“Good!” Zhao Dequan slammed the empty bowl heavily onto the table.

“From this moment on, this matter stops with the seven of us! Heaven knows, earth knows!”

He spoke with extreme speed, his reasoning clear, and began assigning tasks.

“Three esteemed elders, keeping the village stable depends entirely on you venerable gentlemen. Starting tomorrow, spread the word that I, Zhao Dequan, intend to lead the establishment of a ‘bamboo ware workshop’ on the riverbank, weaving some bamboo baskets and crates for sale, to give the villagers an extra source of income. This matter is perfectly reasonable, no one will suspect a thing.”

“Dazhuang, Eryong!”

“Here, Uncle Dequan!” The two men straightened their chests and responded like soldiers.

“At first light tomorrow, you two immediately take trustworthy clansmen to the most remote section of the riverbank east of the village and mark out the boundary for me! Remember, be discreet! Surround the area tightly with bamboo and thatch grass, don’t even let a stray dog in! Also, you two hurry to town and quietly buy up all the large iron pots and stone mortars you can find! I’ll provide the silver!”

“Yes!”

Finally, his gaze fell upon Su Shan and his son.

“Shanzi, Xiao Ming. The heaviest burden rests on your father and son’s shoulders. Starting tomorrow, you two will be the ‘master craftsmen’ of this workshop! How to proceed, who and what you need, report directly to me! I have only one demand!”

He paused, his gaze burning, enunciating each word clearly: “Within one month, I want to see paper that can be exchanged for copper coins!”

The night grew deeper. Su Shan and his son returned home in silence.

The soft thud of the courtyard gate closing shut out the outside world. Without a word, Su Shan squatted by the stone mill in the corner of the yard, pulled out his pipe, his hands trembling as he stuffed in the tobacco shreds, striking the flint several times before it ignited. He took a fierce drag, the pungent smoke filling his lungs, seeming to reclaim a shred of his soul. The pipe bowl glowed bright then dim, illuminating his deeply lined face, now heavy with gloom.

Su Ming stood quietly behind him. As the night wind blew, he was startled to realize the inner garment on his back was already soaked through with cold sweat, clinging icily to his skin.

His heart still pounded wildly in his chest, not just for the grand endeavor about to unfold, but for a weighty, almost back-breaking responsibility that had already firmly bound itself to him.

…

Zhao Dequan acted with thunderous speed and decisive action.

The very next day, news about the Village Chief wanting to organize the villagers to open a “bamboo ware workshop” spread through the village like the wind. The villagers were initially skeptical, but seeing the three highly respected clan elders all step forward to corroborate it, speaking with much anticipation about the matter, their doubts gradually dissipated, turning instead to discussions about how much tangible benefit this workshop could bring them.

At the same time, Zhao Dazhuang and Zhao Eryong, leading over a dozen sturdy clansmen, appeared on that long-abandoned stretch of riverbank east of the village. These men were all carefully selected by Zhao Dequan and the clan elders for their tight-lipped reliability. They felled bamboo and moved earth, working with fiery enthusiasm. In just two or three days, several crude but sufficiently spacious work sheds sprang up from the ground. The perimeter was further enclosed with a fence nearly twice a man’s height made of sharpened bamboo poles and thick thatch grass, leaving only one narrow entrance-exit point, guarded day and night in shifts by Zhao clansmen. Ordinary people couldn’t possibly peek inside to see what was happening.

A few more days later, several large iron pots requiring two men to embrace, along with over a dozen heavy, coarse stone mortars, were quietly transported in by ox-cart.

A rudimentary, secretive factory had quietly taken shape on this desolate bank.

Su Ming and Su Yang became the most special presences in this workshop.

Su Ming was the “technical supervisor,” responsible for guiding the process flow.

Su Yang was the “foreman,” leading everyone in the practical operations.

The first batch of over a dozen selected villagers only knew they were here to work and earn some hard-earned money. As for the specific nature of the work, strict orders from above forbade inquiry, and they dared not ask.

Everything seemed to be progressing secretly and in an orderly fashion.

Felling tender bamboo from the current year, cutting it into foot-long sections, repeatedly pounding it into loose bamboo fibers with heavy wooden mallets… These tasks, while labor-intensive, weren’t particularly difficult.

Inside the work sheds, the “thump, thump” sound of pounding continued day and night, like a vigorous drumbeat for this secretive enterprise.

Several days later, the pounded bamboo fibers were thrown into newly built lime pits to soak and ret in the prepared strong alkaline water.

A unique odor, a mix of rotting bamboo and alkaline pungency, began to permeate the workshop area.

Everything seemed no different from Su Ming’s earlier small-scale trial.

The anticipation in everyone’s hearts gradually grew.

Zhao Dequan came almost every day, hands clasped behind his back as he inspected, watching the color of the bamboo material in the pits grow darker day by day. A hint of a barely perceptible smile even appeared on his usually stern face.

Another seven or eight days passed. Su Ming estimated the retting was about done.

At his command, everyone fished out the now softened and rotten bamboo material, carried it to the river, and repeatedly rinsed it with clear river water, trying their best to wash away the alkaline liquid and impurities.

The final step, also the most crucial step—steaming and boiling into pulp.

A giant iron pot had long been set up on a newly built earthen stove. The rinsed bamboo material was poured into it, and water was added.

“Light the fire!” Su Yang’s booming voice echoed in the workshop.

Dry firewood was fed into the stove chamber. Flames instantly leaped up, greedily licking the blackened bottom of the pot.

Everyone gathered around the stove and pot, craning their necks, their gazes burning, tension and anticipation interwoven on every face. What churned in that pot seemed not like murky yellow bamboo material, but molten, gleaming gold.

