Ping family’s tea mountain was about ten li from Ai City, and only upon arriving did She Wanlin learn the mountain was called Four Sisters Mountain—three peaks holding over four hundred mu of old tea trees.

Oh, and there was also a narrow river called Sister’s Weeping River, which also belonged to the Ping family.

Only by venturing out does one realize how vast the world is—arriving at Ai City, She Wanlin discovered that the laws, customs, and etiquette here were entirely different from the world he knew.

This was the result of successive dynasties’ provincial administrators and local prefects gradually revising and refining Jin Dian’s laws according to the conditions of its various prefectures.

Take marriage, for instance—in some tribes here, women held authority, and could even take a husband to move into their household.

As for capital punishment by beheading, in other places it required repeated review and execution only after the autumn assizes, but here in Jin Dian, things were chaotic—beheadings could be ordered anytime, anywhere.

From this alone, one could see that Jin Dian’s laws and rules imposed harsh punishments.

Also, the local low-level officials here generally weren’t Liang people, but rather influential figures from various tribes, left to govern their own people…

In short, whatever experience he’d had before was useless here—it was as if entering Jin River meant entering a completely different world, leaving She Wanlin quite bewildered.

In Great Liang, men kept a certain distance from women, but here… goodness, that fat Jin Duo sang and shouted through the carriage window the whole way, and the tribal girls sang back to him just as heartily—all that “brother” and “sister” flirting, awfully affectionate.

Along the way, She Wanlin learned that although the Ping family were merchants, they kept at least two hundred armed guards locally—something unthinkable elsewhere in Great Liang.

In fact, back in the previous dynasty, half of Ai City’s businesses had belonged to the Ping family, and the trade routes here had originally been carved out by the Ping family too. But now, all that remained of the Ping family in Ai City was the Four Sisters Mountain tea plantation and an old signboard.

No need to ask why—the old Tan family had wrought this ruin.

If even the Ping family had come to this, other old merchant houses had it far worse.

The Ping family’s old establishment now held its ground at Four Sisters Mountain purely for the sake of a tea license—even at a loss, they couldn’t afford to lose that qualification.

Besides, the Ping family had put down deep roots here over more than one hundred thirty years—no fewer than a hundred managers and clerks had perished in this place, showing just how hard-won their position was.

These Ping family members who died couldn’t be brought home for burial, given the distance—they were all interred at the foot of Four Sisters Mountain.

Furthermore, in the tea trade, if you were missing even one of the teas from the four directions, Ai City’s tea included, the collection wouldn’t be complete.

The Ping family’s old establishment produced three types of tea: loose tea, leaf tea, and wax tea. Loose tea was the kind that could be sold right after roasting; leaf tea was premium tea whose buds had gone through four rounds of processing; and wax tea was leaf tea further processed in secret, then stored in bamboo racks for long preservation—this last kind was even tribute tea, all requiring the Ningxin trading house’s seal.

Just the Ningxin brand’s wax tea alone could sell for thirty guan per cake in Yandu nowadays, and even then it was hard to come by.

Aside from tribute tea, the Ping family also held a contract with the Ministry of War, hauling tea all the way from Jin Dian to remote northwestern regions for the ministry’s special use.

As Ping Duo put it along the way, their family’s tea accounts got settled every single year, which had made them plenty of enemies locally—but that still beat the alternative.

His tone was proud, and toward the Tan family, both disdainful and helpless.

Chatting along the way, they finally arrived at the foot of Four Sisters Mountain. From a distance, Old Stinky and She Wanlin could already make out two sizable defensive watchtowers, with guards bearing bows patrolling and keeping watch atop them.

Had things really come to such a defensive state?

She Wanlin, lost in thought, casually asked where Kangna Mountain was. In recent years, there’d been no end of legends about Kangna Mountain. Ping Duo and the others assumed the young master had merely heard idle talk along the way, and pointed west of Four Sisters Mountain, saying it lay six ridges over—but that one couldn’t actually go there, since there really was a man-eating evil dragon.

And, strange as it was, these people genuinely believed it.

She Wanlin agreed verbally, but privately he had his own plans forming.

As they talked, the carriage came to a stop. Curious, She Wanlin held onto the cart’s canopy and stood to look around—and what he saw truly astonished him.

The site chosen for the Ping family’s tea plantation followed the principles of military camp-siting—what the military texts called “backed by a defensible mountain, facing open ground,” a position that allowed both advance and retreat, with access by both water and land in all directions.

Moreover, in front of the plantation stockade, they’d gone to great lengths—digging a moat and installing a drawbridge.

Someone atop the watchtower spotted them from afar and called out, “Brother Jin, Brother Duo, you’re back! Did you find anyone today?”

Ping Jin, driving the cart, laughed and stood up, waving his whip and shouting back, “We’re back, we found them! Hurry and tell the head manager!”

