Chen Hao crunched on the energy bar in his hand, leaving crumbs stuck to the corners of his mouth without wiping them away. He stared at the brand popularity curve on the screen, like watching a slow-motion fireworks display.

“The peak traffic occurred at the seventeenth minute,” Nana said. “The video ‘The Iron Plow Grows the Milky Way’ has been shared more than eight million times across the internet. Keyword analysis of the comments section shows that ‘funny’ accounts for 30%, ‘real’ accounts for 40%, and the rest are—” She paused, “‘This person is really a poor student? I don’t believe it.’”

Chen Hao grinned, crumpled the wrapping paper into a ball, and tossed it backward, where it landed precisely at the edge of the recycling bin.

"Let them not believe me," he said. "I even copied the wrong answers from the student in front of me during my exams back then, who else could I be fooling?"

As soon as the words were spoken, a real-time push notification popped up on the main control screen: [The short video "Old Farmer and Robot" in the Wilderness version topped the interstellar hot search list, with views exceeding 100 million within two hours].

The image shows him standing on muddy ground, his tie askew, holding an energy bar, accompanied by the headline: "You call me a country bumpkin? But the land I cultivate can generate electricity."

The comments section was flooded with messages.

"Hilarious, this is true technology going to the countryside."

"Does that robot behind him know more about agriculture than I do?"

Some cynical remarks also emerged: "Signing an agreement while wearing slippers? This level of management is bound to collapse sooner or later."

"If they're monopolizing resources and still cultivating a personality cult, will they build statues next?"

When Nana scanned these comments, a faint blue light flashed in her eyes.

“A cluster of structured negative comments was detected,” she said. “Seven hundred and thirty-six accounts posted similar sentences within ten minutes, with a high degree of consistency in sentiment, and the IP distribution was concentrated in three transit nodes.”

Chen Hao leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and his slippers almost slipped off. "Oh? Starting to gang up on me?"

“Yes.” Nana pulled up the list of trending comments. “Currently, the topic of ‘pseudoscience’ has entered the top ten trends, and some media outlets are producing special reports to question it.”

Chen Hao didn't move, but just raised his hand and scratched his head, which made his already messy hair even more frizzy.

“Sure,” he said slowly. “Since they think we’re unprofessional, let’s show them what a professional failure looks like.”

"Understood." Nana tapped her finger, and an edited video was automatically generated, with the cover titled "The History of Failure on the Wasteland: Fifty Explosions in Three Years."

The first scene shows the moment the compost pit explodes, spraying fertilizer across half of the experimental field. Chen Hao is thrown to the ground, and his hat flies far away.

The second scene depicts a small fire caused by a leaking alcohol stove. He rushes in with a fire extinguisher, but ends up holding the nozzle upside down, failing to extinguish the fire and ending up with his face covered in white foam.

The final scene shows the acid rain corrosion experiment going out of control, with the entire wheat seedling turning yellow and withering. He squats in the field counting the dead seedlings, sighing as he counts: "I've lost three months' worth of food money again."

The video ends with a black screen followed by a line of white text: "We've made more mistakes than you've mentioned."

Three minutes after it was posted, the number of reposts surpassed that of the negative topic.

One viewer commented, "Whose scientific research didn't start with an explosion?"

"At least they dare to expose their failures, unlike some companies that delete posts and ban accounts when something goes wrong."

Chen Hao looked at the data reversal and snorted, "Sometimes the eyes of the masses are quite sharp."

Nana continued to monitor the flow of public opinion when a notification sound suddenly rang.

"Abnormal activity: Multiple high-authority media accounts simultaneously cited the 'ecological risk' tag and attached unverified soil toxicity prediction models."

Chen Hao frowned: "Who gave them the data?"

“The source is unknown.” Nana shook her head. “But the transmission path shows that the information packet went through three redirects and was eventually pushed by three mainstream news platforms at the same time.”

“It’s a routine,” he sneered. “First they create hype, then they question it, and finally, when we panic and come out to refute the rumors, they can seize on a single sentence and make a big deal out of it.”

He propped himself up on the table, walked to the main control screen, and stared at the overwhelming number of question marks.

"Okay, then we won't explain."

"No explanation?" Nana turned to look at him.

“Right.” Chen Hao grinned. “Let’s add some scenes.”

He immediately pulled out an old tablet, turned on the front-facing camera, and the background was the rolling purple wheat fields outside the window.

"Everyone," he said to the camera, "I heard you think this place is poisonous?"

He bent down, scooped up a handful of soil, and put it directly into his mouth.

The entire audience remained silent for three seconds.

Nana quickly pulled up the nutritional analysis: "Selenium content meets the standard, organic matter is rich, and heavy metals do not exceed the standard—you don't actually need to eat it."

Chen Hao had already started chewing, looking calm: "Yeah, it's just a bit rustic."

He swallowed it, clapped his hands, and said, "It's delicious. I suggest you promote it."

Five minutes after the video was uploaded, the trending topics list changed.

#Chen Haosheng Eats Wilderness Soil# has reached number one.

Someone exclaimed, "Are you crazy?!"

Some people admired him, saying, "With that kind of courage, being a CEO is a waste of his talent; he should be acting in extreme survival movies."

Even more outrageous, the next day a fan imitated him by eating dirt on live stream, and ended up getting diarrhea and being hospitalized.

Chen Hao laughed out loud when he saw the news: "Idiot, that's specially made nutrient soil, mixed with vitamins."

