He was always like this—telling others not to stand on ceremony, but never actually saying what he wanted, making himself sound generous while leaving plenty of room to retreat. No matter what happened, his words were always “reasonable.”
Lu Yang had no intention of wasting energy on him. He simply smiled and said, “Sure, we’re family. However things were before, that’s how they’ll stay. I know how it is.”
The meaning couldn’t be clearer:
When he was poor, they pushed him away.
Now that he’s doing well, they shouldn’t come running over.
Old Chen’s face twitched. He forced a laugh to smooth things over. “Family is family—past or future. You’re busy today, so we won’t stay in your way. We’ll catch up next time.”
People weren’t fools.
Everyone lining up outside the shop heard it—the Chen family was here to latch on.
Most of the neighbors were regular customers. They came often for vegetables. Lu Yang was warm, friendly, easy to chat with. Some saw how young and thin he looked and felt protective of him. Once Old Chen and his sons walked off, the neighbors all chimed in at once, warning him not to be fooled.
“Lu fulang, running this shop isn’t easy. Selling vegetables doesn’t earn much. Don’t let people take advantage of you.”
Lu Yang’s heart warmed.
Truth be told, his childhood days in East City were just like this.
Old Chen always thought he hid things well—kind to outsiders, acting like a good man, and once the door closed, no one could see what he truly was. He made Lu Yang do all the cursing, arguing, and door-slamming, yet in East City Lu Yang still had great rapport with others. People knew he had it rough, and many helped him whenever they could.
There really were more good people in the world than bad.
It was Qingming. A light rain fell.
The private school was on break, so the students all returned home to sweep their family graves.
There were few pedestrians on the street, but the shop’s business was still decent.
Once the shop’s supply stabilized, they had sales every day.
Just as Lu Yang had predicted: people had mouths, so people needed to eat. Selling food meant business all year round.
A while back, when the county was crowded, some restaurants and taverns came to buy bamboo shoots from him.
When the shoots ran out, they bought mushrooms instead. And along with those, even the little stock of wild chicken and mutton in the shop sold out.
Quality spoke for itself—after the restaurants used his ingredients once, they came back for more.
Once the deal was settled, Lu Yang began earning over one tael of silver a month from that alone. His younger brother’s share was slightly more, and after subtracting costs, their family could bring in roughly two taels a month.
And that didn’t even include fresh game. Whenever hunters brought in wild meat, they could sell it to the restaurants too.
With this steady supply chain, their mountain-goods business had officially taken off.
The schedule stayed the same: busy mornings steaming buns and mantou, then a little free time until near noon to sell vegetables. Afternoons were for miscellaneous sales—people came for all sorts of things.
Lu Yang gave Lu Lin and Zhang Tie and his wife a few days off. Since the two started helping, they had only rested during the New Year holiday. They were young and energetic, and though they could handle long hours, everyone got tired eventually. With Qingming here, he told them to go home to sweep graves and relax for two days.
Xie Yan also had a three-day break. After the helpers came back, Lu Yang would pack up and prepare for their own grave-sweeping—mainly for Xie Yan’s father.
Back at the Chen household, Lu Yang never acknowledged their ancestors, nor did Old Chen take him back to the village. For New Year meals or ancestral rites in the county, he was never required to kneel or burn offerings. Now that he understood why, he felt even less inclined to join.
When Xie Yan asked if he wanted to return to Lu Family Hamlet, Lu Yang thought about it and refused. He recognized his birth father—there was a bond in blood. And now that he was getting along well with his younger brother, acknowledging that relationship caused no trouble to either side. But going back to worship ancestors? No need. He was a son that had been given away—what ancestors was he supposed to bow to?
With Lu Lin and Zhang Tie away, only the two husbands tended the front shop.
Mother was busy in the back courtyard. Lu Yang asked her to come chat, but she refused.
It was Qingming—she spent every spare moment speaking softly in front of Xie Yan’s father’s memorial tablet.
Lu Yang sat on a small stool, sewing clothes with his embroidery basket.
