Chen Baoxiang knew nothing of any of this. Her eyes were fixed on the tray of silver, and she was practically drooling.

Good news — General Cheng is generous. He gave five hundred taels — converted to coins, that’s a full one million two hundred thousand!

But the bad news is, he gave it all to Physician God Sun.

She was nearly in tears. I was the one who did the needling — couldn’t they have given me even a small piece of it?

Zhang Zhixu came back to himself and said with some amusement: That’s how the master-disciple trade works — a disciple’s earnings go to the master. They gave it exactly right.

But…

Chen Baoxiang turned out her own empty purse. I have not a single coin, I’m being shown the door, and that’s somehow not pitiable?

She was still muttering when Physician God Sun lowered his voice and spoke.

“Young lady — you and I have some measure of fate between us.” He watched Cheng’an walk away ahead and spoke quietly to Chen Baoxiang. “I don’t know how you came to know my disciple, but since he said what he said, you may come to me if you ever find yourself in need.”

With that, he pressed a small elm wood token into her hand.

Chen Baoxiang was lost. Great Immortal — who knows his disciple? Which disciple?

Zhang Zhixu coughed several times. Having one more person who knows you means having one more avenue open to you. Don’t worry about the rest.

Fair enough.

Chen Baoxiang pocketed the token and took her leave of Sun Sihuai with a bow.

But the hollowness lingered. “Why couldn’t he have given me a small piece of silver as a token instead?”

“What a thing to say — silver is something anyone possesses. It hardly serves as a meaningful token of trust.”

Listen to that. Was that a reasonable thing to say to a person?

Chen Baoxiang could have turned her empty purse inside out and pressed it against the Great Immortal’s face. She was a person too — so why didn’t she have any?

“Don’t be like that,” Zhang Zhixu said, consoling her. “There are a thousand ways to earn money in this world. Without stealing and without cheating, I can still bring you wealth.”

At those words, Chen Baoxiang perked up. “You can conjure silver out of nothing now?”

“I cannot.”

“Then what is there to say?” She let her head droop. “We’re leaving the Pei Family and won’t be able to see my dear Pei often, we have nothing to our name — this is already a dead end.”

“Didn’t you say you had a job in Shangjing?” Zhang Zhixu recalled. “Six hundred coins a month.”

“That’s true.” She seemed to hesitate. “But you’re so particular about your comforts, Great Immortal — I’m afraid you wouldn’t be able to bear it if I went back to work.”

“Is it hard labor?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then what is there to worry about?” Zhang Zhixu said. “As long as it doesn’t strain the shoulder wound, I can manage anything else.”

People always said that sons of great households like his had no understanding of common life. At seven years old, Zhang Zhixu had specifically gone with his master to live among the common people for several months, precisely to disprove that kind of talk.

Ordinary folk rose with the sun and rested with the dark — warm family reunions, no weight of earth-shattering responsibilities on their shoulders. He had found it quite agreeable, actually.

But wait —

He watched the street ahead grow progressively grimier and more chaotic, and his frown deepened. “Where are you going?”

“Back to where I work, of course.” Chen Baoxiang walked and talked at the same time. “You didn’t think I had somewhere else to stay in Shangjing, did you? Rooms here are far too expensive — I couldn’t buy even one.”

“Too expensive in the better areas — what about the cheaper outer wards? You couldn’t afford even a small room there?”

“Please, Great Immortal.” A dozen abacuses clattered open in her mind, all of them clicking away at once for his benefit. “We earn six hundred coins a month. Lodging is provided, but food alone costs at least three hundred coins per month.”

“Going by the cheapest outer ward in Shangjing — the He-Yue Ward — the smallest available room sells for one million coins. At the rate of three hundred coins saved per month, it would take over two hundred and seventy years to afford one.”

Zhang Zhixu was stunned.

He bought properties on a whim, with a single gesture of his hand, and had never once stopped to think that for an ordinary person, acquiring even a single room might be this impossibly difficult.

