Chapter 10

Qiao Ning spent over an hour in the bathroom.

He lost count of how many times he showered. At first he washed the moment he got dirty; then, discovering the blackish-grey substance reappeared right after washing, he simply waited it out between scrubs.

Nearly two hours of this back and forth. Finally he waited a good fifteen minutes, confirmed the weird stuff wasn’t coming back, and took one last shower. A freshly unwrapped bar of soap, nearly used up.

He changed into clean clothes—and as he pulled the shirt over his head, something scraped painfully against his skin. Qiao Ning touched the sore spot, twisted his arm around, and stared in shock at the red mark on his inner forearm.

Since when was he this fragile?!

The fabric was a bit stiff, the inner seam scraped him once—and it went red?

And clearly, he’d gotten even fairer—his skin now translucently white, making that red streak all the more glaring.

Qiao Ning: “…”

He dug out a loose old T-shirt for an underlayer—washed so many times the fabric had gone butter-soft—then put on his jacket.

Pulling on his trousers, Qiao Ning tugged at the hems, and all his tangled feelings converted into pure delight.

He’d gotten taller again!

Definitely taller. These were straight-cut standard trousers from freshman year—hem covering a bit of his instep. He’d grown during university; by last autumn they no longer covered it.

Now, wearing them again—they’d become cropped trousers!

Too excited even to change into different pants, Qiao Ning raced to the bathroom and planted himself before the mirror. Confirmation: he had grown.

The mirror was fixed at a set height. When he’d moved in, prompted by the landlady’s comment, he’d studied his reflection carefully; he remembered the mirror’s usual height against him. Comparing now, the mirror had gotten lower.

Which meant—he’d gotten taller!

Golden Finger, you’re the best!

Before the joy faded, Qiao Ning caught sight of the person in the mirror—and froze.

Was that him?

Of course it was him.

Same face. Same person. And yet—different.

The fairer skin, he’d already noticed. But he’d been out working and rushing around so often, his face ran two shades darker than his inner arm—and his arms had never been dark to begin with.

Now his whole face was clear and luminous, dark-haired and fair-skinned. Even his lips—naturally pale-pinkish from years of poor nutrition—had turned rosier, though maybe that was just the snow-white complexion throwing them into relief.

His features, his face shape—unchanged. And yet everything was different.

If he had to put it into words: like a layer of dull haze had been blown away, and a beauty filter laid over him. Skin fine and white, hair ink-black, lashes thick, eyes clear and bright, red lips and white teeth—a crisp freshness radiating from within.

Qiao Ning dazedly pinched his own cheek. It hurt.

He hadn’t changed, and he had. The skin of his face felt finer, pores nearly invisible; the faint acne marks and little scars were gone—yet the two small moles remained.

Just below his left eye, running vertically about a centimeter apart, two connected moles.

As a child he’d heard the village elders say these moles sat badly—born with a “tear mole,” a weeping face, a lifetime of tears that would never run dry.

Young Qiao Ning had been quite the crier—easily moved to tears, hiccuping and whimpering before he could even speak clearly. Fell down: cry. Woke scared at night: cry. Drinking his own medicine: cry. Watching his brother take medicine: cry for him too.

When the villagers said those things, he couldn’t understand the words, only sensed they meant something bad—and his lips would quiver and the tears would fall again.

Then someone would pop a piece of candy in his mouth, and Qiao Ning, cheeks still wet, would be smiling again.

The neighbor’s older brother, who fished out a little handkerchief to wipe his tears, would tell the village elders with a grave little face: “Naonao stops crying when he has candy. All my candy is his, so he’ll never shed a tear.”

The adults all laughed. Grandpa laughed too, rocking him in his arms, saying when he grew a bit older they’d go get the moles removed, and then everything would be fine.

The villagers weren’t entirely right. He only cried as a small child—after age eight, he scarcely shed another tear.

Qiao Ning touched the two little moles again. Maybe because he planned to return to his hometown, childhood memories kept surfacing lately—and the more they did, the more urgent his longing to go home.

With a soft sigh, Qiao Ning’s feelings tangled beyond words.

He had been back to the hometown once after high school. But Grandpa was gone, the neighbor grandpa and the neighbor brother were gone, and his childhood home stood dilapidated.

His heart had nowhere to land. A breath had built up in his chest—a need to make something of himself, to prove it to heaven-knew-whom.

But years of toiling as a Corporate Workhorse ground that edge smooth. By the time he’d worked himself into sudden death, that breath had fully dispersed.

What was there to fight for? His own life—living it well was what mattered most.

Qiao Ning’s eyes lowered. In the mirror, the young man’s thick, curled lashes veiled those lovely eyes, his expression suddenly touched with three parts compassion.

He wasn’t crying, yet an unspoken sorrow hung on him.

Emotions gathered and shelved, Qiao Ning cleaned the bathroom once more.

The moment he started, he laughed out of sheer exasperation.

Staring at his palm, reddened by the mop handle, he reached peak speechlessness—and suddenly laughed.

