Jing Shu really didn't want to livestream. The apocalypse was looming ever closer. How could she possibly have the mood for this kind of performance? But back when she needed to raise money and convince her parents, she had promised to become an online celebrity, to livestream showcasing her cooking and rural life. That story had drained millions from her family, emptying their savings and assets. Now, with her entire family watching, expecting to see the fruits of their massive investment, how could she simply refuse and reveal it was all a lie?
Putting on appearances, maintaining the charade, was absolutely necessary. More importantly, she needed a legitimate, visible reason to turn the mountains of fresh food from the Cube Space into semi prepared, preserved products so it could be used conveniently in the upcoming apocalypse, saving both preparation time and precious storage space later.
"Shouldn't you bring something with you for the stream? A prop or something? Otherwise, people will scold you for being too casual," Grandma Jing nervously watched her granddaughter arrange things in and around the villa, fussing like a stage manager. "And it's starting already. Aren't you going to say a few words to warm up the atmosphere? At least introduce what you're selling. Don't just stay silent and start working."
Jing Shu sighed inwardly. "Grandma, you think shouting a couple of times like a street vendor will draw a crowd? That's just like calling out on the street to sell stuff. It doesn't work like that online."
Nowadays, the elderly were harder to fool than she remembered. They'd seen too many infomercials.
"It looks fancy but still has a rustic feel. The boiler room looks just like the ugly, practical ones back in the countryside. And why are there chickens and ducks running around here?" Grandpa Jing looked around, his expression displeased with the aesthetic chaos. "This won't do for a video. I'll fix the chicken coop for you, make it tidier."
So on the very first day, the same Grandpa Jing who'd been worried about his own hypothetical popularity a moment before immediately focused on practically rearranging the chicken and duck pens, determined to improve the backdrop. His busy, fussing figure added an odd, genuine charm to Jing Shu's otherwise quiet and reluctant start.
At Grandma Jing's repeated request, Jing Shu finally turned on the camera, muttered a few obligatory words to appease her grandmother, her voice flat and uninterested.
"Hello everyone. Today we're making lots of homemade chili sauce to send to relatives and enjoy ourselves. Friends who want some can tip 998 yuan. Private message me your address, and I'll send it to you."
She titled the livestream with blatant, market stall style hype.
Daily Farmhouse Cuisine of a Rich Second Generation, Only 998, Only 998!
In her heart, she justified the absurd price. The vegetables, chickens, and cows grown in the Cube Space were practically health elixirs, saturated with Spirit Spring energy. 998 yuan per portion wasn't expensive for such quality. Besides, she never actually expected anyone to buy, the exorbitant price was just a convenient way to account for processing and storing her own food.
Every day's streaming content was automatically saved as a video. Out of curiosity, Jing Shu looked back at some of her old streaming videos from ten years ago, or rather, from just a month or two ago by current calendar standards, and thought her past self had been foolish and cringeworthy. She immediately went into the account settings and deleted them all, wiping the slate clean.
Jing Shu set up a dedicated washing area, a cutting area, and a marinated product area in the spacious kitchen, ensuring that the entire process of pickling and saucing was clean, hygienic, and additive free. Later, when her parents eventually asked why she hadn't made a single penny from her business venture, Jing Shu could at least truthfully say she had worked diligently and maintained high standards.
By the fifth day of her personal Spirit Spring intake, Jing Shu's strength and endurance had improved noticeably. Lifting and moving heavy boxes of 60 liter containers full of fresh red chilies was effortless as she handled the first step of washing the produce.
Grandma Jing, now fully equipped with an apron and gloves, used the new automatic meat grinder to crush the cleaned chilies. The machine's operation was simple and easy, a modern aid to an ancient process.
The sheer amount of washing was huge. Jing Shu had harvested the equivalent of 12 square meters of red chilies from the Cube Space, all from a region known for quality. The Cube Space products were exquisite, each chili was translucent, fresh, plump, and abundant. Though there was little dust or dirt, just the volume meant cleaning them took more than two solid hours.
Grandma Jing couldn't sit still and just watch. She moved around, explaining in a running commentary which chilies were the best, which vegetables were truly pesticide free, and even demonstrated the qualities with the chilies in hand, forgetting the camera was on her.
A trickle of old fans from her deleted past streams found their way in. One jokingly asked in the chat, "Did the beauty change careers?" That was the extent of the engagement. No one scolded her for the high price. The quietness felt unusual, almost eerie.
Despite the lack of viewers or interaction, Grandma Jing was cheerful on her own, treating it like a fun project.
Jing Shu worked with silent, grim diligence. The apocalypse was only about a month away. Who had the mood for frivolous livestreaming? Peeling and crushing garlic, peeling and crushing onions, peeling and crushing tomatoes, these repetitive tasks were massive in scale. She only finished cleaning and preparing all the ingredients by noon, her back aching.
