Chapter Twenty-Two: Sleeping Foot to Foot

Although his invitation had been flatly refused by Zhao Hengyi, Song Ying’an still chose to take up residence in Yushu Bay.

The reason for Song Ying’an’s sojourn at the county villa in Dangyang was, after all, to find some peace of mind; where he stayed was of little consequence. Yushu Bay was indeed poor and crude, yet as the Lord of Dangyang, Song Ying’an could easily arrange for all his daily necessities to be delivered. Besides, as a military commander who had always led by example in the Xuan Battalion, he was far less pampered than other noble sons.

At first, Song Ying’an found Zhao Hengyi inscrutable, then thought him a scholar of supernatural wisdom, later a man versed in worldly matters; but in the end, his impression settled on one word: intriguing.

In Song Ying’an’s eyes, Zhao Hengyi—having lived two lives and embracing the principle of equality—carried himself with an innate dignity quite different from the so-called talented scholars or craftsmen admired by the world.

What made this even more remarkable was that Zhao Hengyi was still young—several years younger than Song Ying’an himself, in fact—and, as Song Ying’an had heard, had never received the advanced education of this era. Such ability and insight could only be described as heaven-sent genius.

Song Ying’an’s arrival, in turn, brought real benefits to Zhao Hengyi. First, there were the rewards for slaying the one-eyed Black Gale. With the Lord of Dangyang as guarantor, the county’s substantial bounty—three hundred taels—was paid directly to Zhao Hengyi. Furthermore, the enormous bear, comparable to a primordial beast, was a trove of treasures. While Song Ying’an had already reserved the bear’s hide and gall, the remaining bear paws and bones caused a stir in the county and fetched over two hundred taels more.

Altogether, the proceeds exceeded five hundred taels. Zhao Hengyi divided ninety taels among Wang Dahu, Wang Erhu, and Old Wu Liu, but the three men refused any more, no matter how he pressed. He then distributed several dozen taels among the villagers who had helped. After all was done, Zhao Hengyi still had four hundred and thirty taels left.

Every family in Yushu Bay shared in the good fortune. Large portions of bear meat were divided among them, and when the cooking smoke rose, the entire village was redolent with the rich scent of roasting meat.

Secondly, Zhao Hengyi achieved another aim through Song Ying’an: he persuaded him to send people to purchase Yushu Bay’s cloth and sell it directly in Jiangling Prefecture, thus neatly sidestepping the threat once posed by the Liang family to the Miao household.

In Miao Xiaoyu’s eyes, the Liang family—one of Jiangling’s leading textile merchants—was a behemoth. As new looms designed by her husband were assembled and put to use, her heart was filled with dread, haunted by fears that calamities once visited upon the Miao family might now befall her and her husband. But with the Lord of Dangyang now standing behind them, even the Liang family would not dare covet Zhao Hengyi’s secrets.

Originally, Zhao Hengyi had intended to invite Song Ying’an to invest—after all, real interests were the surest way to bind together two men of such different status. But Song Ying’an steadfastly refused, and so Zhao Hengyi let the matter drop.

Instead, he turned around and revealed to Song Ying’an the entire process of crafting the hand crossbow: how to modify the furnace, what minerals to add during forging—he laid it all bare.

Song Ying’an, unable to foresee the immense profits the new loom would bring, was in urgent need of improved smithing techniques. In this exchange, which barely counted as a transaction, the most disappointed was Zhao Hengyi’s apprentice, Zhang Daniu. The honest fellow believed that his own lack of skill and slow work had forced his master to impart their unique craft to outsiders—even if that outsider was a lord, it was still hard to accept.

Born to a noble house and raised in luxury, Song Ying’an had won his title through military merit. Yet such tangible profits did not matter to him; he hardly noticed these trifles.

What Song Ying’an truly valued was Zhao Hengyi himself.

By now, the weather was warm enough that even the thatched cottages of ordinary families in Yushu Bay were no longer cold. Song Ying’an and his guards rented a few houses, pulling Zhao Hengyi aside day after day to talk about everything under the sun, and gradually, the weight in his heart began to lift.

In the end, the two—so vastly different in rank—became something like old friends from college.

For Song Ying’an, this was a novel experience. As a noble, he had always been surrounded either by servants who fawned over him, or by idle young men of similar status, whose faces were masked with frivolity and pretense. Only with Zhao Hengyi did he finally sense the existence of genuine friendship—perhaps, he thought, this was what the books called a true confidant.

Meanwhile, Zhao Hengyi’s view of the noble commander was slowly changing as well.

Though this young lord was inevitably shaped by the limitations of his era, Zhao Hengyi had to admit he was far livelier—and far less distant—than the stiff, arrogant nobles he used to imagine.

Their friendship deepened so quickly that Song Ying’an would even insist on sharing a bed with Zhao Hengyi just to continue their conversations, astonishing his loyal guards, who knew their lord’s temperament well.

In the eyes of Yushu Bay’s villagers, the once-foolish Hengyi had clearly climbed high; with the lord as his patron, his future was sure to be bright. They fully expected him to leave the village behind and rise to great heights.

Yet to their surprise, Zhao Hengyi did not abandon Yushu Bay to follow the lord. Instead, he invested his newfound wealth in several major projects in the village. The idle laborers, who normally found no work during the slow farming season, suddenly found themselves in demand.

To Zhao Hengyi, hoarding money was pointless. With the lord of Dangyang as his backer, the wisest course was to invest and transform his silver into real industries.

He fulfilled his promise to the village elders and built a brick kiln. Using knowledge from his previous life, he also established a lime kiln. The villagers were kept so busy with work that it seemed, all at once, the harsh world had grown a little kinder.

According to Zhao Hengyi’s plan, the textile workshop was to be gradually expanded. The new factories would be built with brick and tile, and would one day become a landmark of Yushu Bay.

With ample funds, the old village chief began buying chickens and ducks, and the poultry farm soon took shape.

Everything was changing in an orderly fashion. Observing all this, Song Ying’an suddenly understood what Zhao Hengyi had meant that day by the earthworm pond.

All things in nature have their uses. The world does not lack the means to change one’s fate—it only lacks the eyes to see them.

But where, then, are the things that can change one’s destiny?