In truth, if Meng Xizhao and Zhan Buxiu coordinated well—one capturing Guan Yousan swiftly while the other wiped out the rebel base—this whole matter could be resolved effortlessly.
So why go through the extra trouble of having Sun Houquan turn on his leader and frame Guan Yousan as a traitor?
Simple.
This was all a performance—for the Emperor Tian Shou.
…
From beginning to end, the rebellion in Jiangzhou had never drawn the attention of Ying Tian Prefecture.
Mainly because, over the years, uprisings among the people of Great Qi had never really stopped.
One place would flare up today, another tomorrow—small-scale disturbances, mostly peasants grabbing hoes and rebelling. At most, it would involve a few villages. Ying Tian Prefecture, the empire’s ultimate stronghold, had no reason to fear such minor unrest. Each time, they simply ordered the local prefects and magistrates to handle it themselves. Only if things escalated significantly would they bother sending out a token force of imperial guards.
As long as Guan Yousan hadn’t actually seized Jiangzhou and Longxing Prefecture, neither the Emperor Tian Shou nor the court officials would take him seriously.
Even if Meng Xizhao submitted a memorial stating that Guan Yousan had gathered an army of ten thousand, the emperor would likely just think it was a slightly larger peasant uprising.
Meng Xizhao had already eliminated a major hidden threat for him—but if the emperor didn’t even realize how important that threat was, what was the point?
So—
He had to make the Emperor take this seriously.
And he had to make sure the rewards due to him were properly granted.
Lu Yang wasn’t greedy with his time. After finishing his studies in the morning, he would organize his notes and assignments, then switch to doing something else instead of grinding all day—it was too exhausting otherwise.
That afternoon, Xie Yan returned from the Cui residence later than usual, bringing good news. He had gone through Senior Brother Ling San and secured permission for their bookshop to sell almanacs.
Almanacs were tied to agriculture, so private printing wasn’t allowed. One had to report to the authorities and obtain approval before printing them.
With the year’s end approaching and the shop about to open, having almanacs would give them an extra promotional boost—a strong start.
Xie Yan brought back next year’s official almanac. The two of them sat together and looked through it. The government-issued version was simple: an uncut long scroll with the emperor’s reign title and year, a few auspicious phrases like “favorable weather and abundant harvests,” followed by the monthly calendar.
There was a lot of blank space, and once cut, it could be stitched into a small booklet.
A small booklet…
Lu Yang’s eyes lit up. He suddenly knew what their bestseller should be.
He set aside Xie Yan’s earlier suggestion of compiling commentary essays. The metropolitan exam was approaching, and they needed to focus—making a bit of money wasn’t worth delaying something so important.
Their current plan was a new business model: the shop didn’t yet have many good books, so they would source from workshops and sell paper and ink alongside them to meet local scholars’ daily needs.
But almanacs were different. A book-style almanac was even more so.
Lu Yang’s mind raced with ideas.
They could follow the official format and print small scrolls, letting customers decide whether to keep them rolled or cut them into pages.
They could also produce themed versions—like “Abundant Harvest” for farmers, “Prosperous Wealth” for merchants, and “Success in the Imperial Exams” for scholars.
For something more unique, they could create a “calendar book.”
Lu Yang grabbed a small illustrated booklet from the shelf—it was a set of letters Xie Yan had written him back when he studied at the prefectural academy, formatted in a fixed structure. Using daily life categories like food, clothing, housing, and travel, it ended with notes on special events.
Confucius had said, “I examine myself three times a day.” So this calendar book could include a “Gentleman Edition” with sections for daily reflection.
They could also make a “Record Edition,” like Lu Liu’s business ledger—tracking what articles one read, what essays one wrote, how many characters one practiced, along with anything noteworthy or worth remembering.
He truly loved doing business. Once the idea formed, words poured out of him in a rapid stream, leaving Xie Yan unable to get a word in. The more he spoke, the more excited he became—he almost wanted to run out immediately and make it happen.
But then he remembered how woodblock printing worked. Thinking about how many blocks a calendar book would require felt like a bucket of cold water poured over him. His enthusiasm deflated instantly.