Seeing her grandparents looking low on energy mid morning, Jing Shu secretly added a single drop of Spirit Spring to each of their 1000 ml water bottles and decided to give it to them daily from now on. Over the next half month of intense food processing, they would need the extra energy and vitality, they couldn't afford to be weak or fatigued.
By lunchtime, her grandparents' appetites had surged unexpectedly. Both were cautious, knowing that overeating at their age could lead to severe indigestion. But their stomachs were growling loudly, demanding food. They ended up eating a hearty lunch until comfortably full. It was strange, they remarked, they'd long lost the feeling of true hunger.
"Work a lot, digest faster, so you get hungry," Jing Shu said with a straight face. "Doing this physical work every day will guarantee a good appetite." She chuckled secretly to herself. She was increasingly aware of the Spirit Spring's subtle benefits. Even Chicken No. 1, now receiving only half its usual Spirit Spring dosage, was lively with no visible signs of aging or decline.
The only noticeable side effect so far was maybe eating a bit too much at each meal. She patted her own stomach. Burp.
In the afternoon, Jing Shu and Grandma Jing started the main event, simmering the vast batches of chili sauce using two massive industrial pots on the stoves. They added the crushed chilies, doubanjiang, tomato paste, sugar, white vinegar, and salt, boiling the mixture while stirring constantly to prevent burning. Once the liquid reduced and evaporated to the right consistency, they turned off the heat and mixed in the mountains of minced garlic, minced onions, and a careful amount of MSG.
Jing Shu used the new 2 liter sealed glass jars to store the finished, fragrant chili sauce. From all the boxes of chilies, they produced 50 full jars, about one tenth of the total prepared base. The long missed, savory spicy aroma made Jing Shu immediately grab a plain steamed bun, slather it with the fresh chili sauce, and devour it. It was incredibly delicious.
This chili sauce, properly sealed and kept refrigerated or in a cool place, would last for years. She left a few jars out in the kitchen for show, the rest Jing Shu carefully stored in the organized basement shelves later.
The quiet, uneventful first day livestream ended with her mouth still full of chili sauce. Grandma Jing looked at the sheer volume of unsold product and now seemed worried, "If this doesn't sell, when will we ever finish eating it all?"
Fortunately, nothing sold. If it had, Jing Shu would've been worried about the logistics. She kept two additional boxes of fresh chilies on the third floor greenhouse to dry naturally for making chili powder later, an essential ingredient for future projects like spicy beef jerky.
Suddenly, her phone buzzed. A message from Zhu Zhengqi appeared.
"You're livestreaming again? So you still want to be popular after all. What about the entertainment company contract I got you? Two people from the company are already waiting for your final decision. I blocked them for you for now, but if you don't decide soon, I can't help you anymore."
Jing Shu smacked her own forehead. She'd completely forgotten about this lingering trouble. In her past life, thanks to her eventual cooperation and the apocalypse cutting everything short, the two of them had no further contact. Zhu Zhengqi had acted as a middleman, took his fat commission, and vanished from her life. Ten years of apocalypse had passed without seeing hide nor hair of him. Who would've thought in this life.
"I'm just livestreaming casually for fun, a hobby," she typed back. "Maybe you should handle those two waiting people first, tell them I'm not interested. I'd feel bad keeping them waiting."
As expected, Zhu Zhengqi started his full court press of persuasion again, through WeChat messages, then calls, and even vaguely suggesting a "family dinner" to discuss things. Jing Shu delayed, using the same excuse, "Let me try streaming on my own for another month. If the last month doesn't go well, I'll contact you immediately."
She genuinely didn't want internet popularity or any further dealings with Zhu Zhengqi. Couldn't everyone just follow their own separate paths and leave her alone?
"Fine," Zhu Zhengqi finally replied, seeming to have no immediate solution to force her.
Just as Jing Shu relaxed, thinking she'd bought another month of peace, and resumed her daily Cube Space inspections and fifth rank Rubik's Cube training, Zhu Zhengqi decided to stir up trouble.
After fast forwarding through her boring livestream video ten times, noting the lack of viewers and high price, Zhu Zhengqi sneered to himself.
"998 yuan? You're insane for money. And you want to get popular like this? Hmph. Fine, I'll speed up the process for you. I'll make you see how harsh and unforgiving this circle really is."
He spent 2,000 yuan of his own money to hire a small group of online trolls, just to criticize and mock Jing Shu in her next stream. With no real audience and no attention anyway, he reasoned, anyone stumbling upon her stream and seeing her selling cheap looking items for 998 yuan would just naturally join in the criticism. The amplified negativity would crush her spirit.
Just a fresh graduate girl, spoiled and naive, could she handle a targeted wave of online hate? Hmph. He doubted it.
"In three days, I'll have you trapped in my palm, crying and coming back to me," he muttered. "I must raise the price for my services then. Raise it by five thousand, no, ten thousand." Zhu Zhengqi imagined her desperate, crying and begging him for help to manage the crisis. The thought pleased him.