Chapter 1: A 1970s Supply Co-op

Lin Xiaoman opened her eyes, the back of her head slammed hard against the cold metal counter. A dull pain shot up her spine, her vision swimming with darkness. In the 1970s Supply and Marketing Cooperative, the air was thick with the scent of old sawdust, damp mildew, and cheap tobacco. The smells mixed together into an invisible net that suffocated her instantly.

The roar of voices crashed into her ears like a tide. The sharp clink of coins against the iron counter and customers bickering about Coupons wove together into a chaotic wall of noise.

Before she could even figure out whose body she was in, a flood of fragmented memories hit her: a dim yellow light bulb, ledgers that never added up, and her mother's wrinkled face, always twisting in a sycophantic smile. Then, a cold, emotionless mechanical chime echoed in the depths of her consciousness: [Rhetoric Resonance - Beginner Level Activated].

The customers queued up, the clerks called out their lines. Everything felt so real, yet absurdly stage-like. Lin Xiaoman unconsciously touched the corner of her mouth; her fingertips brushed against cracked skin. The original owner's submissive posture seemed etched into her muscle memory—a habitual slumping of shoulders and a practiced, appeasing smile.

But her gaze gradually cleared. The confusion was gone. She didn't shrink back like the original owner would have. Instead, she straightened her spine, grinding the bone-deep timidity to dust.

Zhou Sufen clicked her red plastic high heels, "tap-tap-tap," over the threshold of the counter. The sharp percussion of heels on the concrete floor cut through the noise, piercingly loud. She wore a standard, fake-pleasant smile on her face, the upturn of her corners measured as if with a ruler, but her eyes were poisoned, cold enough to freeze the marrow.

She pinched a crumpled paycheck in her hand, pressing her fingertips into the yellowed paper until deep creases formed. She kept her voice low, intended only for Lin Xiaoman's ears, thick with a viscous threat. "Man, let me be straight with you. This temp gig is no joke. If you keep being a dummy, Mom will just hand your slot off to someone else."

"Take this cash. The rest, I'm holding onto it for you, just so you don't waste it on nonsense."

Lin Xiaoman didn't say a word. She just looked at that calculating face with cold indifference. Zhou Sufen's eyes roamed over her features, waiting for that familiar look of gratitude and submission. Instead, she got the stillness of stagnant water. Lin Xiaoman knew this was the cage the original owner had endured. And it was the first chain she had to break.

Seeing no reaction, Zhou Sufen let out a snort of contempt. She threw a pile of hard-shell paper-wrapped towels and coarse cotton shirts—dead stock nobody wanted—onto the counter with a loud "clatter," sending dust into the air. "This pile is an eyesore. Sort it out for me. If it doesn't sell, I'm taking it back to offset the debt."

She turned on her heel and walked out of the counter. Her back was rigid as a plank. The red heels swayed out of sight for a few moments before vanishing into the crowd.

Lin Xiaoman took a deep breath. Her fingers trailed over the rough cotton fabric, the texture scratching her skin. The urge to accept her fate had completely vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity. Since she was here, she wasn't losing. If her mouth could bloom with flowers, and her heart was solid stone, she would use these lips to carve a bloody path through the 1970s Supply and Marketing Cooperative.

Suddenly, a violent slap on the counter shattered the silence. The glass jars of candy jumped. A middle-aged man in a gray-blue wool coat pointed at the shelf, spitting foam, his voice loud enough that people around him covered their ears. "What kind of trash are you selling!

These wooden stool legs are all cracked! You're selling fakes in this Supply and Marketing Cooperative! I want to see your director. If I don't get compensation, I'm not leaving!"

The customers in line stopped, whispering. The murmuring swelled like water about to boil over.

Director Zhao Defa was crouched in a corner in the back, covering his ears and pretending to have a dizzy spell, his body swaying slightly with the crowd. Lu Zheng had his head down, writing in a ledger, the pen scratching steadily. He ignored the commotion, as if the storm outside didn't concern him. Only Chen Maixiang stood to the side, arms crossed, a cynical smirk on her lips, eyes gleaming with schadenfreude.

Lin Xiaoman stood up. She didn't offer the usual apologetic smile, nor did she rush to smooth things over like the other clerks. She just watched the man silently.

In her mind, [Hearing Needs] activated instantly, delivering a startling analysis: the man's voice was boisterous and seemed aggressive, but the ends of his sentences trembled imperceptibly. His breathing was rapid and erratic, his chest heaving too hard. It wasn't just anger; it was extreme anxiety and despair.

Three sentences, three key pieces of information, automatically stringed together in her mind: He didn't want compensation; he wanted time. He wasn't afraid of being scolded; he was afraid of running out of time. What he truly needed was a support beam he could lean on, just a shred of certainty. Lin Xiaoman caught this crack, and her plan formed.

She stepped forward, her voice soft yet clear, carrying a strange soothing power that cut through the chaos. "Brother, take it easy. So much fire will hurt your liver. Looking at how frantic you are, this isn't just about a few pieces of scrap wood, right?"

The man froze. His fierce expression flickered, the muscles in his face twitching. For a second, he looked dazed. "Mind your own business! I just think you people have no integrity!"

