His honors-student competitiveness flared—fine, he’d look up guides and tricks. He opened a webpage, then closed it.

Forget it. Why make gaming exhausting? He was supposed to be lying flat.

He went back to the dress-up game for another hour-plus.

The game let you raise multiple little characters, male or female. Qiao Ning had a son and a daughter; dressing the kids up, he whiled away the time happily.

Finally landing scores in the eighties and nineties, Qiao Ning shut off his phone with deep satisfaction and went to sleep.

Early the next morning, his biological clock woke him bright and early.

Knowing there was nothing he had to do—no forcing himself out of bed through exhaustion, no mustering energy for difficult work and annoying office politics—Qiao Ning’s mood floated weightless with joy.

He lazily rolled over. His first-ever lie-in.

Lying flat really is blissful. Who wouldn’t want days like these?

Traces of strawberry fragrance still lingered in the room. Catching it in the early morning, his fasted stomach from a sleepless night growled loudly.

Only then did Qiao Ning crawl out of bed—once again regretting not saving any strawberries yesterday. A few this morning would have been so refreshing.

No matter. There’d be more delicious strawberries.

Up, washed, dressed. The couple next door seemed to have left already—no sounds.

But the moment he entered the bathroom, Qiao Ning’s brow furrowed.

The window was shut, the room stuffy with trapped steam. Someone had showered and not opened the window to ventilate.

The old building’s structure and fixtures weren’t great—the bathroom needed frequent airing, especially after showers. The landlord had reminded them at move-in.

Frowning, Qiao Ning opened the window and wiped down the residual moisture.

Roommates doing this was just a fact of shared living. “Forgot,” what could you do? Mercifully, his lease had under two months left.

Freshened up, Qiao Ning returned to his room, dug out his old phone out of habit before remembering most apps would need re-logging—he’d changed phones.

He’d assumed no one would contact him this morning. He’d quit most of his old part-time job groups, and school had nothing going. Instead—several WeChat messages.

[Joyful Family: Pretty boy, are you selling strawberries today? When’s the stall?]

[Plum Wine: Boss, any strawberries today?]

[qiii: Same spot as yesterday?]

…

All customers who’d added him yesterday. Some he remembered—like “Joyful Family,” the auntie who’d bought six boxes in one go.

Most sent a single inquiry, timestamps ranging from midnight to this morning. No reply, no follow-up.

Except one called “A Devoted Foodie Heart,” who’d sent several in a row:

[Boss, are you selling strawberries tomorrow?]

[Oh wait, it’s past midnight. I mean this afternoon?]

[Handsome, are you asleep? Your strawberries have me so obsessed I can’t sleep.]

Qiao Ning: “?”

He replied to each customer in turn: no stall today, none for the next several days.

For now he only planned to grow a little with the Spirit Spring for himself. Yesterday’s situation—a sudden windfall with zero preparation, strawberries growing too fast and splitting when they dropped—wasn’t something to repeat.

Besides, he had no containers or anything. If he did stall again, he’d need to prepare first.

The customers all expressed their disappointment. Having replied, Qiao Ning couldn’t resist Baidu-ing what “strawberry” meant in slang.

He read it and fell silent. Too trendy for a fake-youngster like him.

The next several days passed leisurely. Qiao Ning bought containers of various sizes for mixing Spirit Spring water at different ratios, recording their varying effects on the plants.

This was what he should have done before yesterday—but an accident had intervened, forcing him to sell strawberries instead.

After a few days, rough results emerged.

The big plastic bucket—about thirty liters—diluted with a single drop of Spirit Spring water, when used for watering, produced no forced growth. Plants simply looked more vigorous, growing better.

Below that ratio, Spirit Spring water produced varying degrees of stimulation: more leaves, new flower buds, little fruits, and so on.

Less dilution, stronger effect.

The ten-odd pots at home had transformed dramatically over these days.

Strawberry No. 2 had already gone through two or three rounds of fruiting. Qiao Ning had mixed up a suitable ratio—enough to make a potted strawberry set one round of fruit per day.

The problem: Spirit Spring water was still water. Watering it daily for days on end, he succeeded in drowning Strawberry No. 2 to death.

Thankfully, No. 2’s cautionary tale spared the others. Qiao Ning watered with much more restraint.

Still, under the Spirit Spring’s influence, the blueberries and cherry tomatoes had each fruited once.

Their taste needed no elaboration. The spring didn’t change a fruit’s inherent flavor—it amplified its qualities, making each fruit’s own character and texture better.

The blueberries were sweet, with only a barely perceptible tartness, the texture crisp-tender and juicy—one bite and the juice burst across the palate, a distinctive pleasure.

The cherry tomatoes—maybe a variety thing—came out somewhat sour, the most tart of the three fruits, with less sweetness.

But not bad—quite the opposite. This was the one you couldn’t stop eating: a thin skin wrapping juicy flesh, sweet and sour interwoven, bursting juice with every bite. The tartness wasn’t harsh; it simply hooked you—finish one, and you couldn’t help reaching for the next. A phenomenal appetite-opener.

Qiao Ning couldn’t stop eating. He’d never thought of himself as a fruit lover, but Spirit Spring fruit was simply too good—eating it daily never palled.

And it wasn’t just him—everyone who’d tasted it was hooked.

Every day brought WeChat messages from old customers asking whether he’d set up a stall.

Even his dorm brothers asked—did our bro still have those strawberries? They’d pay.

Qiao Ning could only tell them to wait. His plan: finish his experiments, then force-grow all the house plants in one go—except the kumquat and aloe—and hold one more stall to sell the entire harvest.

The rental apartment was inconvenient too—barely better than the dorm.

The leftover Spirit Spring water from experiments went partly to the fish, shrimp, and clams—days now, still thriving in their basins. Qiao Ning changed their water daily and fed them fruit, crushing bits of whatever he was eating and sprinkling it in. They ate it all willingly.

The rest he used to wash his face, hands, and feet—not a drop wasted.

After several days, whether illusion or not, Qiao Ning felt the skin on his face and hands had improved.

His face was hard to judge—he’d never studied it closely—but the skin seemed finer. His hands, though, had small scars and calluses, and these showed signs of fading.

With the ratios finally mapped, Qiao Ning finally turned to the fish, shrimp, and clams he’d kept for days.

His cooking was mediocre. His best dish: instant noodles. First no means, later no time.

Though he wasn’t exactly a kitchen destroyer—at worst his food was unappetizing, but edible.

He found tutorials and kept it simple: braised fish soup—lots of water, guaranteed not to burn.

What’s that? Carp isn’t good for soup? Whatever—it was for himself.

The hardest part for Qiao Ning was pan-frying the fish. Terrified of burning it, he hadn’t seared it long enough—but no matter.

Shrimp and clams together, prepped into a Vermicelli Claypot—he’d watched the tutorial, this one wasn’t easy to burn either. Layer by layer: onion, napa cabbage, enoki mushrooms, vermicelli, clams, and shrimp, add water and garlic sauce, simmer slowly. The garlic sauce could even be store-bought.

On his meager cooking skills, Qiao Ning finished the pot and the soup, plus some steamed rice.

Before it was done, he’d been a bit nervous—afraid he’d made it inedible but would have to force it down anyway. Grandpa had taught him from childhood never to waste food, and Qiao Ning had known genuine hunger.

As the aroma drifted out, those worries evaporated.

So fragrant.

A rich, savory scent unlike the sweetness of fruit—that piping-hot aroma of ingredients transformed by fire, drawing floods of saliva, his stomach starting to rumble. Whether from hunger or craving, who could tell?