“Imitation has been flagged,” Nana added. “We will publish a statement on our official website to remind the public not to imitate dangerous actions.”

"Let's also make the formula public," Chen Hao waved his hand. "Let them know that even soil is a technical skill."

Public opinion has been completely reversed.

The media that once mocked him for "ruling the country in slippers" have now changed their tune and called him an "anti-elitist technology representative".

A youth group launched a movement with the slogan: "I want to be like Chen Hao, fat and change the world."

Some students even used his image as the cover of their PPT presentations, with the title "How a mediocre student can turn his life around into an interstellar agronomist."

Nana pulled up the brand value assessment report: "The brand awareness of 'Haona' has increased to 79%. User profiles show that the 18-35 age group accounts for 67%, and the emotional keyword has changed from 'doubt' to 'resonance'."

As Chen Hao listened, he suddenly asked, "Is that person who accused me of creating a personality cult still criticizing me?"

“Still active.” Nana pulled up the account information. “Seven posts in the past two hours, insisting that we created a false persona and calling for the establishment of an independent investigation committee.”

Chen Hao narrowed his eyes and smiled.

"Okay, give him more screen time."

He reopened the recording interface, this time changing the background to a chicken embryo vaccine laboratory.

He was holding a syringe filled with a pale blue liquid.

“Some people say I’m just putting on a show?” he said to the camera. “Come on, today I’ll demonstrate how to make a vaccine that can fight mutated viruses using just an egg.”

He picked up a fertilized egg, made a small hole in the side, and slowly injected the medicine.

"This step is called intraembryonic inoculation," he said seriously. "The failure rate is 82%, but if successful, antibodies can be extracted three days later."

Then he put the eggs into the incubator and closed the door.

"Once it hatches, I'll take the chick to his doorstep and bring him warmth."

At the end of the video, he winked and said, "Don't rush to criticize me. First, ask if your pet has been vaccinated."

Less than an hour after the post was published, the account that raised the question was quietly deleted.

Chen Hao clicked his tongue: "They run fast, don't they?"

Nana then sounded the alarm.

"New development: The bullet screen system is experiencing large-scale spamming, with content consisting of uniformly formatted accusatory phrases such as 'resource blockade,' 'technological hegemony,' and 'threat to interstellar fairness.'"

"It's the online trolls again," Chen Hao muttered. "Did they change the script this time?"

“It’s not just about spamming.” Nana pulled up the backend data. “These accounts are trying to hijack the topic’s weight and trick the algorithm into pushing controversial content to more users.”

Chen Hao sat back in his chair, tapping his fingers on the table.

A few seconds later, he laughed.

"Since they like to spam, let them spam to their heart's content."

"What are you planning to do?" Nana asked.

"Activate the positive feedback overwhelming mechanism." Chen Hao swiped his hand, "Make all the positive feedback from ordinary users go up to the top."

Nana nodded, and the program started immediately.

The next second, the tone of the hot comments section changed drastically.

A farmer's thank-you letter was pinned to the top: "My family has been unable to grow grain for three generations, but after using their improved varieties, we can harvest three crops a year."

Next was a video of a student's homework: "This is a replica of a quantum timer that I made. Although it exploded twice, I learned how to program."

Next up is a DIY enthusiast's live stream: "I built a miniature thermoelectric generator in my backyard, and the light bulbs are powered by residual heat from the kitchen! The principle comes from episode 3 of Chen Hao's video!"

The genuine, simple, and somewhat clumsy efforts instantly overshadowed the uniform attacks.

One person commented: "So there really are people who are seriously learning things."

Chen Hao finally breathed a sigh of relief upon seeing this scene.

"Technology shouldn't be the privilege of a few," he said. "It should allow an overweight person to live a more comfortable life through laziness."

Nana suddenly spoke up: "Brand personality assessment complete."

"How so?"

"Haona has become a symbol of 'anti-involution technological innovation' in the hearts of young people in the interstellar community. The core associated words are: genuine, unpretentious, capable, and capable of making mistakes."

Upon hearing this, Chen Hao laughed so hard he almost slipped off his chair.

"That's fine." He wiped his face. "Anyway, I'm not some kind of genius. I'm just an ordinary person who's too lazy to use his brain and just wants to eat well."

He looked down at his round belly, then looked up at the screen.

The popularity curve continues to soar, and the comment section is buzzing.

Just then, a new message popped up.

After reading it, Nana said, "A major media outlet requested an exclusive interview with me on the topic of 'My journey from a poor student to a tech leader'."

Chen Hao didn't even look at it, and simply waved his hand: "Rejected."

"reason?"

"I don't have a thought process to it," he said lazily. "I just want to get rich, and incidentally, not let others bully us."

He grabbed the last energy bar on the table and took a bite.

The sticky texture was still there, but he ate it with relish.

Inside the control room, three screens were running stably. The brand's popularity continued to rise, the public opinion map turned from red to green, and in the live broadcast from the booth, the purple wheat field undulated in the wind, like a silent and resolute breath.

Nana stood beside the control panel, her mechanical eyes constantly scanning the entire network. The underlying program was ready, awaiting only instructions.

Chen Hao leaned back in his chair, his eyelids half-closed, holding half an energy bar in his hand.

He suddenly opened his eyes and stared at a point on the screen that showed unusual fluctuations.

"Nana," he said softly, "did those online trolls just now use the same encryption protocol?"