The morning after Zhang Wei's hasty departure, the Lin household was silent. Her father, Lin Feng, sat at the kitchen table staring at his calloused hands. He was relieved to have escaped a trap, but the reality of their poverty remained.
"Xia," he said quietly as she entered the kitchen. "You saved us from a wolf, but we still have no meat for the winter. The village head says if we don't deliver the hundred silk-blend shirts by the end of the month, he will give the contract to the Zhang family in the next village."
Lin Xia poured herself a cup of hot water. In her previous life, this contract had been their downfall. They had worked themselves to exhaustion for a pittance, only for the middleman to claim the shirts were "substandard" and refuse to pay.
"We aren't going to make shirts for the village head, Dad," Lin Xia said firmly.
Lin Feng looked up, shocked. "What? That's our only income!"
"The village head pays us 2 yuan per shirt," Lin Xia explained, pulling out a piece of paper she had scribbled on during the night. "He sells them to a trading company in Guangzhou for 10 yuan. That company exports them to Eastern Europe for the equivalent of 50 yuan. We are doing all the work, and he is taking all the profit."
"But we don't know anyone in Guangzhou," her mother, Su Chen, protested. "And we don't speak foreign languages!"
Lin Xia smiled—a sharp, knowing smile. "I do."
In her past life, Lin Xia had spent years learning English and Russian to manage her husband's international accounts. She knew the market trends of 1988 perfectly. Right now, Eastern Europe was desperate for affordable, durable textiles due to the shifting political climate.
"Dad, I need you to take the old bicycle and go to the warehouse in the city," Lin Xia commanded. "Don't buy the cheap cotton-polyester blend the village head wants. Buy the surplus 'Raw Silk' ends that the state factories are throwing away."
"Raw silk?" Lin Feng frowned. "It's rough. Nobody wants it for shirts."
"They don't want it for shirts," Lin Xia said, her eyes gleaming. "They want it for tapestries and heavy curtains. In the West, 'ethnic' and 'hand-woven' looks are about to become the biggest fashion trend of the decade."
For the next three days, Lin Xia didn't sleep more than four hours a night. She didn't sew shirts. Instead, she took the rough silk and dyed it using natural indigo and crushed walnut shells—techniques she had learned from an old master weaver years later in her previous life.
The result was a deep, midnight blue fabric with shimmering earth-toned patterns. It looked like something from an ancient dynasty, yet it felt modern.
While her mother sewed the fabric into large, elegant shawls and decorative pillow covers, Lin Xia headed to the city's only international hotel: The Peace Hotel. This was where the "Foreign Experts" and international traders stayed.
She stood outside the grand entrance, looking at her reflection in the glass. She was wearing her best clothes—a simple white shirt and black trousers, her hair pulled back in a sleek, professional bun. She looked like a student, but she carried herself like a billionaire.
A black sedan pulled up. A tall, harried-looking man in a grey suit stepped out. He was clutching a briefcase and arguing with an interpreter who looked like he wanted to cry.
"No, no!" the man shouted in English. "I asked for samples of traditional crafts, not cheap plastic toys! My clients in Berlin want soul! They want history!"
The interpreter stammered, "Sir, the factory said these are the most popular items..."
Lin Xia stepped forward.
"Excuse me," she said in perfect, fluent English with a crisp British accent—a remnant of the tutors she'd hired in her thirties. "I couldn't help but overhear. If you are looking for soul, you are looking in the wrong province. But you might find what you need in my bag."
The man, whose name tag read Klaus Weber, froze. He looked at Lin Xia, stunned not just by her beauty, but by her flawless grammar.
"You... you speak English?"
"I speak the language of business, Mr. Weber," Lin Xia replied. She reached into her bag and pulled out the midnight blue silk shawl.
She shook it out. The sunlight hit the indigo dye, making the fabric look like moving water. Klaus Weber's eyes widened. He reached out and touched the fabric.
"This... this is handmade?"
"Hand-dyed, hand-woven, using techniques from the Ming Dynasty," Lin Xia lied smoothly. It wasn't a total lie—the techniques were real, she just hadn't mentioned she'd finished it yesterday in a kitchen. "My family has a small collective. We don't mass-produce. We create art."
Klaus looked at the shawl, then at the exhausted interpreter, and finally at Lin Xia. "How much?"
Lin Xia didn't hesitate. "For a sample, 50 US Dollars. For a contract of five hundred pieces, we can discuss a wholesale rate."
The interpreter gasped. 50 US Dollars was nearly 200 Yuan—more than a worker's monthly salary.
Klaus didn't even blink. He pulled out a crisp fifty-dollar bill. "I have a flight in two hours. If you can bring fifty of these to this hotel by Friday, I will give you a deposit for five hundred."
When Lin Xia walked back into her village that evening, she wasn't empty-handed. She went straight to the village head's house.
The village head, a greedy man named Old Man Wang, was smoking a pipe. "Ah, Xia. Have you finished the shirts? Zhang Wei called me; he said your family is having... mental troubles."
Lin Xia dropped a stack of Yuan notes on his table—the exchange from the 50 dollars, minus her travel costs.
"Here is the 'exit fee' for the shirt contract," Lin Xia said. "We won't be making them. Also, I want to rent the abandoned granary at the edge of the village. For the next month."
Old Man Wang stared at the money. It was more than he would have made from the entire shirt contract. "The granary? What for?"
Lin Xia leaned over his desk. "For the future, Uncle Wang. I'm hiring ten of the best weavers in the village. I'll pay them double what you do."
"You're crazy," Wang whispered. "Where did you get this money?"
"I earned it," Lin Xia said, turning to leave. "And tell Zhang Wei the next time he calls: tell him to keep his eyes on the news. I'm just getting started."
As she walked home under the starlight, Lin Xia felt a cold satisfaction. In her past life, she had been a victim of the "Boom." In this life, she would be the one who lit the fuse.