Before her departure, Old Madam Qu made an official announcement at the Chen Paper Shop and the old residence: Xianjin would assume the position of manager of the Jing County workshop. Everyone at the old residence offered their congratulations, now respectfully addressing her as “Manager He.”

Nanny Zhang was beaming with joy—though it was unclear whether she was happy about Xianjin’s promotion or simply delighted that her rival, Second Madam Qu, had finally left. Early in the morning, she busied herself stewing an old hen with aged gastrodia root, and the aroma was so rich it could practically pull your nose off.

The massive stone pot was half emptied by Chen Fu alone. After finishing, he picked his teeth and commented with a picky tone, “…Needs more time over the fire. The meat should be tender enough to fall off the bone.”

Nanny Zhang: … Didn’t stop you from eating half of it!

Ironically, the one being celebrated was the most restrained. Because she was still observing the mourning period, Xianjin neither drank the soup nor touched the meat. Nanny Zhang loudly urged her, “If you won’t eat the meat, at least have some soup! Thirty-six months of mourning—who really avoids every trace of meat or grease? Those who truly eat nothing during mourning are usually, what’s the term, oh—‘fishing for fame’!”

Just as Nanny Zhang finished speaking, the “star of hope” walked past expressionlessly, holding two plain white steamed buns.

Chen Fu tried to suppress his laughter so hard his facial muscles twitched.

Nanny Zhang’s face flushed bright red in an instant. How could she have forgotten about that one!

This was the one Old Madam Qu had left behind in Jing County, waiting for the Qingcheng Mountain Academy to begin classes so he could audit lectures. Though mourning for three years meant he couldn’t sit for the imperial exams, he was determined to turn the mourning period into a time of self-improvement. Nothing could stop a scholar’s pursuit of progress.

Yesterday, Old Madam Qu had specifically instructed Nanny Zhang: “Absolutely no oily or rich food for Erlang. No matter the occasion, the old residence must not be decorated with lanterns or festive ornaments. Erlang is observing mourning for his father—he must not be left with any detail that could be used against him in the future!”

And so, a small kitchen was set up just for Second Young Master Chen.

Xianjin went to inspect the menu.

Breakfast: cabbage, rice, and pickled radish.
Lunch: pickled radish, rice, and tofu.
Dinner was slightly more luxurious: pickled radish, rice, tofu, and cabbage—a veritable feast featuring both cabbage and tofu.

In short, the “Star of Hope’s” diet consisted of endless permutations of cabbage, tofu, and dried radish.

Three vegetables. Infinite possibilities. Truly miserable, even monks on a vegetarian diet get eggs and milk.

Xianjin clicked her tongue in sympathy. If the Star of Hope eats like this for three full years, he might pass the imperial exam, but he’ll look like a refugee by the end. When the results are posted and he’s paraded through the streets, will he even have the strength to mount a horse?

Chen Fu leaned back, chewing on a toothpick, and sneered, “Eldest Brother died, and my mother pinned all her hopes on Erlang—does she not wonder why Eldest Brother died so young? To toughen him up, she made him study under a waterfall in the dead of winter and write calligraphy under the blazing sun in midsummer. Sure, he passed both rounds of the imperial exam, but his body was ruined from the roots! That mother of mine—she’s so ruthless toward her own descendants, all for the sake of the Chen family!”

Chen Fu spoke especially loudly, as if deliberately for the Star of Hope to hear.

Xianjin saw the Star of Hope pause slightly in his stride. His upright figure was half-hidden behind the staggered shelves of the study. Morning light spilled through the lattice window, casting a quiet loneliness and solitude over him.

Xianjin felt a pang of sympathy and turned to shove Chen Fu.

Chen Fu muttered, “What did I say that was wrong?”

Xianjin clicked her tongue and whispered, “He just lost his father—couldn’t you show a little compassion?”

