Chapter Forty-Eight: Fiercely Beating the Black Whirlwind!

Time slipped by swiftly, and in the blink of an eye, another month had passed. The weather had grown cold. With the onset of winter, the demand for charcoal, leather coats, strong spirits, and other items for warding off the chill rose rapidly, turning these goods into hot commodities. Among them, the fiery Erguotou, which burned like a blade on the tongue and a blaze in the belly, sold better than ever.

On the sixth day of the eleventh month, a heavy snow fell from the sky.

In the accounting room of Renyichang Distillery, Li Zhao sat at the center, one leg crossed over the other, savoring the newly brewed Erguotou with a few side dishes—utterly at ease and content.

On the other side, Steward Sun and several clerks were reviewing the books from the previous month. Business at the distillery had been exceptional; in just one month, they had accrued a net profit of thirty-eight thousand six hundred strings of cash. More precisely, it was wealth to the value of thirty-eight thousand six hundred strings, including gold ingots of varying purity, silver fragments, copper coins, as well as silks and brocades—cloth, gauze, damask, and more—plus some grain.

There was no helping it. The Tang Empire suffered from a severe shortage of precious metals like gold and silver, and the currency system was chaotic. Commercial transactions often involved barter, which explained the strange assortment of goods in their coffers.

“One day, when I hold real power,” Li Zhao vowed silently after tallying the accounts, “I’ll thoroughly reform the financial system—abolish all those miscellaneous currencies and keep only a single one, uniting the realm and benefiting the people. Wouldn’t that be a joy!”

...

“The distillery has been highly profitable, and all the workers deserve generous rewards for their efforts. Tomorrow is the Winter Solstice. Let everyone have the day off to celebrate at home. Allocate three thousand strings of cash as a holiday bonus for the staff.”

“Three thousand strings—isn’t that too much?”

“Not at all. This is a well-earned reward. Distribute it today without delay.”

“Yes, thank you, young master, for your generosity!” Steward Sun and the others were deeply moved. In all of Wuan County, one could hardly find another employer who would distribute three thousand strings at once. Their hearts warmed with gratitude toward Li Zhao. Secretly, they resolved to work even harder in the future, to expand the distillery and earn more for their master as thanks for his kindness.

“Young master, the Erguotou business is booming. Merchants come in an endless stream, both locals and those from neighboring counties. They nearly trample down our doors. The staff are working around the clock yet still can’t meet demand. In my humble opinion, we should hire more hands, expand the distillery severalfold, and open branches in the surrounding counties—Lantian, Weinan, Fuping, Gaoling—putting capable people in charge. If we expand like a rolling snowball, in five years Renyichang will have branches in every county across Guanzhong. In ten years, we’ll be all over the realm’s fifteen circuits. In twenty years, you’ll be the richest man under heaven, haha!” Steward Sun was clearly shrewd in business and already planning a bright future.

Li Zhao listened carefully. He nodded at first, then shook his head.

“Hire a few dozen more workers and double the size of the distillery—that will suffice. As for opening branches, not for now.”

“Why not, young master? Don’t you want to be the wealthiest man alive?”

“Heh… Of course I do. But now is not the time. As the saying goes: ‘A tall tree catches more wind, great wealth invites disaster.’ Have you forgotten the stories of Deng Tong and Shi Chong?”

“Ah! Young master is wise. I must have been blinded by greed and almost brought calamity upon us!” Steward Sun was quick-witted and instantly understood Li Zhao’s meaning, breaking out in a cold sweat.

Deng Tong, a man of the Western Han, had monopolized coin minting and opened numerous copper mines, becoming the richest man of his age… but his overwhelming wealth brought him persecution, and he died destitute and starving in the street.

Shi Chong, a great magnate of the Western Jin, flaunted his wealth extravagantly—having his servants wash pots with sugar water, paint walls with red wax, and lay a fifty-li brocade walkway before his house. Later, he was falsely accused of treason, executed at the marketplace, and his clan exterminated.

What was Li Zhao trying to say with these two examples? That the rich never have good ends? Not necessarily! History is filled with wealthy men—Tao Zhugong, Bai Gui, the Zhuo family, the Widow Qing—all richer than princes and living out their days in peace.

Why, then, did Deng Tong and Shi Chong meet such ends? Because they violated two cardinal rules: they were too ostentatious, drawing envy and hatred, and they failed to build real power behind their fortunes.

To possess immense wealth without sufficient strength is like a child carrying gold through a den of thieves—disaster is all but certain.

Li Zhao’s situation was much the same. He was a minor princeling, with neither power nor influence, yet he owned a hugely profitable distillery. It looked impressive on the surface, but in truth, danger lurked everywhere—especially lately, as more and more people schemed against the distillery:

Some bribed workers lavishly, hoping to learn the secrets of distilling spirits.
Others sent spies to steal the recipe for Erguotou.
Some even came proposing marriage, wishing to use their daughters and beauty as a ploy to get what they wanted.
...

Countless schemes, endless in their variety.

Fortunately, Li Zhao was sharp, his staff loyal, and with Cui Zongzhi’s help, they had managed to fend off these ill-wishers. But now that Cui Zongzhi had returned to Chang’an, their protection was diminished.

In such a situation, if Li Zhao did not keep a low profile and instead chased after ever greater fortunes, it would only attract more envy and trouble, with predictable results.

To live quietly, develop slowly, and secretly accumulate strength—this was the path to lasting safety.

Having settled the distillery’s affairs, Li Zhao prepared to return to Qianlong Ridge. As he was about to rise, a young worker rushed in, panic-stricken and with blood on his face.

“What’s happened?”

“It’s the Black Whirlwind! He’s brought a gang of hoodlums to make trouble and has already injured several of our men. Steward Bai is holding them off with a few others.”

