Chapter 16

Before the spring-onion noodles arrived, he had already finished the four pan-fried buns, and then, under the astonished gaze of the person across from him, he devoured a large bowl of plain noodles, soup and all.

It had been too long since he'd tasted pure wheat noodles, and he could still taste the fragrance in his mouth.

His stomach, for once, cooperated and didn't throw up—perhaps it also thought this meal was better than the garbage he usually cooked that even pigs wouldn't eat.

Chen Jue, with his belly full, continued walking through the snack street, noting the locations of the rice, flour, and oil shops along the way.

He didn't buy anything yet—there were still places to visit, and he'd carry the heavy stuff on his way back.

Chen Jue wandered toward North Street with a candied hawthorn skewer in one hand and a sugar figurine in the other. North Street had not just the yamen but also the blacksmith forges.

In this era, iron goods were controlled by the imperial court.

Commoners could own swords, knives, and farm tools, but they were pricey.

At a well-stocked blacksmith shop, Chen Jue found what he wanted: refined steel.

The technology for pure steel smelting had three methods in ancient times, with the purest quality first appearing in the Song Dynasty.

As Shen Kuo of the Song Dynasty recorded: "Each time it is forged, it is weighed; when repeated forging no longer reduces the weight, it is pure steel."

Thank goodness this ancient world was a lot like the Song Dynasty, and in the mid-to-late Song period, such refined steel tools existed.

He showed the blacksmith shopkeeper the designs he'd drawn with charcoal on linen cloth: scalpels, hemostatic forceps, and suturing forceps—four scalpels, from sizes 1 to 14, he'd chosen the four he used most often.

The burly man, who had just set down his sledgehammer and was bare-chested, wiped sweat with the towel draped around his neck and looked at Chen Jue: "What are these things you want made? You sure they're this small?"

His hands, as big as cattail-leaf fans, seemed too clumsy for such fine work. Chen Jue had his doubts about the man's craftsmanship too—but if he hadn't seen the delicate knives, forks, and scissors for nobles hanging on the wall, he wouldn't have come in.

Chen Jue confirmed again: "Yes, I want a set of finely crafted tools, and I need this size. Can you make them?"

The man studied Chen Jue's drawings once more, then looked at him: "I can do it, but this is the first time I've made something like this, and it's rare. You'll need to put down a deposit. Come back in seven days."

Paying a deposit was no problem. Chen Jue haggled with him, and it almost fell through because he used modern bargaining tactics.

The blacksmith said: "These tools of yours may look small, but they take real work—harder than a machete. This set of six small pieces comes to ten taels of silver."

Chen Jue had just checked out his other stuff: a hoe was only eight hundred wen, a sickle five hundred, a kitchen knife nine hundred.

His tools were a bit tricky—harder than a kitchen knife, yeah—but they were also several sizes smaller. So Chen Jue said: "Five taels."

That was how Director Zhou haggled when he took him shopping.

The big man froze: "How much?!"

Chen Jue repeated: "Five taels."

The man waved him off: "Then get going. I can't take this job."

Chen Jue waited outside his door for a bit, saw he really wouldn't budge, and finally had to give in, settling at nine taels and six hundred wen. Half of the herbs he'd bought today was spent.

Chen Jue felt a twinge of reluctance as he paid the five-tael deposit. It made him urge the blacksmith again: "Please."

The blacksmith grinned, showing a row of white teeth: "Come pick it up in seven days. Don't think it's expensive—my forge makes fine things, and my old lady makes exquisite small pieces."

Chen Jue let out an "oh." That explained it—he'd figured those big fan-like hands couldn't carve delicate blood grooves.

With that, he was at ease.

After taking care of the most important thing, he headed to the county yamen, finally able to leisurely nibble on his candied hawthorn.

Though he couldn't get into the yamen, he found the place where notices were posted.

As a modern person, not having a phone to scroll through news felt like running around naked—totally insecure.

Outside the yamen, he ran into Zhou Shuyao again.

Chen Jue eavesdropped—Zhou Shuyao was at the notice board asking about corvée duty, and other villagers around him were all asking the same thing. None of the folks from their village had come back either.

"There are still over a hundred from our village who haven't come back! Officer, please ask the Magistrate what's going on. In past years, corvée only lasted a month—it never held up the harvest. And wheat harvest is right around the corner..."

The corvée clerk, clearly fed up with the crowd's pushing, said irritably: "What's the rush! Just wait—they'll be back sooner or later. Those who don't come back..."

He got an elbow from the yamen runner next to him, and as if suddenly remembering something, he just barely shut up.

He switched his expression and said with a smile: "I'll read it for you. The official notice about the February corvée came out today—it's right here, right? Those serving will come back in batches by the end of the month. It won't mess up your summer harvest, so don't worry. Now, go on, scatter—don't all crowd around here..."

Chen Jue stood at the edge, and after the people who'd gotten the news drifted off in twos and threes, he stepped up to look. Zhou Shuyao looked at him, startled: "Why are you here? Ah, you... are you also wondering why Huo Lin hasn't come home yet?"

Since he'd come up with a reason for him, Chen Jue just nodded.

Zhou Shuyao's face looked pretty weird.

Chen Jue figured he might already know something.