Almanacs changed every year. The blocks they carved this year wouldn’t be usable next year.
Lu Yang pressed his lips together, clearly unhappy.
Seeing his sudden shift from joy to disappointment, Xie Yan paused, then hurried over to coax him.
“What’s wrong? Is it not feasible?”
Lu Yang sighed. “It’s too complicated. The cost is too high, and it’s not suitable for mass printing. I’ve never seen this kind of almanac before, so I don’t even know if it’ll sell. In my mind, it would need a lot of scholars to buy it and establish a new habit—like how mushroom dishes became popular in the prefectural city. If we can’t mass-produce it, we fail at the first step.”
Xie Yan immediately led him into the study beyond the moon gate, took out paper, and began grinding ink as he asked what elements needed to go on each page.
Lu Yang’s aesthetic sense was average, and he couldn’t draw. Having seen few paintings, he couldn’t describe the appearance well, so he simply listed the required elements.
If it was a “calendar book,” the year, month, and day had to be clearly written.
For the “Gentleman Edition,” there should be three blank sections for daily reflections—something along those lines.
After writing this down, Xie Yan found it quite simple. He took another sheet and wrote out the record-book content. Then he referenced their books, counted the vertical grid lines, and drafted a large template, adjusting it as needed.
Based on standard book size, the top line would list the key items to check, with enough space below for simple entries.
There would also be margins for annotations, just like regular books.
From Xie Yan’s perspective, he wouldn’t buy such a book himself—he could write on any paper and bind it on his own. But there would definitely be people willing to buy it. For example, Wu Pingzhi.
Whether he actually used it or not, Wu Pingzhi would buy anything novel. If it became trendy, he would try using it too. Once it became a habit, he would keep buying more. And people like Wu Pingzhi were not rare.
Xie Yan finalized the layout and used his own daily routine as a template, writing three sample entries.
In the end, he enlarged the year, month, and day, while keeping the writing grid standard-sized. In the top margin, he would jot down thoughts or feelings about specific activities.
According to his habits, he also wanted to add small character illustrations.
Lu Yang often praised his little figures as lively and expressive, so Xie Yan drew many different scholar poses—reading, writing, eating, traveling—each with varied expressions.
But including these made the design too complex for carving. He simplified them, keeping only a few essential poses like reading, writing, and thinking, and then looked for suitable places to insert them.
After several adjustments, he found that placing figures based on mood felt too abrupt. So he revised the concept again.
Since many scholars wrote on long scrolls, he redesigned the illustration: a figure seated at a desk, holding a brush, with a long sheet of paper unrolling downward—perfectly aligning with the writing space below.
Using the unrolled paper as the grid gave it a freer, more natural look compared to rigid vertical lines.
Lu Yang watched as Xie Yan quickly filled the table with drafts, sketching effortlessly and presenting a finished design without a word. He was momentarily speechless.
His top scholar husband was truly impressive.
Though Lu Yang loved the final scroll-style design, the woodblock issue remained.
“New blocks every year… too expensive…”
Xie Yan picked up a red brush and circled several parts—like the “year” and “month” labels.
Lu Yang immediately understood.
Right—they didn’t need to carve specific dates. Customers could fill them in themselves! They could include a separate almanac scroll with each book.
“Ah Yan, you’re brilliant! That’s perfect! Now we only need a few blocks. Once the shop opens, we can start selling right away!”
Encouraged, Xie Yan drew more variations of the little figures—but this time, he left their faces blank.
He planned to write words on their faces to indicate expressions: “focused,” “smiling,” “awkward,” “afraid.”
This allowed for greater flexibility, and if written neatly, it would look quite good.
Glancing at Lu Yang, he wrote “get rich” on one figure’s face.
Lu Yang immediately laughed. “What about you? What would you write?”
On another figure, Xie Yan wrote “Jingzhi.”
Just as Lu Yang had expected. He had thought of it himself, yet still ended up blushing.
“You write it like this—it looks like I’m the one thinking of myself. How would anyone know it’s you thinking of me?”
Xie Yan pondered seriously, then came up with a new composition.
