Chapter 323

Water had just boiled halfway, Zhao Chen squatted on the ridge beside the Test Field, holding a stalk of rice in his hand, squinting as he counted the grains. The sun baked the back of his neck hot, sweat trickled down his spine, his clothes were already soaked to his back, but he didn't move, just stared at that heavy stalk as if afraid it would fly away.

A crowd had already gathered on the field's edge. Those in white coats, wearing straw hats, carrying briefcases, and reporters shouldering cameras all craned their necks to look inside. Someone muttered softly, "Two tons? A yield of two tons per mu? Have the people from Old Yuan's team not left yet? This data needs to be checked again."

Just as the words fell, an old farmer in worn cloth shoes squeezed out from the crowd, squatted down and pulled apart a few rice stalks, frowning: "The roots are deep, the leaves are solid, hardly any lodging…… but this is too dense; logically they should be competing for light and fertilizer, so why are they growing so uniformly?"

Immediately someone nearby chimed in: "They say they used a new breeding method, monitoring the growth rhythm throughout, even watering according to the 'breathing frequency.'"

"What?" the old farmer glared, "Can rice even breathe?"

The person shrugged: "That's just what they said."

As they were speaking, a commotion came from the field's head. Three green-jeep vehicles stopped, doors opened, and several people in researcher uniforms stepped out, each wearing a badge reading 'National Hybrid Rice Research Center' on their chest. The leader was a man in his fifties, his face tanned dark, trousers rolled up to his calves, clearly someone who spends years in the fields.

"Old Zhang!" the researcher who had spoken earlier went up to him, "Did you really pull up the full video?"

"Seven days stationed on-site, full video recording." The Zhang-surname researcher took off his hat and fanned himself, "Harvesting, threshing, weighing, moisture adjustment—third-party notaries monitored for three days. The data is solid—average yield of 1,983 kilograms per mu, rounded to two tons."

The crowd fell silent all at once.

The old farmer's mouth hung open, the rice stalk in his hand almost dropping to the ground.

The reporters immediately swarmed forward, microphones held high: "Professor Zhang! Does this mean our country's rice yield is facing a historic breakthrough?"

"It is a breakthrough," Zhang the researcher nodded, "but this is not one person's achievement. We examined three months of growth records—light, temperature and humidity, nitrogen-phosphorus-potassium ratios, microbial environment… each precisely controlled to the hour. More importantly—" he paused, looking at the young person on the field ridge, "this kid is different."

Everyone's gaze shifted back to Zhao Chen.

He slowly Standing Up, patted the dirt off his trousers, and slipped that rice stalk into his pocket. His face showed no excitement; instead, it was like he had just finished harvesting the scallions in his own Courtyard.

"Zhao Chen!" a female reporter rushed forward, "Can you reveal the core technology? Is there a new fertilizer or gene-editing technique? Everyone online is guessing!"

Zhao Chen grinned, showing a mouthful of white teeth: "The technology is all registered; you can look it up."

"Then… is there any undisclosed secret?" another male reporter pressed, "Like special management methods? Or… some kind of external intervention?"

Zhao Chen tilted his head, thought for a moment, then blinked, his voice low but audible to all: "Yes."

The crowd held its breath.

"I come to the field every morning and chat with them for a while."

"Huh?" someone couldn't help laughing out loud.

"Chatting?" the female reporter stared, "And… with… rice?"

"Right." Zhao Chen nodded, dead serious, not joking: "When I say 'Grow strong today,' they put in the effort; when I say 'Don't fear the bugs, I've got your back,' their leaves toughen up. A few days ago when a big wind blew, I even squatted here shouting 'Stay steady, don't fall' for an hour—look—" he pointed behind him at the neat rice field, "not a single stalk fell over."

The scene fell silent for two seconds, then burst into a wave of laughter.

But a few old farmers didn't laugh. They glanced at each other, and one said quietly, "Crops also have spirit… my corn in a drought year yields especially well; I go to the field every day to chatter, saying 'Hang in there, this will pass,' and it really did."

The laughter gradually faded.

The reporters looked at each other, some jotting notes, others whispering to the camera: 'This young breeder has proposed a highly personal planting philosophy… integrating emotional interaction into agricultural production… worthy of further observation and research…'

Zhao Chen didn't explain further, turned and walked to the certification stand in the middle of the field. On the table lay a red-headed document, stamped with two large seals: one from the 'National Agricultural Science and Technology Achievement Appraisal Center,' the other from the 'Yuan Longping Hybrid Rice Innovation Team.'

Zhang the researcher picked up the document, cleared his throat: 'After expert group on-site yield measurement and data verification, the rice variety numbered 'Superior Thousand Number Improved Line' has achieved a yield of 1,983.6 kilograms per mu in this season's trial, setting a new national record for single-season rice yield. It is hereby jointly certified, and recommended for inclusion in the next-phase promotion plan.'

He finished speaking and passed the document over.

Zhao Chen received it with both hands, lowered his head to glance, the corners of his mouth slightly upturned. He didn't rush to speak, but pulled out the test report clipped inside the document, flipped to the last page, and found his own small handwriting: 'Watering time: 6:15 a. m., said three times, "Today the sun is good, you need to bask openly."'

He laughed, folded the paper neatly, and slipped it into his inner pocket.

The reporters swarmed again: 'Professor Zhao, what are your plans next? I heard the global tech tour is about to open—will you be bringing this achievement to the exhibition?'

"Exhibition?" Zhao Chen stroked his chin, "That depends on whether the rice is willing to go out. I need to ask it first."

"You're at it again!" someone laughed and scolded.

Zhao Chen didn't bother to explain, just slipped his hands into his pockets and strolled to the field edge. The setting sun slanted, golden waves of rice surged layer upon layer; as the wind blew, a rustling sounded, like countless tiny voices answering him.

He bent over, pulled up the sturdiest stalk, shook off the dirt from its roots, and held it up to the light. The grains were plump, tightly packed, the panicle heavy enough to almost droop to the ground.

"Done." he said softly.

Behind him, applause suddenly rang out.

Not the polite, scattered clapping, but genuine, heartfelt applause with a palpable vibration. Researchers clapped, old farmers nodded, reporters filmed while smiling, even the cameraman put down his device and joined in the clapping.

Zhao Chen turned around, stood on the field ridge, backlit, his shadow stretched long. He lifted that stalk of rice, as if holding a flag.

No one spoke.

Only the wind kept blowing, the rustle of rice leaves, hualala, hualala.

An agricultural reporter quietly asked his colleague beside him, 'You say… can he truly understand what the rice is saying?'

The colleague stared at the viewfinder, murmuring, 'I don't know. But in the video I just recorded, when that stalk was pulled out, the tip of the panicle trembled slightly, as if… nodding.'

Zhao Chen walked back to the certification stand, gently placed the rice stalk beside the document. Someone handed him a microphone, asking what he wanted to say.

He looked at the people before him—experts, farmers, media, and a few kids with backpacks, peeking through the gaps in the crowd.

He smiled and said, 'Next year I want to try for three tons.'

His words fell, and no one laughed.

Because this time, everyone seemed… to have a little faith.

He bent over, picked up the canvas bag lying on the ground, took out a chilled soda, twisted the cap and took a sip. The sugary liquid trickled down the corner of his mouth; he wiped it with his sleeve, then lifted his gaze to the sky.

The edges of the clouds were rimmed with gold, the moon had quietly climbed up, pale, like a just-peeled egg white.

He crushed the empty bottle and tossed it into the roadside metal trash can.

A clang rang out.

The rice in the field swayed again.