Chapter Forty-Three: The February Spring Breeze Is Sharp as Scissors

Du Guo stayed in Luoyang for ten days, neither visiting nor receiving anyone. Ten days later, he quietly departed, coming and going without drawing much attention from the city’s officials. As for Zhang Chou Taiyi, he never appeared in public. Most officials only knew Du Guo was in Luoyang for official business, but few were privy to his true purpose.

Then, among the prominent clans of the River Luo region, rumors began to circulate: the Crown Prince desired to move the capital. Yet these whispers remained confined to a small circle; the common folk sensed nothing amiss.

By the time Du Guo left, Zheng Shian had completed the preliminary preparations for promoting the scissors. A hundred exquisite gift boxes were arranged, each containing scissors meticulously crafted by Xiong Da Hammer. The boxes featured engraved willow motifs by renowned artisans, accompanied by Yan Qing’s poem likening the spring breeze of February to scissors.

Inside the brocade boxes were the words “Xiong’s Scissors” and a hammer emblem. As Yan Qing had said, everything must be done to perfection; one might never use the scissors within, but the box would surely be kept.

Following Yan Qing’s instructions, Zheng Shian invested fifty strings of coins to rent a shop in Luoyang’s bustling market with Xiong Da Hammer and other veteran soldiers of Tianjin Bridge Street. The shop displayed the new-style scissors. Though the shop was small, it attracted many visitors.

Yet few were willing to pay. After all, this was a novel design, and it would take time for people to abandon their old scissors. Yan Qing advised Zheng Shian to prepare for six months of no sales. Still, Xiong Da Hammer was to maintain steady production for inventory. Yan Qing was not versed in economics, so he could not devise many practical strategies, but his prediction proved accurate: in ten days, only two ordinary pairs of scissors were sold.

Zheng Shian grew anxious. After distributing the hundred finely made scissors through his connections, he received no further news. With the shop barely seeing business, he also had to support Xiong Da Hammer’s family and cover daily production costs. In a month, he had spent over nine hundred strings of coins. The money flowed away like water, and as his funds dwindled, Zheng Shian’s anxiety mounted.

Zheng Renji sent people to monitor the situation. Hearing that Zheng Shian and Xiong Da Hammer were selling scissors together, he could not help but burst into laughter. “That old man truly is mad. How much could he possibly earn from mere scissors?”

Madam Cui sneered as well. She had previously tried to frame Zheng Shian and his grandson, only to implicate Cui Daolin and his son, along with Zheng Renji’s ancestral jade belt, which had vanished without a trace. For this, she was harshly scolded by the Cui family, leaving her quite disgruntled.

Seeing Zheng Shian about to lose everything, Madam Cui finally felt vindicated. “Master, Zheng Shian has had a hard time. At this rate, he won’t last much longer. We shouldn’t just stand by and watch. If we can help, we should. Shall I have someone buy a few pairs?”

Zheng Renji nodded repeatedly. Unexpectedly, Zheng Hongyi overheard and discussed the matter with Xu Shiji. The two planned to pool fifty strings of coins to secretly purchase some scissors. After all, Zheng Shian was Yan Qing’s grandfather; if he went bankrupt, Yan Qing would suffer as well. They might not be able to help much, but it was better than coldly observing.

Zheng Shian sat in the shop, restless and anxious. If business did not pick up soon, he would not last another month. He sat at the counter, furiously calculating; in a month, nearly all of his thousand strings of coins had been spent. He could not hold out much longer.

Though he and his grandson had no worries about daily life, the scissors seemed a bottomless pit, with Xiong Da Hammer alone costing a string of coins daily. Now, his remaining funds amounted to only a few dozen strings, and he could not go on.

Now, everyone in Luoyang knew of this fool who had opened a foolish shop.

“Brother Zheng!”

As Zheng Shian was accounting, someone called his name. Looking up, he saw a man enter, dignified in appearance, with high cheekbones and fair skin—hinting at foreign ancestry.

“Steward Yuan!”

Zheng Shian hurriedly left the counter to greet him. This was Yuan Lingrong, steward of the Yuan residence in Luoyang. The Yuan family, once the imperial clan of Northern Wei, had changed their surname from Tuoba to Yuan. The residence belonged to Yuan Wendou, Deputy Minister of the Imperial Household, who was the father of the former Crown Princess Yuan. The Crown Prince, having fallen out with Empress Dugu over the princess, was stripped of his title. Yet Yang Jian and Empress Dugu remained somewhat apologetic toward Yuan Wendou’s clan.

Yuan Lingrong entered with a cheerful smile and exchanged greetings with Zheng Shian. Once seated, Zheng Shian cautiously asked, “Young master, what brings you to my humble shop today?”