He took a fine sheet of paper, folded it, and drew two images.
On the right, the figure’s body was fully outlined, but the head was faint—like a wash painting, giving it a translucent effect.
Within that “transparent” head, Xie Yan drew Lu Yang.
On the left, he did the same—but the transparent area was the chest.
He had placed Lu Yang inside his mind… and inside his heart.
It was his first time trying this style, and he wasn’t fully satisfied—it didn’t feel “transparent” enough.
But the meaning was clear: both his mind and his heart were filled with his Jingzhi.
Xie Yan stamped the painting with his seal.
“Jingzhi, is it clear now?”
Lu Yang held the painting, his face flushing deeper.
Xie Yan couldn’t resist—he leaned down and kissed his cheek.
When Lu Yang turned to look at him, he was kissed on the lips as well.
“You did well today,” Lu Yang said. “I’ll let you kiss me more.”
Before dinner, the young couple lingered in their room, wrapped up in affection.
Lu Yang loved the painting and wanted it mounted.
They let it dry overnight, planning for Xie Yan to handle it the next day.
Feigning reluctance, Lu Yang said, “You have studying and assignments—how would you have time? I’ll just ask my godfather or Brother Xiaoshui to mount it.”
Xie Yan, who had picked up some rough habits at the Cui household, accused him bluntly of “forgetting his promises after getting what he wanted.”
Lu Yang shot back smoothly, “Why not say I pulled up my pants and denied everything?”
If it came to crude talk, Lu Yang was even better.
Xie Yan reached for his belt, intending to tease him—but then remembered that Lu Yang kept banknotes hidden there. Thinking of their recent expenses, his expression turned bitter.
“Jingzhi… has your ‘gold’ belt become a ‘silver’ belt?”
Lu Yang laughed. “When did I ever have a gold belt? We don’t even have a thousand taels. I’ve always had a silver belt. When I’m rich enough, then I’ll have a gold one.”
“What if you had twenty thousand strings of cash?”
“I’d get one for my mother too.”
“What about thirty thousand?”
“I’d rotate between them.”
Even when he raised it to a hundred thousand, a million—Lu Yang still refused to give him one.
Xie Yan was deeply aggrieved. “Why won’t you give me one?”
“Everything you have is mine. What I have is still mine.”
Xie Yan couldn’t hold his expression for more than a few steps before laughing. He loved Lu Yang’s domineering nature.
“But you’re too stingy with me,” he said. “I wanted to buy you a big pearl. But I don’t have the money.”
Lu Yang didn’t care for pearls, but Xie Yan insisted.
“I asked my master about them. He had the steward show me the storeroom—there are beautiful pieces you won’t find in shops. I want to make you a collar necklace, with a large pearl in the center. Gold, of course. I already have a design in mind.”
Lu Yang refused. “I’m busy—I don’t have time for jewelry.”
“That’s why I’ll make a collar. It won’t get in your way.”
“I already wear a safety pendant.”
“That goes under your clothes. The collar goes outside.”
Lu Yang was speechless.
“You should be studying, not thinking about nonsense!”
“I’m thinking about you.”
“Then I’m nonsense?”
Xie Yan froze.
Even at dinner, he kept coaxing him.
Zhao Peilan, long used to this, ignored them and said, “Daiyong’s family cleared a room for a study. Tomorrow, when Shopkeeper Wang comes, take him there.”
…
Meanwhile, in another thread of events—
Meng Xizhao was calmly manipulating a far more dangerous situation.
When he suggested that the rebellion might be the result of oppression rather than pure treason, Zhan Buxiu hesitated.
Eventually, Zhan sighed. “I’m not as kind-hearted as you.”
Meng Xizhao almost choked. Kind-hearted?
“I’m not kind. I just know manpower is precious. Every life lost is a waste.”
Still, he set his plan in motion.
He would take the captured rebel Sun Houquan to Jiangzhou and force him to testify that their leader, Guan You-san, was secretly colluding with Nanzhao—planning to seize territory and offer it up in exchange for wealth and status.
It was a lie—but a useful one.
Because a peasant uprising wouldn’t concern the emperor.