“Hey? Something’s not right!” a man squatting by the stove mouth, responsible for adding firewood, suddenly cried out. “Why is this pot bubbling and boiling fiercely in some spots, but lifeless and still in others?”

Hearing this, Su Yang took a swift stride to the side of the pot, peering intently.

Indeed! Due to the pot’s massive size, the heat distribution was extremely uneven. The pulp directly above the stove’s heart was boiling violently, foam churning, while the areas near the edges of the pot were merely lukewarm, the bamboo material settled at the bottom, showing no reaction.

“Quick! Get wooden poles! Stir! Stir hard!” Su Yang urgently shouted.

Two men nearby immediately grabbed the prepared long wooden poles and thrust them into the pot, stirring with all their might.

But the retted bamboo material was exceptionally viscous, offering great resistance. The poles sank deep into it, stirring was extremely strenuous, and it was utterly impossible to stir evenly. The pot of paste was inconsistent in thickness, mottled in color. The situation was clearly about to spiral out of control.

Zhao Dequan hurried over upon hearing the news. Seeing this scene, his face instantly darkened like water. His gaze swept towards Su Ming. “Xiao Ming, what’s going on here?”

Su Ming’s brow had long been tightly furrowed. He too hadn’t anticipated that the method successful in small-scale trials would encounter such problems when scaled up.

“Master?” He urgently called out in his heart.

Lin Yu’s voice carried undisguised disdain. “Isn’t it obvious? The pot is big, the bottom thick, the fire only burns the center of the pot, heat distribution is uneven! The manpower stirring isn’t enough, the force insufficient, purely a waste of effort! Furthermore, the plant ash water you used for your small-scale tinkering before was carefully filtered. This time, with large-batch retting, the concentration is bound to have deviations. The alkaline water ratio is simply wrong!”

“What should we do?”

“What can we do? Reduce the fire! Add people! As for the alkaline water concentration… I’ll teach you a rustic method. Next time, put a fresh egg into the ash water, see how much of it floats, and you can estimate roughly. Tsk, I have to point out everything for you, how clumsy!”

Su Ming felt slightly reassured.

Pretending to carefully circle the large pot twice, he scooped up a little paper pulp with a long-handled wooden ladle to examine it closely, then suddenly slapped his forehead, acting as if he had a sudden realization.

“Uncle Zhao! Everyone! I understand now!” he shouted, immediately drawing everyone’s attention.

“What is it?” Zhao Dequan asked urgently.

Su Ming’s tone was resolute. “The fire needs to be gentle, even, it needs to heat slowly, absolutely cannot be rushed! And this pulp needs to be stirred non-stop, to ensure even heating, only then can the bamboo fibers be completely broken down to achieve good paper pulp!”

He then pointed to the unused alkaline water pit beside them.

“And this ash water needs to be tested for its concentration using the ‘egg floatation method’! Take a fresh egg and place it in the ash water. Observe how much of it floats to determine if the concentration is suitable!”

This seemingly mysterious explanation, mixed with unfamiliar terms like “egg floatation method,” left the group of simple farmers dumbfounded. Though they didn’t understand the principle, they immediately felt it was profound and esoteric, surely some incredible secret ancient method.

Zhao Dequan was half-convinced, half-doubting. “Will that really work?”

“This method seems simplest, yet is most difficult! Heat control, stirring force, concentration—none can be lacking!” Su Ming stated with conviction.

However, the atmosphere in the workshop inevitably grew tense.

“Can a pot of mushy mess really turn into something special?”

Murmurs of complaint and questioning quietly spread among the crowd. The movements of several men noticeably slowed, their faces filled with slackness and doubt.

Zhao Dequan’s face was like iron. His gaze swept over the crowd, his heart sinking continuously. He knew well that once morale scattered, this workshop that had just been set up could collapse and vanish in an instant!

Just as morale was wavering, a furious roar suddenly erupted. “Shut the hell up, all of you!” Su Yang slammed the wooden pole in his hand heavily onto the ground with a dull “thud,” drowning out all other noises.

He yanked off his short jacket, already soaked through with sweat, his eyes wide as he scanned each of the men whispering among themselves. “The method Third Son speaks of is the iron rule! Everyone listen to him! Whoever dares utter half a word of gossip again, don’t blame my fists for not recognizing you!”

With that, he said no more, dragged over a sturdy wooden stump, and stepped onto it with one foot.

He grabbed that wooden pole, took a deep breath of the scorching, hot air, thrust the pole fiercely into the pot of scalding, viscous, nearly solidified paper pulp, and with all his might, began to stir violently!

“Shuanzi! Reduce the fire! Take out most of it!” he roared through gritted teeth, battling the stubborn pot of pulp.

“Tiedan! You damn fool, standing there dumbstruck waiting for a feast? Come here! Take over for me! Take turns stirring! No one is allowed to stop! No one rests!”

The men who had originally felt like giving up, looking at the bare-chested figure struggling fiercely amidst the swirling steam, expressions of shame appeared on their faces one after another.

“Brother Yang! I’ll do it!”

“And me!”

Zhao Dazhuang and Zhao Eryong were the first to react. Blood surging, they roared, grabbed wooden poles, leaped onto the high ground beside the stove, stood shoulder to shoulder with Su Yang, thrust the poles deep into the pulp, and stirred with all their might.

The strength of one person might be insignificant, but three, four, five… more and more people were infected by this fierce, relentless momentum and joined in.

That pot of originally dead, gloomy paper pulp finally began to rotate—difficultly, slowly at first, then gradually more smoothly—forming a huge, whirlpool-like vortex.

Su Ming stood quietly to the side, silently watching his Second Brother’s life-and-death struggle.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep