WSMTATMC C52

Chapter 52

Once the letter was dispatched, Master Liang grew restless—results could only be seen come next year’s harvest.

Meanwhile he set his three disciples to daily study, insisting each copy ten pages of calligraphy. Even Wang Ying was not spared—dragged in to grind ink and learn penmanship.

“Master Liang, I cannot sit for the examination anyway. Why must I practice characters with them?” Ying grumbled.

“Even if forbidden exams, one must cultivate proper script. Look at these wretched scratches—like chicken claws!”

Though scolded, Ying only laughed: “As long as it’s legible, does it matter?”

“Handwriting mirrors the man. Ugly strokes bring ugly impressions. Think—among the noble houses in the capital, which youth does not wield elegant brush?”

Ying shrugged. “But I am nothing more than a rustic tenant. I’ll likely never see the capital.”

“Rubbish!” Liang roared, thwacking his ruler across the desk. “Guided well, even these three dullards may make a name!”

What he did not say—he thought it tragic that Ying hid such genius in the countryside. His seed‑breeding could save thousands. Should chance arise…perhaps even a gē’er might rise to office. It was rare, but not impossible—he recalled that in an earlier dynasty, even one gē’er had become Grand Chancellor. Difficult, but precedent existed.

So Ying yielded, copying alongside them. Over time, his repeated practice actually bred a fine miniature script—delicate brush‑flowers.

Only drawback—his old habits of simplified characters. Many strokes missing arms and legs. Master Liang would fume, beard bristling—yet what could he do?

By night, Qingyan and Ying still practiced—in bed.

Tracing fingers across his husband’s chest, Ying idly wrote passages, until his hand slipped into trousers where it was seized and “disciplined” soundly.

Long they had shared intimacy only through hands. Now Ying’s eyes flared with mischief. Snatching a fresh brush, he dipped its tip in water… and drew upon him.

The cool, soft bristles flicked, circling, teasing—the tip pressing to the glans sent Qingyan shuddering, gasping.

“Brother…don’t…”

But Ying held him firm, tracing calligraphy upon bare skin, until the brush strayed further—prodding lightly into the tender fissure, stirring moisture.

Qingyan lost all restraint—wrenched it from his hand and pressed Ying beneath, reversing roles. Slowly, daringly, he slid the slim brush handle inward.

It was Ying’s first time thus invaded—yet he felt no rejection. A gē’er’s body resembled woman’s, after all. The slick stroke slid within, tickling, strange yet not unpleasant.

He bit down on lips, swallowing cries. Soon, all was wetted through.

“Brother…I want…” Qingyan kissed along his jaw, down to the mole at his neck—a spot always melted him. Ying, panting, yielded at last.

“…Then slowly…”

Elated—Qingyan had consented!

(…At this point, a river crab sidled by 🦀)

Indulgence bore its cost: next day, neither could keep alert. Qingyan was beaten six, seven times beneath Liang’s ruler. In rage, the old scholar stomped off to fish.

As weather warmed, fields burst with vegetables. But in town, their shop struggled: last month, stalls sold only six strings’ worth. Yesterday, Dunzi reported that all greens rotted unsold—the heat wilted them faster.

Ying resolved: instead of vegetables, he would sell ice confections.

Raw ice itself fetched price—one foot for ten coins. Wealthy houses bought for summer cooling. But commoners could not afford. Better to sell popsicles and ice creams—a stick for mere coppers, refreshing under sun. Who would not buy?

So he ordered wooden molds built, and rallied village children to whittle sticks. He paid them, too—five coins per hundred sticks. Bigger kids could earn ten coins in a day.

Next came the mixture. He blended malt syrup with goat’s milk. To mask its musk, he mixed in a sour wild herb juiced.

Boiled, cooled, poured into molds, frozen in the experimental field—within an hour, popsicles stood cold and solid.

Testing one, flavor was simple, far from modern creams—yet sweet, milky, cooling. For an age starved of such, already miraculous.

At noon, he served several to the youths.

“What is this, Sister‑in‑law?” Qingsong held the icy stick.

