Five days later, Steward Dong brought the newly revised contract to Little Cao Village. Accompanying him were a notary from the magistrate’s office and Zhou Ergou, who was there to inspect the paper quality and oversee the purchase. When Xianjin asked why Li Sanshun wasn’t going, he replied with righteous indignation, “You little rascal—you pushed me into playing the big red face. I’m too embarrassed to show up again!”

Xianjin laughed, “Hehehe,” realizing the old man had seen right through her. Next time she used him as a weapon, she’d have to be more discreet.

The contract signing went smoothly, just as Xianjin had predicted. Thanks to Li Sanshun’s keyboard-warrior routine in their ancestral hall, which effectively PUA’d the village, Little Cao felt that as long as they could sell their paper and earn a bit of income beyond farming, they were already grateful to heaven and earth.

So before the contract was even fully read aloud, Village Chief Cao had already “swish swish swish” signed it. The next day, Zhou Ergou hauled two carts of purchased Xuan paper into the warehouse under cover of night.

The contract stipulated that Chen Paper would guarantee a minimum monthly purchase of 200 sheets from Little Cao Village. Wages would be settled monthly. If production needs changed, notice must be given three days in advance. For urgent orders, the purchase price would increase by 3%—this clause bound Chen Paper.

It also stipulated that Little Cao Village’s paper could not be supplied to any other paper merchants. If quality issues arose, full returns and exchanges were required. If more than ten sheets out of every hundred were defective, 10% of that month’s wages would be deducted—this clause bound Little Cao Village.

Both sides had rights and responsibilities. At first glance, it seemed fair.

In truth, it was fair.

The contract, personally drafted by Xianjin, not only cleverly leveraged Master Li Sanshun to drive down prices and secure controllable procurement costs. As for the other clauses, she hadn’t twisted a single word with ulterior motives. She stood entirely on fair ground, drafting everything from start to finish in the style her father used to write contracts—clear, thorough, and balanced. No one could take advantage, and no one would be cheated.

Business is built on two words: trust and integrity. Those merchants who operate without honesty might make quick money, and maybe they’re lucky enough to avoid disaster for a while—but they betray their own conscience. Such heartless traders will always face retribution. It’s not that retribution doesn’t come—it just hasn’t come yet.

Her nouveau riche father used to rant after drinking, “The whole home renovation industry was ruined by those bastard grandsons! First they lure you in with cheap packages and rock-bottom prices, then jack up the costs mid-renovation—this brand costs extra, that brand’s out of stock… It’s a disgrace!”

To be fair, when it came to the topic of “fallen women,” her father might have had a touch of personal bias.

But in business? Overall, he was a meticulous and upright nouveau riche.

After reminiscing about her past-life father, her present-life father—while eating breakfast—looked up after finishing his morning Eight Brocade exercises. Seeing his daughter dressed in a nun’s robe with her hair tied in a nun’s bun, he was visibly distressed. He picked up a vegetarian eight-treasure soup dumpling and placed it in her bowl, then spoke with heartfelt concern: “Jin girl, when you walked over just now, I thought some giant cockroach had gained sentience and learned to walk on two legs.”

Xianjin had just finished her morning workout and was exhausted. She took a breathless sip of goji-almond dew and, not knowing what “cockroach” referred to, looked questioningly at Nanny Zhang.

Nanny Zhang raised both hands to mimic antennae, then made a crawling motion across the floor. Her expression was slightly indecent, but the gesture was disturbingly accurate.

Oh. It was a cockroach—such a poetic name in ancient times. In modern times, it has a more familiar name—cockroach, also known as “oil thief” or “Little Strong.”

Xianjin glanced down at her dark brown jacket. Then she thought about her entire wardrobe—full of browns, grays, and hemp tones. It really did look a bit like a global cockroach summit.

She scratched her head and couldn’t help but explain, “These colors don’t show dirt. Even if something gets on them, no one can tell.”

Chen Fu nearly choked on his dumpling. Ainiang was the most fastidious person he’d ever known. She typically changed outfits three times a day—morning, noon, and evening. A jade-green robe had to be paired with high-quality jade; a crimson jacket was best matched with finely crafted red velvet flowers. Her favorite was moon-colored clothing, worn with a full set of silver jewelry—like a dew-kissed flower bud in the courtyard, delicate and fair.

Chen Fu looked at his daughter with a touch of sorrow as she took big bites of her vegetarian eight-treasure soup dumpling, got it stuck halfway, then gulped down milk with a loud “glug glug,” finishing with a satisfied sigh. Aside from her face, there was nothing about her that resembled Ainiang!

Chen Fu silently retrieved the dumpling he’d just passed to her.

Looking up, he saw Chen Jianfang enter from the outer courtyard, her expression calm. She bowed to him with the same calmness, then sat down at the lower seat, still calm, and lifted the wooden lid keeping her food warm.

Chen Fu leaned over to peek. Well, now—it wasn’t plain buns. Under the lid were the same vegetarian eight-treasure soup dumplings, milk, chilled shredded tofu, and rice-oil egg custard as Xianjin’s.

Chen Fu chuckled, “Erlang’s not eating plain buns and cabbage anymore?”

Xianjin shot him a glare. Why did he love stirring things up so much? Even when someone’s just trying to eat, he couldn’t let it go. In ancient times, this kind of person had a poetic name—”gangtou.” In modern terms, they’re called “argument gremlins.”

Chen Fu turned his head, pretending not to see.

Chen Jianfang’s hand paused mid-chopstick, and he lowered his head slightly. His meals had changed in recent days. From plain buns, cabbage, and dried radish to a full vegetarian spread rich in color, aroma, and flavor. Eggs and milk weren’t even excluded. He’d sent his servant Xiaoshan to inquire, and Nanny Zhang, who managed the old household, had come nervously to apologize. She said that Manager He was now observing mourning, and since meals had to be prepared anyway, it made sense to make an extra portion. She also said that studying strains the brain, and eating only buns and greens might cause health issues.

