Courtyard House: My Time Travel is a Bit Too Strong

Village chief Qin Yaozu leaned closer and asked, "A-Quan, where did you get these wheat seeds?"

"It was conceived by Yuan Laoyu," Lin Quan blurted out.

"Elder Yuan?" Qin Yaozu frowned, looking bewildered.

"An elderly gentleman surnamed Yuan has passed away." Lin Quan's voice was lower, with a hint of barely perceptible bitterness.

"Ah Quan, could you spare some wheat seeds for us?" Qin Yaozu's eyes lit up, and his hand gripping the seam of his trousers tightened slightly.

Planting this high-yield wheat means that even if we still have to pay the required grain tax, our whole family can still have plenty of food.

"You don't need to pay anything, it's free—but I have to teach you how to soak the seeds, germinate them, and prevent pests," Lin Quan patiently explained.

But few people in the village could read, and after he gestured for a long time, everyone was still confused.

Having no other choice, Lin Quan had to take time out of his busy schedule to come back and personally teach him.

After turning the soil, sowing spring wheat, and casually planting rice seedlings in the paddy field, he took Qin Jingru back home.

My father-in-law's house cost over five thousand yuan. Just considering the main house, side rooms, and annex rooms, not including the pigsty and kitchen, there were a total of sixteen rooms.

More than 2,900 catties of wheat were all piled up in my father-in-law's granary.

In the Earth instance, there are mountains of food, but can you really carry two thousand pounds of wheat back to the courtyard house? It's a thankless task, pure futile effort.

In just three or four days, the news that "Qinjia Village's wheat yield per mu exceeded 1,300" spread like wildfire throughout the surrounding villages.

That morning, Zhang Yan, a reporter from Yanhuang Daily, carrying a canvas bag, walked into the courtyard house through the blue brick alley.

"Comrade Lin Quan, did you really manage to cultivate such a high-yield wheat crop?"

"It's not me, it's the culmination of Mr. Yuan's hard work."

"Could you tell me who Mr. Yuan is?"

"An elderly gentleman surnamed Yuan has passed away. He not only cultivated high-yield wheat, but also high-yield rice—which is currently being trial-planted in Qinjiacun, right in the paddy field where I planted the seedlings myself."

"There's also high-yield rice?"

"Is a yield of around 1,000 jin per mu considered high?"

"Can rice really yield 1,000 jin per mu?"

"Once the autumn harvest sickle is swung, the numbers will naturally fall into place."

After the interview, Zhang Yan rode her bicycle back to the office and sat down to write an article.

In less than three days, the news that winter wheat yield had exceeded 1,300 jin per mu spread like wildfire across the country.

At this time, in Qinjiacun, people took turns guarding the ridges of the fields day and night, and not even a sparrow could fly into the rice paddies and wheat fields.

After pondering for a while, Lin Quan teleported to Earth and found a black-and-white portrait of Yuan Lao.

"Place it at home and burn three incense sticks morning and evening."

He personally framed it and hung it in the center of the main room; he also brought back a Xuande incense burner and lit three sticks of incense with wisps of smoke rising from it.

When asked by others, he simply said, "This is Elder Yuan."

Within a few days, portraits of Yuan Longping were printed all over the city, pasted at grain stations, hung at agricultural technology stations, and nailed to the walls of communes.

More than three months later, the spring wheat in Qinjiacun Village ripened.

The two-acre plot of land was completely surrounded by people, three layers deep.

An elderly farmer in his early sixties, full of energy, raised his arm and shouted, "Let's start!"

More than 300 people worked together, sickles flying and sacks piled up. In less than half a day, all the wheat was stored in the granary.

Threshing and weighing – exactly 2,863 jin.

"Is the yield really over 1,300 jin per mu?"

"How can spring wheat grow as fast as winter wheat?"

"If everyone in the country grew this wheat, who would worry about not having enough food?"

Lin Quan had intended to slip away in the chaos and find some peace and quiet, but as soon as he turned around, he was completely surrounded by the crowd, so he had no choice but to stay with a smile.

It took him several days to regain that peaceful, undisturbed life.

