The villagers remembered going to town before to work for the big officials—heavy labor, sweat dripping, the stench of hard work clinging to them, clothes filthy. At night, when they went to collect their wages, if they happened to cross paths with the young masters and ladies in the corridors, those nobles would pinch their noses and shout about how foul the workers smelled before running off.
As if doing manual labor made them filthy creatures.
But now Guaizai worked right alongside them, doing the same tasks. The villagers couldn't quite put words to the feeling, but somehow their reluctance began to fade.