Chapter Fifty: The Battle for Market Share!

There are no walls that don’t leak, and the news that Li Zhao had spent the night at the Plum Blossom Manor quickly spread throughout the circles of power and privilege in Chang’an City. Rumors flew thick and fast, with endless speculation and gossip.

Especially among the young noblemen who harbored feelings for the Plum Fairy, their hatred for Li Zhao ran deep—some gritted their teeth, others cursed him openly, and many secretly plotted against him. Meanwhile, everyone was eager to find out what exactly had transpired between the two.

Even Duke Xiaoqi—Cui Zongzhi—couldn’t resist the pull of gossip and came to inquire.

“What? You spent the night at the Plum Blossom Manor, even shared a room with the Plum Fairy, and yet you did absolutely nothing?”

“Yes, we only discussed some business matters. Then it got late, the city gates of Chang’an had closed, and I had nowhere else to go, so I just rested at the manor overnight.”

“What a golden opportunity, and all you did was rest? Didn’t do anything else?”

“No.”

“Alas, Yu Lang, now everyone calls you a beast, but in my view, you’re even worse than one!”

Whether beast or worse, Li Zhao paid little mind. His utmost priority was to quell the cash shortage swiftly and restore peace to the people of Chang’an.

Wang Yuanbao and the Plum Fairy had promised to help. What followed would be a fierce price war—who would win or lose remained uncertain.

...

At dawn, on the main road outside Chang’an, a caravan of farmers was slowly making its way forward—about a hundred strong. Some drove ox carts, others donkey carts, and some pushed wheelbarrows, all laden with grain, raw silk, eggs, jujubes, persimmons, and other farm produce.

These farmers hailed from the Bai Lu Plain. With the golden autumn of October upon them, it was time to pay the autumn tax. But cash was scarce, so as in years past, they brought their produce into the city to sell for money.

“Come on, folks, a little more effort—we’re almost at Chang’an.”

“All right!”

The Bai Lu Plain lay over forty miles from Chang’an, with two great rivers and a high ridge to cross along the way. The farmers had traveled all night, arriving utterly exhausted beneath the city walls.

Fortunately, once inside, they could sell their goods and after paying taxes, there might be a little left to buy essential daily items like salt, coarse tea, and porcelain.

Life for these farmers was tough, but as long as they had simple food to fill their bellies, they were content.

However, their hopes were dashed upon entering the city. The once-bustling West Market was now desolate; most shops were shuttered, fewer than a tenth remained open, and even those had lifeless doorways and bleak business.

What had happened?

No one could explain.

Moving on to the East Market, the situation was even worse. Less than five percent of shops were open, and there were no merchants buying grain or raw silk at all.

Panic swept through the farmers. If they couldn’t sell their produce, how would they pay their taxes or purchase necessities?

What had happened this year? Where had all the merchants gone?

“Bang! Bang!… The Guo family trading company is now buying grain and raw silk at clear, fair prices. Sellers, line up quickly!”

Amid the clanging of a copper gong, a thin man in a green robe, the manager of the Guo firm, arrived with over a hundred assistants. They swiftly set up a stall in the market square and hoisted a huge white banner emblazoned with a copper coin and four characters: “Daily Gold Rush.” Anyone with some knowledge knew this was the mark of Guo Wanjin, one of the Four Great Gods of Wealth.

...

Seeing a merchant finally buying produce, the farmers breathed a sigh of relief and hurried their carts to the Guo stall. But when they read the posted prices, their hopes sank once more.

Fifteen wen per dou of wheat, twelve for millet, eight for glutinous millet—only half the price of previous years.

Raw silk was even worse, dropping to less than a third of last year’s price.

At these rates, selling all their harvest wouldn’t even cover taxes; their year’s hard work would be in vain. The farmers exchanged helpless glances, unsure what to do.

Desperately, a white-haired elder stepped forward and dared to question the thin manager. “Excuse me, sir, could there be a mistake on the price list? Last year at this time, wheat was thirty wen per dou, millet twenty-four, and glutinous millet around sixteen or seventeen…”

“Bah! Old fool, stop talking nonsense. Open your eyes wide—there’s a cash shortage in the Guanzhong region. Prices for everything have fallen sharply, so grain and silk prices naturally fall too!”

“But these prices are far too low. Even if we sold the entire harvest, it wouldn’t cover the tax. Could you please raise the prices a little?”

“Bah! Whether you pay the tax or not is your problem, not ours. Listen, you farmers—sell now or get lost. If you delay, these prices won’t even hold. Then you’ll be the ones crying.”