As he spoke, the watchtower began blowing its ox horn.

After a few low horn blasts, the stockade gate opened, the drawbridge lowered, and a crowd of people rushed out, clearing away the thorny bamboo barriers and sharpened stakes outside the tea plantation.

Ping Jin jumped down from the horse and turned to She Wanlin with a smile: “Young master, we’ve arrived, come on down—we’re home!”

Seeing there was still about two hundred paces to go, She Wanlin was puzzled, when Old Stinky gave him a nudge, and while helping him down, murmured quietly, “Listen, young master, you’d best hold yourself together in a moment, understand?”

Hold together? Hold together what?

Just as She Wanlin was puzzling over this, a string of bell sounds rang out from the tea plantation, followed by several beats of a leather drum, and from the opened wooden gate emerged three or five masked figures performing an odd ritual dance. Accompanying them was a man in a long robe, with a long beard, in his forties, with slender eyebrows and phoenix eyes, rather handsome in appearance.

This man held in both hands a long vine wrapped with five-colored cloth strips—the moment She Wanlin saw this, he sucked in a cold breath.

An exorcism whip?

Old Stinky chuckled and casually shrugged off his outer robe: “The tea plantation’s always had its old customs—who knows what evil spirits might’ve followed us outsiders here, so we’ve got to take a few strokes.”

She Wanlin, having grown up all these years, had never once been struck—who would dare lay a hand on him?

Though he had no wish to undress, the middle-aged man approached and stood before him smiling, simply waiting for him to remove his robe.

Ordinary flesh could heal after a few strokes, but clothes were valuable—no sense ruining them, so one had to strip to ward off the evil.

So this really was going to be a beating.

She Wanlin pursed his lips, exhaled a long breath, and began undoing his sash, peeling off his robes layer by layer.

His outer garments were coarse, but his inner robe was jade-colored cloud silk that Old Stinky had prepared for him, and once he’d stripped down to it, he balked, looking rather awkwardly at the middle-aged man and saying, “This… this is far enough.”

Seeing this inner robe, the middle-aged man thought to himself—goodness, so this really is a young master of the Third Branch, wearing tens of thousands worth of silk even underneath?

He shook his head, gesturing for She Wanlin to hurry along.

With no choice, She Wanlin shut his eyes and, well… there went his modesty.

But the moment his robe came off, the droning ox horn suddenly faltered mid-note, and the drumming stopped too.

Truly, a figure carved from jade.

For over a decade, the materials used to soak the young She family prince in medicinal baths had cost no less than a million guan—beyond their use for strengthening bones and meridians, these herbs had also given him skin like white jade, so fine that he never tanned even in the sun.

Under the blue sky and bright sunlight, the young man’s physique was beyond reproach—once the robe came off, his body was revealed, evenly toned, solid and firm, colored like white jade, and smooth to boot.

Especially with the fine backdrop beside him—Old Stinky’s disguise was thorough, his face and body covered in blemishes, and dark-skinned besides.

A hush fell over the surroundings. Old Stinky bared his teeth and slapped his own chest, shouting, “Come on then, get it over with, hurry up!”

At this, the middle-aged man cleared his throat and nodded to the shamans.

The ox horn sounded again, the leather drums beat once more, and the shamans, having taken swigs from their wine gourds, sprayed the wine over Old Stinky and She Wanlin.

She Wanlin shut his eyes and endured it, thinking only—this must be karma catching up with me.

Once the exorcism was complete, the middle-aged man raised the vine whip and struck She Wanlin first.

As the primary honored guest, he was struck first.

“One stroke to dispel ill fortune, two strokes to startle ghosts and spirits, three strokes to banish all evil…”

She Wanlin shut his eyes and endured it—this was truly no gentle tap. He’d surely bear three welts afterward. As for breaking the skin, that was impossible—a million guan’s worth of medicinal soaking hadn’t been for nothing.

The middle-aged man genuinely put his full strength into it, yet strangely left barely any mark on the young master’s body. A flicker of something unusual crossed his eyes, and once done, he swiftly draped the inner robe back over She Wanlin.

He thought to himself: no wonder the family dared let such a young legitimate-born young master travel abroad—turns out he’s got some hidden capability after all.

Having finished with She Wanlin, he moved on to strike Old Stinky—ah, this time it felt like striking dead pig hide with three strokes.

Feeling something odd about it all, the middle-aged man put away the five-colored vine whip and called out toward the wooden gate once more, “Please, come out!”

As soon as he spoke, two young boys emerged, carrying two bundles of mugwort tied with red cloth, and laid them along the path they’d walked in on—only then was the ritual complete.

The middle-aged man cleared his throat, handed the whip to Ping Jin, rolled down his sleeves, and then bowed to She Wanlin: “Ping Yan of Jin Dian’s Ningxin Bureau pays respects to Young Master Yi.”