But treason? Collaboration with a foreign enemy?
That would provoke him.
Meng Xizhao wasn’t just ending a rebellion—he was staging a performance, ensuring the emperor would take notice and reward him properly.
And so, while Lu Yang schemed over business innovations and domestic joys, Meng Xizhao quietly reshaped the fate of an entire region through calculated deception.
Meng Xizhao didn’t know whether earlier Daoists had failed to think of this angle, or had thought of it but couldn’t get close enough to the emperor to make use of it. In any case, it no longer mattered. Since no one had taken advantage of it before, he would.
Myths, after all, were made by people. And something like the Tengshe—rebranded and “upgraded” with every dynasty—was especially easy to reinvent.
With just a few words from Zangchen, the crowd quickly understood what had happened.
During his seclusion, Zangchen’s “weak spiritual power” had allowed an external force to invade his soul. Thinking it was an evil spirit, he gathered what little power he had to fight it—only to find it overwhelmingly strong. He lost, coughed up blood, and fainted.
After fainting, he had a dream.
In it, a woman with wings and a serpent’s tail below the waist hovered in the clouds, glaring down at him and calling him an ignorant mortal.
“I am Tengshe! You insignificant Daoist—before even cultivating fiery eyes, you dare accuse me of being a demon?!”
Zangchen was getting into character, mimicking her tone with great enthusiasm, when suddenly an old woman beside him interrupted:
“Daoist, what are fiery eyes?”
Zangchen froze.
He had no idea.
Lord Meng hadn’t explained that part.
After a brief pause, he admitted honestly, “I don’t know either. Perhaps it’s a kind of divine technique only immortals possess.”
His confusion looked genuine, and the crowd nodded in understanding before focusing again on his story.
…
When it came to describing the Tengshe Goddess, Zangchen was extremely detailed—her clothing, her figure, her posture. None of it resembled anything in Great Qi or even neighboring lands.
That only made the crowd more convinced that he had truly seen her.
The goddess had appeared faceless. According to Zangchen, his power was too weak, and as a mere mortal, he couldn’t perceive her features—only hear her voice as she scolded him:
“I heard the mortal realm is in distress, so I came to help you. And you, wretched Daoist, mistake me for an evil spirit? Open your eyes—what demon is ever as comely as I?”
“When the Three Pure Ones gifted you a golden bowl, you rejoiced. Yet when I offer you endless wealth, why do you show no delight at all?!”
“If you disdain the fortune I bring, so be it—I shall give it to my descendants! On the western slope of Mount Mei, beneath the ancient thousand-year tree, I have left behind a share of fortune. My children will sense it and devour it all. Hahaha! From now on, you ignorant mortals may chase them across the mountains!”
And with that, she vanished. Zangchen awoke.
Though the dream had lasted no more than a quarter of an hour, three full days had passed in reality.
By the time he finished, the crowd stood stunned.
This goddess… had quite a vicious temperament.
The less she resembled a human woman, the more believable she seemed. After all, what mortal woman would dare such arrogance?
Among the listeners were some educated people, who were struck by the goddess’s personality. But for the common folk, only one thought mattered:
Go to Mount Mei—now!
No one tried to stop Zangchen anymore. Everyone rushed toward the mountain together.
Mount Mei was inside the city, its largest hill. While no one had heard of a “thousand-year tree,” every local knew there was a massive tree halfway up the slope, so large it took several people to encircle it.
They ran all the way there—and sure enough, beneath the tree were dozens of snakes, slithering slowly.
The crowd fell silent.
Even in Longxing Prefecture, where snakes were common, such a sight was rare—especially with so many different species mixed together.
They exchanged glances.
Then suddenly, they surged forward, scrambling to catch the snakes.
Fortunately, these snakes had been pre-captured by Meng Xizhao’s people and confirmed harmless. Otherwise, a few of these inexperienced villagers might have died on the spot.
Once it was confirmed that the story was “real,” Zangchen lowered his head in shame and left. Convinced he had offended the goddess, he resolved to return to seclusion for another eighty-one days, burning incense daily to beg her forgiveness.