“A treat—called binggun (ice stick). Taste it.”

“Mm! Delicious!” Children grinned—heat fled their bodies. Even Master Liang smacked lips, curious.

“In Yangzhou I sipped icy drinks. But this—what trick?”

Wang Ying feigned demonstration, recalling his earlier experiment with nitrate. He filled a basin with water and saltpeter, set a smaller bowl inside full of liquid. Within minutes, ice rimmed its sides.

Qinghuai cried: “Like sorcery! I never saw in Laizhou!”

“Not sorcery. Only a chemical reaction. Nitre dissolves and steals warmth from surroundings, cooling them to ice. Scrape and reuse.”

Of course this was cover. In truth, his frozen space did the work.

Still—it stunned them all. Even Liang marveled. Truly, this young Wang had endless arts.

Too delighted, the old scholar devoured three—only to rush the outhouse half the night, belly upset. Next day, he never dared more than one.

With praises high, Ying began larger production. Chen Bo helped.

First batch stayed cautious—two hundred popsicles, packed in layered straw and cloth against heat.

Next morning, Ying himself carted them to town.

It happened to be market day. Streets bustled with farmers selling grain after harvest. They hailed Ying warmly:

“Master Wang, heading to market?”

“Yes, to buy goods.”

Arriving at his shop, before he even entered, the neighboring oil‑seller’s wife waved. “Shopkeeper Wang! At last!”

“Madam Song.”

“Your niece said you returned to the estate. Have you now come back?”

“Yes. Brought wares today.”

Dunzi unloaded the chest. Ying promptly offered her one frozen stick.

“Try—our ‘sugar ice sticks’ for summer heat.”

She bit—and lit up. “Oh heaven, what flavor! How much?”

“Two coins each. Five coins for three.”

She narrowed eyes. “Cheap! Then give me three—my children will love.”

Soon inside, Qingyun, Lin Qiu and Lin Sui rushed over. “Cousin‑in‑law!”

“The popsicles are ready. Taste.”

They unwrapped layers of insulation, revealing pale sticks. Fragrant, milky, sweet upon tongues.

“…Marvelous!”

“Don’t eat too many,” Ying reminded. “Too cooling—your brother tried and ran all night.”

They burst laughing.

Lin Qiu tallied accounts while chewing. “Shop gained 200 coins yesterday selling tomatoes. Other greens failed.”

“No matter. From now, the shop sells ice sticks. Two coins piece, until frost returns—then back to vegetables.”

“But—so cheap?!” Qingyun protested. “This is worth more!”

“Better earn little from many than much from few. Besides, cheapness prevents envy and greed.”

Indeed, costs were low: self‑made malt syrup, goat milk from villagers, only payment for sticks. Profit remained.

Balancing accounts, Ying divided earnings three‑ways: one part for himself, one for Lin Qiu and Lin Sui, one for Qingyun.

Three months’ profits totaled seventy taels. After expenses, each netted twenty. The youths blushed at such wealth.

“Sister‑in‑law, too generous—we cannot…”

“Take it. Weddings need dowries.”

Qingyun demurred: “Keep mine in savings. I don’t marry yet.”

Sui piped in: “Mine too.”

Qiu laughed, chasing them while they squealed—running smack into new customers: children from the oil‑seller’s house, back for more.

“Here? The ice sticks?”

“Yes!”

“Three more, please!”

Qiu took coins, handed them deftly.

Outside, the day blazed, yet children licked with bliss. Soon inquiries spread: “Where? How much?”

At two coins apiece, all found affordable. Queue lengthened, heads pressed at door.

Within an hour, the full 200 sold out—many left disappointed, begging for more tomorrow.

Wang Ying shook his head in disbelief. He had not thought success so fast. Already—he must expand production!

notes

• 茱萸 (Zhuyu) – Chinese peppercorn berry, with varieties; some edible with sharp spicy bite. 
• 石 (shi), 斤 (jin) – grain measures: 1 shi ≈ 100 jin ≈ 60 kg (~132 lbs). 
• Binggun (冰棍) – Popsicle; here newly invented.