Su Qingyue thought she was acting unnoticed, sneaking around and gnashing her teeth in secrecy—but little did she know, Ruan An’an had already seen everything.
Ruan An’an leaned against the carved railing, holding a cup of tea brewed with the spiritual spring water from her space.
In her other hand, she casually flipped through a foreign manual of weapons diagrams.
Watching Su Qingyue disappear behind the door of the annex, a faint, ambiguous smile curved her lips.
“Tsk, no wonder she was the heroine in the original story. That self-regulation skill—truly top-notch. Just a little while ago she was red-faced, foaming with anger like a boiled shrimp. And now? Calm as a breeze, wearing that smug look… I wonder what schemes she’s plotting now.”
She took a delicate sip of her tea, her eyes cold and sharp. “Fine, go ahead and stir trouble! I, Ruan An’an, will see it through to the end. Let’s see who’ll end up crushed.”
For now, Su Qingyue’s reputation was already ruined, and she wouldn’t dare show herself publicly anytime soon.
Ruan An’an, however, had more pressing business to attend to—buying jars.
The afternoon sun was harsh, and Ruan An’an swiftly changed her outfit.
A slightly worn red floral cotton coat, faded from washing, paired with a deep green, shabby knitted scarf.
The scarf wrapped tightly over the lower half of her face, and her thick bangs concealed her smooth forehead and bright, piercing eyes.
From head to toe, her radiant, delicate features were hidden completely. From afar, she looked like an ordinary auntie busy with daily chores in the alleys—a perfect disguise for blending into a crowd.
Her destination was the black market of Haishi, the starting point of Su Qingyue’s rise to wealth in the original story.
From what *** had indicated, her trip to the island base would likely happen in the coming days.
Before leaving, she had to turn the best green plums and fresh vegetables stored in her space into wine and pickles.
Over the past three days, she had made plenty using the “one-click cooking” function in her space, but the biggest problem was—
There was nowhere to store them!
The containers in her space were mostly antiques from the Ming Dynasty’s Xuande era; bringing them home would be inviting disaster.
What she needed were plain, inconspicuous, utterly “humble” clay jars.
She chose the black market, not because she lacked ration tickets, but because buying a whole bunch openly at the supply store would be too conspicuous, drawing unwanted attention.
Better to spend cash quietly on the black market.
After all, on the relatively resource-scarce island, cash was far more valuable than ration tickets.
With her memory of the story’s plot, Ruan An’an quickly found her way near the black market.
Unlike other places, Haishi’s black market was hidden, not along the street or alley, but within a long-abandoned chemical factory, permeated with rust and the faint smell of chemical residues.
The tall iron gates of the factory were tightly closed, with two rough-looking men in old military caps squatting at the entrance, looking thuggish.
Their eyes swept over passersby like knives.
The scar-faced man, seeing Ruan An’an’s plain disguise approach, immediately straightened up, his voice rough and commanding: “Auntie! This isn’t a place for you! Go on, leave now!”
His gaze scanned her from head to toe like a searchlight.
“Cough… cough cough!” Ruan An’an strained her voice, coughing violently, imitating an elderly woman with lung disease.
Trembling, she pulled an old-style copper coin from her grayish pocket and handed it over, her voice raspy: “Cough… I’m… from the Zhou… Zhou family… cough… here to buy some supplies…”
The scar-faced man took the coin, examined it closely, and his expression instantly changed. All trace of thuggishness vanished, his posture straightened, and he even adopted a deferential, slightly ingratiating tone: “Ah! So it’s from Boss Zhou! Why didn’t you say earlier? My apologies, my apologies! Please come in!”
He quickly opened a small, inconspicuous iron door beside him.
“Thank you!” Ruan An’an kept her voice low, still mimicking the aged tone, pocketed the coin, and slipped inside.
Perhaps due to recent tension, the large factory seemed unusually empty.
Customers were sparse—only five or six—hunching their shoulders, their eyes wary.
Vendors mostly wore impatient or anxious expressions, guarding their goods.
Yet the selection was surprisingly comprehensive: fabrics, grain, cooking oil, pots and pans, even smuggled electronic keyboards and tin car models tucked in corners.
There were live animals too—chirping chicks, squealing piglets, all kinds of livestock.
Ruan An’an had a clear goal and quickly found a stall against the wall selling odds and ends: pots, pans, and various sizes of clay wine jars.
She pointed at a medium-sized, simple five-kilogram clay jar on the ground and, restoring some of her cool, clear voice, asked, “How much for this jar?”
The vendor, a burly man with a beefy face, bored, picking at his teeth without looking up, lazily quoted an exorbitant price: “Five bucks each! No bargaining! And you carry them yourself, I’m not helping!”
Five bucks?! Ruan An’an snorted inwardly.
In these days, a good coarse-ceramic jar would cost about the same!
And he had the audacity to ask for that much for this cheap clay jar?
Clearly, he was trying to take advantage of a stranger, hiking the price like he was fattening a sheep for slaughter!
She frowned and decisively cut it down: “Two bucks. I’ll take them all.”
Her voice was quiet but carried unmistakable authority.
“Huh?!” The man finally looked her over. Seeing her plain outfit, he scoffed: “You’re bluffing! I’ve got about fifty of them! Two bucks each? That’s a hundred bucks! You got that?”
Without a word, Ruan An’an reached into her coat pocket and slapped ten crisp, new “Great Unity” notes onto the vendor’s old wooden cash box with a loud smack.
Before he could recover from the shock, she turned and walked away, leaving a simple instruction: “Fifty jars. Count them and stack them at the gate. I’ll pick them up when I’m done shopping.”
Her tone was crisp and commanding, leaving no room for objection.
The vendor immediately straightened up from his previous attitude: “Don’t worry! I’ll stack them neatly for you!”
He spat on his fingers, quickly tapped twice, giving a sharp glance to his lookout partner.
“See that? Fat sheep! A rich fat sheep!”
The two exchanged greedy, knowing looks and efficiently began moving the heavy jars.
By the time they were stacked at the gate, they even signaled to a thin, dark middle-aged man sitting in the corner.
Ruan An’an’s peripheral vision caught the small gesture, and she smirked inwardly.
Panicked? Not a chance.
She not only remained unhurried but deliberately slowed her selection, pretending to browse casually as if in her own garden.
Island life was harsh, but at least it was a military base—no one would starve.
She picked a few slabs of well-marbled, glossy cured pork and over fifty pounds of solid beef shanks—durable, flavorful for stewing.
The real treasure lay in the unassuming jars and bottles: fermented bean curd, sesame paste, soy sauce, aged vinegar… and especially brown sugar!
As a modern woman well-versed in health, Ruan An’an knew that loving herself was better than loving anyone else.
With a flourish, she cleared the entire stall’s mountain of brown sugar blocks.
She also picked a few sets of practical, durable gray clothes and cloth shoes—suitable for hard work, looking like any ordinary worker’s family from the city.
Anything usable or storable, she didn’t leave behind.
Her biggest delight was spotting, tied up in a corner, a round-bellied, milk-engorged female goat.
Ruan An’an’s eyes lit up—
This was a live milk source!
Once it gave birth in her space, free goat milk would no longer be a dream!
After her sweep, her four thousand “big bills” were reduced to a thin stack.
Outside the black market, her “spoils” were already piled into a small mountain.
By now, the vast, abandoned factory was almost empty of other customers.
The previously idle vendors’ eyes clung to her like hooks, full of greed and calculation.
Ruan An’an, however, appeared entirely unbothered, striding directly toward the two men guarding the gate…