Black Market Opens: Riches Overnight
Su Qing spent the entire night at the military district clinic.
Not because she wanted to.
Because Lu Zhanye wouldn’t let go.
Literally.
He slept for eight hours—according to Xiao Zhao, the longest stretch he’d managed in half a month—and for every single second of those eight hours, his hand stayed clamped around her wrist, like it had been welded there.
Su Qing tried to pull free twice.
The first time, his brows furrowed, and his grip tightened.
The second, he dragged her and the stool half a foot closer to the cot without even waking.
Su Qing gave up.
Fine then.
She leaned against the edge of the cot, used her free hand to pull an ancient medical text out of her space—no one would see in the dark anyway—and spent the whole night studying acupuncture techniques.
Not a waste. Time well spent.
Dawn broke.
The first thing Lu Zhanye did when he woke was look down at his hand.
Wrapped around a slender, pale wrist.
He followed the arm upward.
Su Qing was slumped asleep against the cot edge, half her face buried in her sleeve, one small ear and a strip of glowing white nape exposed.
Her lashes were long, casting a delicate fan-shaped shadow beneath her eyes. Her lips were slightly parted, her breathing so faint it was barely audible.
Lu Zhanye stared at her for a full ten seconds.
Then he realized what he was doing.
He let go—so gently it was hard to believe this was the same man who could kick a grown man flying with one blow.
A faint red ring circled Su Qing’s wrist, left by his grip all night.
Lu Zhanye stared at the mark for three seconds. His Adam’s apple bobbed.
He lifted a finger, hesitated for a heartbeat, then brushed the lightest touch against the red line.
Like he was afraid he’d break something.
Then he pulled his hand back, got dressed, and strode out of the clinic.
He never woke her.
Xiao Zhao, standing guard at the door, snapped to attention and saluted: “Commander—”
“Get her something to eat.”
“Sir?”
“Porridge. Soft. Add an egg.”
“…Yes, sir!”
Lu Zhanye took two steps, then paused again.
“No pickles. She doesn’t like them.”
Xiao Zhao froze.
How did the commander know she didn’t like pickles?
He thought back to the mess hall the day before—Su Qing had indeed pushed the pickles to the edge of her bowl and left them untouched.
But the commander had been sitting at the far end of the table, at least ten meters away.
He’d noticed that?
A chill ran down Xiao Zhao’s spine.
When his commander’s observation skills were used on the battlefield, they were terrifying.
When used on a girl…
Well.
He didn’t dare think about it.
When Su Qing woke, a bowl of porridge and a fried egg sat waiting for her.
The porridge was thick and creamy, the egg golden on both sides, with a small dish of sugar beside it.
In an era where eggs were a luxury, this breakfast was finer than most families’ New Year’s Eve feasts.
She took a sip of porridge.
Perfect texture, rich rice flavor. Not bad at all.
She ate every bite, washed and stacked the dishes, then stood up and stretched her arm—its circulation had fallen asleep.
The red mark on her wrist had faded.
She glanced at it, then looked away.
Or rather, she forced herself not to think about it.
By the time she got back to the educated youth compound, it was nine in the morning.
She changed into plain, faded clothes from her space—deliberately picking something unremarkable—slung her cloth bag over her shoulder, and told Ma Hongmei she was heading up the mountain to gather herbs.
She did go up the mountain.
But her destination wasn’t the herb patches.
It was a market town on the other side of the ridge.
More precisely: the black market tucked deep in an alley behind the town.
Su Qing had heard of it in her past life, but never visited.
In this life, she intended to turn it into her first money-making machine.
The black market was tiny.
A narrow alley a hundred meters long, flanked by low earthen walls. Small groups huddled by the foundations, spreading cloths on the ground to display their goods: worn clothes, coarse grain, homemade pickles, scraps of fabric.
The most valuable stall sat at the very end, shaded by a tattered oilcloth, holding a few packets of sugar, two packs of cigarettes, and a small bottle of kerosene.
Su Qing stood at the alley mouth and scanned the scene.
Bare-bones. Utterly bare-bones.
Compared to the stockpiles in her space, this place was like a street cart next to a department store.
She took a deep breath, schooled her expression into that of a shy, timid girl, and walked slowly down the alley.
“Brother… do you buy things?”
She squatted in front of the last stall, her voice soft and hesitant.
The vendor was a lean man in his forties, with a bushy beard and sharp, shifty eyes—every inch the seasoned, cunning trader.
He sized her up from head to toe.
“Never seen you around. What’ve you got?”
Su Qing pulled a paper parcel from her bag and unfolded it.
Sugar. A full five pounds.
The man’s eyes lit up, but he quickly masked his excitement.
“Sugar,” he said, prodding it casually. “Decent quality. How much?”
“Two yuan a jin.”
“Too steep. One fifty.”
