Zhang Wenbo had set a strong example—most of the scholars with spare cash ended up buying bags. Those with tighter purses could only watch enviously as their classmates shouted and cheered.

A small child, thin and frail, wearing a worn cotton coat in the cold twelfth lunar month, clung to one of the stall’s wooden pillars, eyes full of longing as he gazed at the lively scene.

Xianjin’s eyes met the child’s. She froze for a moment, and the child quickly ran off.

“Bookkeeper He! I want two bags!”

“Coming, coming!”

A scholar in a hurry called out from behind the wooden rack. Xianjin responded, pulling her gaze back just in time to wrap up the busy morning before the Qingcheng Academy’s morning bell rang.

“Two hundred thirty… two hundred thirty-one… two hundred thirty-two…”

Zhou Ergou crouched on the ground, counting the remaining cowhide bags the old-fashioned way. His head bowed, his broad back hunched—he looked like a mountain.

“Two hundred thirty-two left. We sold two hundred sixty-eight this morning…” Zhou Ergou beamed. “Wow! That paper’s been sitting in the storeroom for nearly two years! All we did was put it in a bag and write a few signs—and it sold! Hahaha!”

A simple, cheerful, and energetic musclehead.

Xianjin slumped into a stool like a rag doll, feeling pretty good—except for a scratchy throat, sore tonsils, and a dry mouth. She clutched her old teacup and gulped down hot water. “…Let’s eat breakfast, then go back and pack fifty more bags.”

The hot water soothed her throat, and she sighed with relief.

Sales work was exhausting. Her brain and mouth hadn’t stopped all morning. Her legs hadn’t sat down once. Her face was sore from smiling.

She massaged her cheeks and jaw, muttering, “Brother Dong, Qingcheng Academy has about 300 students and 55 scholars, right? That many?”

She remembered that during Zhu Yuanzhang’s reign, each county was allotted only 20 scholar slots per year.

Manager Dong was also chugging water. At forty, he swore he’d never talked this much in his life. And never heard so many dialects!

Mandarin mixed with all kinds of regional accents.

Fengyang Prefecture!

Chuzhou Prefecture!

Luzhou Prefecture!

Even Jiangxi!

One student spoke like a bird—chirping and chattering.

He asked, and sure enough—Wenzhou Prefecture.

All morning, his only phrases were “Please slow down” and “Could you repeat that?”

Manager Dong swallowed his water. “Qingcheng Academy is one of the largest in Southern Zhili. Our prefecture values education, and Headmaster Qiao is famous for producing top scholars. So not only do students from our own and neighboring prefectures come here, even those from other administrative regions send their children here, then take them back for exams. It boosts their pass rate.”

It’s like studying in Huanggang and taking the college entrance exam in Tibet.

Xianjin was speechless. Academic migration really existed in every era.

Manager Dong continued, “So yes, over 400 students is accurate.”

Xianjin set down her cup, thought for a moment, then said, “Let’s pack fifty more bags this afternoon. Let’s aim for five hundred sold today—maybe even six.”

Manager Dong was stunned. That’s bold!

The academy had at most 400 people! Even with teachers and staff, maybe 450 total. That meant nearly everyone would have to buy a bag?

Impossible! At least three or four out of every hundred were top-performing students from poor families—there’s no way they’d spend money on expensive paper.

Manager Dong wiped sweat from his brow. “Isn’t that too much? If it snows and we don’t sell out, the paper will get damp—it’s bad for the stock.”

Xianjin nodded firmly. “It’ll sell. Trust me.”

Her marketing strategy wasn’t n × 1—it was 1 × n. Some businesses rely on foot traffic—more people, more sales. Others rely on repeat customers. You don’t need to sell to everyone, but those who buy will come back again.

That’s customer stickiness. And to build stickiness, you need to meet real needs—and create interaction between product and buyer.

The girl’s expression was calm, but her tone was resolute.

Manager Dong thought back to the “welcome banquet” the other day. When Xianjin proposed selling off inventory to raise cash, Master Li Sanshun had furiously objected, pointing at Third Master and yelling: “Our paper is worth real money! The workers strip bark in the dead of winter! Soak it in two kinds of water! Dry, pound, press, scoop—our people make paper with their flesh and blood! We can’t sell it cheaply! Once you sell cheap, it’ll never be worth more again!”

That old man was stubborn.

One moment, he was drinking with Third Master like brothers. The next, he was calling him a wastrel. He thought Xianjin’s “sell inventory, raise cash” plan meant dumping stock at low prices. But that pale, delicate girl downed a full cup of peach blossom wine, smashed the cup on the floor, and swore: “If I ever ruin good things just to make money, let me be shattered like this cup! Let me die without a whole body!”

The old man went silent. Not just silent—he didn’t even dare drink tea afterward.

Everyone thought she was bluffing. How could you clear inventory at full price? To get cash flow, you have to lower prices—let others profit, then you get liquidity. If you don’t discount, why would anyone help you clear stock?

After the banquet, the Third Master was drunk and dazed. Xianjin, perfectly sober, pulled Zhou Ergou aside and said, “Brother Gou, please find me 600 sheets of cowhide paper. We’ll stay up late folding them into envelope shapes, seal the edges with paste, and then you and Brother Zheng will help me sort the entire inventory. Categorize and count every sheet.”

She didn’t order him. But he was itching to help—he volunteered.

“Hmm… Brother Dong, you’ve been in the paper business the longest. Please help me identify the cost and market price of each type.”

“What’s market price?” he asked.

Xianjin corrected herself. “The selling price.”

Got it.

Then Xianjin, Zhou Ergou, Manager Dong, Zhou’s younger brother, and the three Zheng brothers worked day and night to sort the stock. They grouped the best paper into five price tiers: 80 wen, 60 wen, 50 wen, 40 wen, and 30 wen per sheet. Each tier was assigned a color: Han Jade White, Gardenia Yellow, Sunset Red, Ocean Blue, and Moonlight Blue. They commissioned a dye shop to make 60 palm-width color strips.

While Manager Dong sorted the tiers, Xianjin scribbled on a sheet of stiff paper with her oddly shaped reed pen—filling it with symbols he couldn’t understand.

There were “x,” “y,” and “z”… squiggly and strange.

He pointed at the worm-like “z” and asked, “What’s this?”

Xianjin, half-asleep, replied, “That’s a formula.”

“A Tianyuan formula,” she clarified.

Just as Manager Dong predicted, snow began to fall after dusk. Under the flying eaves and red tiles, Qiao Hui stood outside the academy gate, hands behind his back, reading the newly posted woodblock sign.

It read:

Collect all five color strips—Han Jade White, Gardenia Yellow, Sunset Red, Ocean Blue, Moonlight Blue—and receive one sheet of Four-Zhang Xuan.
Collect any four colors—receive two sheets of Two-Zhang Xuan.
Collect any three colors—receive one sheet of Two-Zhang Xuan.
Collect any two colors—receive one sheet of Flowing Cloud Gold-Flecked Paper.
These rules are valid long-term. Welcome to the shop.

Qiao Hui slowly straightened up.

Chen Paper Shop had used Tianyuan-style equations to guarantee its profit. Tsk. He could already see Zhang Wenbo’s future—bankrupt and smiling.