The more the grain merchants hoarded and refused to sell, the more the people became convinced a snow disaster was coming—and the more they wanted to buy.
The more the people wanted to buy, the more the merchants saw profit—and the cycle fed itself.
I want to buy, but you won’t sell—so there must be a snow disaster coming. You’re hoarding to sell at high prices—heartless profiteers!
They offered higher prices—desperate to buy. That only confirmed to the merchants that snow was coming. Not yet—prices could reach fifty coins per sheng. Then we’ll make a killing!
Both sides grew more frenzied, like a snowball rolling downhill—unstoppable. By then, the Agricultural Office had long withdrawn from the fray.
So this was the result: grain hoarded in merchant stores, only a trickle released. The rest held back, waiting for the blizzard—while popular demand for grain had reached its peak.
Merchants like Qian Dayou waited smugly, anticipating a huge harvest. But instead of snow, they got the Agricultural Office opening its granaries.
When Qian’s Grain opened its doors that day, the shop was empty. The clerk returned in tears after checking the news.
“Master! Master! The court is releasing grain!”
“How much per sheng?” Qian Dayou’s heart lurched. If it was above ten coins, he’d be affected—but a merchant of his size wouldn’t be crippled.
The clerk held up two trembling fingers—an eight.
Qian Dayou’s face went white. His eyes rolled back, and he fainted on the spot.
Not just Qian Dayou—every grain merchant near Fengye who’d tried to hoard was blindsided. Their warehouses were overflowing with grain—enough to sell for two or three years!
Grain prices had stayed high. Just buying it had cost them at least seven coins per sheng, plus storage and labor—bringing the cost to nine or ten. There was no way to compete with the Agricultural Office. A single arm couldn’t beat a thigh—the office had the court’s backing. What could they do?
With the court releasing grain at such a low price, it proved there would be no snow disaster. The people relaxed and stopped buying—certainly not at the merchants’ inflated prices.
The merchants who’d been waiting for a windfall leaned in their doorways, watching—but no buyers came. Regret ate at them. Not only couldn’t they sell a single sheng—even if they could, they’d lose money. And their warehouses were so full they couldn’t sell it all even if they kept selling until next year—when it would be moldy.
Unless a benevolent tycoon appeared and bought them out at a high price—but that was a dream.
Qian Dayou suffered the most. As Fengye’s largest grain merchant, he’d hoarded the most. His grain filled not only all his warehouses, but ten extra rental rooms—and the rent alone was substantial. All of it, waiting for a big score—now vanished.
Within three days of waking, Qian Dayou had lost ten catties. His beady eyes, once squeezed into slits, had grown to the size of beans.
Every time he looked in the mirror and saw his eyes, he thought of the piled grain—and grew angrier. Blisters formed on his lips.
Within days, the Agricultural Office posted a notice regulating grain prices—setting both purchase and sale price ranges, prohibiting low-buying and high-selling, market manipulation, and profiteering at the people’s expense. To address the merchants’ surplus, they offered to buy stored grain at four coins per sheng. Interested parties could report to the Agricultural Office.
Only then did the merchants realize they’d been played. The court had used their greed against them—dangled a trap, watched them walk in, and now drew the net.
The court sold at eight coins. If they dared sell at six, the court would sell at four. They’d offend the court and still lose—their grain unsold. The court had been displeased when they’d first squeezed farmers on purchase prices. They’d held back, waiting for this moment. If the merchants hadn’t been so greedy, they wouldn’t have fallen so easily.
What choice did they have? They were in the wrong. Could they sell to anyone but the Agricultural Office?
And so, the court bought a fresh batch of grain at low cost—not only not losing money, but turning a tidy profit.
The lesson was harsh. Many merchants lost everything. They’d think twice—for at least ten years.
Yu Lingxin’s message was clear—but he didn’t intend to crush them. The Treasury posted notices offering low-interest loans to help them recover. Though they took another small cut, it was more than generous—cleaning up the mess for them.
When Xunliang delivered the report, Jiang Nong and Yu Lingxin were playing chess. Everything was within his expectations. He placed a piece unhurriedly and watched her expression.
“I never thought you had a trace of humanity. I thought you’d just abandon them.” She knew he was cruel—but not this cunning, and unexpectedly, with a sliver of compassion. Surprising. And clever.
Jiang Nong’s guess was right—this was something the previous Yu Lingxin would never have done.
