Sixth Master Chen was on the verge of collapse, slumped in his chair, his beard drooping as he gasped for breath. He imagined what would happen if the scandal broke—his hard-earned illicit wealth confiscated, his son dismissed from his clerkship and sent home, his grandson expelled from Qingcheng Academy and barred from the imperial exams.

And himself? Under the Great Wei law, embezzling family assets could be punished with up to fifty strokes.

He’d embezzled so much, even a hundred strokes wouldn’t be enough!

Worse still, beyond embezzlement, he’d committed the gravest offense: secretly “feeding the enemy” by smuggling premium paper to rival merchants, helping them secure tribute status. If that came to light, his entire family—over twenty members—wouldn’t survive in Jing County.

The price was too high.

He was willing to trade anything. Anything!

As long as He Xianjin, that cunning little vixen, showed the slightest sign of leniency—whatever she wanted, if he had it, he’d hand it over with both hands.

Tears streaming, Sixth Master Chen peeked at Xianjin’s expression—only to see her standing with hands behind her back, watching his suffering with amused interest.

He wailed louder. Even the toughest dog, when teased and denied food long enough, will break.

Xianjin cleared her throat.

His sobs quieted.

“I want eight-zhang and six-zhang xuan paper.”

Her tone was solemn. “However much you have, I want it all. Hand it over, and I’ll burn this copied ledger in front of you—and tell you where the original is hidden.”

Sixth Master Chen forgot to cry. He opened his mouth to speak.

Xianjin waved him off. “We’re both old foxes—don’t play dumb.”

“Given your habit of squeezing every last drop, I doubt you let Master Li’s premium paper slip through your fingers.” She sat down grandly, took a cup of hot tea from the mustached servant, filled it, and handed it to Sixth Master Chen. “Drink.”

He instinctively recoiled.

Xianjin smirked. “What, afraid it’s drugged? Poisoned? Laced with lead?”

She casually splashed the tea in his face, flipped the cup upside down on the table, leaned back with arms on the Eight Immortals table, and looked down at him like he was an ant she could crush with one hand.

So… cool.

Today, little Wang Sansuo’s eyes were working overtime—round as zeros one moment, slitted like ones the next, like a glitching screen.

Tea dripped from Sixth Master Chen’s beard, burning his face. He didn’t dare move, afraid the tea might enter his mouth—if it was laced with thunder vine, it could kill.

Xianjin smiled. “Sixth Master, think about it. You want to kill me, and I only want a few sheets of paper—is that excessive?”

A few sheets? These weren’t just any sheets.

No one in the world—not Fu Rong Paper Shop in Anyang, not Song Paper in Jing County, not the Wen or Wang families in Xuancheng—could produce eight-zhang xuan anymore. Master papermakers had died one after another. Their apprentices weren’t ready. No one could take up the mantle. They couldn’t make it—but the elite still wanted it. The rarer it was, the more they craved it.

Rumor had it that Princess Bai’an in the capital adored long-format ink paintings. To win her favor, art shops were offering one tael of gold per sheet of eight-zhang xuan.

Sixth Master Chen wiped his face with a silk cloth, trembling. “…I do have some. When Master Li made them, I kept ten sheets of each—for emergencies…”

Ten sheets? You’re stingier than I thought.

Xianjin traced the rim of the teacup and stood. “Two batches of eight-zhang and six-zhang xuan. Hand them over, and I’ll leave. Deal done. I’ll pretend I never saw the ledger. You can retire to your estate and live out your days. Next New Year, you’ll still be my dear Sixth Grandpa.”

Grandpa, my foot! You want me to be your grandpa?

Sixth Master Chen cursed inwardly but forced a bitter smile. “Two batches? I really can’t…”

“No?” Xianjin patted her knee and stood. “Then there’s nothing more to say.” She turned to Suo’er. “Let’s go.” Then smiled at Sixth Master Chen. “Keep the ledger. It’ll make a fine footrest in your coffin.”

She walked out without looking back.

Three—two—one— Usually, the classic “If you won’t sell, I’ll leave” trick works wonders in shady markets.

“Wait!”

It worked.

Xianjin smiled.

Sixth Master Chen shot to his feet. “I’ll give you four batches!”

He gritted his teeth. He’d only kept three of each! He’d coerced Master Li into pulling five or six all-nighters each month to make them. For every batch, he gave Master Li’s dying wife a ginseng root worth a year’s wages. Master Li treated him like a savior. These rural craftsmen had no idea how valuable their skills were.

They thought bark-made paper wasn’t worth much. Even if scholars prized it, they didn’t think it could fetch a high price. These country bumpkins would never understand how rare paper could be worth gold—how thousands could covet it.

Sixth Master Chen crushed his yellowed teeth. “Old Gen! Go to the storeroom and fetch two batches of eight-zhang and two of six-zhang!”

Then he turned to Xianjin, eyes sharp as steel. “Miss He, now tell me—where’s the original ledger?”

On Shuixi Street, the marketplace bustled with life. Vendors came and went like weaving threads, their cries echoing nonstop.

Outside the Qingcheng Academy gates, the Little Daoxiang restaurant opened on the fifth day of the new year. A pot of stewed lamb simmered with dogwood berries, green peppers, ginger slices, star anise, and fennel. Thick-cut white radish chunks added heft. The lamb was so tender that a light touch with pointed chopsticks separated bone from meat, releasing steam from the crevices.

Qiao Hui took a bite of lamb, sipped some Jinhua wine, and squinted with a click of his tongue. “…Thanks for joining me, even while you’re still observing mourning.”

Chen Jianfang took a sip of tea and smiled. “Last time we met was during the provincial exam in Southern Zhili. You were so dizzy afterward that your father had to pour a whole pot of salt-sugar water down your throat to revive you. I thought our next meeting would be in the capital, heading to the metropolitan exam together…”

He lowered his gaze, swallowed the rest of his words, shook his head, and drank more tea. Then he turned to look out the window.

The Wuxi River hadn’t frozen. Snow had piled up along the banks, but foot traffic quickly trampled it into a dirty slush.

A familiar figure darted out from an alley, followed by three others.

Chen Jianfang narrowed her eyes. Why was Miss He tangled up with Sixth Master Chen?

Qiao Hui followed her gaze and, upon recognizing Xianjin’s wintergreen-like face, ground his teeth. “Isn’t that your family’s wintergreen—no, I mean, your female bookkeeper?”

Chen Jianfang didn’t shift her gaze, just nodded vaguely. They watched as Miss He pointed to a spot in the crowded street. Sixth Master Chen raised his hand, and the old servant behind him began digging furiously. Soon, he unearthed a square object—looked like a book?

Sixth Master Chen snatched it and turned to leave. A moment later, Miss He and a younger maid each carried a tightly wrapped bundle and headed toward the old residence. The whole exchange was smooth and practiced—looked like a transaction.

Chen Jianfang’s brows furrowed deeper. That square object—was it the ledger they’d retrieved during their night raid on the Zhu residence?

Was she making a deal with Sixth Master Chen?

Qiao Hui tilted his head, watched for a while, then returned to his lamb.

Well then. That girl had finally gotten her hands on the six-zhang xuan paper.