These days, as soon as the village children got dressed in the morning, they'd bolt out the door like their pants were on fire, desperate to go play. Guaizai's bicycle and wobble cars were just too much fun. They'd heard that the Prefect had made them especially for Guaizai, Gungun and Dandan, and they were so envious. At noon, they'd rather starve than go home. Day after day, rain or shine, they played by the paper mill, and their laughter could be heard from far, far away.
The women and fulangs had to bring meals over at midday, but they didn't mind—the children were clearly having a great time. And besides, it wasn't all play. During breaks, Liuliu and Guaizai would teach them how to read and write characters.
Now all the village children could write several characters. Of course the parents were delighted.
Zhao Ger would drop by occasionally to check on things. He felt these little rascals were like wild monkeys—all loud-mouthed, running around like crazy, screaming and hollering about who knows what. At least they were playing out here, though. If they were in the village, some of the elderly wouldn't be able to nap in the afternoon. Still, being outside the village had its own risks—he worried about strangers showing up, throwing a sack over someone's head, and making off with a child. So Zhao Ger specifically told the two Imperial Guards at the paper mill gate to keep an extra eye out.
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Lao Wang had set out late last night with his two sons, carrying an oil lamp and pulling a flatbed cart toward Pingxiang Village. If they'd had an ox, the haul would have been light work. But with men pulling it, it was a real struggle—especially uphill. Now the eldest son was in front, while Lao Wang and the second son pushed from the sides. The cart was piled high with several sacks of sweet potatoes—heavy as anything—and the three of them had been at it for most of the day, utterly exhausted.
They were panting heavily, their faces slick with sweat. The eldest son's shoulders were rubbed raw and red where the hemp ropes cut into them—in some spots, the skin had even broken.
Lao Wang hunched his back and strained with all his might, but the cart still seemed to drag him backward with every step. Suddenly, the cart felt lighter, as if someone had given it a push from behind.
Lao Wang and his second son felt it too. They looked back and saw a small child helping to push. The child was tiny, but surprisingly strong—the cart's wheels started turning along smoothly with a rumble.
"Thank you, little one," Lao Wangtou said, secretly impressed.
The child looked up at him and recognized him. "Grandpa Wang, it—it's Guaizai!"
Zhao Ger had been strict lately about Guaizai's pronunciation—if he didn't speak properly, no chicken for him—so Guaizai was a little scared to slip up.
But most village kids talked the same way, their speech thick with local accents.
"Huh?" Lao Wang and his second son almost didn't recognize him—his voice was so soft and lilting, nothing like the local children's.
Guaizai helped push the cart onto flat ground, then trotted back and pedaled hard on his bicycle to catch up.
"Grandpa Wang, are you here to see Guaizai's father?"
Lao Wang grunted in reply.
Guaizai could see they were pretty worn out. He pointed to an open space nearby and said, "Why don't you rest a while? Guaizai will go get a few uncles to help you."
With that, he shot off like an arrow.
Lao Wang and his two sons had never seen a bicycle before. Seeing it carry a person and move so fast without an ox pulling it, they were amazed, their mouths hanging open.
They really were tired, so they sat down by the roadside.
"Young Master Guaizai is truly a good kid," the second son said suddenly.
Indeed he was.
Just now, Guaizai had been behind them and hadn't recognized them. But when he saw them struggling with the cart, he came over to help. With other kids, who could say if they'd do the same?
He was from a great family, yet had not a trace of arrogance. He treated everyone with respect, even calling them "grandpa" and "uncle." Would any other young master do that?
No—because they'd think it lowered their status.
Some with proud temperaments would even just bark at elders, "Get out of my way, old man."
This was the true meaning of education.
First learn to be a person, then learn scholarship.
Two soldiers soon came running over, while Guaizai followed behind on his little bicycle, bringing water with him.
After Lao Wang drank some water, he reached out with his rough, bark-like hands and patted him. "Young Master, what happened to your face?"
Guaizai touched his face and said with lingering fear, "I got stung by wasps."
"Oh my, Young Master, how could you be so careless? Does it still hurt?"
Guaizai shook his big head. "It doesn't hurt anymore."
Lao Wang had come to deliver sweet potatoes, entrusted by the whole village.
Zhao Ger took a look. "The sweet potatoes are bigger now—about four or five taels (200-250 grams) each. Much better than the egg-sized ones from before," he said.
Lao Wang laughed. "You're being modest, Fang Fulang. It's not just 'better'—it's a whole lot better! We've been growing sweet potatoes for decades, and no year have they ever been this big! All thanks to you and the lord."
Zhao Ger wouldn't take the credit—he hadn't done much.
Fang Zichen looked thoughtfully at the bags of sweet potatoes.
Sweet potatoes weren't exactly easy to sell. He'd once had a stir-fried sweet potato leaf dish at a farm, but he didn't know if sweet potatoes could be used for cooking in other ways, nor had he heard of such things. All he knew was that they could be roasted or boiled.
But people ate rice with every meal—who ate sweet potatoes every day?
They'd be hard to sell.
If villages like Anhe Village stopped planting sweet potatoes and switched to grain crops instead...
That could work too. The Huang family in Hezhou specialized in buying grain from villagers at low prices and selling it at high prices to places like Qinzhou.
With chemical fertilizer, future grain yields would likely be even higher. In Yuanzhou, a catty of rice cost twelve copper coins; in Fu'an Town, it was nine. The Huang family was only offering four coins per catty now. With more supply than demand, prices would probably drop even further.
Fang Zichen pinched the bridge of his nose and asked, "Come spring next year, do you want to plant rice or keep planting sweet potatoes?"
Rice, of course.
Rice was expensive and sold well.
Sweet potatoes didn't sell well—not many people ate them, and they'd always been hard to move.
Being able to plant rice was a dream passed down for generations.
Lao Wang didn't know why he was asking, but he answered honestly: "We want to plant rice."
Word about the fertilizer had spread. Every village now wanted to turn their land into paddy fields, because paddies needed water retention, which meant they had to build ridges to hold water. They'd all been planting sweet potatoes before, and some plots didn't even have ridges—only narrow footpaths. Though some villagers did call those footpaths "ridges" too.
Everyone was itching for spring to come so they could plant rice as soon as possible. Once planted, they'd harvest in the sixth month and make a good sum of money. The whole village was overjoyed, working with inexhaustible energy.
They'd already made one delivery before, and now they'd come again—from dozens of li away, probably setting out in the dead of night, pulling handcarts the whole way. Who knew how hard that was? Fang Zichen had told them last time not to bring any more, but they still came—the villagers were just that honest and sincere.
Lao Wang left.
Right after he walked out, the villagers from Xiaxing Village arrived.
Also delivering sweet potatoes.
Now several big bags sat piled up in the house.
Only now did the Liu family realize that the news they'd heard on the road was incomplete. Fang Zichen had also blasted mountains to divert water and gone south to suppress bandits. In his year in Hezhou, he hadn't just built cement roads.
The Liu family had also heard the villagers talking about chemical fertilizer and were quietly amazed. They felt they'd made the right choice coming here. With Fang Zichen's skills, if Liuliu could learn even a fraction of it, he'd be set for life.
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