Chapter 64: Contracting Land for Reforestation (Please Support!)

On the bed, Zhong Tian lay back, sipping the chicken soup his mother had made for him. The chicken had been caught by Zhong Di in the orchard—a large, plump bird.

Ever since his surgery the day before, Zhong Tian’s mood had been somber. He often stared into space, lost in thought, and only tonight did something in him begin to shift. It was as if he had finally endured some harrowing ordeal. In just a few short days since his injury, new wrinkles had appeared on his face.

“Look at you, always wearing such a long face. It’s so rare for the whole family to be together—can’t you manage a smile?” said Di Chunhua, taking the bowl from his hands. Based on previous experience, she knew he shouldn’t have too much of the chicken, no matter how delicious it was—overindulgence was ill-advised.

“Alright… I won’t sulk anymore. Xiaoxi, come here and let Grandpa hold you.”

Zhong Tian’s words were a little awkward—he had never spoken this way before. The tension with his elder sister had even extended to Xiaoxi, which was wrong. Whatever issues adults might have, the children should not have to bear them—they were innocent.

Just as his mother said, tonight the whole family was truly together. His elder sister Zhong Hui, brother-in-law Chen Chen, and niece Chen Xi were all present, celebrating their father’s successful surgery.

“Go on!” Zhong Hui nudged Xiaoxi gently, seizing this rare moment of family harmony. But at the touch, Xiaoxi couldn’t hold back her tears. In the past, her grandfather always seemed intimidating and had never held her before.

“Sis, what are you doing? Xiaoxi’s still little—she doesn’t understand these things.” Zhong Di, seeing his adorable niece about to cry, grew anxious. How could anyone bear to see such a lovely child in tears?

He turned and scooped Xiaoxi into his arms. “Be good, Xiaoxi, don’t cry. Listen to Uncle—once upon a time, there was a little rabbit who ran away from home. Do you know why…”

It wasn’t until late in the evening that the family began to disperse. Thanks to Zhong Di’s coaxing, Xiaoxi was cheered up, and the atmosphere was warm and joyful.

When the time came, his brother-in-law was the first to leave, taking Xiaoxi with him, since he had to supply goods to the restaurant early the next morning. With these new clients, he was earning more money, but the workload was lighter—he could handle deliveries on his own.

“Zhong Di, come here. I want to talk to you about something,” Zhong Hui suddenly called out as they were chatting. Under their parents’ curious gaze, the two siblings slipped into Zhong Di’s room.

“I’ve made up my mind. You asked me before if I’d help you out. These past days, apart from taking care of the child, I’ve really had too much free time. And with nothing to do, I’m itching to find something to keep me busy,” she began. “After giving it careful thought, I think your suggestion is doable. But let me be clear: I can handle simple bookkeeping and accounting, but if you want me to do things like asset and cash flow statements, I’m not cut out for that. Still, you won’t lose out hiring me—I can do farm work, and I can help keep things running smoothly for you.”

Zhong Hui spoke at length, her words rambling but sincere. In essence, she was agreeing to help, but worried she might not do well and that it could strain their relationship.

That’s the dilemma of working for family—do well, and it’s awkward; do poorly, and it’s even worse. There’s a saying: never work for relatives, and never hire them either. There’s truth in it, but to Zhong Di, these weren’t real problems; it all came down to interests in the end.

“That’s not an issue. Just let me know when you’re ready to come,” Zhong Di replied. With his sister’s help, one more thing was off his mind—there were always countless little matters to deal with, and having her support would be a relief.

They continued talking late into the night, and only then did Zhong Di finally go to bed.

“How have you decided?” Zhong Di read the message Wu Qi had sent him.

The day he received the documents, Wu Qi sent all the related materials that very evening. Zhong Di had read through them; to say he was unmoved would be a lie.

Overall, the policy support and financial subsidies were quite attractive—there was no reason for anyone to refuse. The reforestation land was nearly twenty kilometers from Lingjing Village, situated by a tributary of the Tagan Desert’s inland river.

Reclaiming this illegally cultivated land was only right. In recent years, excessive cultivation had caused the groundwater level to drop annually, and the environment had become increasingly harsh. Especially along the riverbanks, the destruction of large numbers of trees had only worsened the decline.

As fate would have it, this very plot of land had originally been developed by his third uncle. Because Zhong Di’s family hadn’t been allocated any of it, and now, due to the violation, it had been repossessed, circling back into his own affairs.

The total area designated for reforestation was ten thousand mu. Whether planting fruit trees or other types, as long as the trees were planted and survived, the requirement was met. There were, of course, some specifics—tree density, for instance, required at least fifty trees per mu.

Then there was the lease term. Since it wasn’t mountainous and lay beside a river, even as forest land, the contract period was only thirty years—the same as for farmland. This was in line with national regulations and not open to dispute.

“What’s the minimum parcel I can lease?” Zhong Di replied. Though the documents contained all the details, he wanted to double-check this particular point.

“Three hundred mu. Will that work?” Wu Qi replied. In truth, there was no strict requirement for how much had to be leased. Most who were interested in the project first asked about funding, timelines, and the level of support—never about the minimum area.

Zhong Di began calculating as he read the number. For the first three years, water fees for leased land were waived. After that, they would start at 151 yuan per mu, rising annually to 300 yuan per mu. Land management fees were also waived for three years, then set at fifty yuan per mu from the fourth year onward.

This meant that after three years, basic annual costs would total around 100,000 yuan. As for labor, if he hired someone just to manage watering and didn’t plant any cash crops, the total would be about 100,000–200,000 yuan a year—within his means.

The main upfront cost was purchasing saplings, but there was no need to worry about funding: the first-year subsidy was 800 yuan per mu, followed by 200 yuan per mu for the next two years.

It was a solid opportunity!

“Alright, I’ll lease 600 mu. What procedures do I need to follow?” Zhong Di decided to double the figure—given his current income, 600 mu was manageable.

“I’ll handle the paperwork and let you know when to come in.”

“Okay,” he replied, then logged off and put away his phone.

There wasn’t much else of importance on his messaging app—just some idle chatter. Even on the Xuan Yin platform, the buzz about “Hedgehog” had died down. For someone else, letting such high traffic slip away without monetizing it might have been maddening, but not for him.

In today’s world, traffic is king—yet here he was, letting it fade away.