Someone was so shaken their voice trembled. "With fertilizer, one mu really yields four dan? Then how are they selling it? You live in the same village as Lord Fang—do you know?"
"My father-in-law went to ask. He said a bag might cost about two hundred copper coins," Wang Ger said. "Lord Fang said when he sells it, it'll be by the bag—one hundred jin per bag, enough for three mu of land."
At the mention of two hundred copper coins, everyone's first thought was that it was expensive. But when they did the math—in their village, most families had eight or nine mu of paddy fields. That meant buying three bags, for six hundred wen.
But with fertilizer, each mu of land would yield an extra three hundred jin of grain. How much silver could three hundred jin of grain sell for?
Almost two taels of silver! For their own eight mu, that was over seventeen taels. A measly few hundred copper coins? That was nothing.
Everyone calculated for a long time, even using their toes to count, before they finally got the numbers. And they all agreed—it was absolutely worth it.
The same scene was playing out in several neighboring villages at the same time.
Some people, after hearing the news, insisted on coming to see for themselves. They were afraid Pingxiang Village might be another Daoxiang Village—too good at spinning tales. They asked around the village, then went out to the fields. The crops had already been harvested, so verifying it seemed too late—but the rice straw was still lying in the fields, and the panicles were still there, covered in dense little spikelets. One look was all it took.
They grabbed a handful and took it back. When their fellow villagers saw it, no one said another word.
The evidence was undeniable. Next year, if they could use chemical fertilizer too, they'd be just like Fang Fulang—four hundred jin from eight fen of land. With eight mu, that was seventeen or eighteen taels. Two crops a year, and that came to... over thirty taels?
In one year, they'd earn what might have taken a lifetime to save—over thirty taels!
Recruitment was done, and the cement factory was about to break ground. But on the first day of construction, several hundred people showed up—a dark, sprawling crowd, each carrying a hoe. The sight was staggering. The recruitment had only called for a hundred-odd workers—so where did all these people come from?
When asked, they said: they'd volunteered to work for free.
The soldiers reported back. Fang Zichen was delighted. Since they were offering, he would respect the people's wishes—he wouldn't force them to take pay. He was a good official, after all.
That wage bill—several dozen taels—would now go straight into his pocket, without even needing to invent some excuse about "rewarding" his son.
Zhao Ger watched him smiling all day long. He took the two children into town, bought two big pork trotters, and had Gungun and Dandan carry them back, saying they'd stew them for dinner.
Uncle Tang had grown quite relaxed these days. His favorite pastime was taking his sewing basket to sit under the banyan tree at the village entrance, where the biggest gossips of the village gathered.
Before, Uncle Tang hadn't come so often, because everyone would end up sighing and complaining—how pork in town had gotten more expensive, how coarse rice prices had gone up, while grain prices hadn't budged. How were they supposed to live? There was no hope.
Or they'd fret about their grown sons—already twenty and still unmarried. Two years ago, they'd sent a matchmaker to Anping Village to arrange one, and the girl's family had agreed, but they wanted two taels of silver, half a pig, and fifty jin of rice. Altogether, that came to three taels. The family didn't have that kind of money, so it fell through.
A good daughter was courted by a hundred families—matchmakers came knocking, and it all came down to the betrothal gifts. Whoever offered more, they'd inquire about the family, and if all was well, the match was made. No one would say, "You don't have silver? Well, when can you scrape it together? We'll have our daughter wait for you."
It was usually a case of "now or never."
These were the worries that filled the village. Uncle Tang had heard so much of this "downhearted" talk that it weighed on him heavily. But lately, no one talked like that anymore. Instead, they talked about planting next year, and the year after that—what they'd do once they'd earned some silver. Build two more rooms so the house would feel more spacious. "My little ger is three now—he's always worn his sister's old clothes. This year I want to buy some cloth and make him a proper outfit. Brother Tang, do you know which fabrics are good?"
Everyone's faces were lit with smiles, their eyes full of hope.
In the old days, after the autumn harvest, when they'd sold their grain and gotten some silver, they wouldn't dare spend it—because there was so little of it. They had to pinch every copper, save every coin. What if there was a sudden emergency, or the taxes went up again? How would they cope?
Now, everything was different. There was something to look forward to.
Uncle Tang loved listening to them talk like this—full of hope, carefully planning their futures. He stayed out all day long. After hearing so much praise for Fang Zichen, he'd come home and look at the man with such doting, tender eyes—like he was gazing at a beloved simpleton—that Fang Zichen couldn't help but shiver.
Zhao Ger just let it be. After all, Uncle Tang had taken good care of them all this time, working diligently. And he only went out when the housework was done—Zhao Ger could manage the chores himself.
After burning the hair off the pig trotters over the fire and scraping them clean, Zhao Ger called Fang Zichen in to chop them up.
The leg bones were tough—if Zhao Ger did it himself, it'd take a lot of effort. But Fang Zichen was strong; one chop with the cleaver and it was done.
Zhao Ger went to the Wang family to buy some soybeans, planning to braise them with the trotters. He asked for a jin.
Old Madam Wang smiled warmly and asked, "Craving them, are you?"
"No, my husband bought pork trotters today," Zhao Ger said.
Understanding immediately, Old Madam Wang scooped out a big bowlful and handed it to him. Zhao Ger said it was too much—he only wanted one jin. "Please weigh it out for me, Auntie."
"Don't be silly!" Old Madam Wang pressed it into his hands. "A bowl of soybeans—how much could it possibly cost? Just take it as a little gift from this old woman. Don't you go turning your nose up at it."
Zhao Ger knew it was because of the chemical fertilizer. Refusing would be acting high and mighty, so he accepted.
That's how villagers were—when someone treated them well, they never forgot it. A bowl of soybeans, a handful of vegetables, a basket of corn—these were all tokens of gratitude.
The soybeans had to be soaked first, or they wouldn't cook through.
They stewed from noon until evening, until the trotters were fall-apart tender.
When they sat down to eat, Zhao Ger gave Gungun and Dandan each a piece. Their smiles were like little mice—all that could be seen were their two front teeth peeking out. But the trotters were so soft, even their gums could manage.
Afraid they'd fall off their chairs, Xiao Feng always tied them to their seats with cloth strips looped under their arms at every meal.
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