Kang He learned at the dry goods store that fern powder fetched a high price, so he gave up the idea of making money through hunting and decided to try another way.
Previously, he had nearly fallen off a cliff in an area abundant with ferns.
After autumn, their roots would surely be thick, yielding plenty of powder.
Though it was labor-intensive work, as long as there was money to be made, he didn’t mind the trouble.
Fan Jing, gathering firewood nearby, heard the sound of digging and approached.
He saw Kang He cutting away fern fronds and pulling out finger-sized fern roots.
“What are you doing?” Fan Jing asked.
Kang He replied, “Digging roots for powder.”
Fan Jing thought to himself that this man, in his pursuit of money, would gather any mountain goods he could.
He said slowly, “There’s also kudzu in the mountains.”
Kang He’s eyes lit up, and he immediately asked, “Where?”
Fan Jing, however, fell silent.
Seeing this, Kang He understood and said, “Just tell me where, and I’ll go get it. When I sell it, how about I give you twenty percent?”
Fan Jing still didn’t respond.
Kang He noticed his pursed lips and calm demeanor.
Not only did Fan Jing not want to help, but he also seemed uninterested in sharing the profits.
Could it be… he was just teasing him?
Kang He put down his hoe, propped his chin on the handle, and looked at Fan Jing with a playful tone, “Good brother, just tell me, please~”
Fan Jing froze at the tone, gave Kang He a sideways glance, and walked off.
Kang He stretched his neck and called after him, “Good brother, you’re deliberately making me anxious, aren’t you~”
“In the hollow before the cliff,” came Fan Jing’s slightly annoyed and awkward reply.
Kang He couldn’t help but burst out laughing.
That morning, he dug up fern roots and filled an entire basket.
In the afternoon, guided by Fan Jing, he went to the mountain hollow and spent half the day digging kudzu roots.
These were grueling tasks.
Digging the roots from the soil was only the start; processing them to extract the powder was the real hassle.
Both fern and kudzu roots were prepared similarly.
The roots, long buried in the earth, had to be thoroughly scrubbed clean, then pounded into a pulp, filtered with water, and left to settle.
The white powder that settled at the bottom needed multiple rounds of rinsing and filtering to become clean and pure.
The resulting fine powder was dried into cakes, which could be crumbled into dry powder with a pinch.
It could be mixed with boiling water to make a paste, coated on meat for frying to keep it tender and prevent burning, or made into soft, chewy noodles…
The next day, at dawn, Kang He carried the fern and kudzu roots to the river to wash them thoroughly, spending the entire morning cleaning.
Back at the yard, he used a large wooden mallet to pound the roots into pulp.
After a busy afternoon, by evening, when he let the pounded powder settle in basins, Kang He felt his back could barely straighten.
Thanks to his strength, he collapsed onto the wooden bed that night, arms sore and back aching, and fell asleep instantly.
The next morning, he changed the water to rinse the powder again, repeating the process four or five times until the starch at the bottom of the basin turned white, growing purer with each rinse.
At night, Kang He drained the water, scooped out the starch, and placed it in a winnowing basket lined with clean hemp cloth, setting it over the stove to dry.
Fan Jing, warming himself by the fire, watched Kang He patiently handle the starch.
He thought to himself, this man has good patience.
With this temperament, he could make a living anywhere.
It had been six or seven days since they came up the mountain.
Normally, Fan Jing would have gone back down by now, but the provisions they brought, which should have run out, were supplemented by Kang He’s purchases of flour, meat, and vegetables in town.
They could stay a few more days.
Seeing the days grow colder, Fan Jing was reluctant to return home and waste time.
Once snow fell, he wouldn’t come back to the mountains.
Until then, he wanted to stay as long as possible.
Kang He turned to Fan Jing and said, “Once the powder is dried, I’ll need to go to town. Are you coming along? This time, we’ve got some live game, haven’t we?”
Fan Jing paused, then said, “I’ll go.” The game they had was injured, and keeping it in the mountains would require feeding it grain.
If it died, it would lose value.
That night, Kang He kept a small fire going to dry the starch until midnight.
By morning, it was crisp and ready.
The two packed up and headed to town together.
In town, Kang He first visited two dry goods stores to inquire about starch prices.
The offers varied, but both were lower than those at Ge’s Dry Goods Store in Cat Alley.
Kang He had already planned to sell to Ge’s, but since the powder was so labor-intensive to produce, he wanted to avoid being shortchanged.
Fortunately, the store wasn’t busy.
The shopkeeper recognized Kang He at once.
Kang He praised his memory, and the shopkeeper remarked that Kang He’s striking appearance made him easy to remember.
“Last time, I picked up some spices here, and you kindly told me the price of fern powder. Today, I brought some—please take a look and see if it’s to your liking,” Kang He said, placing two neatly wrapped packages of fern and kudzu powder on the counter.
The starch had been dried into small chunks for easier processing, then ground into fine granules the size of a fingernail.
Both packages looked clean at first glance, but the shopkeeper inspected them thoroughly, examining the powder closely, sniffing it, and dissolving a bit in water to taste it before he was satisfied.
“Young brother, this is good quality. Shall we go with the price I mentioned last time?” the shopkeeper asked.
Kang He replied, “I trust your judgment. Your shop has the most regular customers, so it must be honest and reliable. Whether you offer a coin more or less, I feel confident dealing with you.”