Servants don’t change menus on their own. It was almost certainly Manager He’s idea.

Nanny Zhang added that if it violated any rules, she’d change it back immediately. But somehow, he’d stopped her.

His grandmother had always championed the ascetic scholar’s path, often quoting: “When Heaven is about to place a great responsibility upon a person, it must first distress their mind, exhaust their muscles and bones, starve their body, and deprive them of all comfort.” Since his father’s death, such exhortations had only increased.

It was like having a bone stuck in his throat—impossible to swallow, yet not something he could spit out. Now, having arrived in Jing County, he finally felt he had gained a small space of freedom.

He wasn’t one to crave indulgence. He had no objection to eating plain buns and cabbage for days on end. But when he was served a carefully prepared vegetarian feast, he finally felt a flicker of joy in being alive.

It wasn’t about pleasure—it was about learning how to make oneself comfortable within the bounds of rules and propriety. That discipline was deeply captivating.

And Manager He had mastered it to perfection.

Chen Jianfang took a sip of milk, then looked up with a smile. “No matter what I eat, it doesn’t change my remembrance of my late father. I imagine that if his spirit watches from above, he wouldn’t want to see his son suffer and waste away. Uncle, wouldn’t you agree?”

Chen Fu was about to argue again, but under the table, Xianjin kicked his calf. When he looked up, he met his stepdaughter’s wide, warning eyes—and finally let it go.

Xianjin had seen through him.

Chen Fu was the worst kind of character in a household drama—the kind who combines the worst traits of both the annoying male and female supporting roles. As a male character, he doted on concubines, was neither scholarly nor martial, lazy and gluttonous, always scheming to drain his own mother’s purse. As a female character, he stirred up trouble everywhere, with a love for drama and a refusal to stop until the pot boiled over.

The kind of side character who wouldn’t survive past chapter three.

So, after breakfast, Xianjin and Chen Jianfang left the main hall together. He headed to the Qingcheng Mountain Courtyard, and she to Shuixi Street—more or less on the same path.

Before they parted ways, Xianjin earnestly tried to salvage the dignity of the side character. “Third Master’s just got that kind of absurd temperament. It’s been years—people have heard about it, seen it firsthand. The old madam scolded him, beat him, and still—well, even a dog can’t stop itself from eating shit.”

As if Chen Fu could ever stop arguing.

Xianjin considered this metaphor particularly elegant.

Chen Jianfang, carrying a bamboo basket filled with brush, ink, paper, and inkstone, couldn’t help but smile at her words. “It’s alright. Third Uncle went through a lot when it came to studying. My father used to say that when Third Uncle was young, Grandmother scolded him harshly. Over the years, he slowly became the way he is now.”

So not every “argument gremlin” is born that way.

Xianjin perked up, ready to hear the origin story of a professional contrarian.

Chen Jianfang saw the girl tilt her head, ears stretched long like a very well-behaved donkey. He chuckled softly and began speaking in a gentle, flowing tone.

“Third Uncle began his studies at age four. He could recite the Hundred Family Surnames, Three Character Classic, Analects, and other primers fluently. Back then, he was quite well-known in the surrounding villages. Later, Grandmother sent him to formal school. She paid close attention to every exam. If Third Uncle didn’t place first, she’d punish him—make him kneel in the ancestral hall and copy texts. Often, the punishment lasted all night.”

There was a quality in Chen Jianfang’s demeanor that Xianjin had never seen in anyone around her.

Without realizing it, she too grew quiet.

Chen Jianfang continued, “The punishments grew heavier and more frequent. The worse Third Uncle did on his classics exams, the more he was punished. The more he was punished, the less he wanted to study. It became a vicious cycle. The household was constantly in chaos—Grandmother chasing to beat him, Third Uncle running to escape. Later, Grandmother stubbornly sent him to sit for the county exams, probably hoping for a stroke of luck. Of course, Third Uncle didn’t pass. Grandmother then declared, ‘The eldest son studies, the second son does business. As for the third—I might as well not have had him. Two sons are enough.'”

“That night, Third Uncle got blind drunk, burned all his books, even the paper manuals he’d studied as a child. From then on, he never returned to school, spending his days at home and in the streets…”

Chen Jianfang lowered his gaze, searching for the right word.

Xianjin stepped in helpfully, “Loafing.”

Chen Jianfang glanced at her and smiled. “That works too.” He returned to the story.

“The more Grandmother showed her heartbreak, the more outrageous Third Uncle became. Later, he got married and mellowed a bit—lived a few quiet years with Third Aunt. And then…” Chen Jianfang trailed off, his tone vague. “Well, you know what happened after that.”

After that, of course, he met her mother—dry wood met wildfire, a playboy met true love, and it all spiraled out of control.

Xianjin nodded, signaling her understanding. All in all, it was the story of a docile donkey driven mad by an overbearing mother.

In Xianjin’s view, Chen Fu was a man of hidden wisdom, deeply self-centered—a streak of white among a sea of black. If he’d lived in modern times, he would surely have found others like him in the vast crowd. But his misfortune was being born in an era where all ten fingers were expected to be identical. So he had two choices: shut down and self-destruct, or let go and go gloriously mad. Thankfully, Chen Fu chose the latter.

Better to drive others crazy than to consume yourself.

Xianjin lifted her chin slightly and nodded in agreement. Her peripheral vision caught sight of Chen Jianfang’s refined, upright, and quietly composed face, and—almost involuntarily—she asked, “What about you?”

Under the crushing weight of family and elders… you haven’t gone mad yet?