The household grain reserves were meticulously accounted for, yet Cheng Jinzhou preferred not to delegate the grain purchase to servants. He strode through the inner gate himself, heading outward.
Both Shimo and Shiyan trailed behind him. Only when they reached the exit did Cheng Jinzhou pause, beckoning them with a wave. "Come here."
Shimo, newly appointed as Cheng Jinzhou's page after his recovery from illness, was merely fourteen or fifteen but remarkably astute. He scurried over in quick steps, saying, "Third Young Master, the wind outside carries a chill."
Cheng Jinzhou ignored the remark. "We're going out to buy some things. Prepare the carriage."
In this era where precocious maturity was prized, Cheng Jinzhou's true age remained unremarkable—having never left academia, he'd never truly grown up in the conventional sense.
Shimo exchanged a glance with the other page before darting off.
As they walked toward the gate, Cheng Jinzhou casually asked Shiyan, "Do you know how much grain an acre yields?"
"On average hillside land, about one and a half dan."
Agriculture was fundamental. Even servants who saved money or received rewards would first invest in land. Yet scions like Cheng Jinzhou rarely concerned themselves with such agrarian details.
With two harvests annually, one acre produced merely 150 kilograms—even paddy fields yielded at most three to four times more, a far cry from modern agriculture, comparable to Tang-Song dynasty standards. The ring demanded 720 kilograms at once—enough to feed a family of three for a year.
Cheng Jinzhou nodded silently. Neither in this life nor his previous had he ever known want, so he felt no guilt about such expenditures.
...
Shaonan wasn't a large city, and the Cheng residence occupied its very heart, adjacent to both the prefectural office and the local Holy Sanctuary.
Merchant establishments naturally clustered several blocks away. While commerce wasn't outright despised in the Great Xia Dynasty, merchants certainly faced discrimination.
The creaking two-wheeled carriage slipped quietly through the back gate, with the two pages following furtively like thieves trying to hide stolen goods.
Eastward they sped, passersby scattering like pedestrians before a police vehicle at the sight of the "Cheng" insignia. While the Chengs might rank merely as prominent in the southeast, in Shaonan they were practically omnipotent—one might say the city belonged to them. The prefect was Cheng Jinzhou's father; the Privy Council's military administrator had to be a Cheng; even the Holy Sanctuary's archbishop was Cheng Jinzhou's uncle, not to mention countless lower officials.
With such influence, though the Chengs didn't engage in commerce themselves, they owned a third of the city's businesses. Though they didn't farm, their name adorned a third of the outlying estates.
Cheng Jinzhou rather enjoyed these privileges, leaning out the window to observe the passing scene. The carriage's rhythmic creaking mingled with the pages' labored breathing and uneven footsteps.
The Cheng household rules were strict—no matter how spacious the carriage, master and servant never rode together. Such was the way of this strange world.
"Whoa there," the driver gently reined in as they stopped before a grain shop bearing the "Huo" banner. Naturally, Cheng Jinzhou wouldn't buy from his own family's stores.
He leapt down nimbly—an action that turned his pages ashen, given his reputation for frailty. They chorused like twins, "Third Young Master, you mustn't!"
"Must you always say that?" Cheng Jinzhou waved them off and strode inside.
The shopkeeper, who had been lounging in the inner room, sprang from his high stool at the sight of Cheng Jinzhou's attire. "Good day, young master! At Huo's Grain, we specialize in all manner of grains and oils. What might you require?"
By regulation, only Holy Sanctuary clergy, astrologers, titled gentry, officials and their families could wear silk—a category encompassing fourteen varieties like damask, gauze, and satin, with strictest controls on certain types. Wealthy merchants might wear them privately, but only aristocratic heirs could dress their children in such finery.
Accustomed to modern customer service, Cheng Jinzhou casually surveyed the premises. "What's your best-selling grain?"
Normally the shopkeeper wouldn't rise for customers, but now he attended carefully. "Our premium white flour sells best—so fine it feels pleasant in one's palm. Among prepared foods, noodles, soup cakes, and cold noodles are quite popular."
"White flour from wheat?" Cheng Jinzhou verified. Many things in Great Xia resembled their counterparts but differed subtly, like the beautiful yet bewildering traditional characters.
"Yes," the shopkeeper answered earnestly, not daring to smile at the young master's ignorance. After all, aristocratic youths knowing nothing of crops was perfectly normal.
Unconcerned, Cheng Jinzhou considered pressing for prices but changed tack. "Shopkeeper, prepare me a list of all your grains with current prices. Now."
He'd suddenly realized the staggering variety—just the flour samples covered an entire wall. Memorizing them seemed impossible.
Better to trouble others than exert himself.
The shopkeeper seemed delighted by the "trouble," immediately setting to work without worrying about revealing prices—grain prices fluctuated daily anyway. The young master's identity intrigued him more.
But Cheng Jinzhou didn't linger long. After reviewing the list, he summoned an assistant. "Prepare twenty dan each of unpolished rice and wheat, plus twenty dan of cheaper sorghum."
Sorghum cost nearly half as much—ideal if the Star Alliance's creatures would accept it.
Twenty dan of unpolished rice cost four taels; wheat slightly less. Adding sorghum brought the total to one ingot—a sum that made the pages gasp. As second-tier servants earning just one tael monthly, they'd rarely seen silver before serving Cheng Jinzhou.
Even the shopkeeper seemed taken aback, momentarily speechless.
Grain was strategic material in any era, especially this age of astrologers.
Astrologers needed robust physiques to withstand powerful astral arrays—for less talented ones, increasing body surface area became a perfect cheat. For nations, more gluttons meant greater strength.
In a sense, governments needed more grain to feed more strapping fatties.
While Cheng Jinzhou remained oblivious, his page knew better, interjecting before the shopkeeper could respond: "Third Young Master, imperial law requires reporting grain purchases exceeding fifty dan to the authorities."
"So troublesome?" Cheng Jinzhou looked startled.
The shopkeeper maintained his ingratiating smile. "Rules are rules. Might I know how to address you, young master? We could deliver forty dan of grain and five dan of sorghum now—the month's end approaches. If you're not pressed, we'll send the rest next month."
In one breath, he'd said his piece while attempting to double the order.
Cheng Jinzhou cared little about reporting—Shaonan's highest authority was his father—but saw no need to inform a shopkeeper. "No processed flour—unpolished rice, whole wheat and sorghum. Deliver to the Cheng residence at West White Wax Lane before dinner." Who knew why aliens wanted grain? He wouldn't do pointless work.
"Rest assured," said the relieved shopkeeper. The entire lane belonged to the Chengs, used for hosting banquets.
Grain merchants feared unknown buyers, not official reports. And who in Shaonan outshone the Chengs?
As for why a Cheng wouldn't buy from family stores—that was mansion intrigue best left unexplored.
Outside, Cheng Jinzhou tossed Shimo another ingot. "Buy more grain elsewhere and have it delivered. I'll wait at the villa. Let the shops handle any reporting."
After a moment's hesitation, Shimo ran off.
Ninety dan equaled about forty-five star coins—enough to buy only 22,500 words' worth of books. With random probabilities, Cheng Jinzhou held little hope for results.
Fortunately born into wealthy Cheng Manor—had he been poor, he might have pawned his signet ring, let alone afforded years' worth of grain.
...