Pleased by Kang He’s words, the shopkeeper became more forthcoming.
He weighed the goods: four jin and two liang of kudzu powder, three jin and four liang of fern powder.
At the previously quoted prices—twenty-five coins per jin for kudzu powder and forty-five coins per jin for fern powder—that came to 105 coins for the kudzu and 153 coins for the fern, totaling 258 coins.
The shopkeeper handed Kang He two strings of 100 coins each, plus a string of 50 coins and eight loose coppers.
“You’re straightforward, young brother. If you have more goods like this, bring them to me.”
He often bought from others, mostly from villagers who, in their spare time, dug up roots in the mountains or fields to make powder.
They couldn’t bear to eat it themselves, so they sold it for cash or traded it for rice or flour.
Some older folks were particularly fussy, complaining that his prices were lower than other shops or accusing him of tampering with the scales, claiming their powder weighed more at home.
Their powder was often unclean, with visible dust from kitchen rafters.
Buyers of this powder were usually well-off households with high standards, and if the product wasn’t clean, they wouldn’t buy again and might even badmouth Ge’s Dry Goods Store, discouraging others.
Refusing subpar goods often led to arguments at the shop’s door.
The shopkeeper understood the struggles of poor families, stretching every coin, but his was a small business, not a wealthy one, and he couldn’t afford to deal with troublesome customers.
Over time, he’d met all sorts, so when he encountered someone good-natured like Kang He, he was happy to build a relationship.
Kang He counted the coins and agreed readily.
Fan Jing waited silently at the door, watching Kang He chat and laugh with the shopkeeper.
Though it was only their second meeting, they spoke as if they were old friends reunited.
Fan Jing couldn’t fathom how Kang He could say so much, especially to a stranger.
He wasn’t impatient, just puzzled by Kang He’s endless words.
Leaving Ge’s Dry Goods Store, they headed to the eatery Fan Jing frequented.
Kang He pocketed the heavy coins, wishing for lighter silver or paper notes, but his earnings were too small for those.
Still, the weight in his pocket felt reassuring.
They entered an alley and found the back door of Official Li’s Wild Delicacy Eatery.
The same assistant from last time came to receive the goods.
It was nearly noon, and the eatery was bustling.
From outside, Kang He could hear the swift chopping on the stove and the clanging of spatulas against iron woks.
The aroma of cooking oil wafted out, mixed with the lead cook’s shouts to hurry.
The assistant inspected Fan Jing’s pheasant, looking it over without speaking or weighing it.
Kang He sensed the assistant was being picky.
“The pheasant looks droopy, but it’s not diseased,” he said.
Fan Jing’s brow furrowed.
“How could a mountain pheasant be diseased?”
“Why not? Pheasants have mouths like farm chickens and eat food too. Humans get sick from grains; chickens eat bugs and wild fruits. Is it so strange for them to fall ill?”
Fan Jing, experienced in selling game, knew injured animals were less lively, but this assistant seemed deliberately difficult, likely betting the pheasant wouldn’t survive long and would lose value if it died.
Just as Fan Jing was about to ask if he wanted it, Kang He intervened.
“Look, brother, the pheasant’s spirit is low, but its eyes are clear. Sick chickens have cloudy eyes, not like this. It’s only sluggish because it injured its leg during capture.”
Kang He slipped five coppers into the assistant’s hand, lowering his voice.
“Thanks for your care. We’re regulars here and should’ve treated you to tea soup sooner, but living in the mountains makes trips tight. Please don’t take offense.”
The assistant’s expression softened at the coins.
“There’ve been diseased chickens in the market lately, and the boss and lead cook told us to be thorough. I can’t be careless. You’re familiar, delivering goods often, but you’re quiet—I don’t even know your name.”
Kang He smiled.
“Don’t mind him, brother. Mountain folk aren’t talkative, but we respect you greatly.”
The assistant nodded, took the scale, and rechecked the goods: one pheasant and one fox, priced at 280 coins.
The fox’s pelt was valuable but damaged, lowering its price.
Kang He, unfamiliar with the rates, looked to Fan Jing, who nodded, signaling the price was fair.
Kang He agreed, thanked the assistant, who, now busy, hurried back to the kitchen after a quick exchange.
Outside the alley, Fan Jing said abruptly, “Why give him money? If he didn’t take it, someone else from the eatery would.”
Kang He replied patiently, “With regulars, a small gesture keeps them friendly. If we’d argued with someone else today, he’d resent us. He works here, knows the place. If he badmouths us to the staff, who don’t know your character, they’ll believe him. There are other hunters bringing similar game, and it’s easy for them to find fault with us.”
“If you stop coming, their business goes on, but we’d need to find new buyers. Giving him a few coins tests his character. If he’s reasonable and stays friendly, that’s fine. If he’s greedy, we’ll know and cut ties later.”
Fan Jing didn’t reply but didn’t argue either.
He wasn’t talkative, had little experience with such dealings, and his family avoided provoking his temper, so no one explained things like this to him.
After a moment, he pulled out five coppers and handed them to Kang He, acknowledging his reasoning.
Kang He, however, wasn’t pleased.
“Do you have to settle accounts so clearly with me?” he said, walking ahead.
Fan Jing’s brow tightened, confused by Kang He’s sudden displeasure.