Of course, forgiveness was never the goal. If the goddess “relented,” people would only hope for another miracle—and Zangchen had no desire to be entangled with her again.
By that very night, the story spread throughout Longxing Prefecture.
By the time Meng Xizhao heard about it, the rumors had already grown far beyond the original tale.
It was no longer just that the Tengshe Goddess had bestowed blessings. Supposedly, one villager who caught a snake went out the next day, tripped, and discovered a gold ingot on the ground.
Another, who had long worried about his failing cloth business, suddenly received a visit from government runners that very night—they signed a contract to supply fabric for official uniforms.
Stories like these multiplied.
After listening, Meng Xizhao nodded. “Good. Are many people catching snakes now?”
Xie Yuan replied, “Quite a few. Mostly idle drifters in the city. Ordinary farmers are still busy with their fields.”
Meng Xizhao smiled. Exactly as expected.
Common people were practical—they might follow the trend and catch one or two snakes, but wouldn’t think of turning it into profit. Only the more opportunistic ones would see the business potential.
Getting some of the unemployed to become snake catchers was an unexpected bonus.
Since this had just begun, the prefectural office didn’t need to guide things too deliberately. They only needed to quietly gather information—who had caught snakes, who had traded them—and then, at random, reward a few of them with silver or small favors.
Let the rumors grow on their own.
After that, others would carry the story forward for them.
No matter the era, there are two guaranteed ways to make money: wealth and virility.
…
With the emperor still alive, the latter was obviously off-limits. So they could only work with the former. For now, the news wouldn’t spread beyond Longxing Prefecture, but even within the city, it was enough to get silver circulating.
And Longxing wasn’t an isolated place—sooner or later, the rumors would spread outward.
Meng Xizhao lowered his head and took out the sketch of the Tengshe Goddess he had drawn earlier.
For the clothing, he had borrowed elements from the flying apsaras of Dunhuang; for the hairstyle and ornaments, he referenced Ming dynasty court dramas.
People always said the ancients were endlessly wise—but when it came to craftsmanship, modern techniques were often superior.
At the very least, Xie Yuan couldn’t take his eyes off the drawing. He felt that the goddess’s hair ornaments were even more elaborate than his aunt’s.
As for the goddess’s graceful, revealing figure… Xie Yuan pressed his lips together and forced himself to look away.
“My lord… did you really imagine this yourself?”
Meng Xizhao nodded solemnly. “This is what the woman of my dreams looks like. If I ever marry, it should be someone like this.”
Xie Yuan: “…………”
The audacity.
Well, everyone had once imagined their future spouse. It was just that Meng Xizhao’s standards were… unrealistically high. At this rate, he might remain a bachelor forever.
After a moment, Xie Yuan decided this was not his place to comment, and instead asked something else:
“Why didn’t you draw her face?”
Meng Xizhao replied that he could imagine the body, but not the face. Besides, for men, wasn’t the figure enough? What the face looked like didn’t really matter.
Xie Yuan: “…………”
Being trusted by his superior and treated like an insider was nice…
But honestly—please don’t treat me like one.
I know you’re shamelessly lustful, but you don’t have to spell it out so clearly!
…
Xie Yuan, thoroughly overwhelmed, found an excuse and fled. After more than ten years of studying the classics and living an austere life—well into his twenties without a wife or concubine—he simply couldn’t handle such topics.
Watching him leave in a hurry, Meng Xizhao shrugged and looked back at the drawing.
As for the real reason he hadn’t drawn a face…
It was because he hadn’t yet decided whose face it should be.
He hadn’t gone to all this effort just to sell snakes. There were countless ways to market them—why choose the most troublesome one?
First, build up the fame of the Tengshe Goddess. Then, gradually connect her image to a real person.
Of course, he couldn’t claim the goddess had descended to earth—that would be exposed as a fraud within a day.
But what if someone merely resembled the goddess?
What if that person had some unusual trait—a “lower-tier” version of the goddess—perfect as a substitute?
Meng Xizhao studied the drawing for a while, then put it away.
Whether it would be useful or not remained to be seen. For now, the priority was finding the right person.
