Li Daoxuan set down his tiny stool, lifted the takeout dry-pot chicken giblets (his divine cultivation diet was basically "whatever the food app delivered today"), and ate while watching the craftsmen print the very first batch of books.
They started by preparing a wooden frame the size of a book page.
Then they pushed in the reversed, carved type blocks—one by one—until the whole frame was packed tight with characters.
Next came the ink: brushed evenly across the raised characters.
Finally—pa!—a sheet of paper was slapped on top.
Peel it off…
A printed page.
Wang Xiucai shot forward like an arrow, snatched the sheet with both hands, ignoring the wet ink entirely.
"It's printed! Finally printed! The first page of 'Hanyu Pinyin'! Wonderful! Hurry—print, print—finish the whole heavenly tome!"
The two printing craftsmen—recently "invited" from the county town—wore identical Why is my new boss insane? expressions. But since the new boss paid well, insanity was not their concern.
"Master, how many copies of this page do you require?"
The number of copies determined the total print run.
Wang Xiucai said, "Let's start with fifty—"
But Shansier cut in: "Dao Xuan Tianzun commanded: first batch, one thousand copies."
"What?!"
Wang Xiucai nearly jumped out of his shoes. He hurriedly bowed toward the sky.
"Tianzun, the study hall barely has twenty students. Fifty copies is more than enough. One thousand seems… excessive…"
Li Daoxuan spoke:
"After printing a page, you break down the type and rearrange it for the next page, correct?"
When this was relayed, the craftsmen quickly confirmed:
"Yes, we have limited blocks. After printing page one, we must dismantle it and assemble page two."
Li Daoxuan said, "And if you ever want to reprint page one later… you'd have to rebuild it from scratch. That's annoying. So print one thousand now. Saves us the trouble."
The craftsmen didn't know who this mysterious Tianzun was, but they understood one thing clearly: this divine employer liked doing things big.
They whispered, "If we print a thousand and they're unused… the master loses money."
Wang Xiucai overheard and laughed.
"You two know how to save money for us? Don't worry. When Tianzun orders something, cost is irrelevant. If he said ten thousand copies, we would print ten thousand."
Craftsmen: "???"
Before they could process that, Shansier delivered the next blow:
"Tianzun commands: assign ten penal laborers to assist the papermakers. As for ink—Tianzun grants divine ink."
Everyone bowed.
Except the two new craftsmen, who just stared in existential confusion.
A carving craftsman ran outside and placed down a wooden tub so big it could bathe an ox.
Then—thud-thud-thud—black droplets larger than fists fell from the sky, filling the tub with shimmering, fragrant ink.
Shansier clapped his hands.
"Well then! Begin printing! One thousand copies!"
The craftsmen sighed inwardly.
Well… we print.
They collected their "artisan-grade base salary"—far richer than anything they'd ever seen—and got to work.
Page one: printed a thousand times.
Disassemble.
Reassemble.
Page two.
A thousand times.
Repeat.
For many days, until every inner page was complete.
Next they dyed thick paper blue, cut the covers, sewed them with thread.
And thus—shining and new—one thousand copies of "Hanyu Pinyin" were complete.
Wang Xiucai lifted a brand-new volume, bursting with pride. He couldn't resist reciting poetry:
"An old rustic speaks of heavenly books descending, red clouds once bore the jade tower."
Of course, not his own poem—but he delivered it with gusto.
"Hahaha! Bring the children—each one gets a copy! Wonderful!"
Li Daoxuan, amused, reached into the box and held his palm before Shansier.
"One Leaf—place a book in my hand."
Shansier obeyed, carefully setting a tiny book on his fingertip. She accidentally brushed her hand against his giant fingers; her cheeks flushed.
Ah… touched Tianzun's hand again.
Remembering her previous "Lady Li" disguise, she nearly died of embarrassment.
Li Daoxuan lifted his hand.
The book on his fingertip was… a few millimeters tall.
He didn't dare pinch it—one wrong move and he'd crumple half the book.
So he lowered his finger to the table, tilted it, and let the book slide gently down.
Left hand: magnifying glass.
Right hand: miniature tweezers.
He picked the cover carefully and opened—
Under the magnifier, the rows of pinyin looked absolutely ridiculous.
"This thing is absurd," he laughed. "Let's try selling it."
He snapped photos:
him flipping tiny pages with tweezers, extreme close-ups of the micro-book, edited them, uploaded them to Taobao.
Caption:
"Exquisite micro-craft. 1:200 scale Hanyu Pinyin manual. A tiny book you can actually read."
Price?
888888.
Because why not. More eights = more fun.
Finished trolling the world, he looked back at the box.
Shansier was distributing rewards—heavy ones. He knew Tianzun's habits: once a craftsman finished something, the reward must be generous.
Very generous.
He wagged his head proudly:
"Papermaker Luo Tuimao, for merit in bookmaking: rewarded fifty jin of pork, ten jin of sugar, two jin of salt."
Luo Tuimao practically wept.
"Thank you, Tianzun!"
"The engraving craftsmen and printing craftsmen receive the same reward."
The two newly abducted printers almost fainted.
Fifty jin of pork was already terrifying.
But sugar—ten jin of sugar!—and two jin of salt?
In the late Ming, this was basically a lifetime's welfare package.
"For the first time," one whispered, "being a craftsman actually feels… good."
"Good? I can pay off years of artisan tax with this!"
"In this place… being a craftsman seems promising."
"Hope Tianzun gives us more work…"
Li Daoxuan chuckled.
Oh, I'll give you work. Plenty.
He unlocked his phone—full of prepared elementary school textbooks, especially math.
Time to begin the next phase.
Footnotes
Sugar and salt as rewards: In Ming rural life, these were luxury items. A few jin could equal months of income for craftsmen.
Movable-type assembly: Historically accurate: rearranging type for each page was the time-consuming bottleneck. Large print runs were done early to avoid rebuilding type later.
Micro-books: Miniature printed objects existed in Europe much later; here it's used as a comedic "modern internet craft" gag.
Penal laborers: A common labor pool in late Ming; using them for papermaking reflects both practicality and the era's bleak social conditions.