Since legitimate-born young masters were destined to become future head managers overseeing an entire prefecture, he, coming from a marginal collateral branch, truly didn’t dare treat him lightly.

She Wanlin smiled, extending a courteous hand: “Uncle Yan, you’ve toiled so hard, guarding this tea plantation alone for twenty-five years. How could a green youth like me possibly accept such formal courtesy from you? I really mustn’t.”

Ping Yan looked up, and his originally dignified, imposing handsome face suddenly showed a touch of playfulness, adding with a bit of humor: “You absolutely must accept it. What toil, what hardship—I’m just here for the food, really. Besides, Young Master Yi may not realize this, but by seniority, I should actually call you uncle. My branch descends from the Second房’s line that was assigned to Small Ping Village—my generational rank is quite low.”

So that explained it—Ping Jin and Ping Duo, lively as grasshoppers, must have picked it up from this man.

Hearing this, She Wanlin was stunned—how would he know where Small Ping Village even was? He coughed awkwardly and said, “Well then, let’s not stand on ceremony after all.”

He glanced somewhat oddly at Ping Duo and Ping Jin—these two had been calling him “brother” the whole journey.

Ping Duo looked rather embarrassed, while Ping Jin just held the vine whip and stared up at the sky.

Not knowing quite what to do, Old Stinky cut in while tying his sash: “Oh come now, we’re not strangers here, practically home already—why all this fuss! Let’s head inside. This whole journey we haven’t had a single decent meal, our mouths have gone so bland we’re about to sprout mushrooms. Head manager, your family’s well-off—hurry up, bring out whatever good stuff you’ve got, these past two months have left the two of us starved for it…”

His interruption got everyone laughing, and Ping Yan then led the group into the tea plantation.

The Ping family’s tea plantation was really just a small stockaded village, home to at least fifty or sixty households. Back when the Ping family first came inland to trade, they hadn’t come alone—it had been an entire caravan opening up trade routes together.

Once these people settled in the area, the usual method for putting down roots was to intermarry with locals—marrying into local merchant families, landowning families, and even tribal chieftain households.

This had gone on for over a hundred years now, and with many children born across generations, a sizable community had gradually formed at the foot of Four Sisters Mountain.

These people remained Ping family by blood, but given the complicated local circumstances, their descendants didn’t necessarily work for the Ping family business—that, however, was a story for another time.

For today, suffice to say Old Stinky truly was starved, and it showed.

Manager Ping Yan led them to the largest residence within the plantation stockade.

Upon entering, the first courtyard was a large space for tea trading, quality inspection, and weighing.

Only upon going further in did they realize it was a series of square courtyards forming a three-tiered compound.

Compared to inland brick-and-stone courtyards, the buildings here were mostly solid timber construction—not intricately carved, but painted with gold and floral designs, quite grand and dignified all the same.

After weeks of plain fare aboard the boat, once Manager Ping laid out a feast of fat chicken and duck with the flavor of their ancestral homeland, the two of them put their heads down and ate heartily.

Throughout the meal, Manager Ping kept asking whether the food tasted like home.

Oh yes, indeed, indeed.

These were cooks sent over from their old hometown, whose flavors were the most authentic…

Ah, that explained it.

She Wanlin, no longer bothering with restraint, ate until his mouth was slick with oil and his belly round and full. Once satisfied and content, he relaxed and grew drowsy.

Ping Jin then led him to the east wing of the second courtyard, where he slept in a large rosewood bed draped with lotus-patterned curtains in lotus-root color, covered with a silver-red brocade quilt, his head on a hard pillow stuffed with luminous sand and dense flower centers.

Remote frontier town though Jin Dian was, the Ping family’s wealth showed itself in the smallest details—even the inner robe they brought him, while not cloud silk, was extremely fine lotus-thread satin.

After all the time on the boat, sleeping ashore proved to be a challenge—She Wanlin felt quite drowsy, yet tossed and turned unable to sleep. He didn’t know how many times he’d turned over before finally, as a light rain began pattering outside the window, he drifted off in a haze.

Some time later, he woke to loud laughter outside. Opening his eyes and pulling back the bed curtain, he saw through the half-open gauze window a misty drizzle, with Four Sisters Mountain shrouded in fog.

This place truly was beautiful.

Another burst of laughter came from the courtyard. She Wanlin sat up, slipped on his shoes, found the low table by the window, took a comb to straighten his hair, then threw a robe over his shoulders and, hair still loose, left the east wing.

Stepping into the courtyard, he found no fewer than twenty young men dressed as shop clerks sitting on the wooden floor under the eaves, while his Uncle Stinky and Manager Ping lounged against soft cushions, half-reclining as they regaled everyone with tall tales.

