Chapter Twenty-Eight: Concerning the Dignity of the Traveler

In the end, Wu Changlu agreed with Wu Ning’s suggestion and stored all the radishes collected from the family in the vegetable cellar.

It wasn’t that Fourth Uncle Wu or the others truly believed Wu Ning’s claim that the radishes would fetch a good price come winter. Farmers of this era were stubborn in their ways—they believed only what they saw with their own eyes and remained wary of the unknown, no matter if it promised good or ill.

The real reason they agreed was simply because Wu Changlu had been too busy lately. Figuring out how to turn the radishes in the field into cash was proving to be a real headache for him. After much deliberation, he decided it might as well be stored at Wu Ning’s place, to be dealt with later when things slowed down in winter—a stopgap solution at best.

Fifth Uncle was in the same boat. The charcoal kiln kept him occupied, so he chose to set aside his harvest for now and deal with it once this busy period passed.

But for Sixth Uncle, Seventh Brother, and their families, it wasn’t so simple. They hesitated for a long time and finally decided to bring over only a hundred or so catties—the amount needed for their own winter provisions—while quickly selling off the rest.

Wu Ning wanted to persuade them otherwise; after all, once winter came, green vegetables would be scarce, and the price would certainly be higher than now. But in the end, he held his tongue. Their circumstances were far less secure than those of Fourth and Fifth Uncle—they simply couldn’t risk storing vegetables. The autumn tax would soon be collected, and they were all counting on the money to get through the year.

Wu Ning wanted to help, but reality left him with no choice but to watch.

“These past years have only gotten harder,” the old patriarch grumbled after a few extra bowls of wine. “Each year is worse than the last.”

Fifth Uncle tried to lighten the mood. “Father, don’t always speak so ominously. Haven’t these years been good enough?”

“It’s precisely the good years that are frightening,” the old patriarch retorted, taking a large swig. “If things are this tough in good years, what will we do when disaster strikes?”

“Father!” Wu Changlu shifted the topic. “Is there still no progress at the charcoal kiln?”

He knew the old man was venting his frustration—otherwise, as clan head, he would never speak so negatively.

“I’ve been too preoccupied lately, not paying enough attention to the family’s affairs...”

“That’s enough,” the old patriarch cut him off with a glare. “Just do your job well as an official—that’s the greatest help you can give our village.”

“As for the charcoal kiln, leave it be!”

Fifth Uncle chimed in, “Worrying won’t help. Even if we had money, it’s no use. We can’t get enough charcoal wood, so we can’t even fire up the kilns.”

Seeing both his father and younger brother so weighed down, Wu Changlu sighed, “If it really comes to that, just shut it down. It’s not bringing in much income anyway.”

“Shut it down?” The old patriarch’s eyes widened. “How? The whole village relies on the kiln to make ends meet. If it closes, what will everyone eat? Life will only get harder!”

Wu Ning remained silent. He knew little about the kiln business and had no standing to comment. In his previous life, he’d been an accountant—at best, a senior accountant. Aside from numbers, he knew little about other matters.

Moreover, the kiln was under the old patriarch’s watch. Trying to change that stubborn old man’s mind was a fool’s errand; even Fifth Uncle couldn’t sway him, let alone Wu Ning, who was only half-grown.

Still, he’d heard a bit about the kiln’s troubles. A few years back, the only charcoal kiln near Fangzhou City was the one in their village, so business was booming. Not only did their charcoal sell easily, but they were the only ones around collecting wood, so mountain folk from all over brought logs to them.

But things had changed. Nowadays, many people had a head for business and saw the profits in making winter charcoal—several new kilns had sprung up, backed by wealthy families. Take Old Chen from Chen Family Village: with plenty of land and even more money, he opened seven or eight kilns at once and rallied the entire village into the business. What’s more, their kilns were closer to the mountains and offered better prices for wood. Mountain folk would fell huge trees and deliver them straight to Chen’s kilns.