The rainy day made the shop dim. After sewing for a bit, he glanced around and felt the shop needed a fresh coat of white paint. A brighter wall would make the space look clean and new.
The shop still looked the same as before, only with more baskets—different shapes and sizes, some on tables, some on the ground.
Since buns were still sold out front, they needed space to carry the steaming baskets in and out. When selling vegetables or wild goods, they had to drag chairs around, lay down planks, and improvise tables. Because of this constant movement, Lu Yang never bothered adding new furniture.
He and Xie Yan didn’t fuss over sticking close to each other. Each had something to do—Lu Yang sewed; Xie Yan read. Both tasks required good lighting.
Lu Yang thought for a moment, then went home and brought over their little dining table from the kitchen. He lit an oil lamp and placed a paper shade over it. The whole area brightened instantly.
He called Xie Yan, “Ah-Yan, come read here. I lit the lamp.”
Oil was expensive. Normally, Lu Yang wouldn’t use it. Only at night, when Xie Yan needed to study, would he light one—the flame was brighter than a candle.
They moved their stools over. Xie Yan sat facing the door; Lu Yang sat at an angle beside him.
Lu Yang chose a chair with a backrest—comfortable for sewing, napping, or relaxing.
Whenever his eyes grew tired, he’d pause and look at Xie Yan.
Xie Yan was incredibly focused when reading—nearly impossible to distract. He turned pages fast. Every time Lu Yang tried to glance at a line, Xie Yan would already be flipping to the next.
If he read quickly, he wrote even faster. A thin book in his hands required a thick stack of draft paper beside him. Sometimes he scribbled praise, sometimes rebuttals—calm tone, sharp points. What he wrote on paper was much gentler than what he said when arguing with people outside, though his logic was even fiercer.
Once, he even demonstrated to Lu Yang how he “took apart” a book.
After flipping through it once, he put down his brush, reviewed the whole thing again, picked up scissors—and cut the spine.
Lu Yang: “…”
This wasn’t some cheap five-qian booklet—this was a one-tael-five book he’d only brought home two days ago!
Lu Yang hesitated for a split second, and in that instant, Xie Yan had already started dissecting it.
Years of reading had made him skilled. He never tore stubbornly nor slowly. He would divide the spine into three sections and fold each straight open. Then, following the glue seam, he snipped cleanly through it. When the pages were thinner, he trimmed the edges again by matching them to the original margins.
He disliked books bound in troublesome ways. His favorite were traditional thread-bound volumes—easy to disassemble, easy to reassemble.
After dismantling the book, he sifted through the earlier pile of draft papers, relying on memory to sort everything back into three little stacks.
He pointed them out to Lu Yang:
“This smallest pile is what I like. I’ll keep it.
This biggest pile is boring—I’ll save it for when I run out of things to read. Good books need time to mature with the reader. My father used to tell me that some books require age before you can appreciate them. So these go into the trunk.
And this last pile is what I don’t like. Master Mei says that if I can’t point out major flaws and only say I dislike something out of personal taste, then I must read it several more times. I need to fully digest what I dislike. He says I still lack a lot, and since our county is small and scholars have little to compare with, deepening my study here will do me good.”
Master Mei was one of the private school teachers—a former county-school graduate who had resigned to teach at the private academy. He had taught Xie Yan years ago, and now fate had made them teacher and student again.
Lu Yang leaned back, smiling as he watched Xie Yan glow with excitement. His joy was infectious.
The paper lampshade cast a soft golden light—warm and gentle across their faces.
Lu Yang thought that if he could draw, he’d surely capture this moment. Xie Yan looked like a child—so thrilled he could hardly sit still.
After sorting the papers, Xie Yan weighed them down with blocks and took a needle and thread from Lu Yang’s basket to sew them into proper booklets.
Still buzzing with excitement, he said, “Jingzhi, I haven’t taken apart a book in so long. It feels so satisfying.”
They hadn’t bought new books in quite a while. Now that they had earned money, Lu Yang insisted he go pick one out at the bookshop. Xie Yan had browsed and browsed—yet only bought a single volume.
