The package was nearly identical.
Brown kraft box. Twine wrap. Minimalist seal. Even the hand-drawn mushroom motif looked eerily similar.
But Lin Feng knew immediately—it wasn't his.
He opened the photo Liu Ying had forwarded again, studying it on his phone screen.
The farm name was different: "WildSprout Naturals."
A boutique organic vendor from the outskirts of Huizhou. New on the scene. Zero online footprint until two weeks ago.
And already showing up in tea shops and wellness cafés he'd supplied anonymously.
At first, he thought it was coincidence.
Then he looked closer at the label font.
Identical spacing. Same paper texture.
It wasn't just a similar idea.
It was a copy.
Someone had studied his packaging—and replicated it almost exactly.
---
He didn't get angry.
He got quiet.
He stared at the image a long time, then swiped to the next photo—one Liu Ying had snapped at a weekend market in Dongguan.
The vendor's booth had a small crowd. The sign claimed "WildSprout" grew everything on a reclaimed eco-farm and dried herbs in traditional clay cellars.
The problem wasn't that someone was mimicking him.
The problem was that someone was mimicking him well.
He stood by the window in his rented room, looking out over the sleepy rooftops of the town. Below, an old man rode past on a squeaky bicycle, bags of garlic swaying from the handlebar.
Peaceful.
But in Lin Feng's mind, lines were being drawn.
This wasn't about aesthetics anymore.
It was about authenticity—and survival.
---
Back in the inner realm, Lin Feng walked the rows of mint and chrysanthemum under the morning sun.
He wasn't angry.
But he was aware.
People were watching now.
And he hadn't even gone public yet.
He checked on the tea batches aging in the cedar chamber. Perfect humidity. Stable temperature. No mold.
He took out a box of "Forest Breath" and packed it into a nondescript gray courier bag under the name "Qinglu Logistics, Unit 017."
That was his new experiment.
A shell supplier name.
No public identity. No links to "Chen Valley."
He wanted to see: Could his products still stand out, without the brand?
He contacted a mid-level tea shop chain with quiet influence in the eco-conscious crowd.
> "This is a private producer specializing in micro-batches. No digital identity. Try the blend. If it resonates, we'll discuss monthly supply."
No hard sell.
No signature.
Just a sealed package with steeping instructions and a single line handwritten on the card:
> "Best brewed when the air is still."
A week passed.
Then came the message.
> "Where did you get this tea?"
Lin Feng smiled.
He never replied.
---
Meanwhile, Xu Yuhan messaged him midweek.
> "Hey. Funny thing—I came across a vendor using almost your exact packaging. Thought of you."
> "I know. WildSprout."
> "Yeah. Are they related to you?"
> "No. Just inspired, maybe."
> "You okay with that?"
> "Depends what they're selling."
There was a pause before she sent:
> "I bought a sample. Want me to drop it off?"
> "Sure."
---
They met at a quiet riverside café just outside town.
She handed him a small kraft box.
He opened it slowly.
The moment he touched the herbs, he frowned.
"Surface looks right," he murmured. "But the scent's off. Too dry. Overcooked."
She nodded. "The packaging fooled me. But the tea didn't land."
He turned a mint leaf over in his fingers. "They're kiln-drying. Probably to simulate slow processing."
"Is that bad?"
"It's fast. Efficient. But removes the layers."
"You care about layers."
"I live in them."
She smiled at that.
"Will you confront them?"
Lin Feng shook his head. "Let them play. My edge isn't the box. It's the time."
She raised an eyebrow. "Must be nice to be so confident."
"It's not confidence," he said. "It's math."
---
Later that night, he walked through the orchard section of the realm.
The first fig trees were growing. Slowly. Carefully.
He'd learned not to rush even inside this world.
Let the roots settle first. Then the fruits.
Just like in business.
He wasn't going to start lawsuits. Or arguments. Or branding wars.
But he was going to scale.
Quietly.
Systematically.
He began drafting the layout of his first satellite supplier identity—a network of aliases that would distribute his goods across different cities.
Not one brand.
Five.
Each with different packaging, different sourcing stories, different channels.
All real.
All him.
No one would know who was behind them.
But the products would speak.
---
By the end of the week, he had samples out to:
A French-Chinese fusion restaurant in Guangzhou under the name "EastWild Estates"
A boutique flower tea café in Shenzhen under "Blooming Ridge Co."
A gift-box curator startup in Hangzhou under "Yuan Herbcraft"
A niche hotel wellness brand under "Green Thread Supply"
And his original soft channel, "Chen Valley Naturals", which he now limited to friends of friends only.
Different emails. Different phone numbers. Different fonts.
But one heart.
One hand.
His.
---
On Sunday, Liu Ying invited him to a small tasting group—chefs, tea sommeliers, and café owners.
He almost declined.
Then she mentioned:
> "Xu Yuhan will be recording."
He went.
Not for the press.
For the perspective.
At the gathering, he didn't speak much.
But he listened.
To people comparing citrus notes.
To chefs talking about terroir.
To someone describing the "invisible warmth" in certain blends.
And at the end, one tea sommelier described her favorite brew:
> "It tastes like someone took their time making it. Like they weren't rushed. Like it wasn't made for money—but meaning."
Lin Feng didn't say anything.
But across the room, Xu Yuhan glanced at him once—then smiled without a word.
---
That night, as he sat in the inner realm beside the river, watching fireflies blink across the surface, he thought about legacy.
Not just profits.
Not expansion.
But impression.
What would people remember?
Not the name.
Not even the product.
But the feeling.
He stood and stretched. Then turned toward the stone path leading back to his preservation zone.
There was work to do.
Let the shadows copy.
He would stay three steps ahead.
In time.
In patience.
In truth.
---
End of Chapter 11
---