Chapter 3: A Tenfold Price Gap

Master Zhou’s hand was still raised in the air, the magnifying glass never quite lowered.

The word “stolen” had left his mouth before he could catch it. He felt the slip instantly, but the shock was too raw to tamp down. Huichuntang had been shuttered for years, and in that time he’d seen enough sulfur-fumed fakes of Astragalus, enough dyes and scraps passed off as the real thing. His eyes had been trained to spot them by now. But these slabs in front of him? The cross-sections showed clean golden wells and jade lattices, the fibers finer than embroidery silk, and after all this time, all they gave off was a sweet, bean-like earthiness. You couldn’t just buy that kind of quality off the shelf.

Chen Yan didn’t rush to defend himself.

He wiped his hands on his pants. The cut on his palm was still weeping blood. During the calibration earlier, he’d drawn qi and blood into the herb, but he’d overcooked the fire. The backwash of the medicinal potency had sliced a groove through the pad of his finger. “Master Zhou, that batch came from the pile in the back of the storage room corner.” He jerked his chin toward the western end of the courtyard. “The one you said you were waiting to burn for firewood. The half-stack that got waterlogged last year.”

Master Zhou’s eyelid twitched. “That Astragalus? I checked it last month. The mold smell was so strong it got into the heart.”

“It was moldy,” Chen Yan said. “I just tested it.”

He spread his hand open.

Master Zhou stared at that hand, and suddenly went silent. A thin cut ran across the palm, the edges blanched, not a clean knife nick, but something that looked burned from the inside out. An old herbalist who had dealt in processing his whole life recognized the look of fire going too far and scorching the hand. He knew that sight cold.

“You processed this by hand?” His throat was tight. “In this little bit of time?”

“Give me another handful.”

The request came out of nowhere, with zero buildup. Master Zhou frowned, but he didn’t refuse. He turned and went into the storehouse. A moment later he came out with an oil-paper sack and dumped it onto the stove top. Dozens of Astragalus slices, mixed with crumbles, tumbled out. Some had green spots on the edges, others were black, crumbling at the slightest squeeze.

“Do it in front of me.” The old man set the magnifying glass on the table like he was interrogating a suspect.

Chen Yan kept his mouth shut. He pinched up three slices, held them in his palm, and closed his eyes.

Master Zhou assumed he was about to pull some fake mystic trick. He was ready with a snide comment, but then he saw the lines slowly knit between Chen Yan’s brows, his palm tremble slightly, and a faint heat haze rise around the fresh wound.

The old herbalist wasn’t unfamiliar with that motion. It wasn’t any processing method he knew, but it looked a lot like “simmering herbs with qi” from the old medical texts.

About half a cup of tea later, Chen Yan opened his eyes and handed over the three slices.

Master Zhou took them and first held them up to the lamp.

One glance and his fingers, pinching the herb, froze.

The mold spots were gone. The cut face had shifted from gray-yellow back to a clean, creamy white, with a layer of moisture still showing at the edges. He didn’t believe it. He picked up one of the originally worst pieces—the one that had been the blackest—and now even that broken section looked uniform.

“This...” He laid the two batches side by side for comparison, moving slower and slower, until he finally moved the magnifying glass right up to his eyes. “The fiber grain is aligned? Where did the mold even go?”

“It just went.” Chen Yan kept his mouth sharp, but his voice sounded a bit hollow. “If you ask me the inner mechanics, I can only say: herbs have herb-nature. Strip away the impurities and the mold, keep what’s good.”

“Rubbish.” Master Zhou shot it out, but even as he said it, he was holding the slices to his nose for a careful sniff. After smelling them, he licked his tongue against them. Then he just stood there, stunned, before finally swallowing the piece.

“You can still taste the light salt-water spray.” He muttered. “But the quantity... this quantity is wrong. This stuff has been sitting for at least three or four years. How come it smells like fresh autumn harvest?”

The main room went quiet for a moment.

Insects chirped in the courtyard. Chen Yan leaned against the stove, his legs a little floaty, a layer of sweat still drying on his back. He’d spoken lightly, but after those three slices passed through his hands, his qi and blood had drained downward like water being scooped out of a bucket. By the second scoop, the bucket was already on the bottom.

“Master Zhou.” He lowered his voice. “How much will this sell for?”

The old man didn’t answer right away. He stood up, rummaged through the inner room for a small cloth bundle, and picked the slices from the table into it, one by one. He weighed them in his hand, then used the brass scale. Once he was done, he set the scale down, and his face went dark.

“Do you have any idea what this is worth?”

“Tell me.”

“Last year, wild Astragalus from Gansu, bulk grade, was around a hundred a kilo. I process with the old methods, and my regulars pay up to eighty. This batch is scrap. Out there, nobody would give you five a kilo; you’d pay shipping just to get rid of it.” He looked up at Chen Yan. “You’ve got a little pouch there, just over two liang. If sold to my regulars at the wild-grade standard, three hundred yuan is no problem.”

Chen Yan nodded, about to speak.

“I said three hundred for two liang.”

Chen Yan paused, stunned.

Master Zhou set the cloth bundle on the table. “But I’m going to tell you, if this news gets out, you won’t live to see the spring.”