Ah, storytelling was indeed Old Stinky’s favorite pastime.

A child of seven or eight tended two charcoal braziers under the wooden pillars—one holding a small clay kettle, the other covered with an iron grate, on which sat seven or eight pieces of soft rice cake, one side already toasted golden-brown and looking quite appetizing.

Seeing She Wanlin emerge, the young clerks all rose together to greet him, addressing him as Young Master Yi.

She Wanlin quickly slipped his arms properly into his outer robe and returned their greetings.

Head Manager Ping Yan introduced them with a smile: “These are all children of Ping family blood here locally—I picked out the sharp ones to raise up. Get to know each other, they’re all good kids.”

Since this concerned matters of bloodline, She Wanlin glanced toward Old Stinky, who sat up with a laugh: “No need to trouble yourself over this—I’ve already given them their greeting gifts. Come try their local rice cakes, they’re genuinely delicious.”

“Alright,” She Wanlin agreed, and went to sit at the low table beside Old Stinky. Before long, the child brought over a clay plate with honey and three rice cakes.

She Wanlin asked Old Stinky, “What were you two laughing about just now?”

Old Stinky laughed heartily. “Ah, young master, do you know what Manager Ping’s younger brother is named? His brother’s called Ping Xi—hahaha.”

Still a bit groggy from sleep, She Wanlin blinked twice before it clicked—put together, that made “banquet” (宴席)!

No wonder Ping Yan had said he himself was “just here for the food” when they first met.

He laughed too.

Manager Ping personally poured tea for She Wanlin: “My family fell on hard times back then, and this branch, being rather useless, squandered what fortune we had. My father always felt nothing in this world beat a good banquet… Young Master Yi, do try our spring tea from the plantation—we’re a working tea farm here, none of those elaborate rituals from back home, just the natural, pure fragrance. Give it a try.”

She Wanlin nodded, lifted the teacup, first inhaled its scent, then took a small, gentle sip, closed his eyes for a long moment, and finally opened them with a smile: “Excellent tea.”

At once, the assembled crowd burst into laughter, and Ping Yan too stroked his beard with restrained satisfaction, nodding along.

In truth, it was nothing special at all!

The young prince had learned tea-brewing techniques from a tea master back home, but clever as the Chen family’s son was, he simply couldn’t distinguish fine tea aromas.

Those tea masters spun elaborate, mystifying theories, going on endlessly about proper technique—things like using water with no mineral source, or snow gathered from plum blossoms.

But his grandfather never cared for any of it, and he cared even less.

These things had surrounded him since birth, and after so long, he could no longer taste what made tea good—but he could tell what made it bad. He drank tea simply to quench his thirst, so he drank. As for tea gatherings and connoisseurship… ah, far too much effort.

Only the auntie across the way genuinely enjoyed tea, and liked to play the qin and zheng, occasionally writing poems too—though rather mediocre ones that no one could quite appreciate.

As his grandfather used to say, only those who lack something come to treasure it and study it deeply. They had no such idle time to spare, so they merely learned to put on airs.

With a mouthful of hot tea followed by soft, honeyed rice cake, She Wanlin finally felt he’d returned to the land of the living.

In good spirits, he asked Old Stinky, “What were you and the head manager discussing?”

Old Stinky laughed. “Us? Oh, just talking about last year’s business—even our lowest-grade loose tea settled over a hundred thousand guan with the Ministry of War, paid on delivery no less. Our family’s head office in Yandu, that’s really something!”

Old Stinky was referring to Ping Shen, and behind Ping Shen stood none other than Chen Dasheng as his patron.

Of course, few people knew of this connection. The local official in Ai City overseeing tea policy and monopoly purchasing had given the Ping family considerable trouble early on—until their official tea shipments leaving Jin Dian got seized, and the funds due from the Ministry of Revenue got held up.

The Ping family made it known: everyone has their own connections. All they wanted was to keep Four Sisters Mountain plantation, and from then on, the local tea authority officials were not to trouble them further.

The Tan family tested the waters a few times, couldn’t gauge how deep the Ping family’s backing ran, and accepted the loss.

She Wanlin, unaware of these underlying connections, suppressed his confusion and looked to Ping Yan—after all, he was here to learn.

Ping Yan smiled. “Young Master Yi, walk around a bit these next few days and you’ll understand. Our plantation doesn’t deal with the local tea merchants—their business is truly difficult. Several tea plantations delivered their goods the year before last, and still haven’t gotten their accounts settled.”

She Wanlin lowered his gaze to the rice cake, picked up a piece and ate it before saying, “The court issued the tea monopoly law precisely to avoid harming tea farmers—these funds are never supposed to be delayed year after year… Tell me, what is the old Tan family doing with all these withheld funds?”

He lifted his teacup, gazing toward Four Sisters Mountain, thinking—he really would have to go see for himself.