Song Yingxing slurped up a bowl of hot rice noodles and instantly felt refreshed. After eating nothing but dry rations and coarse northern food all the way here, finally tasting a bowl of southern-style rice noodles in Gaojia Village almost moved him to tears.
(Trivia: Rice noodles — mǐfěn — are a classic comfort food for southerners in China. In Jiangxi, Hunan, and Guangxi, each region has its own version. For someone like Song Yingxing, a Jiangxi native, this wasn't just food — it was nostalgia.)
Just then, a mother and son walked in — it was Gao Sanniang and her boy, Gao Sanwa. They sat down beside Song and ordered two bowls.
Shopkeeper Gao Laba personally served the noodles, then sat down next to the boy.
"Sanwa, perfect timing," he said. "Help your Uncle Laba tally up the last three days' accounts, would you?"
"Sure thing!" the kid grinned.
Gao Laba handed over his ledger — a chaotic masterpiece of doodles. One circle meant one bowl sold, an oval meant rice bought, and a few lines meant a handful of chopsticks purchased.
Song Yingxing took one look and nearly spat out his soup.
How can anyone make sense of this?!
But the boy calmly picked up a pen and began writing out neat columns of numbers and strange symbols. A few calculations later, he announced,
"Uncle Laba, in the last few days you spent 1,532 coins and earned 3,232. That's a profit of 1,700 coins."
Song Yingxing: "...!!"
He peeked at the paper and couldn't understand a single symbol.
Yesterday a kid wowed me with physics; today another one's showing off math. This Gaojia Village is giving me a serious headache!
The next morning, Song was jolted awake by a deep rumbling sound — "Woooo! Kuang-chi! Kuang-chi!"
He climbed off the plastic bed**, stretched, and looked out the window. A massive, colorful vehicle was rolling past the guesthouse, shaking the ground as it went.
His two servants ran over, faces pale.
"Master! Some kind of monster cart just drove by making strange noises!"
Song waved them down. "Calm yourselves. It's probably one of Gaojia Village's special machines. We'll study it later — there's always a principle behind every mechanism."
Only then did the two manage to steady their nerves.
Song muttered, "Today I must visit the school and ask for a few books. But what should I bring as a gift?"
One servant said, "We've spent almost all our travel funds, sir. There's nothing proper left to offer."
Song frowned in thought.
Coming downstairs, he decided to ask someone for directions to the school. Just beside the inn was a cloth shop, so he stepped inside — and to his surprise, the shopkeeper was a young woman.
She wasn't exactly stunning, but she had a calm, elegant grace — clearly educated, yet without the shy reserve of noble ladies. Seeing Song, she greeted him with an open, confident smile.
"Good day, sir. We have fine cotton cloth, ready-made garments, or we can tailor something to fit you — and the prices are very fair."
Song blinked. Why does she give me the vibe of a courtesan?
He wasn't far off. This was Chunhong — one of the four courtesans that Dao Xuan Tianzun had "rescued and repurposed" — now running the village cloth shop on Gao Yiye's orders.
This shop was jointly run by the women of the village. Under Chunhong's management, business boomed — the books were clear, and everything ran smoothly. The women earned more, gained financial independence, and their voices at home grew stronger.
"I'm sorry," Song said politely. "I'm not here to buy clothes — I just wanted to ask how to get to the school."
Chunhong smiled. "Ah, the school? Head that way — you'll see a five-story white building, bright and neat. That's the one."
"Thank you, miss."
Just as he turned to leave, another woman entered the shop — Gao Sanniang again — followed by two workers carrying a broken weaving machine.
"Shopkeeper Chun," she called, "disaster! My loom's broken. I brought it here to see if anyone can fix it."
Chunhong nodded. "That's easy. I'll contact the craft well and find a carpenter."
Before she could finish, Song Yingxing darted over to the loom, examining it closely.
"This design is outdated," he said. "No point fixing it. Madam, you don't look short on money — why not build a new one?"
Gao Sanniang blinked. "A new one?"
"Of course. This loom's efficiency is poor. In Jiangnan, we've already moved past this model. Here — I'll draw you a new design."
He immediately pulled out paper and began sketching, his brush flying.
Both women stared in amazement. Who is this man? Drawing looms from memory like it's nothing? Is he bluffing?
But Song wasn't bluffing — he was simply that good.
Within minutes, the latest Jiangnan-style loom appeared vividly on paper, complete with hand-written annotations.
Blowing the ink dry, he handed the sheet to Gao Sanniang.
"Show this to your carpenter. If there's anything unclear, tell him to come ask me. Once it's built, I can teach you how to use it."
Gao Sanniang accepted the paper blankly. Who on earth IS this person? Should I even believe him?
Song, meanwhile, finally felt confident. Earlier he hadn't known what to give the school as a meeting gift — now he knew.
I'll offer them the knowledge in my own head.
Trade what I already know for what I don't — that's a fair exchange.
With that thought, he straightened his back, full of energy.
"School," he said with a grin. "Here I come."
(Trivia: In Ming-era etiquette, presenting a "meeting gift" — jiànmiànlǐ — was an important show of respect. Scholars often offered books, essays, or crafted objects instead of money — symbolic of sharing intellect over wealth.)