Lin Xiaoman didn't back down. She held his gaze, continuing in a gentle tone. "Your hands are shaking. Is the elder in your family unwell lately? Have you skipped meals? You're in such a hurry to buy this wood, you're terrified inside, aren't you?"

The words were like a key sliding into a lock. With a click, a tightly sealed door opened.

The man completely stiffened. His eyes turned red, his bravado evaporating. His voice cracked, dripping with tears. "I... my grandma's birthday is today. I wanted to get her a more comfortable bed. But the wood out there is too soft; it can't support old bones... I'm terrified I'll pick the wrong one and she won't sleep well. My conscience wouldn't let it rest..."

So that was it. It wasn't a complaint about low quality at all. It was a desperate shopping spree driven by filial piety. A son's final struggle under immense pressure. Lin Xiaoman felt the resonance in her mind deepen another layer. She understood now: the man was masking his helplessness and inexperience with anger. He was afraid of being swindled, afraid of disappointment, so he struck first to protect himself.

Lin Xiaoman pointed toward the warehouse, her tone certain, no hesitation. "Brother, calm down. The warehouse has fresh Korean Pine. The bark looks rough, even smells like damp earth, but knock on it and you'll hear it ring clear and bright. No worm holes."

"This wood is cold-resistant and moisture-proof. It won't warp even in damp places. It's perfect for an elder's bed frame or a good casket. If you trust me, I'll take you to see it. I guarantee I'll pick the best, and you won't spend a penny more than you need to."

The man looked at her, skepticism warring with a fragile, real hope. Lin Xiaoman led him to the side warehouse, where forgotten backlogged stock piled high. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light coming in. She grabbed a piece of Korean Pine at random and told him to knock on it. The sound was deep and solid, like striking the earth, calming the nerves.

The man took it with trembling hands. His rough fingers traced the grain carefully. The anxiety on his face slowly eased, replaced by the exhaustion of a weight lifted. "This... this really works? How much?"

Lin Xiaoman quoted a price twenty percent lower than the market rate and threw in two pre-made mortise-and-tenon joints for free. The man was moved to tears. He pulled out a stack of crumpled bills and insisted on paying more, his hands shaking so much he nearly dropped the small notes. Lin Xiaoman firmly refused, pushing the extra money back into his hand. "I appreciate the sentiment, but the Supply and Marketing Cooperative sells on fairness."

"This wood helps the elderly. That's better than anything."

Zhou Sufen had sneaked over at some point. She leaned against the doorframe, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Oh, Little Man. You cutting prices and giving discounts on your own? How are we going to balance the books? You trying to pin the deficit on me? Think it through. Don't ruin the rules just for fame."

Lin Xiaoman didn't even turn her head. Her voice was steady, without a ripple. "Sister Sufen, Comrade Lu will record this account clearly. We're preserving an elder's dignity and our reputation. That's worth far more than a few coins in commission. Director Zhao is watching. If you want to take the blame, you're welcome to step up and stop me."

Zhou Sufen's face went pale. Her lips parted and closed a few times. Finally, she shrank her neck back, stepping aside. She didn't dare speak again, leaving only a faint, lingering scent of jealousy in the air.

The customer left with the wood, satisfied, his grateful gaze fixed on Lin Xiaoman. The look was warm and firm. Director Zhao Defa quietly emerged from his corner, his eyes complex as he studied her. He was surprised by her handling of the situation, yet there was a tinge of probing in his gaze. "Comrade Lin, looks like you've got a quick mind. From now on, pay more attention to the hard-to-sell stock in the warehouse. Don't let people get the better of us."

Lin Xiaoman laughed coldly inside. She knew this meant he was using her as a shield, sending her to clean up the messiest problems. But her face showed nothing. She just nodded, a polite smile on her lips. "Rest assured, Director Zhao. If the stock is right, I have ways to make it a popular item."

Having handled all that, Lin Xiaoman felt the warm current in her mind grow richer. Her Rhetoric Resonance level had ticked up. She could catch more subtle emotional shifts, even predict the customers' next moves.

She felt a clarity she had never known before. In this era of scarce resources, her mouth was her sharpest weapon. More precise than a ruler, more flexible than an abacus. The setting sun streamed through the window, golden afterglow falling on her straight spine. In the shadow, her eyes burned brightly, hiding ambition and sharpness.

Night fell. The bustle of the Supply and Marketing Cooperative died down, leaving only the crisp clicking of abacus beads and the swish of brooms on the concrete floor. Outside, the sky darkened, and dim streetlights cast mottled shadows on the glass. Lin Xiaoman finished organizing the last stack of goods, ready to clock out.

Just as she turned to check inventory in the depths of the warehouse, a cold gaze pierced the dim light and pinned her in place. Lu Zheng stood at the warehouse entrance, gripping the ledger. His knuckles were white from the force. His eyes held no warmth, as if he was examining an item about to be disassembled for research. He was terrifyingly calm.

He didn't speak. He just tilted his chin, pointing to the deepest pile of old timber, signaling for Lin Xiaoman to come over. The gesture was concise, efficient, and carried a commanding weight that refused refusal.