The morning sun slanted across the wheat field, the edges of the reflective sheeting gleaming with a blinding silver light, like rows of crooked blades stuck in the ground. Chen Hao leaned against the observation post, his protective suit still on, the mud stain on his face itchy from the dryness. Just as he was about to raise his hand to rub it, the tattered cloth on his wrist suddenly loosened, the scab cracked open, and a little red seeped out.

"Don't move," Nana's voice came from the side. "You have an open abrasion on the second joint of your left middle finger, which increases the risk of infection by twelve percent."

"Huh? Oh." He glanced down, then looked up at the purple-glowing wheat in the distance. "Anyway, it won't affect our meal."

As soon as she finished speaking, Nana's robotic arm suddenly turned towards the riverbank, and a short alarm sounded.

“Biological anomalies were detected in the river three kilometers away—fish died en masse, phytoplankton density increased three hundred times, and dissolved oxygen plummeted.”

Chen Hao was stunned: "What? The fish... flipped belly up?"

"Preliminary assessment indicates it is related to light pollution." She pulled up a data chart: "In the past six hours, the peak reflectivity of the reflective film reached 2,000 lumens per square meter, which, combined with the self-luminescence of the wheat field, caused the light intensity in the water to exceed the standard by nearly five times."

"Wait a minute." He scratched his head. "You mean... our reflective strip is 'bright' enough to kill the fish in the river?"

"To be precise, it has disrupted the food chain." Nana pointed to the screen. "Excessive light stimulates algae to grow wildly, depletes oxygen, and suffocates fish. At the same time, the residual reflections at night interfere with the migration routes of amphibians, and there have been 17 recorded cases of them dying after accidentally entering dry areas."

Chen Hao opened his mouth, but no words came out. He stared at the tattered strip of cloth in his hand, then suddenly laughed: "When I was a kid, I got caught cheating on a test, and the teacher said I was 'using my intelligence in the wrong place.' Now, wouldn't this be... building a defense system in the wrong place?"

He stood up, brushed the dirt off his pants, grabbed the spectrometer from the ground, and walked towards the river.

"I'll go get the samples! You keep an eye on the data!"

The river water was murky, and several small fish carcasses floated on the surface, belly up, their eyes white. Chen Hao squatted on the bank, scooped up a handful of water with a test tube, and as soon as the spectrometer probe was inserted, a red warning popped up on the screen.

"My God, this light intensity is almost as strong as the LED light boards used by the square dancing aunties," he muttered. "Are we trying to control insects or create an environmental disaster?"

Nana's voice came through the earpiece: "The reflective film on the east and north slopes is the main source of light scattering, and it is recommended to remove it first."

"Tear it down?" He glanced back at the blindingly bright silver barrier. "But what if the bugs come again?"

"Risk probability comparison: If the existing layout is retained, the probability of ecological collapse within three days is 68%; if some structures are demolished, the probability of insect swarm re-invasion is 31%."

Chen Hao remained silent for a few seconds before plopping down on the wet, muddy ground.

"Fine." He sighed. "This is the first time I've been a decision-maker in my life, and I have to choose which unlucky person to die first. The membranes on both the East and North slopes have been completely removed."

"Received." Nana immediately initiated the command: "The remaining reflective film on the west and south slopes will be adjusted at different angles, and tall crops will be used to block part of the reflective area."

That's when the raindrops started falling.

At first, it was just a few scattered drops, making a pattering sound as they hit the reflective film. In less than ten minutes, it was as if someone had poked a hole in the sky, and the rain poured down.

"This rain couldn't have come at the worst possible time." Chen Hao wiped his face, rainwater streaming down his hair. "The membrane is even more slippery when it's wet, the screws definitely won't tighten."

"The weather data shows that the rain will continue for more than four hours." Nana handed over a folding umbrella. "I suggest you speed up the work."

"An umbrella? Are you serious?" He took the umbrella, glanced at it, and handed it back. "Never mind, I'm already soaked anyway, getting a little wet won't save me from taking a shower."

The two men braved the rain to climb the scaffolding on the east slope. Chen Hao held onto the slippery aluminum pipe with one hand and tightened a wrench with the other. His gloves were nowhere to be found, and his palm was cut by the metal edge, with blood dripping down mixed with rainwater.

“I’m telling you, Nana,” he muttered as he strained, “why did we have to use these crappy solar panels in the first place? Couldn’t we have just hung an old bed sheet on a tree to scare away the bugs?”

"The reflectivity of bed sheets is less than 15 percent, which is insufficient to form an effective deterrent."

"But now this thing is too intimidating; it's even scaring the fish to death."

