Chengdu's late-autumn air carried a double-edged perfume: the tongue-numbing tingle of Sichuan peppercorns drifting from street-side woks, and the heavy, honeyed breath of night-blooming jasmine that clung to every alley like a secret. It was nothing like Qingdao's sharp, briny slap of sea wind. Su Wanwan pressed her palm to the cracked glass wall of the abandoned Red Flag Textile Factory, her breath fogging the pane in slow, deliberate blooms. Beyond the grime lay six floors of cavernous silence—enough vertical space to feed half a district.
"This is our canvas," she said, turning to Lu Shiyan. Her voice vibrated with the same electric certainty that had carried them through Qingdao's salt-sprayed nights. "Ground floor: tiered hydroponic lettuce under cool-white LEDs. Second floor: medicinal herbs—danshen, huangqin, goji—stacked in rotating towers. Third and fourth: fruiting vines—kiwi, passionfruit, dwarf citrus—climbing a central steel trellis that doubles as structural support. Fifth floor: mushroom chambers in climate-controlled dark. Roof: community greenhouse with sliding glass panels and a 50,000-litre rainwater cistern. We'll pipe greywater from the hotel district next door, treat it on-site, and close the loop."
Lu Shiyan's arms stayed folded, but his eyes traced every line she drew in the air. The factory—built in 1978, shuttered in 2016—stood on a 1.8-hectare plot in Chengdu's Pi County fringe, twenty minutes from the city core. Its bones were sound: reinforced concrete columns rated for 1,200 kg/m² live load, roof trusses wide enough for photovoltaic film. The curse was in the veins—electrical wiring older than most of their staff, and municipal water pressure that dipped to 0.8 bar on summer afternoons.
"Structural survey came back clean," he said, sliding a crimson-stamped folder across the folding table. "But the transformer is 35 kV, half the capacity we need. Full rewiring: 4.2 million RMB. Backup diesel generators and lithium buffers: another 1.8. And water—" he tapped a graph showing seasonal lows "—we'll need three 5,000-litre pressure tanks plus variable-speed pumps. Total contingency: 30 % above Qingdao."
Their team ringed the blueprints like generals at a war map. Lin Zhou, sleeves rolled to reveal circuit-board tattoos, traced the HVAC routes. Mr. Wang, the grizzled lead engineer who had once retrofitted Shenzhen's first vertical farm, chewed on a toothpick and nodded approval at the load-bearing recalculations. The two local agronomists—Ms. Li and Dr. Zhao—argued in rapid Sichuanese about substrate pH and beneficial mycorrhizae.
Ms. Li pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "Chengdu's peri-urban farmland shrank 18 % in five years. Wet-market leafy-green prices rose 42 %. If we hit 78 % yield on butterhead and roma, we supply 22 % of the city's demand within twelve months. That's 1,800 tonnes annually, plus 120 permanent jobs—mostly retrained textile workers who already know shift discipline."
Dr. Zhao added, "And the rooftop greenhouse can host weekend workshops for grandmothers who still remember tying tomato vines with hemp string. Social glue, not just salad."
Lin Zhou cleared his throat, the sound of gravel in a tin cup. "One bureaucratic landmine. The site is zoned 'M2 Heavy Industrial'. Rezoning requires the Provincial Development and Reform Commission. Chair: Jiang Zhenhai. Vice-Chair: his deputy. Conflict of interest: the Jiang family controls three conventional mega-farms—total 2,400 hectares—within 50 km. They dump untreated runoff into the Tuojiang tributary. Our closed-loop system makes their effluent fees look like pocket change."
Su Wanwan's smile thinned to a blade. The Jiangs—father Zhenhai, sons Haoran and Tianming—had lost Qingdao when Lu Shiyan's consortium outbid them for the coastal aquaculture port. They had responded with midnight equipment sabotage, forged environmental complaints, and a whisper campaign that reached the provincial governor's wife. Chengdu was round two.
