The triumph of the French contract felt like a heavy crown. While her weavers celebrated with a feast of pork buns and local beer, Lin Xia retreated to her makeshift office—a corner of the cannery walled off by hanging silk. The image of the man with the binoculars burned in her mind.
In her previous life, she had been blindsided by Zhang Wei's betrayals because she had been looking for daggers in the hands of enemies. She hadn't realized that the most dangerous weapon in China was a piece of paper.
A knock at the doorframe interrupted her thoughts. It was her father, Lin Feng. He looked out of place in the industrial skeleton of the factory, his shoulders hunched as if the weight of the city was pressing down on him.
"Xia," he said, his voice trembling. "A man came to the village today. Before I left to bring the last of the silk scraps to you. He... he wasn't from the village head's office."
Lin Xia sat up straight, her internal alarm bells ringing. "Who was he, Dad? What did he want?"
Lin Feng reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled, yellowed document. "He said he represented the 'Red Crane Investment Group.' He told me that Grandpa's old gambling debts from before the Revolution weren't cleared. He said that because of the new 'Land Restructuring' laws, they now own the title to our house in Willow Creek. And... they own the debt on this factory's equipment."
Lin Xia snatched the paper. Her eyes scanned the legal jargon with the speed of a seasoned corporate raider.
Her blood ran cold. This wasn't a simple village dispute. "Red Crane" was a front for the Zhao Family—one of the "Hidden Tigers" of Shanghai. They were old money that had survived the turmoil of the previous decades by being more ruthless than the Red Guards and more adaptive than the reformers.
In her past life, the Zhaos had been the ones who funded Zhang Wei's rise, using him as a puppet to consolidate the textile industry. By attacking her father's debt, they weren't just looking for money; they were testing her. They wanted to see if the "Girl from the Marsh" had teeth.
"How much do they claim we owe?" Lin Xia asked.
"Ten thousand yuan," Lin Feng whispered. "But the interest... they say it's fifty percent a month. They want us to sign over the 'Ghost-Stitch' patent as payment."
Lin Xia crumpled the paper in her fist. The Ghost-Stitch wasn't just a technique; it was her leverage with the French. If she lost the patent, she became a mere laborer again.
"Go to sleep, Dad," she said, her voice eerily calm. "I'll handle the Red Crane."
Lin Xia didn't wait for morning. She knew that in the pre-boom era, the real power in Shanghai didn't reside in glass towers—it lived in the backrooms of the "Wet Markets" and the tea houses of the Old City.
She dressed in a high-collared black coat, tucked a small, sharp pair of fabric shears into her inner pocket, and took the ferry back across the river to Puxi. She headed for the Yu Garden district, a maze of ancient alleys where the scent of stinky tofu and coal smoke hung thick in the air.
She found the "Golden Pavilion," a tea house that looked like a relic of the 1920s. Inside, the air was blue with expensive cigar smoke. Men in silk tunics sat around low tables, playing Mahjong with tiles made of real ivory.
In the center of the room sat Zhao Meifeng. She was sixty years old, with hair pulled back so tight it looked painful and eyes that had seen empires rise and fall. She was the matriarch of the Red Crane.
Lin Xia walked straight to her table. The Mahjong tiles stopped clicking. The silence was heavy.
"You're late, little girl," Zhao Meifeng said, not looking up from her hand. "I expected you three hours ago."
"I was busy finishing a contract for Maison de Lyon," Lin Xia replied, pulling up a stool. "I assume you've heard of them? Or is the Red Crane too busy digging up 1940s gambling debts to notice the 1990s are coming?"
A ripple of shock went through the room. No one spoke to the Matriarch like that.
Zhao Meifeng finally looked up. She smiled, but it was the smile of a shark. "Bold. I like boldness in a girl. It makes the breaking of her spirit so much more satisfying. Your grandfather was a fool who lost his family's honor at a card table. I am simply collecting the interest."
"You don't want the money," Lin Xia said, leaning forward. "You want the French contract. You want to use my factory as a bridge to get your family's stagnant assets into the European market."
"And if I do?" Zhao Meifeng discarded a tile. "I own your land. I own your father's signature. I can have your factory bulldozed by sunrise."
Lin Xia didn't blink. She reached into her bag and pulled out a small, leather-bound ledger. She laid it on the table.