"The wheat technology has been handed over, and we should be able to take a break for more than a month."

He was merely a messenger and a bridge-builder—the high-yield wheat and high-yield rice varieties were all the result of the hard work and dedication of people like Yuan Longping.

With Mr. Yuan's face to keep things in check, and the technology explained in detail, we can save a lot of talking and avoid a lot of trouble.

A little over a month later, Qin Family Village became lively again.

Thousands of people gathered around a rice paddy, standing on tiptoe, craning their necks, their eyes shining.

The golden waves of rice stalks were so heavy that they bent the stalks, drawing gasps of amazement from the onlookers.

At a command, hundreds of people rolled up their trousers and jumped into the field, wielding their sickles with great force.

"Two thousand three hundred and twenty-seven catties! That works out to easily over a thousand catties per mu!"

Before the words were even finished, several elderly farmers burst into tears, their shoulders trembling.

Lin Quan's peaceful days were disrupted for a few days by the joy of the harvest.

He readily handed over the complete set of rice cultivation techniques, politely declined a series of invitations to transfer to the Academy of Agricultural Sciences, serve as deputy county head on temporary assignment, or become a technical consultant, and saw off one group of people after another who came to visit him.

"With this certificate, I can stand tall."

He looked down at the red book in his palm, and couldn't help but smile.

Contributing high-yield wheat and rice seeds, along with supporting farming methods, earned them a gold-plated certificate and a brand-new jeep.

An old leader asked him what he wanted, and he simply said, "I want a Jeep, so it's convenient for driving along the field ridges."

Less than three days later, a gleaming Jeep pulled up in the courtyard of the siheyuan.

He sat quietly for a moment to calm himself down, then went to Earth to bring back a sturdy safe, and locked all his documents and the money he had saved up at home inside.

Then we prepared the ingredients and waited quietly for Director He to get off work.

He Yuzhu, who has now been promoted to director of the condiment factory, is already a rising star.

The factory is booming, shipping over a million cans of seasoning overseas every month.

The cost of a can is less than two cents, and you can make a net profit of two dollars and three cents after selling it.

Envious of this golden goose? Director Li had his eye on it for a long time, but he just didn't dare to make a move—

The condiment factory belongs to the Third Machinery Factory, so it is nominally under his jurisdiction. However, if an incompetent relative is sent to give misguided instructions, the taste of the sauce will change, and the Xingguo people will turn around and leave, which would cut off the country's major foreign exchange lifeline.

Just after four o'clock in the afternoon, He Yuzhu stepped into the courtyard house.

Lin Quan went up to him with a smile and said, "Yuzhu, we've been waiting for you."

"Wow, having the factory manager cook for me, I'm really getting a lot of face." He Yuzhu shook his head with a smile.

"I'll pay for the rice, noodles, oil, and salt, and you'll show off your knife skills. It's perfectly fair." Lin Quan blinked. "The wine is also ready—a jar of ten-year-old Shaoxing wine."

"Alright, the stove is mine!" He Yuzhu rolled up his sleeves and headed into the kitchen.

More than an hour later, a table of steaming hot food was served, and everyone sat around and began to eat.

"Godfather, your braised pork is amazing!" Jia Geng said, gnawing on a bone, his face glistening with oil.

A few days ago, Jia Geng, Jia Dang, and Jia Huaihua, the three children, all kowtowed and recognized He Yuzhu as their godfather.

"Eat as much as you like, it's all paid for by my uncle." He Yuzhu grinned.

"Uncle, I want to drink fish soup." Jia Huaihua blinked and said softly.

"Alright, I'll take my fishing rod and wait by the river bend first thing tomorrow morning." Lin Quan's gaze swept over Qin Huairu's figure, his words tinged with a smile.

Jia Zhangshi had long seen through the scheme, but pretending to be deaf and dumb was the easiest way—if she really exposed it, she would lose face, and her monthly "subsidy" would be wasted.

"Brother Quan, I'll go with you tomorrow," Qin Jingru said eagerly.

"Ah Quan, I'll go too," Qin Huairu immediately chimed in.