The storeroom was located just behind the stone mortar, built with thick bricks and raised a meter off the ground. Eight sturdy pillars stood outside.

Xianjin climbed the three steps and watched as Zhou Ergou and Manager Dong each inserted a key into the lock—left and right. With a crisp click, the master-slave lock opened.

Quite ceremonious.

Out of the corner of her eye, Xianjin glanced at the small window to the left— It was wide open. The window frame practically screamed “Welcome!”

She looked again at the grand, high-end lock. Let’s just say… that whole unlocking ritual? Probably more about the vibes.

Xianjin’s mouth twitched. She patted Manager Dong’s shoulder and pointed at the window. “Once we settle the accounts, let’s nail a grate over every window, yeah?”

Manager Dong peeked out and instantly flushed red. Chen Fu took a bite of his bun and burst into laughter—like he’d lost his mind.

The storeroom deserved a master lock. It was larger than the storefront, lined with dozens of nanmu wood cabinets. A pungent aroma of Sichuan pepper hit them as they entered. It was strong.

Xianjin leaned toward the wall and sniffed. The scent came from pepper paste smeared on the walls.

“Xuan paper needs to stay dry. Besides raising the floor and laying blue bricks, pepper paste helps a lot,” Chen Fu explained between bites. He quickly finished his bun, pulled out a silk cloth to carefully wipe his hands and mouth, and only then stepped inside.

Xianjin gave him a second look. Not because he knew about paper, but because he cleaned up before entering. This romance-addled guy still held deep respect for the craft.

Interesting. She smiled faintly.

The storeroom was divided into two main categories: raw xuan and processed xuan. Within those, dozens of subtypes—Jia Tribute, Jade Plate, Coral, Mica Note, Cold Gold, Wine Gold, Waxed Golden Flower Brocade, Peach-Pink Tiger Skin— Each label was carved on sandalwood tags hanging from the cabinets.

“…Xuan paper comes in raw and processed,” Manager Dong began, sounding like a chatty aunt. “Raw xuan stays as it’s dried. Processed xuan is treated with alum and other agents—making it tougher and less absorbent. It’s great for fine brushwork or scrolls.”

Xianjin touched a sheet labeled “Jia Tribute.” Smooth, delicate, slightly soft. Probably raw xuan.

She scanned the room. “What kind of paper do we have the most of right now?”

Manager Dong pointed with his lips.

Xianjin looked toward the corner—stacked high with… yellow paper?

“…Bamboo paper,” he said, clearly unimpressed. “We’re supposed to be a quality shop. I checked the storeroom recently and was shocked. Why so many stacks of this stuff? There’s good bamboo paper, like Yuku from Sichuan or Fujian—but this pile? Not even worth a copper!”

He pulled out a sheet and handed it to her. “Feel this. You call this paper?”

Honestly? Manager Dong’s snobbish tone was kind of petty. Usually, he seemed honest and steady. But when gossiping about paper, he got downright catty.

Xianjin laughed and touched the sheet. Okay. With her shallow, superficial, limited knowledge of paper… Wasn’t this the kind of rough-edged stuff kids used to practice calligraphy?

“Why make so much of this?” she asked, a thought forming. “When Chen Paper Shop’s workshops tally up year-end production, do they count total paper output?”

Manager Dong nodded. “Yes. Jing County’s been leading for years. Last year we made fifty thousand reams.” He caught her meaning, paused, then resumed his petty tone. “Oh! So it’s just padding the numbers! Fooling ourselves!”

You’re so dramatic!

Xianjin chuckled quietly.

Chen Fu, walking ahead, suddenly exclaimed, “Is that… four-zhang xuan?!”

Xianjin rushed forward. On the blue bricks lay a massive sheet of paper. She estimated—about 14–15 meters long, 3–4 meters wide. Cream-colored, visibly tough and resilient.

Chen Fu’s eyes reddened. He turned to Xianjin, excited. “Four-zhang xuan! Only a true master can write on this! Only a renowned scholar can ink it! And our tiny Jing County workshop made it!”

Zhou Ergou’s eyes were misty too. “Last year, Master Li Sanshun and twenty papermakers worked four days and nights to make half a ream of four-zhang xuan. We still have 27 sheets left.”

He wiped his eyes. “Four-zhang is nothing. When Master Li was here, we made six-zhang, even eight-zhang xuan. One ream sold for 150 taels! Now that he’s gone, we’ll never see a hundred papermakers working together again.”

Four-zhang was already breathtaking. Eight-zhang? Monumental.

One ream of eight-zhang xuan sold for 150 taels—about 100,000 yuan.

So where was the money?

Xianjin thought of their pitiful account balance—just one tael and one qian. She scoffed internally. A thousand taels? They’d been shortchanged!

She surveyed the storeroom, calculated silently, then whispered instructions to Manager Dong. After a simple lunch of boiled greens and millet, she and Chen Fu headed to Tianhuang Creek.

The teahouse sat by the water, facing the famed Qingcheng Mountain Academy. Students in linen robes wandered in post-nap, bleary-eyed, clutching cloth satchels.

Xianjin turned her gaze and saw a short, stocky, dark-skinned middle-aged man hurrying over. She smiled and greeted him. “Master Li? I’ve heard so much about you!”

Li Sanshun saw a man in pink silk with a gemstone hat and powdered brows, and a young woman in coarse cloth with a wooden hairpin and calm demeanor.

His face darkened. Was this all the Chen family sent? Just these two? A dandy and a girl?

He slumped onto a stool and wiped his eyes. “Zhou Ergou said someone from the old hometown was coming to revive Jing County’s papermaking. I was thrilled! I couldn’t sleep for two days! I dreamed of making paper!”

He glanced at the dandy, who was munching peanuts, a red skin stuck to his lip. What a clown.

Tears welled up. “The Chen family saved my mother with a ginseng root. We owe them. Two generations of my family have worked ourselves to the bone!”

“But this is just cruel!”

“What do you know?”

“You know how to eat peanuts!”

“And this girl—what does she know?”

He slapped his thigh and sobbed.

Chen Fu looked helpless. Xianjin placed a hand on his shoulder, waited for his sobs to fade, then calmly said, “I don’t know how to make paper. But I know how to sell it.”

“You make the paper. I’ll sell it.”

“When we sell it, we’ll have money. With money, we’ll make better paper. I’ll hire a hundred helpers, dig the widest water troughs, and create the grandest sheets. We’ll revive the legend of eight-zhang xuan!”