"This is the internal audit of the 'Shanghai No. 4 Yarn Mill,'" Lin Xia said. "The one your son, Zhao Kun, has been managing for the last three years."
Zhao Meifeng's eyes narrowed.
"The Mill is hemorrhaging money," Lin Xia continued. "Kun has been faking the production numbers to keep the state subsidies coming. If the Ministry of Commerce—specifically a certain Han Huojin—were to see these true figures, your son wouldn't just be fired. He'd be looking at a firing squad for 'Economic Crimes against the State.'"
The room went deathly quiet. Zhao Meifeng's hand trembled slightly as she reached for her tea.
"Where did you get this?" the Matriarch hissed.
"I have a feeling for the wind," Lin Xia said, repeating the phrase she had used with Han. "And the wind tells me that the Red Crane is leaning on a very rotten branch. You want my patent? Fine. But within twenty-four hours of me signing it over, Han Huojin will receive an anonymous tip regarding the No. 4 Mill."
Lin Xia stood up. She felt the adrenaline coursing through her. In her past life, she would have cried and begged. In this life, she was the one holding the noose.
"I have a better deal," Lin Xia proposed. "You tear up my father's debt. You provide the Red Crane's protection for my shipment to the docks—making sure no one like Zhang Wei or Big-Ear Sun interferes. In exchange, I will help your son fix the books at the No. 4 Mill. I'll show him how to convert his useless polyester stock into high-grade export blends. I'll save his life, and I'll make your family richer than a gambling debt ever could."
Zhao Meifeng stared at her for a long time. The Mahjong players held their breath. Finally, the Matriarch let out a dry, raspy laugh.
"You aren't a village girl. You're a demon."
"I'm a businesswoman, Madame Zhao. There's a difference, though in this city, it's a small one."
"Deal," Zhao Meifeng said, snapping her fingers. A servant appeared with a candle. The Matriarch picked up the yellowed debt document Lin Feng had shown her and held it to the flame.
As the paper turned to ash, Lin Xia felt a massive weight lift off her family's name. But she knew she had just entered a pact with a devil.
As Lin Xia walked out of the Golden Pavilion, a hand gripped her arm. It was Zhao Kun, the son. He looked flushed and angry.
"You think you're smart, girl?" he whispered. "You think you can threaten my family?"
Lin Xia pulled her arm away with a look of pure disgust. "I didn't threaten you, Kun. I saved you. Now, get your trucks ready. We have a shipment of silk that needs to reach the harbor by Friday. If a single meter is stained, I'll find a new set of books to show Han Huojin."
She walked into the night, the neon signs of the city reflecting in her eyes. She had won this round, but the stakes were escalating. She was no longer just fighting for survival; she was beginning to manipulate the very power structures of Shanghai.
When she reached the ferry, she saw Han Huojin standing by the railing. He looked as if he had been waiting for her.
"You went to the Golden Pavilion," he said, his voice disapproive. "You're playing with fire, Xia. The Zhaos aren't village bullies. They are the old guard."
"The old guard is dying, Han," Lin Xia said, looking out at the dark water. "They just need someone to show them where the graves are. I told you I'd make your efficiency reports look good. Saving the No. 4 Mill is part of that."
Han Huojin looked at her, a flicker of something—was it admiration or fear?—crossing his face. "You're moving too fast. Even for me."
"Then keep up," Lin Xia said, stepping onto the boat. "Because the 1990s start in a few months, and I don't plan on being a spectator."
Back at the factory, Lin Xia sat at her desk and opened a secret compartment in her bag. Inside was a photograph she had taken from the hospital in her previous life—a picture of Zhang Wei and a woman she hadn't recognized at the time.
She looked at the woman in the photo now. It was a younger Zhao Meifeng.
The pieces were falling into place. In the old life, the Zhaos hadn't just used Zhang Wei; they had been the architects of her ruin from the very beginning. Her grandfather's debt hadn't been an accident. It had been a targeted strike across generations.
Lin Xia's eyes hardened. Tearing up the paper wasn't enough. She wasn't just going to pay them back; she was going to dismantle the Red Crane brick by brick, until the only thing left of the Zhao family was the ink on her own contracts.
She picked up her fountain pen and began to draft the next phase of her plan: The Acquisition of the No. 4 Yarn Mill.
She wouldn't just help them fix the books. She would make them so dependent on her "Ghost-Stitch" technology that they would eventually hand her the keys to their entire empire.