Du Heng understood the oil pressing process. He could do it himself if necessary. But it required equipment like millstones and iron hoops, which would cost money. For a short-term venture, buying such tools for one or two uses wasn’t economical.
Uncle Ge knew this, which is why he had leverage.
Du Heng, being practical, didn’t insist on pressing oil just to prove a point. “If Uncle Ge isn’t willing to press it, we can take it to the county. No one can say we went out of our way.”
The next day, they hitched their ox cart and visited several oil mills in the county. Prices varied: some greedy ones asked six wen per jin, while sincere ones said four wen.
Uncle Ge hadn’t valued such a small pressing profit, but many in the county wanted the business.
Du Heng had some idea too. The Ge family had been the only oil producers in the village. Now a new competitor appeared and didn’t follow their lead, naturally arousing caution.
In the end, the couple agreed with one oil mill: 350 wen to press 100 jin of seeds.
Pressing took time, but valuable oil needed careful handling. Qin Xiaoman insisted on staying to oversee it.
Du Heng watched for a while. At first it was novel; after observing the repetitive process, it grew dull.
Then he remembered what Qin Zhiyan had said:
“The Bairong Academy isn’t far. My uncle mentioned books and articles are distributed outside the academy. It’s rare for me to have a chance—let’s go take a look.”
Qin Xiaoman, supportive of Du Heng’s learning, immediately agreed.
It wasn’t a county market day, so Du Heng didn’t know if books would be available, just as Qin Zhiyan had said. He asked directions and soon arrived.
Bairong Academy sat in the west of the city, surrounded by dense trees and bamboo. Its eaves and pavilions rose gracefully among the greenery. Even in early summer, it felt cooler than most places. Across the way was a willow-lined lake, calm and scenic.
Any scholar passing by would be drawn in—who could resist entering such an elegant academy to study?
Du Heng’s first impression was that the greenery at the academy was truly impressive.
But he had also heard that only those from well-off families could afford to attend. In the village, there were very few people who could read, and even fewer who had any understanding of county-level academies or schools. Most were simple, coarse-spoken farmers with little knowledge beyond their fields.
Still, Bairong Academy was the largest and finest in the county. Even an outsider with no formal education would have heard of it, and consequently, Du Heng had more information than usual.
It happened to be the noon break, and outside the academy a few people were still delivering meals—perhaps families who had come from afar and were running late.
Du Heng looked around for a while.
Occasionally, he saw a few students in blue robes with matching headbands. Their clothes were clean and neat, and their expressions full of youthful ambition. They strolled in and out of the academy, laughing and chatting.
Exactly as described in books: refined scholars, full of elegance and energy.
As the saying goes, “Clothes make the man, a saddle makes the horse.” Even though Du Heng’s features were handsome, standing among these radiant students, he didn’t immediately stand out.
Wearing simple, dark homespun cloth, how could he compete with the flowing robes of the academy students?
He didn’t care to compare, only looking for the so-called book stall. But aside from the delivery people and a few helpers, there were no stalls at all. Not even the usual street vendors selling buns, noodles, or meat pies. Perhaps the academy was strict, not allowing merchants to disturb its quiet elegance.
He thought perhaps book stalls only appeared on market days. Even though he had made the trip in vain, at least he had seen the finest academy in the county—it wasn’t a total loss.
Just as he was about to leave, someone called out: “Young man, are you here for the book stall?”
Du Heng turned and saw an elderly gentleman with a gray-streaked beard waving at him from the academy gate.
He hurried over and bowed. “I heard that on market days there are book stalls outside the academy. I’m a villager from outside the county. Though today isn’t a market day, I thought I might try my luck.”
The old man looked at him, noting Du Heng’s honest and earnest expression. “Indeed, book stalls appear only on market days. But I saw you lingering outside, clearly a person with a desire to learn.”
He raised his hand, and a boy of twelve or thirteen opened a book box, pulling out some worn papers and a book. “Some used materials—if you find them useful, take them.”
Du Heng thanked him repeatedly and accepted the items.
The old man said nothing further and entered the academy with the boy.
Du Heng stood at the gate for a while longer, holding the books and papers. He guessed the old man was a tutor at the academy, though he didn’t know his name.
Looking at the book in his hand, Du Heng smiled slightly.
Earlier, they had harvested 180 jin of rapeseed. After subtracting 54 jin for taxes and keeping about twenty jin for seeds or other uses, they had an exact amount to press into oil.
The seeds were full and mature, yielding 25 jin of oil—far above expectation.
They packed the refined oil carefully in baskets, covering them with cloth and padding around the sides to prevent spilling on the bumpy ox cart ride. The leftover cake from pressing was collected and brought home as well.
By the time they drove the ox cart back, the sun was already low in the west.
Qin Xiaoman, worried that darkness would make the road dangerous and that the precious cargo could not be rushed, drove the ox steadily.
Out of boredom, he thought to tease Du Heng into urging the ox faster—something he had learned before.
When he glanced back, he saw Du Heng sitting in the cart with the oil, slightly hunched, holding the old book in his hands and reading intently. Despite the jolting ride, he was completely absorbed.
Qin Xiaoman stayed silent, his gaze shifting away, and a pang of unspeakable emotion rose in him.