＊
When the Prefect of Jiangzhou received Meng Xizhao’s letter, he was nearly scared out of his wits.
Following the instructions, he secretly investigated the man named Guan You-san—and indeed found something suspicious.
A mere thug, yet living in a grand residence with multiple courtyards. Whenever he went out, he was surrounded by guards, and every morning and evening, other ruffians came to report to him.
In the letter, Meng Xizhao had described Guan You-san as an extremely dangerous criminal, warning the prefect not to act rashly. He was to wait until Meng Xizhao arrived, gather both witnesses and evidence, and then capture them all at once.
The Jiangzhou prefect was puzzled.
Why wait for “evidence”? This wasn’t a court trial. If the man was suspicious, why not arrest him immediately?
But since he hadn’t even known about the rebellion before, he assumed Meng Xizhao had his reasons. And given that Meng Xizhao outranked him, it was safer to follow orders.
When Meng Xizhao set out for Jiangzhou, he brought only four constables—two of whom were escorting Sun Houquan. Jin Zhu, Yin Liu, and the others stayed behind in Longxing. Only Qingfu accompanied him.
They traveled in secret, wearing no official attire. Though the Jiangzhou prefect knew of their arrival, he didn’t dare send anyone to greet them for fear of alerting the enemy. Only after they reached the government office did he come out to receive them.
The prefect, surnamed Wan, was in his forties. Addressing an eighteen-year-old as “my lord” felt awkward, so he tried to invoke seniority with a smile.
“My elder brother has served alongside your father for over a decade. One could say we share some connection.”
Meng Xizhao looked puzzled. “And your elder brother is…?”
Wan smiled. “The Vice Minister of War.”
Meng Xizhao immediately brightened. “Ah, Minister Wan! Of course I know him—last year he took a courtesan from outside White Tiger Gate as a concubine. The whole capital was talking about it! Who would have thought—you’re his younger brother. My apologies, my apologies.”
Prefect Wan: “…………”
That did not need to be brought up again.
After being thoroughly shut down, he abandoned the seniority angle. From then on, they interacted strictly as superior and subordinate, which proved much smoother.
Meng Xizhao had arrived earlier than Zhan Buxiu. Since no one here recognized him, he openly observed Guan You-san and his associates. Once he determined how many men they had stationed in the city, he instructed Prefect Wan to set up checkpoints and keep close watch.
When Guan You-san was finally alone with only two attendants, the hidden officers sprang into action and captured him in one swift move.
He had drawn Lu Yang inside his own heart.
It was his first time trying this kind of “painting,” and he wasn’t very satisfied with it—he felt it lacked a certain clarity, not quite “transparent” enough.
But what it conveyed was very direct: in his mind and in his heart, there was nothing but his Jingzhi.
Xie Yan now had a seal, and he stamped it onto the drawing.
“Jingzhi, you can understand it clearly like this, right?”
Lu Yang picked up the drawing to look at it, the blush on his face deepening.
Seeing him like that made Xie Yan’s heart itch. He got up, stepped to Lu Yang’s side, bent down, and kissed him on the cheek.
Lu Yang turned his head to glance at him—only to be kissed on the lips again.
Lu Yang said, “You behaved well today, so I’ll let you kiss me a bit more.”
Before dinner, the young couple stayed in the room, being all lovey-dovey.
Lu Yang liked the painting very much and wanted to have it mounted.
They left it in the room to dry for the day. Tomorrow, when Xie Yan had some free time, he would take care of it.
Lu Yang deliberately feigned difficulty. “Oh dear, you need to study and do your assignments—where would you find the time for this? I’ll just have my godfather mount it for me, or ask Brother Xiaoshui to help. No need for you to do it.”
Xie Yan had no idea what he’d picked up from the Cui household—his speech had gotten rather rough. He said Lu Yang was acting like someone who forgot his debts after being well-fed.
Lu Yang responded smoothly, “Why don’t you just say I put my pants back on and refused to acknowledge you?”
When it came to being crude, Lu Yang was actually the worse of the two.
Xie Yan reached out to touch his belt, originally intending to flirt a bit, but then suddenly remembered that Lu Yang hid his banknotes in there. Thinking about their recent expenses, his expression turned bitter.
