The villagers hurried over to see—it was people from another village, strangers. Their ox cart was piled high with sacks of stuff.
They'd heard of chemical fertilizer but never seen it.
Seeing the villagers gather around, one of the men pulled out an official document—just a piece of paper stamped with the government seal.
"I'm from Nanshan Village in Anping County. Earlier, I got some chemical fertilizer from the prefect to sell. This is the seal from the prefect. Where's your village chief?"
"Right here, old man."
"Take a look and confirm it."
Why all this fuss just to sell fertilizer?
Still, the village chief examined it: "It's the government seal."
The man carefully folded the document and put it away, then said: "I got this fertilizer straight from the prefect's factory. This document here proves it, so you can buy without worry. But if anyone else comes by later selling fertilizer, make sure you check—if they've got an official paper, then it's the real stuff from the prefect's factory. If they don't, it's probably fake, and I can't promise it'll do any good. Keep that in mind, everyone!"
Oh.
So that was the reason behind it.
Zhao Ger had thought of this afterward—because fertilizer could be made to look like all sorts of things, and common people wouldn't be able to tell the difference. If someone made fakes and sold them cheap, people might be tempted by the low price. If the fake stuff didn't work, that was one thing—but if it ruined their crops, they'd end up blaming them for it.
Now, anyone getting stock from their factory had to leave a fingerprint, so they couldn't pass off counterfeits. The factory didn't set the price—the sellers could decide for themselves, and the government wouldn't interfere. But when selling, they had to explain to the buyers how to store the fertilizer and when to apply it. That had to be made clear.
No big deal.
Just an extra sentence or two—nothing troublesome.
The fertilizer sellers weren't fools either. If they set the price too high, people would rather make the long trip themselves. But with a fair price, people were willing to buy.
Now that everyone heard the explanation, they felt at ease.
Earlier, they'd crowded around the cart just looking without buying, because they didn't know what chemical fertilizer was supposed to look like and were afraid of being cheated with some fake substitute. Now they had nothing to fear.
The seller gave a whole spiel about fertilizer, and once everyone understood, they asked: "So how much is it?"
"Two hundred and twenty copper coins," the man said.
The factory price was two hundred copper coins per sack.
Selling within Anping County cost only a few copper coins more. But this place was far from Anping, so the price was naturally higher—hauling it here was hard on both the ox and the men. It wasn't easy for anyone.
The villagers understood that. In the old days, they'd have balked at the price. A family with over a dozen mu would need three or four sacks—that was nearly a hundred extra copper coins.
But now they were willing to spend, because better days were ahead! By the end of the sixth lunar month, when the crops came in, they'd earn that money back.
Still, out of habit, they tried to haggle—but of course, the price wouldn't budge.
"Then I'll take three sacks. Young man, will you come again?" This was asked by someone from a poor household that couldn't scrape together more silver right then. They had several men at home, but one was old and the rest were half-grown boys. If the seller didn't come back, they'd be in trouble.
Now they were buying some, but worried he wouldn't return—they'd like to buy more, but didn't have the money.
"I'll come back," the man said. "I'll be back again when it's time for the second round of fertilizing."
"That's good."
If they had to hand over that much money all at once, nobody would be willing. Three or four sacks would nearly wipe out a family's entire savings.
But there were also those who couldn't even scrape together a few dozen copper coins. They stood on the sidelines, staring longingly, not daring to come near. Watching the others buy fertilizer, they were filled with envy. They wanted to buy too, but had no silver. Now that every household had bought some, they were the only ones who couldn't afford it, and could only wipe away tears.
A fellow villager saw the old man, his hair gray with age, and felt pity: "Brother, how about..." He was about to say, "How about I lend you two hundred copper coins?" when his wife coughed sharply beside him, and the words died in his throat.
How could he lend it?
He'd already bought these sacks of fertilizer, and he'd still need to get more for the second round later. If he lent out the little bit of money he had left, he wouldn't have enough for the next round.
Besides, the old man still hadn't paid back the last loan.
The other villagers let out sighs. It wasn't that they didn't sympathize—they just didn't have the means to help. With so little money to spare, they had to take care of their own families first.
The fertilizer seller, who had his orders, saw the situation and asked: "Do you have fields at home?"
The old man replied: "Yes."
"Then what's the trouble?"
The old man hung his head and said nothing. An old woman beside him spoke first: "His fulang hasn't been well—he's been on medicine for years."
The medicine wasn't cheap—several dozen copper coins for each dose, taken day in and day out. It had bled the family dry. In other households, they might have given up, but the old man was a good person, and so were his two sons. They just couldn't bear to give up on their dad. Every year after the autumn harvest, they sold grain to buy medicine for him. The eldest son often went into the mountains to forage for wild goods to help make ends meet, but two years ago he broke his leg in the mountains, and things went from bad to worse.
As long as they weren't lazy, that was what mattered.
The seller rummaged through his bundle and pulled out a stack of papers.
"The prefect's fulang is kind-hearted. These are loan agreements. Press your fingerprint here, take the fertilizer first, and pay it back after the first harvest, once you've sold your crops."
What?!
Everyone around gasped.
Could something like this really be possible?
That couldn't be right!
Wasn't this some kind of trick—a contract to sell yourself into servitude or something?
The village chief couldn't read, but the loan agreement had the government seal on it—it wasn't a trick.
"Brother, it's real. Hurry up and press your thumbprint."
The old man was almost moved to tears of joy.
The people around didn't quite know what to feel—only that the prefect's fulang was truly a good person, willing to think of poor villagers like them.
Earlier, they'd heard outsiders praise the new prefect, saying he was a good official who truly worked for the people. But it had never felt real—until now.
If he didn't have the common people in his heart, how could he have thought things through so thoroughly?
He could have just said: those who can afford it, buy; those who can't, get lost.
In the shops around town, even on the bitterest cold days—when people were shivering so hard their teeth chattered and all they wanted was a bit of cotton to sew a quilt for their elders and little ones—do you think the shopkeepers would take pity on them? When they heard the price and couldn't afford it, would the shopkeepers say, "How about a little less?" or "Here, take a loan agreement—pay me back when you've got the silver, just get these home and get through the winter first"? Not a chance. They'd chase them right out the door.
You can't blame anyone. That's just business.
But the prefect's fulang shouldn't have had to live like this...
The old man pressed his thumbprint onto the paper. The fertilizer seller asked how many sacks he needed, then marked three lines on the loan agreement and helped him unload the three sacks from the oxcart.
Just like that, it was done.
He could use chemical fertilizer too. The old man could hardly believe it. He dropped to his knees. "Thank you, little brother. Thank you, little brother."
The man understood how he felt. "If you're thanking anyone, thank Lord Fang and his fulang. When I first took stock, I had no silver either—but they let me take it first and pay later, just like this."
The old man beamed. "I thank them all! Thank them all! The prefect and his fulang are good people. This old man won't forget this kindness."
Scenes like this played out in nearly every village. This village was lucky—some villages were so poor they couldn't scrape together even a hundred copper coins.
As long as a man wasn't simply lazy, if hard times had fallen on him and he truly couldn't afford the fertilizer, he could take it with a promise to pay later.
What a good prefect! Thinking of us poor folk like this.
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