Warden of the Beast World: Everyone is a Hakimi

After Lu Yu left, Ye Tang threw her uniform onto the sofa and sprawled out on the soft carpet in the living room, staring blankly at the ceiling for a long time.

So much happened today—time travel, being kicked out of my home, waiting for a rabbit to run into my trap, picking up a big dog, riding a wolf through the forest, and getting a job as a prison warden.

Her brain was like an old computer crammed with too many processes, the fan whirring and unable to keep up. But she had a good habit she had cultivated since childhood: when faced with something she couldn't figure out immediately, she would start working on it.

Working brings peace of mind, especially farming.

She closed her eyes, her consciousness sinking into the space.

In the open space of about a hundred square meters, the ancient well is still clear and bright, and her small apartment stands quietly in the center of the space, with large open spaces on the other side.

Ye Tang stood at the edge of the open space, looking at the dark brown soil, when suddenly a "ding" sounded in her mind—when she was obsessed with post-apocalyptic hoarding novels in her previous life, she not only hoarded food and drinks, but also a large number of vegetable and fruit seeds.

At the time, she thought that if the apocalypse really came, she would eventually die from eating canned food, so she had to grow her own food to supplement her vitamins. As it turned out, the apocalypse never came; she transmigrated first, and those seeds have been gathering dust in a storage box in the corner of her apartment ever since.

She rummaged through drawers and cabinets in her apartment for ages before finally pulling out the seeds from a plastic storage box under the bed—scallions, garlic sprouts, lettuce, tomatoes, peppers, strawberries, watermelons, and even a packet of catnip seeds.

She bought catnip on a whim, thinking that if there was no entertainment in the apocalypse, she could at least tease the stray cats. Now, seeing this packet of seeds, the first image that popped into her mind was the big white tiger in Observation Zone One.

Ye Tang chuckled twice and carried the seeds to the open ground.

She was still worried about how to plan such a large area of ​​land, whether to separate different plants, how to separate them, and whether to mark them—but as soon as she had the thought, the spiritual field in front of her seemed to sense her thoughts and began to change automatically.

The soil silently churned and rose, forming neat rows of furrows that automatically divided into small, independent areas, square and uniform in size with clear boundaries, exactly the same layout as when she used to grow vegetables in QQ Farm.

"This automatic partitioning function is amazing." Ye Tang squatted down and poked a slightly raised edge of the partition with her finger. The texture was realistic, moist and soft, and when she got close, she could smell the fresh, sweet and pungent smell of the soil.

She planted the seeds according to their type—scallions and garlic sprouts at the very edge, lettuce and tomatoes next to each other, peppers in a separate patch, and strawberries and watermelons in the sunniest spot. For the last packet of catnip, she specially marked out a prominent area, carefully scattered the seeds, covered them with a thin layer of soil, and then thoroughly watered them with well water.

After watering the plants, she straightened up and looked at the neat rows of small squares, feeling a great sense of satisfaction.

After finishing her work in the space, she came out and just then heard the doorbell ring.

The logistics department has already delivered today's nutritional supplements. Ye Tang opened the door, and there was a silver-gray constant-temperature delivery box at the entrance. The box was printed with the eagle wing logo of the Imperial Logistics Department, and there was a small electronic screen on the side displaying the delivery information: Prison Zero, five S-grade special nutritional supplements, and one ordinary standard nutritional supplement.

Ye Tang carried the box into the house, opened the lid, and inside were six tubes of nutrient solution neatly stacked. Five of them were packaged in dark gold with the words "S-grade Exclusive" printed on them, while the remaining one was a regular silver-white one with a simple label that simply read: Original Flavor.

"This is the nutrient solution." Ye Tang picked up the silver-white vial and examined it closely. The tube was made of some kind of lightweight alloy, cool and smooth to the touch, with a screw-on opening at one end. She unscrewed the cap and brought it to her nose to smell—it didn't have much of a smell, just a faint, bland scent, like a mixture of oats and metal. She tentatively poured a small sip into her mouth.

Then she froze completely.

The texture, how to describe it—it's like someone mixed flour and water together, cooked it into a half-cooked paste, then filtered out everything that might affect the texture, and finally added a spoonful of unseasoned protein powder.