“Heh, brother, you truly have a knack for things,” Yuan Lingrong replied.

Zheng Shian was perplexed. “Young master, what do you mean?”

“You sent me that brocade box last month, but why didn’t you mention that the poem inscribed was written by your grandson?”

“Ah, well…” Zheng Shian had indeed gifted a pair of scissors to Yuan Lingrong, who had paid it no mind at the time.

“That was just my grandson’s bit of mischief—hardly worth mentioning.”

“You underestimate it, brother. Your grandson is a prodigy of his age; his poetry and calligraphy are worth a fortune. And the scissors are superb—not only exquisitely made, but they save much effort in use. I’ve come on my master’s orders to purchase scissors: thirty top-grade, a hundred mid-grade, and three hundred low-grade.”

Xiong’s Scissors came in three grades: top, middle, and low. Top-grade cost twenty strings, mid-grade a hundred coins, low-grade fifty coins. The top-grade, crafted by Xiong Da Hammer himself, boasted superior workmanship and materials, and exquisite packaging. The mid-grade was made by others from Tianjin Bridge, with lesser materials and craftsmanship. The low-grade used leftover materials from the top-grade and was of little value. Ordinary families chose the low-grade, while wealthy households preferred the higher grades.

A family as large as Yuan Wendou’s had no need for so many scissors. But by chance, someone bought a low-grade pair and used them in the kitchen, finding them remarkably convenient. Yuan Wendou, seeing the poetry on the top-grade’s box, immediately recognized its value.

Now, among the nobles of Chang’an, poetry in the style of “Ode to the Goose” was fashionable. The scissors were well made and featured the handwriting of the Goose Prince; gifting them was prestigious.

Zheng Shian was startled. The thirty top-grade pairs alone would recoup his early investment.

“Steward Yuan, you’re not joking, are you?”

Yuan Lingrong’s eyes widened. “What’s there to joke about? Prepare the goods—I’ve brought the money. Let’s count them.”

Six hundred strings of coins!

Zheng Shian beamed with joy, calling the shop assistants to pack up the scissors. Before Yuan Lingrong had left, another customer arrived to buy top-grade scissors. Zheng Shian had only sixty pairs in stock—not for lack of supply, but for lack of packaging. Even so, the visitor bought the remaining thirty pairs at once.

In a short time, Zheng Shian recouped over a thousand strings of coins.

“Make the brocade boxes immediately!” he shouted as soon as he sent the customer off. “Make a hundred—no, two hundred! Count the money we have and make as many boxes as possible.”

The Xiong’s Scissors shop, desolate for over a month, suddenly sprang to life.

“Grandfather, once these two hundred top-grade scissors are sold, don’t make more for now.”

That night, Zheng Yanqing heard of the day’s events and immediately offered advice.

“Why?” Zheng Shian was puzzled. “The top-grade scissors are selling best and are highly profitable. Why not make more?”

“Grandfather, too much is as bad as too little,” Yan Qing explained, counting on his fingers. “Think about it—why are people buying these scissors? For my poetry. Most are gifts; do you think those gentlemen will actually use them? It’s just a gimmick—use it once and it loses its novelty. Our focus should be on promoting the mid- and low-grade scissors, which are the real money-makers. The top-grade is only for prestige. If anyone comes to buy, sell five at a time—no more. Once these are gone, secretly make another batch; as much as funds allow. I estimate that once these two hundred are sold, things will stabilize. When Chang’an starts paying attention, you can announce that the original draft was lost, and raise the price of the top-grade scissors by double.”

The brocade box’s most valuable feature was the poem on its lid. The draft was kept by Zheng Shian, brought out for imprinting during production. If the draft was lost, identical boxes could no longer be made. Yan Qing understood that sales of top-grade scissors would not be large; the key was to use them for initial capital. The rarity would make them precious, and when handled properly, could yield another windfall.

Zheng Shian had no doubts and agreed without hesitation. At worst, he would bear some criticism—he feared nothing. Real, tangible wealth was what mattered.

Unbeknownst to him, after surviving a bankruptcy crisis, Zheng Shian began to pay attention to gold and silver. With his own calculations in mind, his sense of belonging to the Zheng family quietly diminished. Yan Qing could sense the change in Zheng Shian’s heart. At least in this crisis, Zheng Shian never once mentioned the name “Zheng.”

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The third installment is delivered. The February spring breeze is like scissors… Old Xin would rather not frequently beg for recommendations, but surrounded by so many literary giants, he must work hard. There will be another update tonight; brothers, please give your support! After a busy day, if we drop now, all previous effort will be in vain. If you have votes, please recommend; if not, a click will do. As the saying goes, at home rely on parents, writing books rely on readers—Old Xin bows deeply, humbly asking for recommendations and favorites!