Jing Shu calculated the numbers again, her mind ticking through the logistical math as she stared at the virtual interface of her storage. The Spirit Spring still only produced one gram a day, which was about twenty drops. But with the six new fields in the Rubik's Cube Space, each field now received an automatic daily infusion of one drop. That meant an extra six drops per day, bringing the upgraded Cube Space to a total of twenty-four fields of rich, dark earth.
From the original six fields to today's twenty-four, she couldn't help but feel a deep sense of achievement. It was like playing QQ Farm in the old days. When you started with just six plots, you were barely a beginner, but by level fifty you commanded an entire spread of farmland that filled the screen. It made her proud in the same way, seeing the neat rows of green growth thriving under her care.
Especially in this apocalypse where nothing could grow outside in the toxic, gray sludge, having a private, high-yield farmland where she could plant whatever she wanted made her feel so safe she could almost cry. The warmth of the space was a stark contrast to the cold world beyond the villa walls.
But the Cube Space fields had a drawback. Even if nothing was planted, each plot would still absorb one drop of Spirit Spring daily. The soil greedily soaked up the nourishment. It seemed this land absolutely required the nourishment of the Spirit Spring to sustain its extraordinary yields.
That meant one thing: none of the space's farmland could be wasted. Every single field had to be planted every day, ensuring that every precious drop was put to use.
As the space expanded, her needs grew too. So far, she had never faced the problem of overproduction or unused harvests. The number of fields was still limited despite the expansion. Yields were high, but her demand was just as great. Besides, a batch of crops took about ten days to mature. And she often fed vegetable roots and discarded leaves to the livestock, while stalks and branches went straight into the firewood pile, drying out until they were brittle enough to burn.
Her current twenty-four plots were arranged like this:
Six for vegetables, producing every ten days or so. She stockpiled them for one or two months before processing them all at once in her kitchen, the scent of fresh greens filling the house.
Six for fruits. She juiced them, fed the leftover pulp to livestock, transplanted some trees to the flower room on the second floor of the villa, and dried the rest into fruit preserves that she stored in glass jars.
Six for medicinal herbs. Since the last upgrade half a year ago, some herbs had matured. She stored them, waiting until next year to dry them, as this year was far too damp for the leaves and roots to cure properly. Ginseng and lingzhi required years of growth, so those couldn't be rushed.
Now, with six new plots, she planted three with cotton and three with tobacco, the tiny green shoots already pushing through the dark soil.
Because the Cube Space fields were precious and production limited, she couldn't rely on staple crops if she wanted to build real foundation wealth in the apocalypse. Selling rice or flour directly was a death wish; it's like declaring to the world that she was a grain merchant. The government itself would swoop in with an excuse to seize it, their officers knocking on her door to demand her inventory.
But luxury goods? Those she could do. Tobacco and alcohol were the real currency of the post-collapse elite.
The two factories she had opened for red nematodes were like pre-apocalypse corn. They were cheap, abundant, mostly used as animal feed, and hardly worth much and unlikely to attract attention. But those factories were time-sensitive. The rain allowed for production now, but in a few months, they would shut down. After that, it was a matter of selling what she had left or using it herself.
Tobacco was different. That was a long-term, stable business with no danger. Poor people couldn't afford it. Only the rich, who still wanted enjoyment after their stomachs were full, would spend money on it.
Luxury goods were the easiest profit in the apocalypse. Some starved, some were stuffed, and those with too much money had nothing to spend it on. They still had food, but production was low, and countless items had disappeared from the market. When something rare appeared, everyone scrambled for it.
With her backing from the Medicinal Herb Association, Jing Shu could produce these openly. She aimed for the high-end market: cigars. By trading the smallest number of cigars for the greatest amount of capital, she could maximize her returns. What could three plots, which were eighteen square meters, produce in cigars? It would be enough to matter. She would keep some for her family, of course, especially for Grandpa Jing and Jing An, both of whom were close to going mad without cigarettes.
As for cotton, she had never expected her household to grow so large so quickly. Supplies were already running short in the villa closets. The colder winters ahead would demand more cotton for insulation. Later on, cotton itself would become half a currency. A cotton coat in the freezing months could buy almost any favor or service.
Another reason was that the cow in her Cube Space was pregnant again, her belly swollen and heavy. Soon, she might have several calves. She intended to raise them in numbers, then turn the beef into shredded jerky, beef energy bars, and braised beef. Even in ancient dramas, the line "Little waiter, bring a pound of beef!" shouted by a hero in a bustling tavern, showed how important beef was.
She could already imagine it. When hunger struck, she would tear off strips of cumin-flavored, spicy, or onion-seasoned jerky. She would chew slowly as the flavors blended perfectly on her tongue. Or thin slices of braised beef dipped in chili paste, the meat melting in the mouth. Her mouth watered just from the thought, the salivary glands in her jaw tingling.
The jerky she had made last year was long gone. It hadn't been nearly enough to satisfy them. Now, with more space, she had room to raise more livestock and stockpile preserved meat in the grids of the cube.
Cottonseed and by-products made the best feed for cattle and sheep. Planting cotton also solved their ration problem. If they only ate red nematodes, they wouldn't produce milk, and their quality would decline sharply. Since she had the means, she would give her livestock the best feed.
Some might accuse her of wasting food on animals while others starved. But saving someone once didn't mean she could feed them forever. In her previous life, she had never seen any rich man hand her bowls of rice when she was starving.
This life, she swore she would repay kindness a hundredfold and leave her enemies to struggle in misery. Those who tried to harm her wouldn't face vengeance so much as the daily torment of watching her thrive, eating and drinking well while they wasted away, their ribs showing through their skin.
If someone truly reached the brink of death, she would still save them, like Su Meimei, for example, but she would do it on her terms.
She also planned to stockpile red nematode cakes, not out of charity, but to exchange them for labor when times were hardest. No handouts, no gratitude required; it's just fair trade. That was respect enough.
The next day, she asked Grandpa Jing to build racks and set up lamps on the third-floor terrace. She needed to plant tobacco and cotton openly, after all. Hearing it was tobacco, both Jing An and Grandpa Jing set aside their usual bickering and quickly built the setup.
Soon, over twenty square meters of the terrace were covered in cotton and tobacco seedlings, their green leaves glowing under the purple-hued grow lamps.