"We bring sunlight," she said, flipping to a colour-coded slide deck. "Ninety-five percent water reduction, zero synthetic pesticides, 10 % of harvest donated to food banks in Jinniu and Qingyang districts. That ticks every box in the provincial 'Common Prosperity' directive. Plus, we lease the land at market rate for twenty years—steady revenue for a cash-strapped district."
Lu Shiyan's jaw muscle twitched. "Zhenhai doesn't read directives. He reads balance sheets. Our produce will undercut his wholesale prices by 28 %. He'll fight with every tool short of assassination." He turned to Lin Zhou. "Book the PDRC for Tuesday, 9 a.m. Bring hard copies, encrypted drives, and a notary. We present, then we lock the narrative."
That evening they checked into the Osmanthus Courtyard Hotel on Jinli Ancient Street. Lanterns swayed above the cobblestones; the scent of grilled rabbit skewers mingled with osmanthus syrup. Su Wanwan kicked off her boots and collapsed onto the cedar-framed bed. "My arches are filing for divorce."
Lu Shiyan loosened his tie. "Mr. Chen once told me: 'Hope is a muscle; fatigue is the weight.' Tonight we rest the muscle." He ordered hot pot to the room—clear broth for her, infernal spicy for him—plus a bottle of Snow beer chilled in the courtyard fountain. They ate cross-legged on the duvet, chopsticks clacking, trading stories: her childhood summers shelling peas on a bamboo mat while her grandmother brewed jasmine tea; his teenage rebellion sneaking past boarding-school dorm monitors to watch meteor showers on Fragrant Hills.
For three hours the world shrank to the copper pot's burble and the soft clink of porcelain.
At 2:17 a.m. the phone shrilled. Ms. Li's voice cracked like thin ice. "Su小姐, the servers are gutted. Blueprints, spectral reflectance data, Letters of Intent from fifteen restaurant chains—gone. Backup RAID array shows zero-byte files. Our IT head says it's a polymorphic worm, entry vector disguised as a firmware update from the HVAC contractor."
Su Wanwan was already upright, pulse drumming in her ears. "Trace?"
"Originated from a VPS in Hong Kong, routed through three VPNs, final hop registered to a shell company—Everbright Horizon Logistics. Cross-reference the UBO: Jiang Tianming's college roommate sits on the board."
Lu Shiyan's call to Lin Zhou was clipped, lethal. "Wake the Beijing firm that saved Alibaba in '23. Fly them in on the first flight. Pull factory CCTV—check every badge swipe after 1800 hours. And courier the hard-copy binders from Ms. Li's office to the hotel under armed guard."
He hung up, turned to Su Wanwan. "Tianming wants to delay us past the PDRC deadline. Without data, we're just dreamers with pretty renderings."
Her laptop glowed awake. "Yesterday I emailed myself the master Revit file—3.2 GB, timestamped 16:42. And Ms. Li keeps annotated printouts in a fire safe. We lose polish, not substance."
Lu Shiyan's shoulders eased a fraction. "Good. But they'll hit the physical copies next. We move to offence."
The next seventy-two hours dissolved into a fever of screens and caffeine. The hotel suite became a bunker: whiteboards scrawled with SQL recovery commands, spectral charts taped above the minibar, courier envelopes slit open like battlefield dispatches. Su Wanwan and Ms. Li rebuilt crop-cycle models from scratch, cross-referencing satellite NDVI maps and Sichuan Agricultural University's open-source trials. Lu Shiyan's cybersecurity cavalry—six ponytailed experts from Zhongguancun—camped on the carpet, coaxing 63 % of the corrupted files back to life. Mr. Wang hand-drew irrigation schematics on butcher paper, cursing the tremor in his seventy-year-old fingers.
Lin Zhou negotiated a seven-day PDRC extension by citing "force majeure cyber incident" and quietly leaking the attack trace to a Caixin reporter sympathetic to tech innovation.
On the fourth night Su Wanwan's eyes refused focus. "I'm photosynthesising caffeine at this point."