Yu Lingxin was pleased by her shock. He laughed softly, waved Xunliang away, and said: “It’s almost New Year’s. I’m a married man now—I can’t be too heartless.”
Jiang Nong didn’t believe him: “You’ve done plenty worse before.”
“Acting impulsively in youth is only natural.” Yu Lingxin tapped the chessboard leisurely, signaling her to move. After a pause, he added: “Actually, besides selling low to undercut the market, you could also flood the market in waves or sell at the peak. That would yield huge profits—but it’s bad for the people. Only if you’re truly desperate for funds would you resort to bleeding the wealthy to recover.”
Jiang Nong placed her piece and looked up, sensing he genuinely seemed to want to teach her something.
Why teach her?
Wasn’t he afraid she’d grow bolder and overstep—meddling in court affairs?
From the previous dynasty onward, empresses had been granted power to mobilize troops and participate in state affairs. In its final years, with many young rulers, empress dowagers often held power—and with them, the influence of their families.
After Great Qi fell, the five kingdoms learned from that lesson and began curtailing empresses’ authority. By now, when she was in Xi, the empress only had limited power to mobilize the palace guards—her father never allowed her to interfere in governance.
Yu Lingxin continued: “It’s not just grain—cloth, metals, salt, sugar, even fruit trees and seeds. Anything with a name can be speculated on, if you have enough capital. Throw enough money at it, and fools will flock.
When they think they’ve grasped an opportunity and gamble everything greedily, that’s when the house closes in. Human nature is always the same—one, then two, then three. They all think they’re special, favored by heaven, always wanting more. In truth, greed only leads to total loss—they become puppets. The same applies at court: we hold the power of life and death, like the house in the market. Ministers and nobles all have selfish desires. As long as you grasp those desires, you can play them like puppets.”
Jiang Nong understood—but applying it would be difficult. Aside from occasionally toying with Yu Lingxin’s heart, she’d never schemed. She bit her nail.
Yu Lingxin saw her habit and said: “I’m just telling you—no need to actually do it.” He pulled her hand away from her mouth. “Don’t bite your nails.”
Only then did Jiang Nong realize what she’d done. She wiped her hand with a handkerchief. She’d just had her nails done—painted pink—and now they were a mess.
She’d done this since childhood—whenever she was conflicted, she’d bite her nails. Her right-hand nails were always shorter than her left.
She asked: “Does the house never lose?”
“Of course it does. No one is made of stone. Even the sharpest have feelings and desires. So even above the highest house, there’s an invisible house. Your feelings and softness are the house that controls you.”
Jiang Nong hadn’t expected someone as heartless as Yu Lingxin to say something so thoughtful. She tapped her piece and placed it: “If that’s the case, you must be the unshakable type.”
He was so cunning, so calculating, so cold and selfish—Jiang Nong couldn’t imagine anything controlling him.
Yu Lingxin glanced at her and said nothing.
He had greed. He had selfishness.
The house controlling him sat right across the board.
The bait the house offered was love. He knew it was a dangerous trap, a candy he could never have—but driven by greed, he approached willingly. He deserved to have his throat clamped, to be tethered in her hands.
The rope tightened. He should struggle, fight back—but the clever house would dangle more bait, toss him a morsel. And he, gripped by greedy desire, would take the gamble, step by step, walking the edge of the cliff—just like any fool, his brain smoothed of wrinkles, dreaming of a windfall, of success.
In truth, this house named Jiang Nong had no plan to trap him—she wasn’t a merciless merchant. Even the bait she offered was unintentional. Yu Lingxin had passed by her, been lured, and tied the rope around his own neck.
He wanted it—so he was willing. His false struggle only made his surrender more natural.
Like all the grain merchants cursing him in their hearts—their anger came from not getting what they wanted. A little pacification, and they’d praise him and kneel again.
The loudest barkers wanted it most. That’s what it meant to hit a dog with a stone.
That was Yu Lingxin’s greed. His desire.
He was Jiang Nong’s puppet—a marionette whose strings were love.
A long time passed—so long Jiang Nong thought he wouldn’t answer. Then Yu Lingxin spoke, his voice so soft it could have been carried by the wind from far away:
“How could it be.”
When she tried to read deeper meaning into his words, he had already laughed and said: “I’m so fragile I’d crumble to dust if the wind blows.”
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