...

The white-haired elder pleaded for some time, but the Guo manager was utterly unyielding, his words so foul they could knock a man down twice.

Angered but unwilling to sell their hard-earned grain for so little, the elder led his group away, wandering the market to inquire at other shops.

Fortune favored the diligent: a small store was willing to buy their goods, offering prices somewhat better, though still not high.

Overjoyed, the elder began negotiating with the shopkeeper. But no sooner had they exchanged a few words than two Guo company assistants appeared nearby, watching them surreptitiously.

Seeing this, the small shopkeeper’s face drained of color. He abruptly ended negotiations, returned inside, and closed his shop.

The Guo firm was notoriously tyrannical. Any business they targeted, they forbade others from touching. Disobedience meant retaliation—shops burned, fortunes ruined at best; lawsuits, family ruin, and worse, at worst.

Guo Wanjin’s patron was none other than the empire’s premier minister, Li Linfu, infamous for his ruthless cunning and cruelty. No one dared cross him.

...

The white-haired elder seethed but dared not provoke the Guo firm. Forced to continue his fruitless search, he went shop to shop, but no one dared buy from them.

Meanwhile, more than ten other farmer caravans arrived from nearby plains—Shenhe, Shaoling, Bahei—all seeking to sell their produce.

Like the Bai Lu group, they found themselves unable to sell, and the leaders gathered to discuss.

“This year’s harvest was good; we hoped for better times, but this blasted cash shortage is killing us farmers. Maybe we should beg Guo’s firm to raise prices, even a little.”

“Bah! Those merchants only care about money. Begging them is useless, even if we bang our heads to the ground.”

“Sigh, life is full of hardship, and farmers suffer most. This is our fate. Let’s accept it. The fire is at our doorstep—better to focus on the present and tighten belts for the future.”

After much discussion, the leaders resolved to sell their grain and silk at low prices to Guo’s firm.

They had no choice. Without selling, there was no money; without money, no taxes. If the ruthless officials came to collect, they would be utterly ruined.

Compared to the rapacious merchants, the cruel officials were even worse—eating, drinking, extorting without mercy.

Thus, the caravans made their second approach to Guo’s stall, only to find the prices had dropped again—wheat ten wen per dou, millet eight, glutinous millet five—a further third cut.

...

The thin manager had anticipated the farmers’ return. By slashing prices again, he aimed to squeeze even more profit.

“Manager, this is unfair. Prices were low enough, and now another 30% cut? How are we supposed to survive?”

“Bah! A bunch of farmers. I say again: sell or leave. If you spoil my mood, I might cut prices by another 30%. Then you’ll have no one to blame but yourselves.”

“You’re clearly bullying us!”

“Haha, exactly. And what can you do about it?”

Despite their protests, the farmers were powerless. In this game, they were fish on the chopping block—no choice but to accept their fate and be slaughtered.

Just as they prepared to sell at these low prices, the situation shifted.

A stout man in blue arrived with over a hundred assistants, setting up a stall and hoisting a large banner depicting a massive gold ingot.

Everyone knew this was the mark of Wang Yuanbao, the foremost of the Four Great Gods of Wealth.

Shortly after, the Wang firm posted their purchase prices in large characters: wheat thirty wen per dou, millet twenty-four, glutinous millet fifteen—prices roughly equal to those of previous years.

“Wow!”

“It’s the Wang firm! There’s hope now—we have a way out!”

...

The farmers stared in disbelief, rubbed their eyes, then surged forward to sell their produce, eager and pushing past one another.

Wang’s assistants welcomed all sellers and weighed goods so generously that the scales tipped in the farmers’ favor.

Grateful beyond words, the farmers sent messengers to call their fellows still wandering the city to come sell here.

Soon, the Wang firm’s stall was jam-packed with people.

Meanwhile, the thin Guo manager seethed with fury but was powerless to act.

Unlike the small shops, Wang’s firm was wealthy and backed by powerful connections, unafraid of Guo’s threats.

At the same time, the Mei trading company also stepped in, setting up stalls in East and West Markets, buying grain, raw silk, cloth, copperware, ironware, porcelain, livestock—all at normal market prices.

Within days, the once lifeless Chang’an markets revived, trade resumed, prices stabilized, and smiles returned to the faces of farmers, merchants, and residents alike.

In their joy, people couldn’t help but praise, “God of Wealth Wang, such a great man... and Plum Fairy Mei, with a heart of a bodhisattva!”

As for Guo Wanjin… bah!