“Jingzhi… has your ‘gold’ belt turned into a ‘silver’ one?”
Lu Yang almost couldn’t respond in time. He laughed. “When did I ever have a gold belt? We don’t even have a thousand taels of silver saved up. I’ve always had a silver belt. When the day comes that I’m rolling in money, then I’ll have a gold one.”
Xie Yan asked, “What if you had twenty thousand strings of cash?”
Lu Yang said, “Then I’d get Mother a gold belt too.”
Xie Yan choked, then thought about it and found it reasonable, so he continued, “What about thirty thousand?”
Lu Yang said, “Then I’d rotate between them.”
Four thousand, five thousand… all the way up to a hundred thousand, even a million—Lu Yang rattled off answers without ever offering Xie Yan a single gold belt of his own.
Xie Yan felt utterly wronged.
“Jingzhi, why won’t you give me one?”
Lu Yang simply refused. “What’s yours is mine, and what’s mine is still mine.”
Xie Yan couldn’t keep a straight face for more than a couple of steps before breaking into a smile. He really did like how domineering Lu Yang was.
But he said, “You’re too stingy with me. I even wanted to buy you a big pearl. But without silver, I can’t.”
Lu Yang didn’t particularly care for pearls, but Xie Yan wanted to get one for him anyway.
“I asked my teacher about pearls recently. He had the steward take me to the storeroom to look at some fine jewelry—things you can’t even find in shops. The designs are all beautiful and intricate. I want to make you a collar, with a big pearl in the middle—either strung or set, depending on how the craftsman does it. The collar has to be gold. I already have an idea for the design; I’ll draw it out another day. Your younger brother has gold bracelets, but you don’t. I’ll make you a big ‘bracelet.’ I’m just too poor right now—if you give me a bit more silver someday, I’ll make you something nice to wear.”
It sounded expensive just listening to it. Lu Yang felt touched, but still declined.
“I’m busy all the time—my hands aren’t free. Wearing jewelry would just get in the way.”
Xie Yan had already thought of that. “That’s why I’m getting you a collar. It goes around your neck—it won’t interfere with your work.”
Lu Yang thought for a moment. “Did you forget? I already wear a peace pendant around my neck. No need to add another.”
Xie Yan had considered that too. He smiled. “The pendant goes inside your clothes. The collar goes outside. They won’t affect each other.”
Lu Yang: “……”
He had something to say. “Instead of focusing on your studies, what nonsense are you thinking about?!”
Xie Yan was well-trained by now—he answered without even thinking, “I was thinking about you.”
Lu Yang immediately seized on that. “Oh? So I’m nonsense now?”
Xie Yan: !!
Even when they sat down for dinner, he was still circling around Lu Yang, coaxing him.
Zhao Peilan had gotten used to it and ignored him, instead saying to Lu Yang, “Da Yong’s family cleared out a room to use as a study. When Shopkeeper Wang comes tomorrow, you can take him there and show him the way.”
Their house was large, but Lu Yang and Xie Yan had knocked their rooms together, taking up half of it. On the other side lived his mother, with two empty rooms remaining.
Lu Yang had previously said he would turn one room into a tea room, so that when Sheng Daxian and Ji Mingzhu came to discuss studies with Xie Yan, they wouldn’t have to keep going in and out of the bedroom.
Now that the tea room was ready, Lu Yang was the first to use it.
The soundproofing wasn’t great, and if a study were set up right next door, both sides would be noisy. So he decided to find another location.
Lu Liu’s house was large but crowded, leaving no spare space, so they asked Luo Dayong to prepare a room instead.
Lu Yang agreed, then told Xie Yan to sit down and eat properly before asking, “Why hasn’t the God of Wealth come back yet?”
When Wu Pingzhi returned, he could help take a look—see whether the almanac booklet would work and help choose a design.
Xie Yan wasn’t sure. “We saw him in the county last time—he’s changed a lot. Like some kind of big lotus, talking about cultivating his mind. Now that he’s gone to the provincial capital to fulfill a vow, I’m worried he might just shave his head and become a monk.”
