Farming Life Starting in Africa

When Rosen got home, he didn't even have time to drink water before he eagerly jumped into the capsule space and spread the bulletproof suit out on the omnipotent platform.

He noticed two dried dark brown bloodstains on the lower back and front of the thigh of the clothes. He pried open the tear with his fingers and looked at it. The cut was neat, as if it had been made with a knife, and the fibers at the edge of the tear were sticking out.

"This is a battle-damaged version," Rosen muttered to himself. "The original owner was probably stabbed twice; I wonder if he's still alive."

Rosen started the scanning program; the red laser beam swept from head to tail, moving as slowly as an ox pulling a cart. Too lazy to wait, Rosen casually brought up the design interface and started fiddling with his clothes.

In Africa, that godforsaken place, wearing a suit and shirt out is practically asking for trouble; it's incredibly conspicuous.

He quickly sketched a T-shirt and a pair of cargo pants, simple and plain, a dull gray color that you'd never find if you threw them into a crowd.

After thinking about it, I added a pair of arm sleeves and a neck warmer. These things are not noticeable when rolled up normally, but when needed, you can pull them up to protect your neck and wrists. I also got a sun hat, with a specially widened and enlarged brim. The front panel can be pulled down to make a bulletproof face shield, which is very convenient.

As for those superhero bodysuits? Forget it. He's not going to fly out to save anyone, why would he need to wear something so tight?

Not only was it uncomfortable to hold, but it was also incredibly shameful. Just thinking about it made Rosen feel extremely uncomfortable.

The costumes of superheroes were actually inspired by circuses, where people wear brightly colored clothes and do things that ordinary people can't do.

He also drew a set of Arabic-style robes based on Lao Zhou's height data. It was a white robe with a pair of baggy trousers underneath, and a large white cloth on his head, which would cover him up completely. When the headscarf was loosened, it could even cover his face.

The African sun is so intense that wearing this kind of clothing would actually make you cooler, but the body odor would be extremely strong, which is why they are so obsessed with perfume. Just like the characters in Dune, they all wanted spices, and without spices, they would probably die.

However, Lao Zhou will not give him this piece of clothing for the time being, so as not to expose his all-powerful platform.

The progress bar on the universal platform is only halfway there. Rosen isn't worried at all about not being able to analyze the material; as long as the physical object can fit into the capsule space, this machine can deduce the blueprints.

However, the biomass energy consumed by this scanning function is no small amount; every bit of energy consumed is enough to power the fruit trees for a whole day. Accumulating that energy is incredibly difficult; how long would it take to get it back, and how much good food would it require?

After about the time it takes to smoke a cigarette, the analysis report came out.

Rosen leaned closer to take a look and saw that the core component was composite carbon fiber, the kind with multiple cross-lays and resin curing, and also mixed with aramid and ultra-high molecular weight polyethylene fiber. These materials are available on the market.

What truly makes it a cutting-edge technology is the way the fabric is woven. This thing doesn't rely on rigidity to disperse the impact; instead, it uses a special weaving method between the fibers to guide the force of the bullet away like water, dissipating it along the surface of the fabric. It's quite absurd.

No wonder it's so soft and fluffy, feeling no different from a regular wool suit, yet it can withstand rifle bullets. This technology is almost magical, it's completely unscientific.

Next, Lawson would have the all-powerful platform produce the clothing. By the time he finished, it was already dawn outside.

He staggered down to the underground storeroom beneath the gun shop, checked all the goods Old Zhou had ordered, and put them all into the camper van in the gun shop. Only then did he climb into bed, and the moment his head hit the pillow, he knew nothing more.

Around noon, Patrick waited downstairs for ages, but seeing that his boss's door remained unmoved, he knew his dear boss had stayed up all night again. He rubbed his stomach, which was growling loudly with hunger; he'd better fend for himself for breakfast and lunch today.

He happily rummaged through the cupboard and pulled out a bottle of Kangshifu (a type of Chinese medicine), tore open the packaging, poured hot water over it, put the lid on, and three minutes later, he opened it again. The aroma—tsk, don't even mention it.

In this godforsaken place in Africa, you can't even afford instant noodles if you don't work hard.

That's how it is in this place. The instant noodles sold in the supermarket are 10 yuan for a bag and 18 yuan for a cup. The unit is RMB.

If he dared to convert the unit to US dollars, it's not that he couldn't sell it, but every day there would be people eyeing his shop, hoping to make a big profit. Huge profits easily make people envious, even if you're just selling instant noodles.

Patrick was happily slurping his food when a piercing horn blared from the courtyard gate, beeping like a death knell.

He glanced out the window and saw a red Jeep Wrangler, its chassis seemingly raised. The car was parked at the gate with the engine running, just sputtering away.

Patrick wiped his mouth, pushed open the hall door, and went out. The sun was already quite strong, making his head feel hot. A young man, fair-skinned and clean-cut, was sitting in the car, and a woman wearing a large hat with the brim pulled low so that her face was obscured.

When the driver saw people coming out of the yard, he picked up the loudspeaker in his car and shouted, "Honey Badger! Come out! Come out! Come out!"

The man neither got out of the car nor went into the yard; he just stood there shouting like an idiot. Patrick frowned, glanced back at the boss's window, and realized that Rosen had reinforced the wall with soundproofing cotton and steel plates himself. As long as he didn't press the communication button or trigger the alarm, he wouldn't hear a firecracker going off outside.

"The boss is sleeping," Patrick said slowly. "What do you need?"

"What time is it? Still sleeping?" the young man said loudly. "Wake him up! I'm his friend! I came here specifically to see him today!"

Patrick thought to himself, "What kind of friend are you? The boss's friends just walk in, and you just stay in your car honking and making noise. What's your name?"

"Tell him my name is Zhuo Yifan! Tell the honey badger to get up right now!"

"Using a nickname, huh?" Patrick rolled his eyes inwardly, guessing he was at most a customer. But he was also worried about delaying his boss's business; what if it was a big order? He sighed and pressed the communication button on the wall: "Boss, someone named Zhuo Yifan is looking for you."

After a long while, Rosen's groggy voice finally came from the speaker, "I know... let him come inside and wait."

Patrick raised his chin at the Jeep Wrangler and said, "Come in, the boss is awake."

In the car, Zhuo Yifan turned to the woman in the passenger seat and asked in a low voice, "Wei tide, are you sure it's him? This guy is stingy and miserly, he talks like an old lady, and his attitude is terrible."

"I'm not sure either," Zhuo Weixi's voice came from under the big hat, "but I'm sure he recognizes the gun I used last night."

"Okay," Zhuo Yifan clicked his tongue, "That gun was indeed bought from Honey Badger. Damn it, that guy even laughed at me back then." He paused, "It was bought for you, I definitely wouldn't use that crappy gun myself, it has no power at all."