Chapter Forty-Eight: Do You Believe in Light?

Old Greyhead came scampering from another construction site. When he heard that Third Young Master Feng was looking for him, he dropped his work without a second thought. Though over fifty, his apprentices couldn’t keep up with him no matter how hard they tried.

After all, his most lucrative skills now had all been learned from Third Young Master Feng.

At first, he believed that water towers and flush toilets were what the wealthy favored most, but soon discovered it was a simple little wooden brush that filled his coffers to overflowing.

Third Young Master Feng called it a toothbrush; initially, they used pig bristles. Later, he invented several variations—some with sheep wool, others with rabbit whiskers.

The price matched that of a fine calligraphy brush, and demand never ceased. Now, Third Young Master Feng had summoned him again; perhaps another ingenious idea awaited.

Old Greyhead, sweaty and reeking, arrived at the Feng household just as Feng Jingzhe finished several design sketches.

“Heh heh... heh heh heh... Third Young Master, is there something new for this old man to make?”

His sharp eyes immediately spotted the drawings laid out on the table. He knew their worth well; not long ago, a few such sketches had brought him a tidy profit.

Smack—

Before Old Greyhead could approach, Feng Jingzhe covered the papers with two thick books.

“What are you up to, old man? Trying to freeload again?”

“Heh heh heh... Of course not, never...” Old Greyhead rubbed his hands and gave an awkward laugh.

“Want to see?” Feng Jingzhe raised his brows, teasing him. Old Greyhead nodded eagerly, his eyes shining like a thief’s.

“You can see—but first, let’s settle the terms.” Feng Jingzhe pulled out a contract, hurriedly drafted by Fat Sun.

Fat Sun himself was gulping down sour plum juice in the back hall; this unexpected business deal had come so suddenly that he nearly missed out on a fortune, and the excitement had sent his blood pressure skyrocketing.

Old Greyhead took the contract and frowned, leafing through a few pages, his expression darkening.

“Third Young Master, a joint workshop is fine, but isn’t the profit split a bit unfair? All the hard labor falls on me, and I have to put up twenty percent of the funds, yet only receive thirty percent—seems rather stingy.”

“Old Greyhead, that’s not quite fair. To be blunt, there’s more than one craftsman in Chang’an, but when it comes to technical patents, only I, Feng Jingzhe, have them.

Believe me, if I took these designs elsewhere, plenty would jump at a thirty percent share...”

Old Greyhead believed him; his own successful ventures were proof enough.

“But the contract also requires relinquishing all previous authorizations for toothbrushes and flush toilets, converting them into shares—that’s rather...”

“Are you saying my third brother is too greedy?”

At that moment, Sun Fugui appeared in the front hall, breath finally steady. With Fat Sun back from the brink, Feng Jingzhe lost interest in bargaining further, rising to give up his seat and heading off to soak in cold water.

The plaster cast, so stifling all day, made him worry about athlete’s foot.

Two hours passed. When Feng Jingzhe awoke and wandered out, he caught sight of Old Greyhead sneaking away, clutching something to his chest as if it were treasure. The sight left him puzzled.

Meanwhile, Sun Fugui emerged from the hall, face alight with excitement, a thick stack of contracts in hand.

“All settled?”

“Third Brother, as you wished, the deal is done...”

“Good enough. It was only meant to bring in a bit of spare cash, after all. From now on, don’t bother me with business affairs. Why not just enjoy the easy life, living off the Town West General’s household? Why insist on opening workshops—what an unnecessary hassle…”

Waving him off, Feng Jingzhe realized he needed a hearty meal. After so long asleep, he was truly exhausted.

Truth be told, his idea to open a self-service laundry by the river was born solely from wanting to improve his meals. If the housekeeper, Feng Xiaoman, had a steady income, the household wouldn’t have to go without meat every day.

As for using water-powered gears to spin wooden barrels, it was hardly technical for him—just a matter of building a shed by the river and installing some gears.

He reasoned: so many women come to the river to wash clothes every day; charging five coins per hour wasn’t unreasonable. A plain flatbread cost two coins, three for the more daring vendors. Paying the price of two flatbreads to have one's clothes washed automatically—surely many would be willing.

Initially, he planned to set up fifty machines. Each washing machine would operate for five hours a day, earning twenty-five coins. Subtract five coins for maintenance and labor, multiply twenty coins by fifty machines—that’s one tael of silver.

Earning a pure tael of silver daily was already quite respectable. If Feng Jingzhe felt like telling monkey stories, he could attract even more customers.

Then, he’d knock through the back wall of the Feng house, open a few shops, level the riverbank for a barbecue camp. Eating grilled meat and drinking wine as the river breeze blew—how could one word capture such delight?

It would create income for the family and satisfy his appetite. He’d seen cumin and chili in the foreign merchants’ stalls of the Western Market—even though, at present, people used them as medicinal herbs.

The thought made him want to brew beer. Yet his brewing knowledge was shallow, so the idea would have to wait until he could consult a true expert.

But the simple beauty of his plan crumbled the moment Sun Fugui saw the designs. The little gear beneath the barrel was, for this era, a technological marvel.

The blueprint was straightforward, and its application obvious to anyone. Since it was a unique innovation, Sun Fat saw no need to elaborate on the profits.

Thus, it devolved into the business of partnering with Old Greyhead to open a workshop...

All this was mere background for someone who’d been a model citizen for three days. As night fell, he scaled the wall once more.

This time he didn’t head to Food Is Heaven to find Sun Fugui, but rented a young donkey and made for the Western Market.

Around its neck hung a bundle—special clothes and a hood made to order.

Normally, fighters were bare-chested on the stage, but Feng Jingzhe worried his bruises would heal too quickly and arouse suspicion, so he had a tight suit made.

And Madam Ma’s handiwork was truly superb, nearly identical to his design sketches.

With prior experience, Feng Jingzhe changed into his outfit and hood before entering the pitch-dark warehouse.

He’d registered early today, and was scheduled for the first match of the first round.

Not as the reigning champion; a muscular man was already waiting on stage.

The atmosphere was as lively as ever, but just as Feng Jingzhe appeared, silence suddenly fell.

A figure, oddly dressed in gray and red, bounced onto the stage. His hood was unusually conical, exposing only his eyes and mouth. With everyone’s gaze upon him, he struck a bizarre pose.

“Heh heh... Hello, everyone. My name is Diga... Do you believe in light?”