As the last panel was removed, the silver sheen of the entire Dongpo area vanished. Rainwater washed over the exposed supports, creating an empty echo.

"Phase 1 complete." Nana confirmed with a scan, "Light pollution peak has decreased by 54 percent."

Chen Hao, panting, leaned against a pillar and rubbed his arms: "Finally... things have calmed down a bit."

Before she could finish speaking, Nana's alarm went off again.

“The wheat field is growing at an abnormal rate!” She pulled up the real-time video. “Catalyzed by the rain, the photosynthetic efficiency of the purple wheat plants has increased to four times the normal value, and the stems are elongating at a rate of 3.7 centimeters per hour, which has drastically increased the risk of lodging.”

Chen Hao rushed to the edge of the field and reached out to touch a wheat ear. The leaves were incredibly hot, as if they had absorbed a lot of sunlight.

"Why...why is it still growing? Shouldn't it rest during rainy days?"

“The current average daily effective light exposure has reached eighteen hours.” Nana showed the chart. “Although the reflective film has been partially removed, the residual reflection still puts the plants under excessive workload.”

Chen Hao stared at the wheat field that was growing wildly in the torrential rain, and suddenly grinned: "I get it. We're making the crops work the night shift every day, without paying them overtime."

"The concept of plants without pay."

"I mean, it's exhausted." He wiped the rain off his face and looked up at the sky. "The sun has had its fill of sunshine, but it still needs to reflect light to make up for it. After the rain, it gets a boost from the purple light. Who can stand that?"

Nana awaits further instructions.

Chen Hao stood in the mud and water, his left hand wound starting to bleed again, but he ignored it.

“We can’t let it keep ‘working overtime’,” he said. “Let’s set a timer so that sunlight only reflects for twelve hours a day, and let it rest the rest of the time.”

“The artificial rhythm control scheme is feasible,” Nana noted. “A light-blocking adjustment structure needs to be built, and an opening and closing mechanism needs to be set.”

“Let’s get to it.” He turned and walked toward the tool shed. “First, find the usable canvas, cut it into curtains and hang them up. We’ll reinforce them when the rain gets a little lighter.”

Nana followed closely behind, her mechanical legs stepping into the puddles, splashing up a circle of mud.

"Reminder: Your body temperature is currently low and the wound has been exposed for too long. It is recommended that you treat the injury first."

"Wait a minute." Chen Hao pushed open the shed door and pulled out a roll of gray-blue waterproof cloth. "This little injury is not as important as the collective death of wheat from overwork."

He tore off a piece of fabric and was about to cut it when his fingers slipped, the scissors sliced ​​across his palm, and blood immediately gushed out.

"Ouch!" He pulled his hand back. "This rag is more tedious than an exam paper."

Nana handed over disinfectant spray and bandages.

"Stop with all that fancy stuff." He waved his hand. "Just take a rope, tie it tight so you don't bleed."

He haphazardly wrapped the strip of cloth around his fingers, tied a knot, and continued cutting the cloth.

“Hang two on the east side, leave a gap on the south side, cover it completely at night, and leave it half open during the day.” He gestured as he spoke, “We need to set a schedule for the wheat, light it at eight in the morning and turn it off at six in the afternoon, without fail.”

"However, weather changes can affect the duration of natural sunlight."

“Then we’ll adjust accordingly.” He shouldered a stack of cloth and walked outside. “Open them less on cloudy days, and more on sunny days. We need to be flexible. We can’t keep them open all year round, can we?”

The rain is still falling.

The two trudged through the mud back to the edge of the field and began installing temporary blackout curtains. Chen Hao stood on tiptoe to hang the first piece of cloth on the frame; it rustled loudly in the wind.

"This looks like a construction site fence," he said with a laugh. "We're an agricultural construction team now."

Nana secured the other end, and the robotic arm precisely engaged it in the slot.

"The first layer of blackout curtains has been deployed and is expected to reduce direct sunlight reflection for three hours in the afternoon."

Chen Hao stepped back a few paces, looked around, nodded, and then looked up at the still-flickering remnants of the reflective film in the distance.

“The rest also need to be changed,” he said. “We can’t just rely on manually tearing the fabric; we need to make something that can open and close automatically.”

"The main control platform needs to be connected to the light sensor and timing module."

“Yes.” He wiped the rain off his face, his eyes darkening. “He can only get twelve hours of sun a day, no more.”

He turned and walked toward the tool shed, his footsteps splashing mud as he stepped into the puddles.

Nana stood beside the observation post, and the mechanical eye continuously scanned the data stream, keeping the main system running.

The wind whistled through the soaked blackout cloth. Suddenly, an unsecured corner lifted up and slammed against the support with a crisp sound.