Chen Fu opened his mouth to retort, but Xianjin’s expression turned stern. “The shop’s about to open. Master Li and a few junior craftsmen are already at the workshop cleaning. I’m heading over to settle the accounts. If you’ve got nothing better to do, go help out at the workshop!”

Chen Fu’s eyes widened. But Xianjin’s glare was even fiercer. “I remember you’ve got three vats of plum wine stored at Little Daoxiang…”

Chen Fu instantly grew alert. “What are you planning?”

Xianjin smiled with righteous elegance. “If you don’t help at the workshop, I can’t guarantee your plum wine will survive long enough for you to see it again.”

Chen Fu’s bravado collapsed to the floor.

Ever since Xianjin had personally settled Manager Zhu’s outstanding tab at Little Daoxiang, the young owner there had held her in the highest regard. Whenever she visited, he would wait on her hand and foot, thoroughly indulging Chen Fu’s inflated vanity. If Xianjin went to claim his stash, that young owner would surely smile until his eyes disappeared and obediently hand it over with both hands.

Chen Fu ground his teeth in frustration, watching Xianjin polish off her bowl of plain porridge and swiftly move on to the vegetable buns. A wave of sorrow washed over him—his mother may have physically left Jing County, but her spirit had clearly taken on a new form and stayed right by his side.

Though officially “escorting” Chen Fu, Xianjin was in truth “delivering” him to the workshop. It was just the beginning of spring—everything was newly born. Under Li Sanshun’s direction, the workshop was sorting through the straw collected before the New Year: first picking out the wilted, thin, and yellowed stalks, then chopping the plump, pale-golden ones into uniform lengths with a straw cutter.

This process was repetitive and didn’t require finesse—it was heavy labor. Li Sanshun oversaw the key selection steps, while Zhou Ergou and the Zheng brothers handled the hands-on work.

Xianjin privately invited Li Sanshun into the adjacent storeroom. After unlocking several locks, she led him to the innermost section.

On the floor lay a stack of large sheets—gleaming white, supple, and strong.

Li Sanshun looked at the paper, then at Xianjin, and stammered, “Th-this… is this Eight-Zhang Xuan and Six-Zhang Xuan?”

Xianjin nodded. “Turned over by Sixth Master Chen. Most likely made by Senior Master Li back when he was still working for the Chen family.”

“How… how much is there?”

Xianjin’s expression didn’t change. “One stack of each.” She had another stack of each hidden under her bed. She’d swindled two stacks of paper from Senior Master Chen, returned one of each to the Chen family—surely that wasn’t too unscrupulous?

Her father used to say: A businessperson must know how to keep things hidden. Especially as the boss, you must have a clear plan in mind. Be sincere with your people—but not necessarily transparent. What needs hiding must be hidden. A boss with no secrets is, in the eyes of their staff, like a plucked chicken—ready to be roasted at any moment.

Xianjin had always taken advice to heart. Not only did she hide the stash—she hid half of it.

Li Sanshun restrained the impulse to throw himself at the paper, his fingers trembling as he reached out.

The Six-Zhang Xuan was placed on top. Li Sanshun closed his eyes and slowly, reverently ran his fingers across it—feeling the slightly coarse texture, the distinct structural grain, the subtly moist and cool touch.

Such large sheets, with straw and sandalwood bark fibers evenly spread, consistent in thickness, not a single hole, not a single knot—every inch of texture and resonance revealed the highest craftsmanship of Jing County’s artisans.

Li Sanshun was nearly in tears.

Large-format paper is notoriously difficult to make. Every step of the process is doubly challenging: the selection of raw materials, the demands of the drying technique, the precision of the paper-scooping skill. The coordination of manpower and resources requires a workshop to devote itself entirely, with every worker pouring months of sleepless effort into these sheets.

The pure and reverent expression of a craftsman before a masterpiece—no matter when you witness it—always moves the heart.

“To make a sheet like this… a true treasure—how long does it take? How many people?” Xianjin couldn’t help but lower her voice.