Was he some pea prince?

This Golden Finger was just incompatible with poor people, wasn’t it?

No—wrong framing. How perfect was this for lying flat? It practically forbade him from manual labor.

Forbidden or not, the floor needed mopping. Grimacing through the sting, Qiao Ning finished.

Actually, it was fine—not that fragile. Just a faint ache; after a while he stopped noticing.

But he did register one thing: the small scars and calluses on his hands were gone too.

The fair skin went without saying—he’d been milky-white all over when showering—but even his nails had turned glossy. Qiao Ning rubbed his nails, then self-consciously pinched his fingertips.

It’s fine. Nobody stares at people’s hands.

Bathroom finished, it was about lunchtime. He threw together something perfunctory—his cooking skills had hard limits—and by the sacred principle of no waste, choked down the flavorless noodles, missing yesterday’s Spirit Spring fish, shrimp, and clams more with every bite.

The rental apartment truly was inconvenient. He needed to get home. Only on his own territory could he lie flat in comfort and peace.

With that thought, Qiao Ning stopped procrastinating. He tidied his desk, laid out the EPE Pearl Foam he’d bought online, and moved the potted plants in from the balcony.

The Golden Finger experiments were complete. He was going home; these pots couldn’t come with him.

He planned to treat them all like Strawberry No. 1—a full cup of Spirit Spring water each, force out whatever fruit they could, sell the whole harvest for a tidy sum, pack up, and head home.

Only one strawberry pot remained. One cup of Spirit Spring water, and Strawberry No. 3 went mad exactly like No. 1—bloom and fruit, bloom and fruit, over and over.

But this time Qiao Ning was prepared. Most of the ripened fruit got picked in time; the few that dropped landed on the soft EPE Pearl Foam, undamaged.

Strawberry No. 3 had been harvested twice before. Judging by No. 1’s template, Qiao Ning expected seven rounds this time.

To his surprise, No. 3 went eight rounds—maybe because he’d been watering it with diluted Spirit Spring water for days.

Qiao Ning assembled the cardboard boxes he’d bought online, lining each with a layer of EPE Pearl Foam, then laid the strawberries from the desk in flat layers—fruit, foam, fruit, foam.

Refined packaging wasn’t possible, but at least some basic protection, so these gorgeous strawberries wouldn’t lose face.

He kept some for himself; the rest went into boxes. Strawberries done, he started force-growing the cherry tomatoes.

Pot after pot, fresh sweet fruit fragrance filled the entire room. Midway, Qiao Ning couldn’t resist making himself a fruit platter—strawberries paired with cherry tomatoes—then devoured it one piece at a time.

Spirit Spring fruit yields far exceeded normal potted output. Qiao Ning had gotten the basics from the shop owner.

A potted cherry tomato plants more fruit than strawberries—normally twenty or thirty per pot, maybe fifty-plus if exceptionally well kept—the salesman always leaving the customer a little dream.

And that’s home growing. In a refined greenhouse setup, even more.

But Qiao Ning’s Spirit Spring tomatoes set over a hundred fruit per round. Abundant hardly covered it—bunches of plump red berries, gorgeous and delicious.

Cherry tomatoes also fruited far more times than strawberries. Of his three pots, No. 1 and No. 2 went twelve rounds, No. 3 thirteen—then, like Strawberries No. 1 and 3, after the final round, the whole plant withered, its vitality fully spent.

Tomatoes done, Qiao Ning started boxing them—and somewhere in the packing, his soul left his body.

The big boxes he’d ordered held roughly five jin of strawberries each. Cherry tomatoes didn’t need full foam layering—one layer on the bottom, one on top—and each box fit seven or eight jin.

He’d bought twenty boxes.

All twenty: used.

Four boxes of strawberries, sixteen boxes of cherry tomatoes. Plus the two-plus jin of strawberries set aside for himself, and tomatoes still left over—five or six jin, with nowhere left to pack them.

Qiao Ning looked at the remaining three blueberry pots, one kumquat, one aloe, and reluctantly shelved the rest of the force-growing plan.

He tidied the room, moved the survivors back to the balcony, and bagged the dead plants to toss downstairs later.

Twenty boxes of fruit occupied nearly every inch of spare space in his room. Some of this had to sell today.

First, he messaged the dorm group chat: more delicious fruit available, someone come haul it back.

The dorm brothers, having tasted Spirit Spring strawberries and been haunted ever since, responded with fervor, scrambling to claim the errand.

Qiao Ning watched them jockey and trash-talk in the group, amused. Sixth Brother said Eldest and Second needed to study—he was free, he’d come.

Eldest Brother said as the eldest he had the most strength—he was built for hauling.

Second Brother said Sixth Brother had a ranked promotion match and the bros should be considerate; Eldest’s exam prep mattered more—he’d come.

The argument went nowhere. Qiao Ning left them to it—someone would show.

Then he messaged the landlady: strawberries again, did she want any?

The message had barely sent when her call came through.