Standardization and vocational schools could solve the manpower problem.
Eventually.
But "eventually" was something written in reports, not something that helped when grain carts were stuck halfway up a slope and every forge was screaming for hands.
Right now, Gao Family Village didn't lack ideas.
It lacked people.
Li Daoxuan's gaze swept across the diorama.
The labor reform camps were important—very important. They could turn prisoners into productive citizens, one shaved head at a time. But even divine miracles had a cooldown. Reforging a man took time.
What Gao Family Village needed immediately were people who could be put to work the moment they finished eating.
Law-abiding citizens.
Feed them. House them. Hand them tools. Done.
The problem was that such people were rarer than bandits.
Just as Li Daoxuan was weighing this injustice of the universe, he noticed a man enter the main keep.
Plain cotton clothes. Thin frame. Sun-darkened skin. The sort of man who looked permanently apologetic for taking up space.
He walked up to San Shier, bowed properly, and offered a thick stack of manuscripts with both hands.
"Third Steward," he said carefully, "I… I drew a story. I was hoping you could see whether it's worth printing."
San Shier froze for a moment, then squinted.
"…Shi Piao?"
The man's shoulders loosened. "You remember me?"
"Of course I do," San Shier said. "People like you are hard to forget."
Li Daoxuan, watching from above, also remembered now.
Shi Piao.
Back when Flat Rabbit had just arrived in the village, this fellow had been knocked unconscious by five thieves on the road, his New Year's goods stolen clean. Flat Rabbit had personally dragged the culprits back, cursing the entire way.
Li Daoxuan had assumed Shi Piao later settled down as a blacksmith.
He clearly underestimated the man's ability to drift.
San Shier looked him over. "Shi Piao, let me be honest with you. One day you're learning blacksmithing, the next carpentry, then cooking. You change trades faster than refugees change bowls. This isn't versatility—this is professional panic."
Shi Piao scratched his head. "I know… I just can't seem to stick with anything. I try hard, but nothing really works out."
He hesitated, then added in a small voice, "A few days ago, I heard Gao Sanwa made a fortune drawing picture books. I thought… well, drawing doesn't need literacy, right?"
San Shier sighed, rubbing his temples. "Drawing pictures doesn't. But telling a story? That needs structure, pacing, tension, release. An illiterate man mastering that?"
He shook his head. "That's harder than climbing to the heavens."
Shi Piao hurriedly said, "I just drew everyday family things."
"…Fine."
San Shier surrendered. "Let me see."
He lowered his gaze to the cover.
"Gao Piao"
His eyelid twitched.
Up in the heavens, Li Daoxuan nearly laughed out loud.
Gao Piao.
Floating in Gao Family Village.
That was either tragic poetry or a deliberate stab.
San Shier looked up. "What does 'Gao Piao' mean?"
Shi Piao answered honestly, "It means drifting. Floating. Living without roots—in Gao Family Village."
San Shier closed his eyes.
"Just from the title," he said gravely, "I already feel this book will be… very bad."
"No!" Shi Piao panicked. "Please don't say that before reading it! I'll cry, I really will!"
San Shier sighed and opened the book.
The story followed a poor man named Shi Piao.
Unable to survive in his hometown, he wandered everywhere begging. One day, he heard of a place called Gao Family Village that took in refugees. With nothing to lose, he set off.
When he arrived, he was fed relief gruel—thin, but warm. He slept in a brightly painted refugee shack, eight people packed together like pickled vegetables.
He worked road construction. Lived in employee dormitories. Tried blacksmithing. Failed. Tried carpentry. Failed. Tried cooking. Failed.
Around him, friends flourished.
One became a blacksmith.
One a carpenter.
One joined the gunpowder workshop and suddenly had relatives he'd never met before.
Only Shi Piao remained… unremarkable.
Until one day, he found work as a whitewasher.
"I am a whitewasher," he declared proudly. "A master of my trade."
Life stabilized.
He earned wages. Moved into a larger house. Married a wife. Had a daughter.
The end.
San Shier closed the book.
"…Pfft."
He laughed helplessly. "This is painfully ordinary. No climax, no twist, no drama. It reads like a ledger. I can't print this."
Shi Piao blinked. "Huh?"
Li Daoxuan leaned closer.
Interesting.
The story lacked fireworks—but it had something rarer.
Details.
Relief gruel.
Refugee huts.
Dormitories.
Skill training.
Train rides to work.
Rice noodles after labor.
Street plays.
Buying candy with hard-earned wages.
It wasn't fantasy.
It was a map of Gao Family Village—seen through the eyes of a man who failed at almost everything, yet stayed.
Li Daoxuan smiled.
This book might not sell. It might even lose money.
But if it worked…
It would be the best recruitment poster Gao Family Village could ever have.
He turned his gaze toward the watchtower.
"Yiye," he called. "Stop staring into space. Time to work."
Gao Yiye, bored out of her mind, instantly brightened and jumped onto the balcony.
"Dao Xuan Tianzun! You need me?" she asked happily. "I thought once your incarnation descended, you wouldn't need me anymore."
The last sentence came out softer than intended.
Li Daoxuan smiled. "I didn't descend to play. I'm very busy."
"Busy eating hand-torn ribs?" she asked sweetly.
"…Focus."
"Yes!"
"Go tell San Shier this: the village treasury will not fund Gao Piao. Instead, you—as Saintess—will personally fund its printing. Profits and losses are yours alone."
Gao Yiye nodded without hesitation. "Understood."
As she turned to leave, Li Daoxuan added calmly:
"Sometimes, the most ordinary stories bring the most people."
She paused.
Then smiled.