If the banknotes couldn’t be redeemed, it meant no red envelopes, no supplier payments, and no raw material orders. From HR to finance to market operations, it was a major blow to Chen Paper Shop.

If it were any other time of year, Xianjin could’ve shrugged it off and admired the elegant design of ancient high-denomination notes. But it was year-end. She was so anxious it felt like ten claws scratching at her heart—but her face showed nothing. She even started the morning with a full set of Eight Brocade exercises, one of the few activities permitted for former congenital heart patients.

Manager Dong arrived in a rush and found Xianjin dressed in a loose cream-colored robe, wearing plain black cloth shoes, her hair pinned with a dark wooden hairpin. A steaming lidded tea bowl sat on the stone stool beside her.

He paused. She looked just like the dignified old proprietor of the neighboring firm.

After witnessing her legendary maneuvers—securing a thousand taels with no collateral, stabbing a manager’s throat with a pen—Manager Dong had quietly accepted her as Chen Fu’s acting authority. Seeing her calmly practicing martial arts only deepened that respect.

“What’s wrong?” Xianjin asked, finishing her routine and exhaling deeply.

Even more like him…

Manager Dong shook his head and reported, “I asked the bank. We can withdraw early, but due to Manager Zhu’s credit…”

He hesitated over the wording. In ancient times, bad credit was a catastrophic stain, but there was no way to soften the truth. So he changed the subject. “The bank wants to charge us nearly four percent monthly interest.”

Expected. It was like in modern times—if you suddenly want to break a fixed deposit, the bank won’t just hand it over. Who knows where they’ve invested it? Oil in the Middle East? Crypto mining? Once your money enters the bank, it’s not entirely yours anymore.

She understood the logic. But… four percent?

Xianjin nearly wanted to call the cops. In modern law, annual interest over 24%—or monthly interest over 2%—is considered usury and not legally protected. But here, the official bank was charging 4%.

Expressionless, Xianjin cursed silently: “Damn lawless feudal dynasty!”

One thousand taels meant forty taels in interest per month. It wasn’t even New Year’s yet. If they withdrew now, they’d lose 280 taels—only 720 taels would remain. And the Jing County workshop’s monthly profit was just fifty taels. That’s nearly a 30% loss!

She sipped her tea slowly, trying to stay calm. Given the workshop’s current state, could they really afford a 280-tael loss?

“Withdraw the silver?” Manager Dong asked anxiously. “The bank closes on the 28th of the twelfth month and reopens on the 15th of the first month. We don’t have much time.”

“Has Master Li Sanshun returned?” Xianjin asked.

Manager Dong nodded. “He’s expected tomorrow. He’s been wanting to pay respects to Third Master.”

“And Third Master?” Xianjin frowned.

Manager Dong hesitated. Well, no need to say more. That romance-brained fool was probably off eating or relieving himself.

“Bind—” Xianjin swallowed the word. “Invite Third Master to the shop.”

She asked, “Wine or tea?”

Manager Dong was confused.

This informant, planted by Old Madam Qu, clearly needed more training—he wasn’t ready to be an executive assistant.

Xianjin patiently clarified, “Does Master Li prefer wine or tea?”

Manager Dong thought for a moment. “Tea. Top-tier papermakers shouldn’t drink too much—alcohol makes the hands tremble, which affects paper quality. I saw several seasoned tea tools at the shop yesterday—tea strainers, scoops, and spoons. He’s probably quite skilled.”

Hmm, not fit to be an assistant, but decent as a secretary.

Xianjin nodded. Remembering the tea culture of the Song dynasty, she said, “Find a refined teahouse by the Tianhuang Creek. Set up two red clay stoves, prepare salted peanuts, candied kumquats, red dates, and three boxes of assorted pastries. Bring Third Master’s favorite tea and hire a tea performance expert.”

“Charge it to the company account.”

The budget should stay under 700 taels, right? Even in modern times, riverside tea gatherings don’t cost a full thousand.

“If it goes over, write a voucher and charge it to Third Master’s private account,” Xianjin calculated. “Once we make money, we’ll reimburse it.”

A business must never mix public and private funds.

She remembered a story from her previous life: after her Nth surgery, her dad’s company accountant visited and joked, “Guess the most outrageous expense I’ve ever seen?”

“The ledger said: ‘Rent for boss’s mistress—4,300 yuan!’”

“I ran! If I didn’t, the boss would go to jail and I’d be next!”

She laughed so hard. Six months later, that company collapsed.

After Manager Dong repeated the plan, Xianjin changed into work clothes and rushed to the workshop—just in time to run into Chen Fu at the gate.

“Did you eat?” he asked.

Xianjin shook her head. Chen Fu held out two oil-soaked paper parcels. “Figured you hadn’t! Pork buns from Little Daoxiang—delicious!”

Xianjin smiled, took the food, and followed him inside. Last time she’d only reviewed the shop’s ledgers—she hadn’t entered the workshop.

Papermaking was a pure craft. It relied on raw material selection and artisan skill. As an outsider, it wasn’t appropriate for her to visit alone—people might think she was trying to steal trade secrets, but with Chen Fu, it was perfectly legitimate.

Inside, Zhou Ergou opened the door. Steam, humidity, and the earthy scent of grass and bark filled the air: large water vats, dozens of bamboo screens, stone troughs worn by time.

It was quiet.

The Zheng brothers she’d seen at the Changqiao Guild were lounging by the troughs, chewing on foxtail grass.

Zhou Ergou slapped one on the back. “Master is here!”

They jumped up, bowed to Chen Fu, then to Xianjin.

Wow. That bow was deep—almost ninety degrees.

“It’s year-end, and we’re short on workers. Master Li isn’t back yet, and there’s no one in charge. We’re not slacking on purpose,” Zhou Ergou explained quickly.

Chen Fu waved it off. “Don’t worry. It’s freezing and almost New Year’s—who wants to work? Even dogs don’t want to work! If not for…” He glanced at Xianjin. “I’d still be at Little Daoxiang eating eight bowls!”

To be honest, in her past life, Xianjin had congenital heart disease and never thought she’d get to “tiger-parent” anyone. But fate was kind. In this second life, she’d been gifted the chance to be a tiger dad—well, tiger boss.

Xianjin cleared her throat. “Let’s check the storeroom first.”

When funds are tight, what can you do? Collect outstanding debts, take out a bank loan, issue bonds.

None of those were options. So they had one path left: liquidate inventory.