In pouring rain, he had once worked alone in the fields, with everyone else having someone to help or shelter them. Yet he had never felt this bittersweet sense of care for anyone.
Even when Qin Xiaozhu coquettishly asked their father for small personal expenses, or a new coat or rabbit fur scarf, he had never felt it like this.
Only now, watching Du Heng engrossed in a tattered old book on a dim, late-evening cart, did he feel a sharp ache in his chest.
Perhaps it was because he had never needed this—never had to cherish a secondhand book like a treasure. Children from wealthy families need not worry about a book or pen costing silver. Poor families, however, measure every purchase.
Though he didn’t know that even used books could be more useful than new ones in the hands of learned people, he felt for Du Heng and blamed himself for not buying books for him sooner.
Listening to Du Heng’s words about saving up from farm work to study, he realized how much effort Du Heng had poured into farming, with his face to the earth, back turned to the sky. Who knew if he said this only to spare Qin Xiaoman from burdens?
“Are you hungry?”
As dusk fell, the light dimmed, and the characters on the page blurred together. Du Heng finally tore his attention from the newly acquired book.
He looked up to see Qin Xiaoman silently driving the ox, not speaking a word. It seemed he had been unusually quiet.
Worried that his absorption in the book had upset him, Du Heng quickly moved to sit beside him.
“I’m not,” Qin Xiaoman replied. “What about you?”
They had eaten in the county at noon and done no heavy work, so Du Heng wasn’t hungry either.
The evening breeze cooled their hands. Du Heng rubbed Qin Xiaoman’s hand with his own to warm it. “I got carried away reading just now. Are you upset?”
Qin Xiaoman raised his eyebrows. “How could I be? I’m happy to see you studying seriously.”
“Then why didn’t you say anything?”
“Seeing you so focused, I couldn’t bear to disturb you.”
Du Heng smoothed back the hair that the wind had tousled on Qin Xiaoman’s head. “I don’t feel disturbed. Besides, I’ve grown used to hearing your voice. If I don’t hear it for too long, I feel uneasy.”
In the soft night breeze, Qin Xiaoman glanced at Du Heng, who seemed even warmer under the dim light.
“In a couple of days, I’ll go to the county town and buy you two new books.”
Du Heng’s brow twitched slightly, as if he understood. “Today’s book came from a tutor at Bairong Academy, with annotations from the old gentleman. I’ve set aside my studies for so long, and my prior learning was never solid—I’ve never even sat for the basic student exam. This old tutor’s used books are extremely valuable to me.”
Qin Xiaoman blinked. “My father also had many old books. The room you stayed in before had only a few writing supplies; most of them were in Father’s study. When we get back, I’ll open the door so you can see if there’s anything useful for you.”
“Good.”
Du Heng agreed at once. Back when Qin’s father was still alive, he had been a student preparing for the basic exams. Items he used back then would be quite useful.
Previously, Du Heng had never suggested opening that door. He knew Qin Xiaoman had a mental barrier, and spring planting had kept them busy with one task after another, leaving little time for reading.
Although there still wouldn’t be much time, every moment they could steal for study would count. Qin Zhiyan was right—once you fall behind in your studies, it’s easy to become rusty.
On the open fields, oil lamps dotted the darkness like tiny islands of light. As night fell, the chirping of crickets and croaking of frogs could be heard clearly—a lively yet peaceful scene.
By the time they returned home, night had fully fallen.
They carefully brought the pressed rapeseed oil inside. Now that the village knew they had rapeseed, even if nobody knew they had pressed oil, they had to remain cautious to prevent theft.
After finishing, Du Heng set about lighting a fire and boiling water, while Qin Xiaoman fiddled with a bunch of keys at the door.
Du Heng understood immediately.
They stood before the door that had been locked since Du Heng first arrived. Qin Xiaoman held the key, ready to unlock it.
Feeling the cold lock, Qin Xiaoman’s hand trembled slightly and struggled to turn it. A warm hand gently covered his: “Let me do it.”
He looked up at Du Heng without a word, and Du Heng held his hand, turning the key to open the lock.
Pushing the door open, a musty, aged smell drifted out. When the oil lamp lit the room, Du Heng saw it was an ordinary room: a bed, a desk by the window, and a low cabinet filled with Qin Senior’s manuscripts, brushes, ink, and paper.
Though old, everything was still usable, saving money on study materials.
Qin Xiaoman stayed at the door, gesturing for Du Heng to take what he needed.
Du Heng opened the cabinet, and the scent of old ink wafted out. He flipped through the books briefly, then turned to look at Qin Xiaoman at the doorway. “Could we not lock this from now on? I’d like to come in anytime to get books or writing materials.”
Qin Xiaoman was momentarily taken aback.
After Qin Senior passed away, he had gone through long days keeping up appearances while secretly grieving at night. Eventually, a locksmith from the village had been called to lock the room, and he had not gone inside for a long time.
Then Du Heng came.
Seeing Qin Xiaoman remain silent, Du Heng stepped forward, taking him into his arms. One hand wrapped around his waist, the other around his shoulders, holding him as fully as possible to give a sense of protection.
“I’ll always be here from now on.”
“Mm.”
Qin Xiaoman buried his face in Du Heng’s chest and murmured a soft reply.
“The keys will be yours. Come in anytime you want.”