Chapter Fifty: The Head of the Household's Troubles

Arriving on a donkey, he felt carefree; leaving, he nearly ended up in the crematorium. Brother Chest Hair’s blows were relentless—those fists, as big as casserole pots, hammered at his back with the rhythmic force of a Dragon Boat Festival drum, the thuds echoing with a cadence. Each massive footfall shook his organs with pain as if torn apart. Yet, even so, Feng Jingzhe gritted his teeth and persisted, never once showing a hint of surrender.

This one-sided torment lasted for a full half hour. If not for the gnawing hunger in his stomach, his abnormal resilience would have exhausted Brother Chest Hair completely. But such ruthless exploitation of his body yielded immense benefits. Where once he’d claimed he was still shy of his peak strength from his previous life, now those final words could be erased. Though he lay, utterly spent, on the back of his green donkey, he could distinctly sense the surging power within him.

It was a familiar sensation—one that only surfaced when his muscles and bones were tuned to their best, just before each mission. If this self-abusive regimen could continue indefinitely, Feng Jingzhe could hardly imagine the heights his martial prowess would reach. Copper Skin stage? No pressure; by the gambling house’s five-day match schedule, he’d break through in half a year. The Stone-Splitting stage was merely a matter of time, and even the Breaking Army stage or the legendary Peacebringer stage might be within reach.

He suspected his regenerative abilities stemmed from the red fruit he’d consumed in the rainforest, but whether this would carry him through to the Peacebringer stage was uncertain. Content, Feng Jingzhe chose not to dine at Food Is Heaven, but instead found a random noodle shop to fill his belly before climbing over the wall to sleep at home.

His internal bruises healed swiftly after a night’s rest. The next day, by the riverside, Feng Jingzhe still appeared as a pitiful sight—seated in a wheelchair, his right leg encased in plaster. The three aunts, seven distant relatives, and young wives had risen early, hoping to finish washing clothes ahead of time so they could enjoy Feng Jingzhe’s tales of the monkey in leisure.

But they were beaten to the riverbank by a group of craftsmen, who commandeered the best stretch of sand and mud. Piles of sand, stone, and timber rose high as Old Gray Head personally led the construction. In less than two hours, they had driven a dozen wooden piles into the riverbed for the foundation.

According to Feng Jingzhe’s blueprints, only the crucial gears demanded precision and effort; the rest was routine. The fifty massive wooden tubs, each requiring two arms to encircle, could be subcontracted to barrel makers. The wooden shed was even simpler, as carpentry was Old Gray Head’s expertise. A few hundred square feet was a trivial job for him and his apprentice, easily completed in two days—not a mere temporary structure, either. Should a single drop leak through the roof, Old Gray Head would smash his own signboard.

As Feng Jingzhe reclined beneath the old locust tree, a flock of children eagerly gathered around. Li Changsheng, practiced in these rituals, produced sunflower seeds and candied treats, handing a small handful to each child. The clever ones promptly carried out the clay stove and low table stored in the tree’s hollow. Some lit fires, some boiled water, others vied to fan the flames.

Bamboo Jar, hearing the commotion, emerged from the inner room. The old man and the youth exchanged a distant smile in greeting. Farther off, the women, seeing their host settled in the reclining chair beneath the tree, were so eager to rush over that they nearly tossed aside their half-washed laundry.

They could have finished their chores early today, if not for the craftsmen building some useless house. A sip of tea slid down his throat as Feng Jingzhe half-closed his eyes in utter contentment, feeling there was no greater happiness in the world.

“Ahem… Where did we leave off yesterday?” he asked.

“I know! The monk turned into a tiger…” piped up a nearby imp, hand raised.

“Hahaha… You clever rascal! Here, another candied lotus seed as a reward…” Feng Jingzhe fished out a lotus seed and popped it into his own mouth, then continued the story of the monkey.

What he didn’t know was that, from the moment he lay beneath the tree, an elderly woman had taken her seat by the windowsill of the main house behind him, pen in hand. The fine bamboo brush she held traced elegant characters densely across the page. Had Feng Jingzhe glimpsed them, he would have been thoroughly astonished—for she was recording yesterday’s tale. Yet her writing was concise and her phrasing obscure, verging on classical prose. The episode from Journey to the West, rendered in her hand, became an entirely different story.

Thus Feng Jingzhe idled the morning away by the riverbank, the monkey’s saga progressing to the “Kingdom of Women.”

He was wily, refusing to give in no matter how the children begged, insisting they wait until tomorrow for the next installment. Afternoons were reserved for naps; this lazybones wouldn’t rise until sunset. The two women at home were happy to let him be, while at night, Sun Fugui sometimes brought food to visit. Occasionally, they discussed preparations for the workshop, or Liu Lei of the Liu clan in Runan—upon hearing that another joint venture had excluded him, he was restless and sought a personal audience.

Following Feng Jingzhe’s instructions, Sun Fugui offered every excuse to delay, until finally, out of sheer frustration, he hinted that Feng Jingzhe and Meng Xiaodie were close, suggesting Liu Lei wait at the Warm Jade Pavilion. Since meeting Third Brother, Sun Fugui knew he was upright and rarely visited places of ill repute.

Time slipped by, and another half month passed quickly. The days grew hotter, and Feng Jingzhe seldom ventured out—except for his secret trips every five days to the West Market, where he was beaten like a dog, or soaking beneath the grape vines at home. The promised tale of the Kingdom of Women had never resumed after that day. If not for Old Gray Head’s visit, announcing that the laundry house was fully tested and needed a final check before opening tomorrow, he would never have left the Feng family estate in this heat.

Reluctantly donning his clothes, Feng Jingzhe headed for the inner house. The Fengs possessed only one true study, presided over by the autocratic ruler, Lady Feng Xiaoman. After all, the effort to build the laundry house was meant to bring new income to the family. Future management would naturally fall to his sister.

At this moment, Feng Xiaoman frowned over the account books, while beside her, their naive mother munched on seeds, cradling Little White. Clearly, the old woman was having another episode. With the wedding approaching, she was nearly bald with worry over the bride price. Though Emperor himself decreed the marriage, the Fengs could not rely solely on the court for the dowry, lest they appear insincere. Not only must it not be less, its quality must exceed expectations. The Ministry of Rites had set the date for the fifteenth of August, and the Northern Moon Envoy would reach Chang’an around the twentieth of July. From Chang’an to Longxi took at least sixteen days, meaning the Fengs would need to dispatch the dowry within ten days. Only once the betrothal was formalized could the bride’s family set out.

She calculated again and again, but silver was still short. Time waited for no one—the Ritual Supervisor, Lord Fang Shaoyan, had already come to hurry them several times. Just as Feng Xiaoman racked her brains in frustration, the door was knocked from outside…