Su Qing didn’t haggle. Instead, she pulled out a second parcel.
Milk powder. A full sealed tin, label intact, lid unopened.
The lean man’s hands trembled.
In rural areas in 1976, tinned milk powder was rarer—and more valuable—than gold. You couldn’t buy it even if you had the money; there simply wasn’t any supply.
“This…” his voice cracked, “where’d you get this?”
Su Qing ducked her head, speaking quietly. “My cousin works in a factory in the provincial capital—sent it over. I don’t need it all, so I thought I’d trade it for cash.”
The man stared at the tin for five long seconds, then drew a sharp breath.
“How much?”
“Fifteen yuan.”
“Ten.”
“Thirteen,” Su Qing said gently, but with unyielding firmness. “Less than that, I take it away.”
The man gritted his teeth. “Deal.”
His hands still shook as he counted out the money.
Su Qing took the bills, counted them, and tucked them safely into her inner pocket.
Then she pulled out her third item.
Fabric—terylene. A full bolt.
This time, the man could no longer keep up his act.
He jumped to his feet, tugged her sleeve a little further into the shadows, and lowered his voice.
“Girl—how much stock do you actually have?”
Su Qing lifted her eyes—bright, knowing, and deceptively innocent—and smiled sweetly.
“Brother… how much can you handle?”
Half an hour later, Su Qing walked out of the black market with one hundred and twenty-seven yuan tucked into her bag.
Five pounds of sugar: 10 yuan.
One tin of milk powder: 13 yuan.
One bolt of terylene: 35 yuan.
Four cans of luncheon meat: 20 yuan.
Two packs of Daqianmen cigarettes: 40 yuan.
One bottle of erythromycin tablets: 9 yuan.
Total: 127 yuan.
What did that mean in 1976?
It was three months’ wages for an ordinary factory worker.
Su Qing had earned it in one morning.
And compared to what she had stored in her space? This was nothing—not even a drop in the bucket.
This was only a test run. She needed to learn the market’s limits, its price structure, and the network behind it.
When she really started supplying in bulk?
One hundred and twenty-seven yuan? That would be pocket change.
On her way back to the compound, Su Qing paused on the hillside.
She crouched beneath a pine tree, pretending to forage herbs, while sorting through her supplies in her mind.
Short-term stock for sale: Sugar, fabric, cigarettes, canned goods, milk powder—the most liquid, most in-demand goods on the black market.
Mid-term reserve: Antibiotics, painkillers, fever reducers—too risky to sell in large batches all at once, but worth a fortune per unit.
Long-term strategic assets: Gold, jewelry, antiques—untouchable for now. They’d only realize their true value after the reform and opening-up, but their appreciation would be astronomical.
She finished her mental list, brushed the dirt from her hands, and started down the hill.
Then she stopped.
Someone was watching her.
She pretended to tie her shoelace, sweeping the area quietly.
Behind a gnarled tree some distance away stood a man in a worn gray coat—too far to make out his face clearly.
But she could feel his gaze: not a casual glance from a passerby, but deliberate, sustained attention.
Surveillance?
Su Qing filed the detail away. She kept walking, head bowed, wearing her usual harmless, meek expression.
But her mind was already racing: Who was watching her? Why?
Was it connected to her family back in the capital? To Lu Zhanye? Or something she didn’t even know about yet?
Night fell. The compound lights went out.
Su Qing lay in bed, eyes closed, listening to the snores and soft breathing of the others. Once she was certain everyone was asleep, she pulled a metal lunchbox from her space.
Inside: braised pork ribs, rich dark sauce clinging to tender meat, steaming hot.
She picked up a rib with her chopsticks and took a bite.
Perfect—fall-off-the-bone tender, savory, just the right hint of sweetness.
She ate three ribs and two spoonfuls of rice, sipped warm spiritual spring water, then stowed the box back in her space, thoroughly satisfied.
Pulling her quilt tight, she closed her eyes again.
Tomorrow, she’d find Old Man Shen.
That hidden master of traditional Chinese medicine, living quietly beside the cattle pen, was the most valuable connection she could make right now.
If her guess was right—Shen Henian was far more than just an exiled rightist. Behind him lay the very top echelons of the capital’s medical world.
And the capital… was where she was destined to return.
Su Qing touched the jade pendant resting just below her collarbone. It felt warm against her skin, thrumming faintly.
She still didn’t know all its secrets—only that it had opened the door to her space. But she had a feeling it would lead her back to where she truly belonged.
Outside, the north wind howled through the trees.
Su Qing smiled into her pillow.
One hundred and twenty-seven yuan. Her first fortune in this new life.
It was nothing compared to what she held in her space. But it was hers—earned by her own hands, in this harsh, scarce era.
From this day forward, she would survive—and thrive—one step at a time.