The Scandal of the Lens 08

Fang Xiaoyu eyed him suspiciously.

Fang Zhiyi said, "Oh, I just played up our hardships a bit. Most folks in the village are distant relatives in one way or another—who wouldn’t lend a hand? Don’t worry, plenty of people will come tomorrow to help repair the house." He paused, then added, "But remember, your space must stay a secret. That said, you can still lead everyone to prosperity together."

Though doubtful, Fang Xiaoyu nodded in agreement.

She had no idea that after Fang Zhiyi’s day of wandering around, their family had become the talk of the village—pitiful victims of thugs who smashed their stall, hurled insults, and even forced them to sell their home to return to the village. When Fang Zhiyi spoke of Fang Xiaoyu’s mother passing away early, he nearly broke down in tears.

The villagers’ sympathy for their family skyrocketed.

So when they heard Fang Zhiyi planned to use the money from selling their house to lease a hillside for farming, they were fully supportive.

Fang Xiaoyu tried bringing her father into the space but failed. She felt a pang of disappointment, but it quickly faded when the space expanded again—not only had the spring become a small pool, but a hillside had appeared. What thrilled her most were the tools.

Though not mechanical, the tools provided by the space worked astonishingly well, as if enchanted, effortlessly uprooting weeds and tilling soil. Fang Xiaoyu attempted to take one outside.

The next moment, she slowly looked down at the small hoe in her hand, eyes sparkling with excitement.

The tools could be brought out! This meant her farming journey would be much easier.

True to Fang Zhiyi’s words, the next morning, village craftsmen and helpers arrived early. Fang Zhiyi stood at the door greeting everyone, directing them efficiently. The earthen walls, wooden beams, and tiled roof were preserved, but much else needed rebuilding. With limited funds, progress would be gradual.

After assigning tasks, Fang Zhiyi disappeared into the kitchen to prepare meals for the workers.

Fang Xiaoyu stood awkwardly, unsure what to do, until her father shoved his phone into her hands.

"Film!"

So she began documenting—the earnest repairs, the teamwork, the transformation of their home.

Having lived in the city all her life, Fang Xiaoyu felt an unfamiliar warmth in this collective effort.

Days passed, and she soon memorized every helper’s name, even recognizing the onlookers. Mimicking her father, she handed out fruit or sunflower seeds, addressing the women warmly as "Auntie" or "Granny."

This earned her a sterling reputation among the villagers.

She also discovered something wonderful: her earlier struggles with crops, despite Fang Zhiyi’s vague guidance (since he didn’t know either), could now be solved by asking the villagers.

Their methods might lack theory, but they were brutally effective.

Fang Xiaoyu took to visiting neighbors, jotting down questions in a notebook. The village had vegetable growers, grain farmers, and even orchard keepers—all eager to help when they saw her listening intently and scribbling notes. Their answers grew detailed, touched by her respect.

Soon, discussions about "that polite, hardworking Fang girl" spread.

After all, who wouldn’t feel valued when someone earnestly records your every word?

Their home, now fresh and revitalized, became a showcase. Fang Zhiyi invited the village to tour it, capping the visit with a feast. The praise was unanimous, and he promptly offered to share the design plans with anyone interested.

Applause followed, especially from his inner circle—several key figures he’d strategically befriended.

As the gathering dispersed, Fang Zhiyi noticed Fang Xiaoyu’s furrowed brow.

"What’s wrong?"

She forced an awkward smile. "Dad, we might’ve gotten carried away."

"Hmm?"

"I contacted suppliers for saplings and crops... but we’re out of money."

Fang Zhiyi sighed. "Sometimes I wonder if we brought home the wrong baby."

"Dad! It’s too late to swap daughters now."

"Sitting on a goldmine but spending cash—who’d you inherit that from?" He staggered inside, exhausted from cooking and socializing.

"The space’s produce wouldn’t sell for much anyway..." Fang Xiaoyu slumped, then suddenly gasped, smacking her forehead. Of course!

The next day, she hiked up the hill, surveyed the leveled plot she’d chosen, and stepped into the space. Her father’s meaning was clear: bring outside plants in, let them mature within days, then transplant. She carefully selected two thorny vines and bamboo fencing, nurtured them inside, and later used them to encircle the land.

Within a week, the hill plot was securely enclosed.

Next, she cultivated saplings, flowers, and even medicinal herbs in the space. Its soil now seemed magical—anything planted took root instantly. Success made her giddy!

The fenced area became her staging ground. Saplings from the space were planted here first to ensure survival before final transplantation.

Tedious, but free.

Descending the hill in high spirits, visions of a bright future dancing in her head, Fang Xiaoyu froze at the crowd gathered around their house. At the center, her father was animatedly gesturing.

What now? Snatches of conversation—"video," "internet famous"—reached her. Had her filming upset the village? She sprinted forward.

"Dad! Are you okay?" she called. The crowd turned, parting to let her through.

"Dad!"