Yesterday's trades had changed something—not loudly, not with miracle or spectacle, but with the quiet introduction of scale.
What is a thing worth?
What does survival cost?
These were questions the villagers had never been allowed to ask with precision.
Today, they came to learn.
Xu Mingyue waited by the low table beside the open threshold of the mansion. He wore the same composed expression as yesterday, but the weight of the ledger at his side carried a new gravity. MOI stood nearby in her faint projection, light settling around her shoulders like borrowed moonlight. She did not speak unless spoken to; she observed.
Li Yun arrived from the village path, carrying a repaired wooden crate on one shoulder. He set it down quietly, dusting his palms against his trousers. "Some of them gathered early," he said. "They have questions."
Mingyue nodded once. "Let them in."
The villagers approached with a different gait than the day before. Still cautious, still thin from hunger—but now there was a tension of thought behind their eyes, as if the notion of MT had lodged itself there overnight, waiting to be understood.
Hu De stepped forward first. He carried no artifacts now—only a folded cloth packet and a brush tucked behind his ear. He bowed deeply, respectfully.
"Sir Xu," he said, voice low. "Yesterday's trade—I wish to record it properly." He hesitated. "If we are to keep accounts, we must understand the scale you follow."
A logical request from a man shaped by ledgers.
Mingyue motioned for him to sit. "Then we start with what MT is."
Other villagers drew closer, arranging themselves along the tatami with the same solemnity they'd use in a seasonal rite. No one spoke over another. They waited for rules.
Mingyue opened the ledger. Empty pages gleamed pale in the morning light.
"MT measures value," he said. "Not moral value. Not emotional value. Material value. Age, craftsmanship, rarity, and usefulness. The house reads these things more precisely than we can."
MOI lifted her hand. A compact diagram appeared above her palm—numbers paired with simple symbols for cloth, metal, clay.
"Conversion is constant," she said. "The house does not negotiate. It calculates."
The villagers watched the light with the reverence of people seeing a map to a world that had always been out of reach.
Hu De dipped his brush into ink. "And once MT is recorded… it stays?"
"Yes," Mingyue replied. "It becomes part of your balance. You can save it, spend it, or combine it with credit earned from work. Nothing is lost unless you trade it."
A ripple passed through the room. Relief, but also fear—because calculation created responsibility.
A woman lifted her hand hesitantly. The calluses along her knuckles told of years spent twisting rope. "If someone has no heirlooms… no tools… only labor—can labor earn MT?"
"Not MT directly," Mingyue said. "But credits." He paused. "Credits are internal to the house. They purchase food, supplies, and tools. Later—when we have trade with the outside—they may convert."
Li Yun stepped forward then, resting a hand lightly against the crate he had brought. "Work will be counted fairly," he said, voice steady. "No forced labor. No unpaid tasks. Anyone who puts in hours will see them in the ledger."
This was the line that changed their faces.
For a moment, entire histories of exploitation—grain quotas, tax seasons, corvée burdens imposed by distant officials—shadowed the villagers' expressions.
Then the disbelief eased.
Then the calculation returned.
Then the room breathed.
An older man—Chen Guo, knotmaker by trade—cleared his throat. "If I repair a tool," he asked, "does its MT rise?"
"Yes," Mingyue answered. "If you increase its value, the house recognizes the improvement."
Chen Guo exhaled through his nose, the kind of sound a man makes when a door opens that he didn't know could open. His eyes flickered briefly toward the cracked tools in the corner of the room. Potential.
Next, a younger villager stepped forward with a warped bronze ladle. He held it out with both hands but refused to set it down just yet, as if awaiting permission.
"Will this… change?" he asked. "If the house judges it?"
"It will be measured," Mingyue said. "Nothing more."
The man swallowed. "Then… measure it."
MOI scanned the ladle. "Bronze implement. Damage: severe warping. Conversion: 1.2 MT. Repair potential: moderate."
The man blinked. "So it's worth something."
"Everything is worth something," Mingyue said. His tone remained calm, not kind—just steady, fair. "That is what famine tries to make us forget."
A quiet beat followed.
A soft scraping sound interrupted them. Auntie Qiao entered, clutching the parcel of rice from yesterday. She bowed shyly.
"I ate little," she murmured. "I want to save the rest. Is… is that allowed?"
Mingyue's eyes softened by a fraction. "It belongs to you. You decide when to use it."
Auntie Qiao breathed out, her shoulders loosening. "Then I'll save it for my mother."
A man scoffed from the corner. "Save rice in a famine? A fool's—"
Li Yun straightened.
The man lowered his head.
Mingyue continued as if nothing had happened.
"We will hold appraisal days," he said. "Not every day. Not whenever panic asks—only on scheduled mornings, so the house is not overwhelmed and the system remains fair."
MOI added, "Recommended cycle: twice weekly. Additional sessions only under emergency."
The villagers nodded. They understood schedules. Ritual. Order. Even superstition respected structure.
Hu De raised his brush again. "And the ledger—shall I keep the village copy?"
Mingyue regarded him. "You may record, but MOI and I will confirm every entry." That balance was important—the house remained the authority, but Hu De became the interface. Respect without ceding control.
He bowed. "I understand."
Outside, a thin wind moved through the eaves. The sound felt like change—quiet, steady, patient.
Mingyue closed the ledger.
"We begin teaching tomorrow," he said. "Repair work. Sorting. Value enhancement. Skills that increase MT."
Chen Guo nodded, lips pressed into something close to intention. "Then I'll bring the broken tools."
"And I'll bring cloth," another said.
"And metal scraps."
"And rope—"
"And my son—he'll work for credits—"
A movement.
The slow, practiced momentum of a starving village reorganizing itself around a new logic.
As the group dispersed, Li Yun lingered near the doorway. He watched their retreating forms—stooped backs, bare arms, soft murmurs of recalculation—before turning to Mingyue.
"They're thinking differently," he said. "It's… something to see."
"It's survival," Mingyue replied. "Given shape."
"And you're the one shaping it."
Mingyue didn't answer. The compliment wasn't flattery; it was fact, but facts didn't need acknowledgement.
MOI flickered once beside them. "Administrator," she said. "MT reserves stable. Behavioral data indicates rising trust. Risk conditions: moderate. External disturbance probability increasing."
Mingyue looked toward the far ridge, where the thin morning light failed to equal the shadows.
"Then we prepare," he said.
"For trade," Li Yun asked quietly, "or for trouble?"
Mingyue glanced at him—subtle, steady.
"For both."
The valley below rustled with small, human sounds—the weight of bowls, the murmur of calculations, the sound of futures being shaped one decision at a time.