Of course — even during those months spent living among the common people, he had stayed in his master’s home. He had never had to worry about such things.

Chen Baoxiang began removing her hair ornaments as she walked. Passing down a deserted little alley, she ducked into it with practiced ease, dug out a bundle from its hiding spot, and swapped her good clothing for coarse hemp.

“You hid your things here?” He couldn’t fathom it. “No one takes them?”

“Leaving them here means they might not be noticed. Bringing them back to the common sleeping quarters guarantees they’ll be taken.” Chen Baoxiang bound her hair up with a strip of cloth. “Come along and you’ll see what I mean.”

Zhang Zhixu anticipated it would not be a pleasant place and had prepared himself somewhat.

But the moment he stepped through the door, he was still struck.

A dim earthen room. A long communal sleeping platform built from clay and stone, stretching some ten-odd zhang. Atop it lay a scattering of tattered reed-cotton quilts, on and around which sat some twenty-odd people. The air was heavy with dust and the smell of rot. In the hollows of the uneven floor, black-brown standing water had collected.

Someone was washing their feet in it.

Zhang Zhixu turned his head and nearly retched.

“Well, look who’s back — our great beauty.” Someone walked over and shoved her. “So? You took a few days off and came back pregnant?”

“Pregnant’s good — ride that all the way to a better life, why not.”

“Then hand her wages over to me — I’ll take her shift.”

Chen Baoxiang clutched her chest, raised an eyebrow, and fired back: “With that arm strength of yours — can’t even pull a heddle cord — and you think you’re fit to take my position?”

Her voice was loud and blunt, nothing like the sweet manner she wore elsewhere, and it pressed the entire room flat in an instant.

Zhang Zhixu watched, wide-eyed, as Chen Baoxiang strode in, left shoulder swinging to push aside whoever tried to get in her way, and addressed the overseer cracking sunflower seeds in the corner: “I’m ready to start right now — today doesn’t count as leave.”

The overseer looked her over once and said sourly: “Suit yourself. But your wages for this month — I’m not paying them.”

“Why?”

“You said you’d only take three days. How many has it been now?” The overseer spat at her feet. “And you dare ask me why.”

“But I’ve already worked twenty days this month.”

“A hundred coins — take it or leave it. If you don’t want to work here, there’s no shortage of people to replace you.”

Zhang Zhixu’s anger rose. He opened Chen Baoxiang’s mouth, ready to argue.

Chen Baoxiang put a firm hand over it and forced out a thin smile. “Fine.”

Twenty days should be four hundred coins.

He reminded her, indignant.

Chen Baoxiang turned toward the workshop, resigned. Great Immortal, not everything in this world can be argued.

Four hundred is the right number — but if they won’t give it to you, you have no choice but to accept it.

Zhang Zhixu was more furious than ever. Is this job truly impossible to leave? Low wages, mistreatment — not a single thing to recommend it.

But I don’t know how to do anything else.

She climbed up to the high-draw loom, pulled the pattern heddle cords in sequence to lift the warp threads, coordinating with the weaver seated below, and slowly drew out a foot of woven silk.

I’m not from Shangjing, I can’t read, I have no starting capital. This is already the best work I could find.

Her right shoulder began to ache under the motion.

Zhang Zhixu gritted his teeth and resolved to bear it. Chen Baoxiang could endure it — how could he, a grown man, be the first to say he couldn’t take it?

He had bought many bolts of patterned silk in his time. This was the first he had ever watched one being made. Chen Baoxiang’s hands were quick and capable, but the weaver below her seemed newly arrived — her plain-weave control was unsteady, and it dragged their pace down together.

Zhang Zhixu consoled himself: it was fine. The wound still ached anyway — going slowly was actually better.

Then, in the next instant, a whip cracked through the air and lashed down across his shoulder: “No slacking — move faster!”