Establishing the Factory in 1918

Listen to the meaning behind the words. Luan Yi immediately understood what Cai Yong was implying. He thought to himself: So, after all this roundabout talk, this fellow wants to take me as his apprentice. Who is Cai Yong? He is one of the greatest scholars of the age; countless people long to become his disciples. To be able to call him teacher was more than Luan Yi could ever hope for. Without another word, he knelt and bowed, performing the rite of apprenticeship.

Cai Yong smiled warmly and helped Luan Yi to his feet, and from then on began to call him “my disciple.”

Luan Yi was beside himself with excitement, but he did not forget his brothers, whom he had spent day and night with. So, in the ensuing conversation, he deliberately and inadvertently revealed the talents of Guo Jia, Shan Fu, Xi Zhizai, and Mao Jie to Cai Yong, extolling their virtues, intelligence, and diligence.

Cai Yong, seasoned by years of dealing with people, easily discerned Luan Yi’s intentions. He pondered, making no immediate response.

At this, Cai Zhao stepped in to support Luan Yi, saying, “Brother Luan is known as the Divine Talent; Guo Jia is the Ghost Talent; Shan Fu is the Human Talent; Xi Zhizai the Heavenly Talent; Mao Jie the Earthly Talent. Father, to take all five as disciples would make for a wonderful story!”

Cai Yong, hearing this, changed his mind and promptly agreed. Luan Yi was deeply grateful and thanked him repeatedly. Without delay, he dashed out of the house, disregarding the late hour, instructing Luan Fu to hitch the carriage and fetch Guo Jia and the others from the town so they could perform the rite of apprenticeship.

Thus, Luan Fu went and disturbed the sweet dreams of Guo Jia and his companions. But none of them harbored any resentment. To become disciples of the great Cai Yong—why, they would willingly forgo sleep every day if it meant such honor.

The rite finished at dawn. After traveling all day, Cai Yong was exhausted, his eyes bloodshot from lack of rest. He asked Cai Zhao to retrieve five sets of classics from their luggage, handing one to each of Luan Yi and his friends.

Cai Yong explained that he had personally annotated these classics. They must study them carefully. While he stayed in Yingchuan, they could come to him with questions at any time. After his departure, if they still had doubts, they should keep a record and either visit him in the capital to ask, or wait until he returned to Yingchuan.

With that, Cai Yong dismissed them.

The sky was growing brighter. Because of the severe cold, the academy had granted the students three days’ holiday—no need to report for attendance. Guo Jia and his friends decided to return to their dormitory in town for some more sleep. But Luan Yi had no such luxury; he had to hurry back to his home in Yangzhai to report last night’s discussion with Cai Yong to his grandfather and father, so they could prepare the funds in advance.

On the road, Luan Yi was terribly sleepy, and the jolting of the carriage only made him yearn for rest. Yet the road was anything but accommodating—the snow had just melted, the way was muddy, and the wheels kept sinking into potholes, leaving Luan Fu sweating profusely. Luan Yi, inside the carriage, found no peace, constantly getting out to help pull. By journey’s end, his back and waist ached from exhaustion; a trip that should have taken half a day dragged on for the whole day, and he arrived home with the moon already setting.

He knocked at the door. After a long while, dogs barked in the courtyard. Then came the old steward, Luan Zhong’s coughing, and his deep voice, “Who’s there?”

“It’s me!” Luan Yi replied, breath steaming, wiping sweat with his sleeve.

Luan Zhong recognized Luan Yi’s voice and exclaimed, “Young master?” He hurried to open the gate, only to find Luan Yi in a sorry state: his hairpin missing, hair disheveled, face smeared with mud, clothes in disarray with several scratches, and behind him his own son, Luan Fu, equally bedraggled, looking as if they had fled disaster. “Young master, what happened to you? Were you robbed?”

Luan Yi waved his hand, indicating denial. Without another word, he strode past the gate, heading inside, weakly calling, “Uncle Zhong! Quick, get us something to eat—I’m starving! By the way, have grandfather and father gone to bed? Wake them up, I have urgent matters to discuss.”

Normally, Luan Zhong would not dare disturb the elders at such an hour, but seeing Luan Yi so anxious, rushing home in winter, he realized there must be an important matter. He went to the rear courtyard, instructing the kitchen to prepare hot food for the young master. The Luan household was soon in an uproar; hearing the prodigy had returned, the servants scrambled awake. Even Madam Luan, disregarding her attire in the dead of night, hurried with Luan Miao to see him.

Luan Yi chatted briefly with his parents, and the sleepy Luan Tao arrived in the main hall.

Luan Yi bowed respectfully and explained the reason for his hurried return.

Luan Tao, having spent years in commerce, was quick to sense the enormous profit lurking in the matter of writing and selling books for Cai Yong. At first glance, the profit per ten thousand sets was only 5,000 strings of cash. But the greatest advantage of movable type printing was that the type molds could be reused—printing a second batch of ten thousand sets required almost no additional cost, apart from necessary losses. More importantly, the type molds were living assets, while the books were static; once the molds were made, future printings required no further carving. Beyond profit, the social impact was immense, greatly boosting the Luan family's reputation in the Han dynasty.

