The abandoned granary was a cavernous, drafty building at the edge of Willow Creek. It smelled of old grain and dust, but to Lin Xia, it was the birthplace of an empire.
She had exactly forty-eight hours to produce four hundred and fifty pieces of high-quality indigo silk. If she failed, Klaus Weber would leave for Germany, her reputation would be trash, and Han Huojin would likely have her arrested for wasting his time.
"Listen to me!" Lin Xia shouted over the murmurs of the twelve village women she had recruited.
The women were nervous. They had spent their lives sewing basic cotton shirts. Now, this young girl was asking them to handle delicate silk and complex patterns they had never seen before.
"The village head says you are just housewives," Lin Xia said, her voice echoing off the high rafters. "He says you aren't worth more than two yuan a day. But I see the best weavers in the province. If we finish this order, every one of you will go home with twenty yuan tonight."
A gasp rippled through the group. Twenty yuan was a fortune.
"But," Lin Xia's voice turned sharp, "the quality must be perfect. If there is one loose thread, one uneven dye mark, the whole batch is ruined. We work in shifts. Four on the vats, eight on the looms. I will be here the whole time."
Lin Xia introduced a concept they had never heard of: the Modular Assembly Line. Instead of one woman making one shawl from start to finish, she broke the process into specialized tasks.
The Dye Team: Handled the indigo vats, ensuring the "Water-Ripple" effect was consistent.
The Warp Team: Prepared the looms with high-tension threads to prevent sagging.
The Detail Team: Hand-stitched the "Lin" signature—a small, elegant red thread—into the corner of every piece.
By midnight of the first day, the granary was a hive of activity. Lanterns flickered as the clack-clack-clack of the looms created a rhythmic heartbeat. Lin Xia moved between the stations, her eyes like a hawk. She corrected a hand-position here, adjusted a dye temperature there. She was exhausted, her own fingers stained blue by the indigo, but she didn't stop.
At 2:00 AM, the heavy wooden doors of the granary creaked open.
Old Man Wang walked in, flanked by two of his sons. He looked around at the bustling production and his eyes turned ugly with greed.
"This granary is village property," Wang barked. "I've decided the rent has gone up. Five hundred yuan, payable now, or you all leave."
The women stopped working, their faces pale with fear. Lin Feng, who had been guarding the door, stepped forward. "Wang, we already paid you! You gave us your word!"
"My word changed," Wang sneered. He looked at Lin Xia. "And I hear you're using 'illegal' dyes that might poison the village water. I should shut this down for safety."
Lin Xia stepped out from behind a loom. She didn't look scared; she looked bored.
"The dye is organic walnut and indigo, Uncle Wang. You know that because your own wife helped pick the walnuts," she said coolly. She held up a clipboard. "And as for the rent... I don't pay you anymore."
"What?"
"I spoke with Han Huojin yesterday," Lin Xia lied—partially. "He was very interested in why a village head was charging 'unauthorized' taxes on a project that brings foreign currency into the country. He's sending an auditor next week to check your books."
Wang flinched. The word auditor was the most terrifying word for a corrupt local official in 1988.
"You... you're bluffing," Wang stammered.
"Am I?" Lin Xia stepped closer, her blue-stained hand reaching out to tap the official stamp on the permit hanging by the door.
"That's a provincial seal, Wang. If you interfere with this shipment, you aren't just bullying a neighbor. You are Sabotaging National Export. Do you know what the penalty for that is?"
Wang's sons looked at each other and stepped back. They wanted no part of a "national" crime.
"Get out," Lin Xia whispered. "And if any of my weavers are harassed on their way home, I will tell Han Huojin that you stole the 'gift' I intended for the Governor."
Wang backed away, his face a mottled purple. "You've changed, Lin Xia! You used to be a good, quiet girl!"
"That girl died in a hospital bed," Lin Xia said to the empty air as the doors slammed shut.
The sun rose on the second day. The women were flagging, their eyes red from lack of sleep.
"Almost there," Lin Xia encouraged, her voice hoarse. "The last fifty pieces."
She sat down at a loom herself. Her movements were a blur. She wasn't just weaving fabric; she was weaving her future. Every throw of the shuttle was a strike against Zhang Wei. Every knot was a protection for her family.
At 4:00 PM, a horn honked outside. It was the truck Han Huojin had arranged.
The crates were packed. The silk was still slightly warm from the final pressing. As the last crate was loaded, Lin Xia handed out the envelopes of cash to the women.
Some of them cried. They had never held so much money that belonged solely to them.
"Go home," Lin Xia told them. "Rest. We start the next order on Monday."
As the truck pulled away, Lin Xia leaned against the rough wooden wall of the granary. Her body ached, and her head throbbed. But as she looked at her blue-stained palms, she smiled.
She had made her first 5,000 Yuan. In 1988, that was enough to buy a house. For Lin Xia, it was just enough to buy her ticket to Shanghai.