Children really do grow quickly. In just over two months, Niu Yanben had already visibly shot up another notch, his limbs a little longer, his face a little less round.
"Sister can't save you," Jing Shu said with a perfectly straight face, patting his head. "Sister can only hold you down and helpfully pass your mom the belt."
The whole table, overhearing, burst into laughter, the tense, political atmosphere momentarily broken by the universal plight of a child in trouble.
Niu Yanben, realizing his public appeal had backfired, turned his head desperately toward his father. "Dad! Show some authority at home, will you? Be the man of the house!"
Niu Mou's face, already flushed from a quick pre-dinner drink, went a shade paler. He shot a nervous, sidelong glance at his wife, who was now fixing him with a look that could curdle milk. Folks said women in their thirties were like wolves and in their forties like tigers. His wife was squarely, magnificently in her tiger years. The only smart thing to do now was to feign sudden, profound deafness and avoid her eyes at all costs.
"Ahem." Niu Mou cleared his throat loudly, then turned his entire body toward the stage, pretending to be utterly, completely absorbed in the intricate falsetto of the female opera singer, sinking deep into a world of ancient romance and tragedy.
When the table finally settled and the first course was being served, Niu Mou seized a moment when his wife was distracted by a neighboring guest. He leaned close to Jing Shu, his voice a conspiratorial murmur barely audible over the clatter of dishes. "That high-yield aquaponics pond your mom's department set up last month… that was your idea, wasn't it? You helped her design it."
Jing Shu picked up her chopsticks, selecting a piece of pickled radish. She neither confirmed nor denied. Instead, she turned the question back, her voice equally low. "Well? Was the yield report enough to move her up a grade?"
Niu Mou thought for a moment, his expression turning professionally evaluative. "Still a little short. The output is impressive, but it's still categorized as a localized pilot project. To justify a promotion, the narrative needs to be about systemic innovation or replicable models."
She nodded, understanding his bureaucratic meaning. Influence alone wasn't enough; the achievement needed the right paperwork and political framing.
He lowered his voice further, until it was almost a breath against the din. "Remember Secretary Zhang from the District Office last time? The one who suddenly had a seizure at your villa gate and died halfway to the clinic? The one who was trying to shake you down?" He waited for her slight nod. "Later, he was even interviewed posthumously by state reporters and given the title 'Martyr of Duty.' A real hero. A new secretary was transferred in from another district to replace him, but from what I hear, he will be 'promoted' out, reassigned, soon too."
Jing Shu raised a brow, a flicker of understanding in her eyes. "You're getting that seat?"
"Not sure yet. The factions are still wrangling over it. But don't worry." He gave her a meaningful look. "Before I potentially move up or out, I will make sure your mom's next placement is solid. Of course," he added, "she will have to push harder on her end too, produce some undeniable results. This year, the directorship of the entire Agricultural Development Zone is definitely going to someone else, an outside appointee. But a Deputy Minister spot within the department, with real oversight power… that's possible."
Jing Shu gave him a subtle thumbs-up under the table. No wonder, in her previous life's Niu Mou had risen through the ranks like a rocket, a genuine one-promotion-per-year dark horse. As long as her mother stayed in his orbit and delivered tangible wins, she'd have a bright, secure path ahead too.
This was also Niu Mou's way of formally repaying the favor from the ice cream trade with Qian Duoduo, which had saved his son. Over the past year, the two families had grown cautiously close. Every traditional festival, Jing Shu's family sent modest but significant gifts: a basket of strawberries every month or two, sometimes a dozen precious eggs, a bottle of fresh milk.
In times like these, gifting ten eggs wasn't just food; it was a tangible display of surplus and goodwill, a statement of capability. For someone at Niu Mou's level, fresh vegetables could be procured through his position, but high-quality protein like meat and eggs was tightly controlled and perpetually scarce. The Jing family's gifts, therefore, hit right where his household's needs, and his own status, were most acute.
