The pile of copper coins and the small piece of silver on the table were like a cluster of small flames in the cold night, warming the dim main room of the Zhang family. Mother Zhou Shi carefully counted the money for the third time, her voice carrying a hint of lightness: "Father, there are twelve hundred wen here, plus this five qian of broken silver... it's almost worth one tael and seven qian of silver!" She looked up, her eyes sparkling with hope, "We're still three qian short. Adding the "footage fee" the village head usually demands, we're probably still short four or five hundred wen."
Four or five hundred wen was still a sum, but compared to the despairing two tael deficit before, the edge of the goal was now clearly visible.
Father Zhang Shōutián let out a long sigh, and the tension in his shoulders, tight for several days, relaxed slightly. He looked at Zhāng Yuǎnshēng again, the surprise and scrutiny in his eyes undiminished, but now with a bit more genuine regard. "Brother Sheng... your pickled vegetables really came to the rescue."
For the next few days, the earthenware jars in the Zhang family's kitchen became the focus of the entire family's attention. Zhāng Yuǎnshēng meticulously controlled the temperature, while Zhāng Xiǎoyú actively helped to watch over them. Every day, after returning from the county town, Zhang Shōutián's first task was to check on the changing aroma of the pickled vegetables.
After another four or five days, the second batch of pickled vegetables was finally fermented. Zhang Shōutián once again took up his carrying pole, heading to the county town filled with hope.
However, when he returned this time, the expression on his face was much more complicated. The pickled vegetables had all been sold, but the money brought back was clearly less than the first time.
"The townspeople are shrewd!" he grunted, taking a gulp of cold water, feeling somewhat dejected. "The first time, they were a novelty, and they were willing to pay a good price. This time, when I went, there were already two or three stalls selling pickled vegetables at the East Market Entrance! Although they weren't as tasty as ours, they drove the price down!"
The market's imitation and competition delivered the first blow to this nascent small business in a harsh and realistic manner. The period of high profits for any simple technology without barriers is pitifully short.
What was even more critical, Zhang Shōutián put down his carrying pole and lowered his voice to speak to Zhou Shi: "When I was coming back, I ran into Steward Wang at the village entrance again."
Zhou Shi's heart leaped: "Did... did he say anything else?"
"He didn't laugh this time. With his hands tucked into his sleeves, he asked me, 'Zhang Lao'er, you've been walking to the county town quite often lately. What good treasures are you selling? Have you found some kind of treasure basin?' His words dripped with sourness and probing." Zhang Shōutián's brow furrowed. "I think... we can't keep this pickled vegetable venture a secret forever. They've set their sights on it."
The future, which had just begun to brighten, seemed to be overshadowed again by the vast dark cloud of the Wang Family. That pervasive sense of oppression gripped the hearts of everyone in the family once more.
Zhāng Yuǎnshēng listened silently from the side, understanding dawning on him. He had long expected that the pickled vegetable business couldn't be kept secret, but he hadn't anticipated the Wang family's reach being so sensitive and their reaction so swift. Without the protection of power, any extra profit is like fat meat attracting hungry wolves.
There must be a faster, more hidden, or a core competency that they could not easily imitate.
His gaze involuntarily drifted towards the backyard. The compost he had secretly manufactured in that broken crock should have generated considerable heat after days of continuous fermentation. This was the first step in his longer-term, more crucial plan.
Just then, a faint commotion could be heard from the estate, mixed with barking dogs and a few panicked shouts. Uncle Zhang came in quickly from outside, his face grave: "Master, a few Refugees have come from outside the manor, wanting something to eat. They've been stopped at the village entrance by everyone."
The standard supporting characters and precursors of chaotic times—Refugees—had finally appeared.
Zhang Shōutián sighed and waved his hand wearily: "These times... alas, tell everyone to close their doors tightly. No one should act rashly out of kindness! Give them some cool water and tell them to go elsewhere."
"Father," Zhāng Yuǎnshēng suddenly spoke up, "Don't we have scraps left over from pickling the vegetables that aren't very useful? Could we..."
Zhang Shōutián immediately cut him off, his tone more severe than ever before: "Brother Sheng! Don't be soft-hearted! If this door is opened, more and more Refugees will come drawn by the smell, and our village will have no peace! The Wang family is just looking for an excuse to fault us! Do you want to bring disaster upon the whole family?!"
His father's words were cold and pragmatic, laced with fear. Limited resources and the fragility of self-preservation completely overshadowed simple sympathy.
Zhāng Yuǎnshēng fell silent. He knew his father was right. The flight of the Sun Lǎoqī family was a bloody lesson before their eyes. Here, even the slightest bit of well-intentioned kindness could lead to unforeseen disasters.
For the first time, he profoundly understood how difficult moral choices become under the heavy pressure of survival, and how pale and weak his ideals of changing the world seemed in the face of cold reality.
Ultimately, the Zhang family did not intervene. The young and strong men of the village, armed with hoes and sticks, ordered the few sallow-faced, ragged Refugees away. In the cold wind, their desperate and numb eyes stabbed into Zhāng Yuǎnshēng's heart like needles.
That evening, Zhāng Yuǎnshēng found an excuse to check on the backyard and stayed there alone. He pushed aside the straw on the surface of the compost, and a rich scent of life mixed with warmth struck him. He reached in, and the heat generated by the fermentation warmed his palm.
It worked! This proved his method was effective! This insignificant yet tangible success dispelled some of the cold and oppression in his heart.
What he needed was not a momentary surge of goodwill, but a power that could truly change this land, allow more people to live, and could not be easily taken away.
The bean sprouts had solved the immediate crisis, the appearance of the Refugees foreshadowed future dangers, the Wang family's threat was omnipresent, and the warm compost in his hands represented a slow, solid, and more potential hope.
The road ahead was still full of thorns, but he had taken the first step, a real one, under his feet.