Lu Yang blinked.
What kind of development was that?
Xie Yan took on the task. “I’ll go to the prefectural academy tomorrow and ask some classmates what they think about this almanac paper.”
He could ask his classmates, and Lu Yang could also visit nearby neighbors—or even ask scholars outside private schools and academies.
But he didn’t say all that. Instead, he told Xie Yan, “No need. I’ll let my godfather take a look first—see the difficulty and cost, then decide.”
Xie Yan listened to him.
They went to bed early. The next day, after breakfast, Xie Yan packed up the tools needed for mounting before heading to the Cui residence for lessons.
Lu Yang taught his morning class, then took Shopkeeper Wang to Luo Dayong’s house to show him the way. After class, before lunch, he made a trip to his godfather’s place.
Even on such a short walk, people would come out to support him along the way. Lu Yang felt like an old man.
Old Master Lu looked at the design and said it wasn’t difficult—it could be done.
He had printed almanacs before. Today, he would carve a woodblock based on the almanac booklet, and a sample could be ready in a few days.
The almanacs would be carved by Lu Xiaoshui. They could start printing right away and sell them as soon as the shop opened.
They followed common styles, adjusting them to fit the bookstore’s location—designs like “abundant harvest” and “success in the imperial exams.” Designs for “prosperous wealth” would be postponed—done if there was time, skipped if not, and saved for next year.
Old Master Lu also explained a modular woodblock method.
For example, in the “abundant harvest” almanac, the header was a separate block, while the dates were individual number blocks. Based on the year’s calendar, they could be arranged into a grid, then inked and printed.
Lu Yang’s eyes lit up. “Then could the almanac booklet be done the same way?”
Old Master Lu nodded. “It can.”
With movable type, the cost and labor of carving dropped significantly. Unlike other movable type, the almanac layout could remain unchanged for an entire year once set.
The almanac booklet was a new attempt. Having dates printed directly on each page—each page representing a day—was crucial. If paired separately with an almanac, the connection between the two would weaken.
So they kept the layout, retained the blank-faced little scholar illustration, and made slight adjustments to the dates—that would be enough. They would print the January sample first, then take it out to gather opinions.
Lu Yang got excited and let it slip. That very night, Xie Yan found out and dragged him into the room for a thorough talking-to. In the end, the sample was still taken by Xie Yan to the academy to ask his classmates. The feedback was good—everyone said they would buy it if the price was reasonable.
The God of Wealth still hadn’t returned, so Lu Yang made the decision himself. Referencing the print run of The Imperial Examination Answer Guide, he decided to print eight hundred copies first.
There was plenty of blank space in the almanac. If they couldn’t sell out this year, he could take them home for Xie Yan to use as draft paper—recovering some of the cost.
Preparations for the bookstore proceeded steadily. Lu Yang also spoke to Lu Liu about selling illustrated booklets.
Lu Liu and Li Feng had made money selling such booklets before. Before moving to the prefectural city, they had even bought a batch of new carved illustration blocks. Now the blocks were with their two fathers, who would print whenever they had time, casually binding them into small books and saving them up until Li Feng could take them to the docks to sell.
Guan Yousan stared blankly at Meng Xizhao, but before he could even process what was happening, the bailiffs had already yanked him away roughly. It wasn’t until he was dragged out of the courtroom that he remembered to speak—but what he shouted wasn’t a plea for mercy.
“Sun Houquan, just you wait! Even as a ghost, I won’t let you off!!!”
Sun Houquan shuddered, but then quickly realized there was no need to fear Guan Yousan anymore—because before long, he himself would be a ghost too.
…
And just like that, the case was concluded. The gathered townsfolk buzzed with chatter, all of them wearing expressions of lingering fear.
Wherever rebellion broke out, people suffered—that much the common folk understood. If Guan Yousan had succeeded, they likely wouldn’t have kept their lives.
Many of them immediately wanted to kneel and kowtow to Meng Xizhao, thanking him for uncovering the plot in advance. But before they could act, Meng Xizhao had already struck the gavel again, declared the court adjourned, and left without a single extra word—clean and decisive.