Naturally, he reciprocated in the currency he controlled. Every major holiday, he authorized extra electricity allotments to be routed to the villa's grid, which was exactly what the Jing family's fortified home lacked most. With his official power supply supplements, plus the output from the ten UBC solar bacteria generators Jing Shu had scavenged, the villa's considerable energy consumption was basically covered, saving them a full liter of precious fuel every day. Electricity, natural gas, and refined oil still weren't available for public purchase; they were strictly rationed by administrative level.
Before long, the entire courtyard hall was packed, the air thick with the smell of food, perfume, and damp wool. When the opera segment concluded with a flourish, the old man of the hour, Master Yang, strode onto the stage. He wore a simple but impeccably tailored dark blue Tang suit, and he moved with a surprising, vigorous energy that belied his eighty-eight years. He picked up the microphone, and the room's buzz of conversation rose in anticipation. He didn't speak immediately, just stood there, surveying the crowd with sharp, amused eyes. Then, with a single, calm, downward gesture of his hand, a near-complete silence fell.
"I honestly didn't want to hold this birthday feast," he began, his voice strong and clear, carrying effortlessly without the microphone's help. "Costs money, takes life. A burden on everyone. But then I thought, if I didn't, all the gift money I've handed out at your kids' weddings and your own birthdays these past sixty years would just follow me into the coffin. That'd be too much of a loss. A terrible investment." A ripple of knowing laughter went through the older guests.
"Lao Zhang," he pointed at a white-haired man at a front table, "I gave a genuine Qi Baishi shrimp painting at your grandson's wedding. Not a print. Lao Xie," he swiveled, "at your wife's ninetieth birthday, even though the world was already going to hell, I gave that jade Longevity Stone from my own collection. The gifts you give me tonight," he said, sweeping his gaze across the room, a mischievous glint in his eye, "can't be worth less than those. If anyone brings something cheap, don't you dare call me your old friend tomorrow."
The crowd roared with louder, more relaxed laughter. A few journalists at the back raised cameras; shutters clicked. The old man didn't flinch or scowl; he even grinned, turning his profile smugly toward a lens for a second.
"Good. Eat and drink your fill first. Enjoy the show. Then we'll get to the main event." He paused, his grin widening. "And if you didn't bring a physical gift, no problem at all. Virtual currency works just fine. I take all major cards. Hahaha."
Jing Shu, who had been taking a sip of tea, nearly choked. She raised an eyebrow, her earlier assessment shifting. Things were certainly not proceeding with the solemn, dignified gravitas she had imagined for an elder's birthday. Or maybe, she reconsidered, this blunt, transactional practicality was the new dignity for people who had survived the initial collapse. Still, she privately admitted, when the old man first started speaking, she had nearly not been able to hold back her metaphorical forty-meter-long blade.
Turning her head, she saw Yang Yang sighing deeply beside her, as if bearing the weight of ancestral shame. He picked up a piece of steamed carp with his chopsticks, examined it mournfully, and muttered as he ate, "This one's called Thirty-Six Scales. I raised it from a fry. I personally plucked thirty-six scales off it last month as an experiment in rapid dermal regeneration, and it still lived. It could have broken through to a new growth cycle… what a pity."
He pushed a strand of stir-fried leek around his plate. "This leek, I grew it myself in the third hydroponic tray. See how each stalk has nine distinct segments? That's my genetic mark. Selected for resilience and flavor density." He sounded genuinely heartbroken.
Jing Shu stared blankly at her own plate, then at Yang Yang's despondent face.
"..."
She concluded that Yang Yang, for all his competence, really wasn't entirely normal. The apple hadn't fallen far from the theatrical, obsessive tree.
The dishes came quickly after that: steamed whole carp with scallions and ginger, stir-fried leeks with eggs, lettuce with slivers of pork. The staple was a bowl of "longevity noodles" for each person, with a single, whole poached egg nestled on top, a symbol of unity and completeness. Altogether, there were ten dishes. The taste was decent, home-style, clearly catered to elderly palates, everything was soft, well-cooked, and easy to chew. For Jing Shu, it was the first time she had seen so many old people gathered in one place since the calamity. Their presence alone, well-dressed and well-fed, clearly indicated their families weren't ordinary; they were the ones who had managed to protect their elders in the storm.