“Who’s the Black Whirlwind?” Li Zhao looked to Steward Sun for an explanation.

“Young master, the Black Whirlwind is a local ruffian chief—over eight feet tall, broad as a tiger, with strength to lift hundreds of pounds. He’s trained in martial arts, and a dozen ordinary men are no match for him. He leads a band of thugs, extorting and bullying, infamous for his misdeeds. I never imagined that scoundrel would dare trouble us today.”

“Hmph! Let’s go and see!” Li Zhao snorted, leading his people out of the office, heading for the main gate—he did not seek trouble, but he was not afraid of it either.

If others do not offend me, I will not offend them. But if they do… heh, I’ll pay them back tenfold.

...

“Fight! Fight!”

At the distillery gates, two groups were locked in fierce combat. One side was the distillery workers, led by the White Day Rat.

Opposing them was a burly, dark-faced man with a gang of thugs wielding sticks, iron rulers, and the like.

“White Day Rat, you scoundrel! How dare you oppose Black Master? I’ll beat you senseless!”

“Bah! I’ve washed my hands of the old life. Now I’m the distillery’s second steward!”

“Second steward? You’re still just someone’s lackey!”

“Hah, what do you know? As the saying goes: ‘Better to lead a hero’s horse than worship a knave as an ancestor.’ To serve my young master is fortune accumulated over generations. If it were you, Black Whirlwind, even if you made me an ancestor, I’d refuse!”

White Day Rat was immensely satisfied with his new identity. In the past, he was a thief—born to thieves, raised by thieves, reeking of infamy, unable to lift his head in public.

Now, he was a trusted aide to the young master, second steward of the distillery, earning two hundred strings a month, able to walk tall and live honorably. Even the highest-ranking merchants and managers treated him with respect, addressing him as Steward Bai. This pride of position was more intoxicating than wealth itself.

For such pride, he would fight to the end!

Alas, his martial skills were mediocre. After a few more rounds, he was forced back, a fist the size of a clay pot barreling toward his face—this was the end!

Bang! Crack!

“Young master?”

After the thunderous noise, White Day Rat opened his eyes, surprised to find himself unharmed. At the crucial moment, Li Zhao had arrived, hurling a wine jar to block Black Whirlwind’s fist.

“Enough! Stop at once!” Li Zhao’s stern voice brought his men back.

On the other side, Black Whirlwind and his ruffians paused, looking up and down at the young man before them. Though youthful, he had an air of natural authority.

“You must be Young Master Zhao?”

“Indeed. Who are you, and why have you come to cause trouble at my distillery?”

“Heh. I’m Li Dayong, known as the Black Whirlwind. I’ve heard you’re generous and chivalrous, so I came to make your acquaintance—and perhaps borrow a little money in this time of need.”

“Oh? Borrow money? How much?”

“Not much—just a thousand strings will suffice. Your distillery prospers, with gold flowing in daily. Surely such a small sum is nothing to you?”

This so-called “borrowing” was merely a pretext for extortion, with no intention of repayment. If Li Zhao gave in, they’d soon be back for more, demanding even larger sums. Li Zhao knew this game all too well.

“A thousand strings—nothing much. But I have one small condition.”

“Oh? Speak.”

“A one-on-one duel. If you can defeat me, I’ll hand over the money with both hands. But if you lose, you get out and never come back to cause trouble. How about it?”

“A duel? Hahaha, agreed!” Black Whirlwind cleaned his ears, thinking he’d misheard. The young man before him, gentle-faced and harmless, wanted to duel him? Was this not an egg against a rock?

Could it be this Li Zhao had some martial skill? But so young—how strong could he be? Black Whirlwind figured he could finish him in three rounds at most. Still, he remembered that the boy was of princely descent; he’d have to be careful not to kill him, or he’d be in serious trouble. So he agreed.

“Young master, he’s dangerous! Don’t fight him head-on!”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine,” Li Zhao assured him, stepping forward without fear to face Black Whirlwind—nothing but a lumbering bear, easily handled.

“Take this!”

Aiming to strike first, Black Whirlwind threw a heavy punch straight at Li Zhao’s face. Li Zhao did not dodge or flinch, standing like a mountain. When the fist was mere inches away, he seized the man’s wrist, twisted and pulled—dislocating the whole arm.

Howling in pain, Black Whirlwind swung with his left, only to have that arm dislocated as well.

With both arms useless, he was finished, fit only for a beating. Li Zhao grabbed him by the collar and slapped him more than twenty times, turning his face into a swollen pig’s head. Then, with a fierce palm strike to the chest, he sent Black Whirlwind flying over a yard, crashing into the snow, unable to rise.

“Master, are you all right?”

“Master, are you safe?”

The ruffians rushed over to check. Black Whirlwind’s cheeks were swollen, blood trickling from his mouth, his arms limp—clearly badly hurt, but fortunately only superficial wounds, nothing life-threatening.

He was a natural powerhouse, skilled in martial arts, and a terror in any fight. Yet now, in just two moves, he’d been utterly defeated. The young master’s martial arts were unfathomable. The ruffians stared in awe and fear.

“Carry him away and get lost. If you dare come back, I’ll break whatever part of you I see—head or tail.”

“Yes, yes, we’re going, we’re going!” The hoodlums, bullies at heart, fled with Black Whirlwind in tow, not daring to look back.

“Young master, you didn’t kill him, did you? That last blow was fierce!”

“Don’t worry, I used only forty percent of my strength, and struck no vital spot. He’ll hurt for a few days, but he’ll live.”

“Good, good!”

“Steward Sun, immediately recruit twenty skilled and loyal swordsmen to guard the distillery. If any more ruffians come to make trouble, beat them out. We don’t seek trouble, but we’ll never fear it!”

“Understood!”