Thinking of this, Luan Tao immediately decided that the family would fully support the endeavor, providing whatever funds or manpower were needed. All expenses for publishing would be borne by the Luan family, with no outside involvement.

Luan Yi was stunned. By his previous calculations, printing ten thousand sets would cost at least 65,000 strings of cash—did the Luan family have such wealth, capable of producing so much money at once? He voiced his doubts to his father.

Luan Tao shook his head. Not only could the Luan family not raise so much at once, but no household in Yingchuan could. Given the circumstances, he could at most gather 10,000 strings.

“10,000 strings?” Luan Yi was greatly disappointed; that was only one-seventh of the plan.

Luan Tao then smiled slyly, chuckling, “Prodigy indeed! Who said you have to print all ten thousand sets at once? Why not start with a thousand, sell those, then print the next thousand? That way, with just 6,500 strings, you can begin. Also, when merchants from other regions make large orders, you can take deposits and use those to print the books, then sell to them—saving even more capital!”

Luan Yi slapped his forehead, sighing inwardly that the old are indeed wiser. How had he not thought of this? He prided himself on being a management graduate, yet he’d overlooked basic cash flow! It was simply lack of experience. He immediately praised Luan Tao as a genius and thanked him for the lesson.

The family then discussed the details, deciding to establish a printing workshop outside Yangzhai after the New Year, with Luan Tao overseeing operations and Luan Yi handling the technical side.

Once everything was settled, Luan Yi was utterly exhausted. He returned to his room and fell asleep without another word.

In his dreams, he found himself back in the bustling pedestrian street of the 21st century. Passing a Maserati dealership, he saw a beautiful woman inside whose appearance was identical to Cai Zhao—Cai Wenji herself. Beside her was a sharply dressed man, behaving intimately, as if he were her boyfriend. Luan Yi tried repeatedly to observe the man’s face, but no matter the angle, the man always had his back turned. Finally, Luan Yi rushed inside to see for himself. The man grew increasingly affectionate, teasing her short skirt.

Cai Zhao clearly disliked his advances—at first she twisted away, then struggled. Unable to bear it, Luan Yi stepped forward, grabbed the man’s shoulder, and turned him around to face him… and was instantly shocked. “It’s you…”

The dream ended abruptly. Luan Yi sat up, drenched in sweat, glanced outside—the sky was bright. Maid Xiaocui was cleaning the room; seeing Luan Yi awake, she greeted him and went out to prepare his washing water.

Luan Yi sat on the edge of the couch, breathing heavily, unable to help recalling the hateful face of Wei Zhe.

After breakfast, Luan Yi decided to return immediately. After all, Cai Yong was still staying at the Ru Jia Inn in Wuyang County, and as host, it would be rude to stay away too long. When saying goodbye to his parents, his mother, Madam Luan, wept and was reluctant to let him go. But as a mother, she knew her son was grown, capable, had now become the disciple of a great sage, and his future was boundless—she needed to give him space and time to soar.

Still, she worried that the constant travel would wear Luan Yi out, so she instructed Xiaocui to accompany him to Wuyang County.

Luan Yi considered that his place was filled with men, and all chores in the dormitory fell to Luan Fu, who was always both driver and steward, worn out. They really needed someone skilled in sewing and repairs to help. So he agreed, ordered Luan Fu to help Xiaocui pack, and set off together.

The return journey was much smoother. When the three arrived at the Ru Jia Inn, Cai Yong, Cai Zhao, and Guo Jia’s group were enjoying their evening meal. Adding a place at the table, Luan Yi joined them, eating and informing Cai Yong of the family’s plans for publishing.

Cai Yong was elated, drinking several cups during the meal. Full and tipsy, he retired for a nap.

After dinner, Guo Jia and Xi Zhizai, inseparable rivals, habitually played a game of chess. Mao Jie, with brush and ink, copied Cai Yong’s flying script at the table. Xu Shu, feeling unwell, lay lazily on the couch reading. Cai Zhao continued to pore over the well-thumbed scroll of “The Little Girl Selling Firewood.”

Luan Yi sat by the brazier, staring into the coals. He hated winter… he missed central heating.

“What are you thinking about?” A clear voice broke his reverie. He recognized Cai Zhao’s voice, and without looking up, continued gazing at the glowing coals, forcing a smile, “Nothing much. Just thinking… fire is really beautiful.”

Cai Zhao eagerly came over, squatting beside him to watch the flames in the brazier, but found them dull and glaring. She shifted her gaze to Luan Yi’s face—a refined visage, only eight years old yet already showing promise. The blood-red firelight cast odd shadows, but his eyes, reflecting the blaze, seemed especially deep and wise. “Want to write a story about fire?”

Luan Yi spread his hands in a distinctly Western gesture, smiled, and said, “Why not?”