Li Sanshun’s gaze lingered on the paper. “Ten to fifteen people. The straw must soak for a month. Boiling takes twenty days, drying takes ten days, and then soaking again in kiwi vine juice for another ten days. Scooping the paper must be done in one go—three to five days to complete…”

So, to make one stack of this paper, it would take ten people fully committed for about three months?

Xianjin spoke solemnly. “I’ll give you six months. You won’t need to do anything else—just make Six-Zhang Xuan. Once that’s done, we’ll attempt Eight-Zhang Xuan. Is that alright?”

Li Sanshun thought he hadn’t explained clearly enough, and quickly added, “No, no—if we start making Six-Zhang Xuan, we won’t be able to produce other papers, like the popular Jia Tribute or Jade Tablet types. The pulp strength needed is different, and the timing for lifting the sheets…”

Xianjin nodded. “Yes. For these six months, you won’t make any other paper—just focus all your energy on cracking the Six-Zhang Xuan.”

“But what about the shop’s business?” Li Sanshun was incredulous. “Didn’t we just clear out all our inventory before the New Year? Only some lower-quality bamboo paper left, right? If we don’t hurry and restock, what are we going to sell once we reopen?”

Your silver tongue that could talk the dead back to life?

Li Sanshun knew Xianjin was a master at selling—but the premise was, she had something to sell!

He pleaded earnestly, “Manager He, maybe you don’t understand. We only have a handful of people, and the workshop’s tiny. Once we commit to making Six-Zhang Xuan, we simply won’t be able to…”

That was precisely why, all these years, he hadn’t dared attempt it. Yes, part of it was his own lack of confidence. But if he dropped everything to focus on Six-Zhang Xuan, what would happen to the rest of the paper? Would the shop open for a year but only operate for six months?

When customers came to buy paper, would he have to say, “Please wait a moment—once we finish making the Six-Zhang Xuan, we’ll get back to producing what you actually need”?

They’d be out of business in no time!

Li Sanshun shuddered. That simply wouldn’t do!

He still had four grandsons at home, mouths wide open, waiting to be fed!

Xianjin calmly nodded, then reaffirmed with firm conviction, “Yes, I understand—that’s exactly what I mean. What the shop sells and how it sells, leave that to me. You just focus on making the paper.”

Her tone was resolute. “You have to trust me. I’m capable of this.” Then she smiled and cracked a joke. “Don’t worry—the workshop won’t collapse. Your grandsons will be getting even bigger gold lock pendants next year!”

This… How was that even possible? Was this girl the Queen Mother of the West? If he didn’t produce anything, was she going to conjure paper out of thin air to sell? And if she had that kind of power, wouldn’t conjuring paper be a bit of a waste? Why not just conjure silver banknotes—wouldn’t that be more straightforward?

Li Sanshun stood frozen, mouth agape, unable to speak for a long moment.

Xianjin left him standing there in the storeroom, mouth still open, and with her hands behind her back, went off to inspect Chen Fu’s work. She found her cheap old dad looking deeply aggrieved, holding up a bamboo screen to assist Zhou Ergou. When he moved too slowly, Zhou Ergou scolded him, “Master! Where are your eyes looking? Keep them on the bamboo screen!”

Chen Fu had never felt so helpless in his life. Where was he supposed to look?

The whole workshop was full of shirtless men, their muscular bodies on full display. He was, after all, a former scholar—he still understood the principle of “do not gaze upon what is improper.” But if he couldn’t look here, and couldn’t look there, the only place left to look was out the window—at the free air.

Freedom… Chen Fu was on the verge of tears. Even his own wife had never dared to force him to work!

Xianjin strolled over to Chen Fu and spoke softly, “…If you idle around all day, what will people think of the Chen brand? Who would still dare buy Chen paper? Don’t worry—just come to the workshop two or three days out of every ten to check in. The rest of the time is yours. I’ve set aside a stack of fine paper for you—thick enough that ink won’t bleed through. Perfect for writing travelogues.”