As a result, for the past couple of years, Chen’s charcoal was not only plentiful but also produced in larger pieces thanks to better wood, and the price was fair. The kilns in their own village simply couldn’t compete, and business had suffered ever since. Now, even getting enough wood was a problem.

There was nothing to be done. Even if Wu Ning understood business and accounting, he couldn’t compete with others’ capital, quality, marketing, or output. He wanted to help, but had no way in.

“Grandfather,” Wu Ning seized the opportunity during the silence to suggest, “Why not do as Fourth Uncle said and shut it down for now?”

He gestured to his own courtyard. “Then encourage everyone to follow our example—open guesthouses and take in lodgers.”

Afraid the old patriarch would object, he rushed to add, “I guarantee everyone will make money—at least as much as from the kilns!”

“Humph.” The old patriarch snorted. “All open guesthouses like you?”

“Exactly!” Wu Ning nodded.

He’d always had this idea: to transform their mountain village into a cluster of cultural and leisure inns. Once they reached a certain scale, there wouldn’t be competition for business; even the literati and wealthy from both Fangzhou and Xiangfan would come flocking. At that point, was there any fear of not making money?

“And the startup funds?” The old patriarch shot back. “Your Fifth Uncle had some spare cash to fix up his house and yard. But what about the others? Sixth Uncle, Seventh Aunt, Seventh Brother—can any of them scrape together several strings of cash for your schemes?”

Wu Ning had no retort.

It was like when Sixth Uncle and Seventh Brother stored radishes with him. Even if there was money to be made, their current circumstances didn’t allow them to keep their harvest. They simply had no cash on hand.

Wu Ning realized he’d been too naive, too idealistic.

But still...

“I can lend them the money!” Wu Ning said stubbornly. “We’ll do it one household at a time.”

“You’ll lend it?” The old patriarch actually laughed. “How much can your little inn make? How long would you have to save to come up with enough for even one family?”

“It won’t take long!” Wu Ning insisted. “Let’s say it takes three strings of cash per household—that’s only...”

“One every five days!”

“What!?” The old patriarch leapt to his feet, pointing a trembling finger at Wu Ning’s modest courtyard. “This shabby house of yours—five days? You can make three strings of cash in five days?”

To be fair, Wu Ning was understating things. At his current rates, he could manage it in three days; he’d only given himself a bit of leeway for operating costs.

With a smug grin he held up his hand, “Five hundred coins per room!”

“Good heavens!”

Wu Changlu and the others were stunned. “Five hundred coins... for one room?”

“That’s right,” Wu Ning said, relishing the moment. “Originally, it was only supposed to be a hundred coins per room, but…”

He recounted the story of how Sun Bo’an, that blockhead, had inadvertently helped him drive up room prices.

“So now it’s five hundred coins a night. And with all the people asking about Xian Temple lately, I expect the price will hold for a month. Even if demand drops and it goes back to a hundred coins, it’s still a big profit—much more than the kiln ever made.”

Everyone fell silent.

This wasn’t just a matter of making “some” money—it was a windfall. Even if the rooms weren’t full every day, renting out one room a day at a hundred coins would mean three strings a month!

Wu Ning pressed his advantage, “Well? What do you think? Will it work?”

He had long wanted to do something for his fellow villagers during these five years in the mountain hollow. After all, as a well-read, experienced, idealistic, and principled transmigrant, he aspired to more. Anyone else might have led the whole village to greatness by now, but he’d been forced to lie low as a fugitive for five years.

There was pride at stake, and a need to realize his own value.

Now, finally, the opportunity had come—how could he not make his case?

But to his surprise, even after he’d made the potential profits clear, after the shock faded, everyone fell silent and lowered their heads in gloom.

What was going on? Wu Ning was puzzled.

He watched as his taciturn uncle, silent as a ghost, quietly slipped away to his room without a word.

He saw Wu Changlu furrowing his brow, looking at him with a complex expression.

He saw the old patriarch’s stern face as he slowly uttered one sentence:

“Return the money to them.”

His tone brooked no argument; it was resolute beyond doubt.