It wasn't so bad it made you want to vomit, but rather it was that hollow, soulless blandness that made you question existence itself. Paste. Pure paste.

Ye Tang covered her mouth, using great willpower to prevent herself from vomiting on the spot, and rushed to the sink to rinse her mouth three times.

"Is this for human consumption?" She leaned against the kitchen counter, staring at the vial of nutrients with a look of relief, "What kind of miserable lives do the people of the Empire lead?"

She wasn't giving up. Maybe the original flavor was just an accident; surely switching to sweet wouldn't cause such a disaster? She pulled one of the five S-grade special nutritional supplements, glanced at the label—sweet. She twisted it open, poured it into her mouth, and three seconds later rushed back to the sink.

It was a paste with added sugar. Not the kind of sweet that tastes good, but an industrial, straightforward, cloying sweetness, like someone had poured a spoonful of cheap saccharin into that lump of paste.

Ye Tang screwed the caps back on all the remaining nutrients and put them back in the box, sincerely and wholeheartedly declaring her intention to give up.

A person whose 21st-century soul has been spoiled by milk tea, hot pot, barbecue, and spicy hot pot is unlikely to succumb to nutritional supplements.

She resolutely opened the space and took out her treasures from the apartment—a portable gas stove and beef tallow hot pot base. She bought the gas stove as part of a promotional order, and the beef tallow hot pot base was a sealed package she bought online from an old Chongqing hot pot restaurant. At the time, she was afraid that she would never be able to eat good food again after the apocalypse, so she stocked up on twenty packs at once.

She placed the portable gas stove on the kitchen counter, turned on the gas canister, and lit it. The blue flame shot up with a whoosh. She tossed the butter base into the small pot, and as the temperature rose, it slowly melted. The deep red butter churned in the pot, and the aroma of Sichuan peppercorns, chili peppers, star anise, and cinnamon crackled and popped as the hot oil hit the pot. The entire kitchen was instantly filled with that pungent yet fragrant and domineering aroma.

Ye Tang took a deep breath, almost moved to tears.

She plucked a few newly sprouted scallions and garlic shoots from her garden, then chopped half a piece of luncheon meat and a handful of soaked wood ear mushrooms, tossing them into the pot. Once the broth boiled, she added the instant noodle cake. Three minutes later, she sat down at the table with a steaming hot pot of spicy chili, sipping noodles and soup, feeling a sense of fulfillment.

Just then, she suddenly noticed something she hadn't seen before—the hot pot base packaging paper next to the portable gas stove, which she had clearly thrown into the trash can.

But now there was nothing in the trash can; the wrapper had vanished into thin air. She paused for a moment, then tried again, throwing a used tissue into the trash can. She silently wondered, "Is there a restock?" When she reopened her storage space, the used butter base packet was perfectly intact in its original place in her apartment locker, as if it had never been opened.

"I really am the chosen one." Ye Tang looked at the hot pot base that she had lost and found again and exclaimed from the bottom of her heart.

She glanced at the spiritual field again and froze once more. The catnip she had planted less than an hour ago had already sprouted into seedlings over ten centimeters tall, with vibrant green leaves and finely serrated edges, emitting a unique, refreshing fragrance when brought close. The lettuce and tomatoes next to it had also sprouted tender shoots, while the scallions and garlic sprouts had grown considerably taller. From sowing to germination, it had all taken no more than an hour.

"So fast?" She squatted down and gently touched a catnip leaf. The leaf trembled slightly under her fingertips, fresh and vibrant, with the unique suppleness of a plant. "As expected, transmigrating always comes with a cheat code. Accelerated farming and automatic restocking—this configuration would be top-tier even in a farming novel."

She hummed a song as she harvested some of the ripe catnip, and then casually picked a few scallions and garlic sprouts, washed them clean by the well, bundled them into small bunches, and put them into her space to keep them fresh.

After a busy afternoon, her long-term malnourished body finally couldn't take it anymore—she yawned, her eyelids felt as heavy as lead, and she only took a quick two-minute shower before putting on her pajamas and collapsing onto the bed.

The mattress was soft, and the pillow was the perfect height. She fell into a deep sleep almost the instant the back of her head touched the pillow, her breathing even and long, with a faint smile still lingering on her lips.