Transmigrated into a Grandpa, Embracing the Laid-Back Life-Chapter 49: Money’s Path

The alley near the County School was noticeably quieter. Xu Qing’s father’s stall remained simple—just a few books, several inkstones, and some worn brushes—and business was slow. He was holding an old book, lost in concentration.

Zhao Dequan straightened his collar, making an effort to look like an honest, plain farmer instead of a shrewd businessman. He bent slightly at the waist, wearing a sincere smile tinged with a hint of reverence.

“Mr. Xu, I am the Village Chief of Su Family Village.”

Old Xu lifted his head and looked at the unfamiliar farmer and the father-and-son behind him with some puzzlement.

Zhao Dequan carefully took out the one hundred sheets of the best-quality bamboo paper from the oilcloth bundle and presented them with both hands. “Old Mr. Xu, sorry to trouble you. This is a local paper our village worked on ourselves, made from the bamboo in the back mountain… very crude, really. I wouldn’t dare to dirty your eyes with it.”

Then his tone shifted, becoming more earnest. “But our Third Son—this boy here,” he pulled Su Ming forward, “he met your young master in town and came back saying Mr. Xu is learned and upright, a model for Qingshi Town’s scholars! He also said you sit here selling books out of pity for poor students…”

Su Ming stepped forward at the right moment and bowed respectfully. “Old Sir Xu, junior Su Ming. Although this paper is rough, it is thick and durable, not easy to tear. I thought—there must be many industrious but poor students at the County School like Brother Xu Qing. They copy books and practice calligraphy, which costs them a lot. If you don’t mind, could you sell it for us? The price is negotiable. We only hope to give poor students another option, and to earn our village a little money for oil and salt.”

Old Xu took the stack of paper and examined it carefully. The sheets were indeed coarse and yellowed, nothing like the snowy white xuan paper on his stall. But he pinched a corner with his finger and pulled hard; a flash of surprise crossed his eyes—the paper’s toughness was unexpectedly good.

He thought of his son studying by the dim oil lamp late into the night, and of students forced to practice on sand trays because paper was too expensive. His heart softened.

“This paper…indeed plain,” Old Xu said slowly, “but the texture is sturdy, and the price must be very cheap. For everyday copying and rough calculations, it will do.”

He looked up, his gaze passing over Zhao Dequan’s hopeful face and settling on Su Ming’s clear, intelligent eyes, before he sighed. “Ah, if we had this earlier, Qing wouldn’t have had to copy books into the late hours over a few sheets. Fine, old man will try selling it for you. How much a sheet?”

Zhao Dequan hurriedly replied, “You name the price. If it helps those students, we can earn less!”

Old Xu pondered for a moment. “The worst grass paper at Wenbao Zhai costs two copper coins. Though this is coarse, it is tough—three copper coins a sheet. I won’t add my fee; I’ll sell at original price just to make things easier for the students.”

“Deal! Deal! Thank you, Old Sir! You’re a living Bodhisattva!” Zhao Dequan was overjoyed and kept kowtowing. The price exceeded his expectations, and more importantly, it opened a rare channel.

In the end, Old Xu kept two hundred sheets, tucking them away carefully. Zhao Dequan took the heavy six hundred copper coins and felt as if the money itself smelled faintly of ink.

After leaving Old Xu, Zhao Dequan’s smile grew even more genuine. He patted Su Ming’s shoulder. “Third Son, you’ve got a sharp mind! This route you chose is right!”

They then loaded the ox cart and rode through the main street, turning into a narrow, crowded alley thick with fishy and sweat smells, until they reached the general store.

The shopkeeper still had that indifferent air. Zhao Dequan was brimming with confidence this time, but he kept on the same humble smile and presented the paper.

“Brother, business booming, hey.”

“Get out of here, Zhao Village Chief. What are you trying to trick me with this time?” The shopkeeper took the paper, frowning as he examined it. “What is this? Yellow and shabby, so rough you could scrub yourself with it.”

“Brother, don’t say that.” Zhao Dequan chuckled. “This is the real deal! Thick, with great toughness! Wrap things, patch windows, or even use it when you need to relieve yourself—far better than those flimsy grass papers! And it’s cheap! Wenbao Zhai’s worst grass paper is two copper coins; mine, I’ll give you two copper coins a sheet! You sell it for three, make a whole coin profit!”

The shopkeeper skeptically tore at it with force—it didn’t rip. His eyes lit up immediately. A one-coin margin! That was more than he earned selling daily odds and ends!

“Give me three hundred first!”

Then, with the same pitch and the same price, they sold two hundred more sheets to a shop that specialized in needles, thread, and sewing supplies. 𝓯𝓻𝒆𝙚𝒘𝓮𝙗𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝒍.𝙘𝓸𝙢

The oilcloth bundle on the ox cart that had been bulging was now completely flattened.

And in Zhao Dequan’s arms, there was a heavy money bag. Inside were not only the neat six hundred copper coins from Old Xu, but also one thousand loose copper coins from the general and sewing shops.

On the way back to the village, Zhao Dequan was in high spirits, even humming off-key. He glanced at the silent Su Ming. “Third Son, you did us a favor today. Old Xu’s channel—brilliant! Sold goods, made money, and earned a name, all steady.”

Su Ming smiled faintly and said nothing. In his mind, Lin Yu would be quietly proud, saying: “Disciple, well done! This is what we call ‘differentiated marketing’ and ‘market segmentation’! Sell the right product in the safest way to those who need it most. Old Xu is a long-term investment, the general store is quick cash—cover both and both hands grow strong! Zhao Dequan understands straight away.”

...

Back at the village workshop, the scene of dividing the money was no different from before.

That pile of black, gleaming copper coins still made hands feel hot and hearts tremble.

But when Zhao Dequan placed the small extra silver ingot (from Old Xu’s exchanged money) into the portion due to the Su family, every man’s gaze toward Su Shan and his son carried more than the usual respect; it held solid conviction.

Su Shan took the heavy cloth bundle, smelling of ink and copper, his hand still trembling.

But there was something else mixed into that tremor—a different quality—a proven value, and a weighty hope that needed protecting.

At the Su family dinner table, the fried eggs were still oily, and the buns still plump and white.

Su Shan tapped his pipe, pushed the heavier cloth bundle toward Su Ming, and his tone was more decisive than before.

“Third Son, keep this money safe.”

“How our family walks the road from now on, you must think more. Think farther, farther than today.”

Su Ming clutched the bundle. The silver ingot’s edge still dug into his palm, but he held it steady.

He felt not only his family’s wager, but a heavy trust and a responsibility to guard.