As for the portions, she thought one hungry adult could probably polish off an entire plate of any single dish. But for this crowd, used to measured rations even in their privilege, it was enough to leave everyone pleasantly eighty percent full.
Before the apocalypse, these dishes might have been considered modest for a banquet, certainly not as overtly lavish as the spread at Su Mali's underground auction. But now, with twenty tables set identically like this, it was an undeniable, staggering extravagance. No wonder Yang Yang had grumbled that he'd soon be out of home-grown vegetables and pond fish, his face twisted in the genuine regret of a cultivator seeing his hard work consumed in a single evening.
It didn't take Jing Shu long, observing the efficient service and the quality of the ingredients, to fully realize why Yang Yang was so heartbroken, and why he was so certain the old man would be kneeling on a washboard later for this financial and horticultural profligacy.
She didn't fight the others for food, eating slowly and deliberately, chewing each bite the full twenty-eight times Chu Zhuohua had once lectured was optimal for nutrient absorption and digestion.
Soon, the meal concluded, and two more short, energetic opera performances took place on the stage. Then, Old Master Yang invited everyone to stand and tour the lantern-lit courtyards and his prized vegetable plots while the staff cleared the tables with practiced speed.
When people filtered back into the now-transformed hall, they found the red tablecloths gone, replaced by simple, dark blue cloths. A cup of fragrant tea sat at each place. The atmosphere had shifted from celebratory to focused. A tall, severe-looking man in a black suit walked to a small, cleared table at the front of the room, picked up a wooden auction gavel, and knocked it firmly against the table's surface. Tok. Tok. Tok.
"Please quiet down," he said, his voice a dry, commanding baritone.
The bustling scene settled into an obedient hush. Many guests looked openly confused, glancing at each other. Wasn't this supposed to be a birthday celebration? Wasn't it time for the ceremonial offering of gifts to the elder?
"Alright, no need for extra words," the auctioneer said. "I'm Shen Sanqiao, the auctioneer Old Master Yang has invited to oversee tonight's… proceedings. Three knocks will settle each item. And what, you might ask, is being auctioned?" He paused, a faint, dry smile touching his lips. "The gifts you all so thoughtfully brought for Old Master Yang's birthday."
A wave of startled murmurs swept the room.
"The virtual currency raised from all sales," Shen Sanqiao continued, overriding the whispers, "will be transferred in full to the Wu City Civil Affairs Bureau. It will be used for one purpose only: to purchase emergency rice reserves from the government's strategic grain depot!"
He waited for that to sink in. Old Master Yang, sitting in a high-backed chair at the side of the stage, nodded slowly, his expression serene.
"Old Master said it himself," the auctioneer went on, his voice gaining a touch of something like warmth. "His birthday gifts should be shared with all. He wants the entire city of Wu to have a reason to celebrate. The rice purchased with these funds will be distributed, free of charge, for ten consecutive days to any registered resident who hasn't tasted plain rice in the last month. Pregnant women, children under ten, and citizens over seventy will have absolute priority."
Some people in the front rows, older guests, a few uniformed officials, clearly already knew the plan and stayed calm, nodding in approval. But far more were stunned. Gasps of disbelief were quickly shushed. Jing Shu saw genuine shock on many faces, followed by dawning respect, and in some cases, calculating reassessment.
She let out a long, slow breath she hadn't realized she was holding. The slight tension in her shoulders eased. She looked at the old man on the stage, now sipping his tea, looking pleased with the reaction.
"Good thing I held back my forty-meter-long blade," she murmured to herself, the ghost of a smile touching her lips. "Or I'd have mistaken a genuinely good man for a greedy old fraud."
===
Forty-meter long blade (四十米大刀)
This is a popular internet meme in Chinese culture. It originates from a comedic skit where a character boasts, "I have a forty-meter long blade, and I'm going to swing it at you!"
It's used online as a humorous exaggeration to express uncontrollable anger or the urge to lash out, but of course, no such blade exists. Here, Jing Shu is jokingly saying she almost lost her temper and "unsheathed" her imaginary forty-meter blade.