Lu Shiyan steered her to bed. "One hour. I'll finish the nutrient-flow tables."
She woke to jasmine steam curling from a cup beside the laptop. Lu Shiyan's shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves shoved high, hair a riot of concentration. The screen showed a recovered spreadsheet: projected revenue streams colour-coded like a sunset.
"You're beautiful when you're terrifying," she murmured.
He laughed, low and tired. "Drink. Then we practise the pitch until we dream in bullet points."
Tuesday, 8:47 a.m. The PDRC hearing chamber smelled of camphor wood and old power. Jiang Zhenhai occupied the head seat like a jade emperor, silk tie the colour of dried blood. Jiang Tianming lounged at his elbow, thumb scrolling a phone beneath the table.
Lu Shiyan opened with a photograph: a child in Qingyang wet market holding a wilted bok choy beside a price tag of 18 RMB/kg. "This is Chengdu today," he said. "Water tables dropping 1.2 metres annually. Arable land lost to logistics parks. Our factory reclaims dead space, returns 1,800 tonnes of produce, creates 120 jobs at 1.5 times minimum wage, and slashes food miles to under 15 km."
Su Wanwan followed with a live demo: a tablet-linked sensor from their Qingdao pilot farm showing real-time butterhead growth—28-day cycle, 11.3 kg/m² yield. "Scalable. Audited. Profitable within 26 months."
Jiang Zhenhai's interruption was glacial. "Pretty slides. But tradition feeds Sichuan. Your towers will collapse under the first hailstorm, and the province will subsidise your folly."
Lu Shiyan projected the cyber-forensics slide: IP trail glowing like a fuse. "Tradition also includes integrity. Someone invested 1.4 million RMB to erase our evidence. The PDRC deserves transparency."
A ripple passed through the board. The vice-chair, a woman from the Poverty Alleviation Office, leaned forward. "Donation commitment?"
"Ten percent of harvest, minimum 180 tonnes annually, to registered food banks. Contracts signed."
After ninety-seven minutes of cross-examination, the chair raised her gavel. "Rezoning approved. Conditions: quarterly water-and-energy audits, minimum 50 local hires within twelve months, and an independent environmental monitor appointed by the provincial EPA."
Jiang Zhenhai's teacup cracked in his grip. Tianming stormed out, tie askew.
Sunlight spilled across the government plaza, jasmine petals drifting like confetti. Lin Zhou whooped; Mr. Wang wiped his eyes with a grease-stained handkerchief. Su Wanwan felt Lu Shiyan's hand find hers, calluses earned from hauling Qingdao oyster racks now grounding her in victory.
They celebrated at a hole-in-the-wall on Yulin Road: mapo tofu so spicy it numbed thought, tea-smoked duck crisp as autumn leaves, sticky rice cakes dusted with osmanthus sugar. Toasts ricocheted—Ms. Li's glasses fogged with steam and joy; Dr. Zhao promised the first rooftop workshop would plant Sichuan pepper seedlings "so future hot pot remembers its roots."
Later, walking Jinli's lantern-lit alleys, Su Wanwan asked, "Shanghai?"
"Mega-block on Pudong brownfield. Affordable micro-apartments, rooftop orchards, kindergarten on the podium. Same enemies, bigger stage." He stopped beneath a swaying red lantern. "But first—Tuscany. Lavender in full bloom, no signal, no Jiangs. I booked the villa with the infinity pool overlooking Val d'Orcia. Three days. Then we conquer the world again."
She rose on tiptoes, tasting chili oil and osmanthus on his lips. "Deal."
Above them, the moon hung low and fat, silvering the ancient rooftops. Somewhere, the Jiangs plotted. Somewhere, servers hummed with new sabotage code. But here, rooted in peppercorn heat and jasmine sweetness, their love was a living thing—deep, unshakable, flowering through every storm.
The future stretched wide as the Sichuan plain: bright, fragrant, and theirs to harvest.