Chen Fu whimpered. Having a daughter was truly a blessing. Whenever there was something good, she always remembered her father. So he rolled up his sleeves and swung the bamboo screen with gusto.

Zhou Ergou scratched his ear nearby. What fine paper? Didn’t they already trade away all the good stuff? Was this stack newly made?

Zhou Ergou chuckled to himself. The Master sure knew how to wait!

After tying the metaphorical carrot to Chen Fu’s head, Xianjin left the workshop with Suo’er, completely unburdened, and headed to the shop. Steward Dong had come early to unlock the doors. The shop had been closed for nearly half a month and was covered in dust, but Nanny Zhang, armed with her feather duster, had it spotless in less than half an hour—then bustled back to the old residence.

As Xianjin ran her hand over the now-immaculate counter, she deeply understood why everyone loved handing things off to Nanny Zhang. She was one of those aunties who nagged nonstop while getting everything done flawlessly. Who wouldn’t want someone like that?

Xianjin spent the morning sorting out last year’s accounts, made a report while she was at it, cleared the inventory again, and ate the special mourning meal Nanny Zhang had sent over: two clay pots of spring bamboo shoots with tofu, a small dish of golden beans, and a thick, hearty bowl of vegetable stew.

Protein, fiber, and carbs—perfectly balanced. This was Nanny Zhang’s private kitchen treatment. Even now, with Xianjin promoted and thriving at her current peak, the big kitchen at the old residence couldn’t produce something this refined.

Thinking of the “Hope of the Family” and his pitiful endless loop of cabbage and plain steamed buns, Xianjin told Suo’er, “When we head back to the old residence tonight, have Nanny Zhang send a portion to Second Young Master Chen from the main branch too.”

One sheep or two—it’s all the same to the herd—just a small favor done in passing.

When in Rome, don’t be the odd one out. Observe mourning, yes—but not like a self-flagellating monk. Everyone only gets one limited-edition life. If the environment can’t be changed, then struggle hard within the flexible rules, and test the boundaries of the rigid ones. Do your best to live a little better.

“What if Second Young Master doesn’t want it?” Suo’er asked.

Xianjin shrugged. That would be stubbornness beyond all reason. “If he doesn’t want it, so be it. We asked, didn’t we?”

Suo’er responded with a quiet “yes.”

Just past noon, Xianjin sat at the shop entrance, one leg crossed over the other, eyes half-closed as she basked in the sun. The weather was lovely today. Sunlight hit the shop’s hanging sign, and its shadow, swayed by the breeze, fell right across Xianjin’s eyelids.

Light and shadow—through closed lids, she sensed the spring wind and the world it carried. She tilted her chin up, luxuriating in a stolen half-day of leisure. But the peace didn’t last long. It was shattered by a sharp, shrill cry.

“—There! That’s Chen Paper Shop! Let’s go! We’re here to demand justice!”

Xianjin frowned and opened her eyes, looking out into the spring light.

Seven or eight scholars, wearing green hats and long robes, rounded the corner with righteous fury, marching straight toward the Chen paper shop.

Xianjin squinted.

Hmm. Familiar faces—all loyal fans of the “blind bags.”

She lowered her gaze and quietly instructed Suo’er, “…Go to the storeroom and bring out three or four stacks of the harder-to-sell paper.”

Suo’er was staring outside like an enemy army was approaching, momentarily stunned. “Should we call Brother Gou and the Zheng brothers out?”

“What for?” Xianjin didn’t even lift her head.

Suo’er glanced at the advancing scholar formation, then at her own boss, who looked as calm as a spring breeze, and stammered, “They… they look kind of fierce… like they’re here to wreck the place…”

Xianjin finally looked up, smiling with innocent charm. “Silly girl. They’re not here to wreck the place.”

“They’re clearly here to give us money, sweetheart.”