“Don’t scare me yet.” Chen Yan said. “I know this thing came out of nowhere and can’t see daylight. But if I don’t sell it, I’m just a delivery guy. I can’t even keep that pile of scrap in the storage room.”

The old man stared at him for a good while.

“Wait.”

He tucked the cloth bundle into his robe, hobbled outside with his cane, then turned back at the door: “I don’t trust the Huichuntang signboard to some kid who can’t keep his mouth shut. I’m going to ask around. Stay home. Don’t go anywhere.”

Chen Yan tried to follow, but Master Zhou gave him a look, and he stopped.

That night dragged on.

Chen Yan sat in the kitchen for a long time, spreading his hand to inspect it. The cut on his palm had already formed a thin layer of scab. He tried to pick up a scrap piece of Astragalus again. As soon as he pulled his qi up, his vision went black. He braced his hand on the stove to keep from falling.

Cold sweat trickled down from his temple.

He slowly sank down against the wall. The bit of luck he’d clung to was shattered by that one move: those three slices just now had used up his entire daily limit. Trying again, he’d have to wait for tomorrow.

He’d thought this was a business with no capital investment. Now he realized the capital was himself.

Just before dawn, he dozed off for a while and was jolted awake by the courtyard gate. By the time Master Zhou came in, it was already a hazy gray light. His cane knocked heavily on the floor, heavier than usual, and his expression wasn’t lighthearted.

“How much did you sell?” Chen Yan stood up.

The old man didn’t answer. First, he placed a bill on the table.

Chen Yan counted it twice. Three thousand.

He didn’t speak for a moment.

“Your two liang.” Master Zhou plopped down on the stool and let out a long breath. “My regular is a Lao Han. He owns a pharmacy. His palate is picky—he’s been picking at herbs for three years. I said three hundred. He held the herb, looked at it for a long time, didn’t even haggle, just pulled out three thousand. Then he asked if there was more.”

“Three thousand?”

“Three thousand.” Master Zhou looked away, his voice muffled. “Scrap sold for ten times the price. Thirty yuan of goods.”

Chen Yan picked up the money, then set it down. After a while, he gave a small, thin smile, but his eyes were bright.

“Master Zhou, when you walked out that door earlier, you were still calling me nonsense.”

“Save it.” The old man glared at him, but the glare deflated halfway through. He took off his hat and placed it on his knee. “I’ve processed herbs my whole life. My skills are in my hands, eyes, nose, tongue—all ground out by old methods. But I’ve ground it my whole life and I couldn’t grind out a package like this. Kid, this thing...”

He stopped there.

The old herbalist turned his face away and wiped his nose with his hand.

“I’m going to fire up the stove and dig up the rest of the scrap.” He stood up, leaning on his cane. “Your set of tools—how do you do it? Teach me slowly. Don’t hide it.”

Chen Yan got up too.

“Master Zhou, teaching is fine, but first tell me how we make money.”

“What money?” The old man turned and glared.

“Every cent I sell, half goes to you.” Chen Yan said it plainly. “The herbs came from your storage room. That regular of yours is from decades of your own accumulation.”

Master Zhou blinked, then swallowed the rest of the scolding, and waved his hand. “Half is too much. You keep the principal.”

“If you don’t take it, tomorrow I’ll move that pile of scrap out of the storage room.”

“Try it.”

They stared at each other at the kitchen doorway for a while.

In the end, Master Zhou broke the silence. He walked to the door, then stopped abruptly without turning around: “I sat with Lao Han for a bit just now. He was flipping this herb over and over. Finally, he said one thing to me.”

Chen Yan listened.

“He said, Lao Zhou, this package of yours is purer than Zhenteng’s goods.”

The room went still.

Chen Yan’s stomach dropped.

The name Zhenteng in Ningcheng wasn’t just a pharmaceutical company. Half the herb trade in the city was gripped by that family. Master Zhou had said that since Huichuntang’s fall, the buying and selling prices of herbs had long ceased to be decided by old brands.

“Was that just Lao Han talking off the top of his head?” Chen Yan asked.

“Lao Han’s mouth doesn’t talk off the top of his head.” Master Zhou slowly turned around. The smile was gone from his face. “He isn’t praising us. He’s warning me. He’s bought from Zhenteng before; he knows their inner workings. He said that for people who can hear it.”

“Is he dragging people in, or pushing them into the fire?” Chen Yan asked.

“It’s the same.” The old man thumped his cane on the floor. “If you can produce a package of goods like this, Zhenteng will know. Ningcheng is small enough that even a few thousand yuan per order has people sniffing out the smell. From now on, if you have goods in hand, the money is easy to make. But think about one thing first—”

He stared at Chen Yan. “In this city, where the herbs come from and where they go, depends on The Huo Family’s mood. In your line, you have to ask before you buy, and you have to ask before you sell.”

Chen Yan looked down at the wound in his palm, and then at the three thousand yuan on the table.

“Then let’s save money first.” He looked up, his tone not light. “When we save enough, I’ll go get my own supply. I sell my own herbs; I don’t need anyone to nod.”

Master Zhou looked at the kid for a long time, then suddenly snorted.

“You’re like your master.”