The villagers didn't know the inside scoop on corvée, but Village Head Zhou definitely did—because he'd spent silver to get his eldest son out of service.

Zhou Shuyao probably knew very well that those who'd gone to serve and never come back were probably doomed.

That's why he looked at him so weirdly. All the looking after him along the way made sense now—probably out of pity, or to comfort the family of a fallen man for his village-head dad.

Chen Jue had no intention of asking his dad for anything. He just walked along one side, reading carefully.

Because Dongling County was small and had few legal cases, all kinds of old notices, big and small, were pasted on the wall outside the yamen.

Chen Jue read through them all from top to bottom.

Besides the notices about corvée and rent, he also saw the one about the February corvée service.

Corvée started in the second lunar month and lasted at most a month—but Zhou Qingshan wasn't sent home until the end of March, and only because his leg was broken.

The other villagers came back gradually after him, clearly having been scattered, and no one knew why the rest hadn't returned.

They thought that if they got into the yamen, they could see the magistrate and ask when the corvée workers would come back.

But unfortunately, like Zhou Shuyao, they could only wait by this wall outside the yamen for news. Most of them were illiterate, waiting for the yamen runners to read it out.

Chen Jue knew some traditional characters, and these simple notices he could read by guessing and piecing together.

The yamen runner surprisingly hadn't hidden anything—the notice said those serving corvée would indeed return to their villages by the end of this month.

Zhou Shuyao rubbed his hands, looking at him suspiciously: "You know how to read?"

Chen Jue finished the last candied hawthorn, spat out the seed, and nodded at him: "Just a few. My dad would teach me a few when he was filling prescriptions."

He'd said this line so many times it just rolled off his tongue.

Zhou Shuyao's face turned awkward. What had he been doing earlier, begging the local clerk to read the notices to him?

How come he'd never realized Chen Jue knew so much?

But then again, it made sense—Chen Jue rarely spoke before, and when Huo Lin was still around, others rarely had much to do with their family either.

After all, Huo Lin's family came from a line of criminals, so it was best to keep their distance. Now they were just waiting for news of Huo Lin. If he... *died*...

Zhou Shuyao took a deep breath, suppressing that dark thought.

He smiled at Chen Jue and said, "That's really good. Being able to read a bit is great. I know a few too—I went to a village school for a few years as a kid, but I quit later, haha, and forgot most of it..."

Chen Jue couldn't tell if he was being modest or just buttering him up, so he gave a faint nod in response. He had no intention of getting involved with the village head's son. He didn't plan to stay in Pingshan Village for long.

If the war ended and things settled down out there, he planned to slowly work his way out of Pingshan Village and toward the capital.

Chen Jue read through every single notice carefully.

He skimmed the old ones too, but unfortunately there was hardly anything about the war. Even the last forced labor had been disguised as a levy—a bait-and-switch—clearly the court didn't want the war to become common knowledge, probably to avoid causing panic.

The newest notice was about the spring wheat tax, while the one about forced labor was tucked away in a corner. It was clear the authorities just wanted to collect grain.

Chen Jue couldn't say for sure whether the grain collection had anything to do with the war. Collecting spring wheat seemed to happen every year.

He'd just have to take it one step at a time and wait for the villagers to come back to ask them.

"Let's go? Done reading?" Zhou Shuyao hadn't left yet, so Chen Jue went back with him.

With an extra person to help carry things, Chen Jue bought some grain—wheat flour, coarse cornmeal, and the like—but not too much. The new wheat was about to be harvested, and he wanted to wait for the fresh grain.

Though not a lot, it filled two sacks. Given how much he'd eaten earlier, he was probably past the morning sickness stage, and his appetite was picking up. One sack of flour would barely be enough.

Zhou Shuyao had no choice but to carry one sack for him, since Chen Jue insisted on saving face.

Besides the grain, Chen Jue bought a bunch of other things he considered necessities.

Salt, wine, sugar—expensive items.

Zhou Shuyao finally couldn't hold back and asked, "Why are you buying wine?"

The sugar and salt made sense, but why wine? He was a pregnant man—he shouldn't be drinking.

Besides, the moment he walked in, he asked for the strongest liquor, which was also the most expensive.

It didn't seem like he was planning to entertain guests. There wasn't any occasion to celebrate, was there?

Chen Jue wanted alcohol, but since there was none, he had to make do with wine. The only problem was that even the strongest liquor here wasn't strong enough. But it was better than nothing—he could always distill it.

Chen Jue used his father—a man he'd never met and had no memory of—as an excuse: "My old man likes to drink. Isn't the Dragon Boat Festival coming up soon?"

Zhou Shuyao jolted. "You... you're going back to your family's home?"

Chen Jue, getting used to the lie, hummed in agreement.

Zhou Shuyao's expression flickered oddly, but he didn't say anything more after that. Whatever Chen Jue bought, Zhou Shuyao just widened his eyes in surprise without asking why.

After buying four boxes of pastries, Chen Jue's basket was finally full, so he had to head back.

Zhou Shuyao followed behind him, thinking only one thing: this Chen Jue didn't seem like he was visiting relatives—he seemed like he was trying to clean out the house while Huo Lin was away.

Author's note:

Okay, the section comment settings are all set up. Thanks for all your comments, everyone.