The mushrooms were perfect.
Lin Feng examined the basket carefully—four types, harvested within the past two "realm days": lion's mane, snow ear, shiitake, and a cluster of bluish-gray oyster mushrooms with curved caps like seashells.
He inhaled the earthy scent deeply. Pure, rich, and fresh—too fresh for most buyers to believe unless he packaged it right.
That was the next step.
---
Back in the real world, Lin Feng sat at his modest desk with rolls of kraft paper, a label printer, and ten hand-folded cardboard boxes.
He wasn't a designer. But he knew what he wanted: minimal, clean, rustic.
Something that whispered: "Grown with care. No chemicals. No rush."
He experimented with a few designs on Canva, printed a simple logo:
"Chen Valley Naturals"
Under it, a delicate illustration of a mushroom and a sprig of mint.
Nothing flashy.
He placed the first batch of mushrooms in the lined boxes with wood shavings and a silica pack for freshness, then sealed them with jute twine and a small wax seal he'd ordered online.
Each box held about 500g.
He labeled them as "For chefs, herbalists, and premium home cooks only."
Liu Ying was the first to receive a sample.
She posted a dramatic unboxing video with background music and moody lighting.
> "Tell me why this mushroom box feels more like a jewelry reveal than groceries 😭🔥"
The post blew up.
Within hours, he had DMs from boutique kitchen stores, herbal tea cafés, and even one vegetarian influencer asking if they could "collaborate."
He didn't respond to most.
But he replied to one.
A vegetarian chef named Xue Meng, who ran a small supper club in Dongguan.
> "Hi, I got your sample box from a friend. Your lion's mane is cleaner than most suppliers I've dealt with in 5 years. If you're open, I'd love to feature your mushrooms in my seasonal menu and tag you as a partner."
Lin Feng agreed—but under one condition:
> "No public tagging. You can name the box 'Valley Select' but don't mention supplier."
She was confused.
> "Why not? It's beautiful work."
> "Just keeping it quiet for now. Still scaling up."
> "Your loss. But okay. Deal."
---
Meanwhile, FreshBrew's test cycle was ending.
Li Qing messaged him late Thursday evening.
> "Sales data's in. Your herbs are outperforming all our others in customer retention. Even some of our premium drink buyers asked where they can get them to grow at home."
He thought for a moment, then typed:
> "What would a longer-term deal look like?"
Her reply came a few minutes later—longer this time.
She outlined weekly deliveries, rotating herbs per seasonal needs, a three-month rolling contract with monthly payments and bonus tiers based on volume.
It was solid. Professional.
And not overbearing.
He didn't say yes yet. But the fact that he was even considering it marked a shift.
For the first time, Lin Feng realized:
He wasn't just farming anymore.
He was curating.
---
The next day, he went into town to pick up a new batch of eco-packaging from a local supplier. As he stepped out of the supply store, someone bumped into him.
Hard.
He turned around, ready to apologize, when he saw her.
Slim build. Black canvas sling bag. Gray joggers and a linen shirt. Sunglasses on her forehead.
Xu Yuhan.
"Oh—Lin Feng?"
He blinked. "Xu Yuhan?"
She gave him a crooked smile.
"Didn't expect to see you in a packaging store."
He hesitated. "Didn't expect to be seen."
She laughed. "Relax. I'm not stalking you. I'm working on a mini-doc about sustainable packaging practices in small Chinese brands. Thought I'd visit some local vendors."
A pause.
She tilted her head. "Guess I found one."
Lin Feng shifted awkwardly, then nodded at her sling bag. "Still doing interviews?"
"Always."
He looked around. The sun was high. The street was quiet.
And for once, he felt… calm.
"Want a coffee?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Only if you're buying."
---
They sat at a small café just down the block—nothing trendy, just an old tea house converted into a quiet spot with actual shade trees in the courtyard.
She ordered iced Pu'er with lemon. He got barley tea.
The silence between them wasn't awkward—just natural.
Eventually, she broke it.
"So. You don't want to be known, but you're doing all the things that make people notice."
He smirked. "I'm trying to walk a line."
"Between what and what?"
He thought about it.
"Between impact and invisibility."
She nodded slowly.
"I get that. But… lines don't last forever. At some point, you'll have to pick a side."
Lin Feng didn't answer.
She sipped her tea, then looked at him more seriously.
"You're building something, aren't you? Not just selling herbs and mushrooms."
He met her eyes. Calm, but not evasive.
"Yes."
"And you're doing it without backing, PR, or corporate identity?"
"For now."
She studied him. "Most people spend years trying to do what you're doing in months. How?"
He looked away.
Then smiled slightly. "Discipline. Luck. Patience."
Not quite a lie.
Not quite the truth.
---
Before they parted, she pulled a small notebook from her bag.
"I'm collecting voices for a long-term project. Not for publication yet. Just stories. Would you ever… share yours?"
He looked at the notebook.
Then at her.
"Maybe."
She nodded. No pressure. No smile.
Just understanding.
---
That night, back in the inner realm, he wandered among the mushrooms again.
They didn't judge. They didn't question.
They simply grew.
Each stalk a quiet rebellion against time, each cluster a symbol of his hidden empire.
But for the first time, he wondered:
Could someone else understand this place?
Not enter it—no one could.
But sense it.
Sense him.
And maybe, someday, walk beside him through the quiet between worlds.
---
End of Chapter 9