Lu Yang was not greedy with his time. After finishing his studies in the morning, he would organize that day’s notes and assignments, then switch to doing something else instead of spending the entire day buried in study—it was too exhausting.
That afternoon, Xie Yan returned from the Cui residence a little later than usual, bringing good news. He had gone through Senior Brother Ling San and secured permission—they could now sell almanacs at their bookstore.
Almanacs were tied to agricultural affairs. Private printing was not allowed; everything had to be reported to the authorities and approved before printing could begin.
It was the end of the year again, and with their bookstore about to open, having almanacs would give them an extra promotional edge—a good way to start strong.
Xie Yan brought back next year’s official almanac, and the two of them looked through it together. The government-issued version was simple: an uncut scroll, marked with the reigning emperor’s era name and the year, along with a few auspicious phrases like “favorable weather and timely rains,” followed by the monthly calendar.
There was a lot of blank space. 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 could be.
He had not yet adopted Xie Yan’s earlier suggestion of compiling commentary essays. The metropolitan examination was approaching, and he needed to focus on preparation—he could not afford to be distracted by a bit of profit.
Their current plan was a new business model. The shop did not have many good books, so they would source inventory from workshops and sell paper and ink alongside, meeting the daily needs of nearby scholars.
But almanacs were different.
A book-style almanac was even more different.
Lu Yang’s mind raced, instantly coming up with multiple ideas.
They could follow the official template and print small scrolls, letting customers choose whether to keep them rolled or cut them into book form.
They could also produce different themed versions. He had seen this before—bookstores in the county carried many styles. Themes like “Abundant Harvest” for common folk, “Prosperous Wealth” for merchants, and “Success in the Imperial Examinations” for scholars.
For something more distinctive, they could create a “book-style almanac.”
Lu Yang went to the bookshelf and found a small illustrated booklet—it was a letter Xie Yan had written to him during his time at the prefectural academy. It followed a fixed format: daily records of food, clothing, lodging, and travel, with a section for special events.
The sages said, “I examine myself three times daily.” So this almanac book could have a “Gentleman’s Edition,” prompting users to reflect.
It could also be like Lu Liu’s business ledger—a “Record Edition.” What articles were read today, what essays were written, how many characters were practiced—along with anything special or worth noting.
He truly loved doing business. Once an idea took hold, words poured out of him in rapid succession. Xie Yan could not even get a word in. The more he spoke, the more excited he became, almost wishing he could rush out and put everything into action immediately.
But then he thought of woodblock printing.
Thinking about how many blocks would be needed for such an almanac book, it was like being doused with cold water. His excitement deflated instantly.
The almanac changed every year. The woodblocks they carved this year would be useless the next.
Pressing his lips together, Lu Yang looked deeply displeased.
Xie Yan, seeing him go from smiling to crestfallen in an instant, was taken aback and hurried over to comfort him.
“What’s wrong? Won’t this work?”
“It’s too troublesome,” Lu Yang said. “The cost is too high—it’s not suitable for mass printing. I’ve never seen this kind of almanac before, so I don’t know if it’ll sell. In my mind, it would require many scholars to buy it, to create a new habit—like how mushroom dishes became popular in the prefectural city. If we can’t print in bulk, then we fail at the first step.”
Without hesitation, Xie Yan took him to the study behind the moon gate. He pulled out draft paper, began grinding ink, and asked what needed to be included on the pages.
Lu Yang’s aesthetic sense was average, and he could not draw. He had not seen many illustrated scrolls either, so he could not describe the appearance—only what needed to be included.
Since it was a “calendar book,” the year, month, and day had to be clearly marked.
For the “Gentleman’s Edition,” for example, there should be three blank sections for daily reflections.
That was about it.
After writing it down, Xie Yan found it quite simple. He took another sheet and outlined the record-book format. Then he referred to their existing books, examined the vertical grid layout, and used a larger sheet to sketch a full page prototype, making adjustments.
Based on standard book dimensions, the top could hold headings, while the lower space would be enough for simple entries.
There would also be margins at the top and bottom for annotations.
If it were up to Xie Yan, he would not buy such a book. He could write on any paper and bind it himself. But there would certainly be people willing to buy it—people like Wu Pingzhi.
Whether he actually used it or not was another matter. But if there was something new, Wu Pingzhi would buy it. And if it became popular, he would follow along. Once it became a habit, he would keep buying more.
People like him were not rare.
Xie Yan finalized the layout and used his own day’s studies as a template, writing out three sample entries.
In the end, he enlarged the year, month, and day, while keeping the grid text at a normal size. In the header, he added annotations about his thoughts and feelings.
According to his habits, he also wanted to include small illustrations.
Lu Yang often said his little figures were lively and expressive. So he took another sheet and sketched various scholars—reading, writing, eating, traveling—each with different expressions.
But for woodblock printing, this was too complex.
He simplified them, keeping only a few poses—reading, writing, thinking—and then looked for places to integrate them into the layout.
After much consideration, he felt they still looked awkward. His original idea—drawing based on mood—had been better.
He frowned, thought again, and revised the design.
Scholars often wrote long scroll manuscripts—essays or calligraphy practice. So he changed the illustration: a person seated at a desk, holding a brush, with a long scroll of paper unrolling downward—forming the writing space itself.
This replaced the usual rigid grid with something more fluid and natural.
Watching him quickly pile up drafts, adjusting and sketching effortlessly, Lu Yang was momentarily speechless.
His top scholar really was remarkable—his skills had only grown.
Lu Yang liked the final scroll-style layout—but the issue of woodblocks remained.
“They have to be redone every year… we can’t afford it…”
Xie Yan picked up a red brush and circled a few places—like the characters for “year” and “month.”
The moment he circled them, Lu Yang understood.
Of course—they did not need to carve specific dates. Customers could fill them in themselves! They could include a standard almanac scroll as a supplement!
“Ah Yan, you’re brilliant! That’s perfect! This way we only need a few woodblocks—we can start selling as soon as the shop opens!”
Encouraged, Xie Yan’s inspiration kept flowing. He took another sheet and drew more small figures—but this time, left their faces blank.
He planned to use words instead of facial expressions—writing things like “focused,” “smiling,” “awkward,” “afraid.”
This allowed for flexibility. As long as the handwriting was neat, the effect would be quite good.
Glancing at Lu Yang, he wrote “get rich” on one of the figures’ faces.
Lu Yang immediately laughed. “What about you? What would yours say?”
On another figure, Xie Yan wrote, “Jingzhi.”
Just as Lu Yang had expected. He had thought of it too—yet his face still flushed.
“If you write it like that, it looks like the person is me. How would anyone know it’s you thinking of me?”
Xie Yan considered this seriously, then came up with a composition.
He turned back to the shelf, took a sheet of fine paper, folded it in half, and drew two images.
On the right, the figure was fully outlined—except for the head, which was lightly sketched, almost transparent like a landscape painting.
The paper was large, so the figure was large. Switching brushes, Xie Yan filled that transparent head—with Lu Yang’s likeness.
The left image followed the same idea—but the transparent area was the chest.
