Just as she’d promised, Xianjin spent five consecutive days in the second-floor private box of the Changqiao Guild. On the first day, only one person came—a teenager from a local restaurant called “Little Daoxiang.” He brought a receipt signed in flamboyant calligraphy with the name “Zhu Gangli,” Manager Zhu’s real name.

Xianjin: … She really could predict the future.

“Manager Zhu drank at our place three times and ran up a tab of two strings of cash. We never pressed for payment—Chen Paper Shop isn’t the type to default…”

The boy was only fifteen or sixteen, pale-faced and timid. “But my father fell ill two days ago, and we had to close the restaurant. My mother dug through everything and found this receipt…”

How tragic. Truly tragic.

Xianjin’s face turned cold and stern, like a washboard. She took the receipt, calculated interest at 2% monthly (as if it were a high-interest loan), signed a payment slip, and handed it to Nanny Zhang. Nanny Zhang weighed out the silver and respectfully gave it to the boy.

“Go get a doctor and medicine for your father.” Xianjin’s voice was sincere. “I’m sorry we came too late.”

The boy’s eyes reddened instantly. He took the silver in one hand and handed over the receipt with the other.

After the success of “Little Daoxiang,” more people came on the second and third days—local vendors owed payment by Chen Paper Shop, unlucky buyers who had preordered paper but were ghosted, and customers who had paid for premium paper but received subpar goods. As long as they had valid proof, they were paid.

If the buyer felt the product didn’t match the description, they were asked to return the remaining paper for a full refund. If the paper had already been used, they could present the receipt, and Nanny Zhang would fetch replacement paper of equal quality.

Anyone who could afford Chen Paper Shop’s goods wasn’t likely to scam them over a few sheets. If they were still willing to come forward and ask for a replacement, it meant they still had some trust in the brand. The truly disappointed ones wouldn’t even show up—they’d simply blacklist the shop and never spend another coin.

This was Jing County, after all. Ten miles of long streets, eight paper shops.

Chen Paper Shop had started early. Old Madam Qu had expanded aggressively, running multiple shops with almost no cash reserves, riding the coattails of the Chen family’s patriarch. Their scale was larger than that of the small workshops. But in terms of actual paper quality, the difference wasn’t heaven and earth.

The truly superior products that showcased Chen Paper Shop’s craftsmanship weren’t affordable for the average buyer. That’s how business works: the top-tier goods are bought by top-tier clients and rarely enter the general market. The bottom tier is low-margin, high-volume—just enough to scrape by. The middle tier is where profit and efficiency peak, and where competition is fiercest.

Chen Paper Shop sold paper. Who needed paper in this era? Scholars. Families who could afford to educate their children had at least some surplus grain. That was the middle market.

Judging by the past five days, Chen Paper Shop’s bait-and-switch tactics were about to alienate the entire middle market. Not to mention the supply side—raw material vendors. The stack of unpaid invoices was three inches thick, totaling over 500 taels. The oldest debt was three years overdue. The smallest was just two taels.

Two taels! You even delayed two taels? Why not just die already? Damn capitalism!

Every night, Xianjin and Manager Dong worked late to reconcile the day’s accounts. By morning, they were back at it, dark circles under their eyes. The silver tray was running dry.

Manager Dong couldn’t use an abacus. He shuffled twenty sad little counting rods around, sighing to Xianjin, “…800 taels spent—100 for six workshop workers, 631.8 for debts, 145.1 for refunds. Remaining… remaining…”

Xianjin leaned back, exhausted. “Negative 76.9 taels.”

They’d used the shop’s cash reserves to cover the shortfall. After closing up each night, Xianjin returned to the shop to tally the remaining silver. She’d never seen such pitiful books.

A shop with seven or eight employees had only 78 taels on the books.

After plugging the Changqiao Guild’s gap, the once-thriving Chen Paper Shop—known as one of Jing County’s “Twin Beauties” alongside Qingcheng Academy—now had exactly 1.1 taels in cash.

Kind of auspicious, actually.

Xianjin seriously suspected the wonton shop next door had more cash on hand.

1.1 taels—about 770 yuan.

Manager Dong nearly laughed from despair. His eyes drooped, but his mouth curled upward. “In ten days it’ll be New Year’s. We’ve got annual taxes, red envelopes for New Year’s Eve, rent for next year, and equipment replacements for the workshop. Rough estimate: several hundred taels.”

Wait—the Chen Paper Shop was rented? This was their headquarters! The Chen family hadn’t bought their own base?

Xianjin raised an eyebrow.

Manager Dong caught her reaction and maintained his bitter smile. “…That shop is government property. Not for sale.”

Xianjin: Oh.

Another form of tax. Except that this “tax” directly benefited local officials. It had to be paid. Merchants had to be savvy to avoid being fleeced.

Xianjin frowned, flipped the abacus upright, and let the beads clatter down. Then she flipped it again—more clattering.

Oddly satisfying.

Manager Dong muttered, “Don’t worry too much. The Old Madam wouldn’t send Third Master here just to let him crash and burn. It’s only a few hundred taels. Let him write home, soften up to his mother. What money can’t she give?”

Xianjin shook her head. “That’s not what I’m thinking.”

“Then what are you thinking?” Manager Dong asked.

Xianjin smiled, turned the abacus sideways, and finally let the beads settle where they belonged.

“I’m thinking… how much money I should ask for.”

One of Chen Fu’s so-called “two fools,” Zhu Ersha (Manager Zhu), was pacing anxiously in his spacious second courtyard, unable to calm himself. Every so often, he summoned a servant to ask for updates. After a long wait, Sixth Master Chen finally arrived, hunched and grim-faced.

Manager Zhu rushed to greet him, tears falling before he could speak. “That little witch…” He was thinking of the pen tip pressed against his throat days ago.

“That burden is too much!”Still crying, he pulled out a slip of paper from his palm. “Zhou Ergou delivered this this morning. Take a look!”

Sixth Master Chen squinted at the note.

On the front, it read: “Under Great Wei law, embezzlement and unlawful seizure of private property are punishable by fifty strokes and thirty years of hard labor.”

There was writing on the back.

Sixth Master Chen flipped it over. “One thousand taels within three days may buy off the fifty strokes and thirty years. After five days, the price rises to 1,200 taels. If no silver is received after five days, we’ll meet in prison.”

Fifty strokes? He’d be dead! Forget prison—just meet at the mass grave!

Manager Zhu sobbed, “Sixth Master, I should just run! I don’t have a thousand taels! Even if I sell this house and sell myself, I still couldn’t scrape together that much!”

Run? Run where?

The Great Wei had strict population controls. Every ten households formed a neighborhood unit. To enter or leave the city, you needed a travel pass, and even that required documentation from your trade guild, family, or local headman.

That thousand taels—plus the 800 they’d already paid—was almost exactly what they’d siphoned from the shop over the past five or six years, with 2% interest added.