One cannot sit around and burn through one’s savings forever.
Shen Xian did his sums: his separate residence cost two taels monthly for upkeep; his monthly stipend was five taels, leaving a surplus of three taels.
But after he had squeezed furniture and supplies out of the manor, given Liu‑shi’s temperament, trouble with his stipend was bound to arise sooner or later.
I need to earn money.
Rule number one of earning money: work with what you are good at.
What am I good at?
Turning black into white, spinning hopeless cases into winning arguments.
What did they call this in ancient times?
Ghost‑writing.
Three days later, outside Qinghe County’s largest teahouse, Listening‑to‑Rain Tower, a new book‑stall appeared.
A square table, a chair, and a wooden sign bearing four large characters: Shen’s Ghost‑Writing Service Write letters, contracts, legal petitions.
Generous fees for polished drafts.
On the first day, a peddler wandered over.
“Sir, write me an IOU note.”
“How much are you borrowing?”
“Five taels of silver from neighbour Wang Er.”
“Very well.” Shen Xian picked up his brush.
Interest rate?
What happens if repayment fails?”
The peddler blinked.
“Borrow five taels and still charge interest?”
“Of course.” Shen Xian’s brush flew across the paper.
“Loan term three months, one percent monthly interest.
Principal and interest to be repaid in full upon maturity.
Further clause: should repayment default, Wang Er shall have the right to seize your wheelbarrow as collateral, valued at two taels.
Sign your mark here.”
“Why should my cart be seized!”
“Because you borrow money on the credit of your word.” Shen Xian set down his brush.
“If you repay on time, your cart remains yours.
If you have so little faith in yourself, you ought not borrow.
Go home; do not risk your reputation over this small sum.”
The peddler massaged his temples, thought long and hard, then slammed his fist on the table.
“Write it!”
That afternoon Shen Xian completed seven loan contracts, three personal letters, and one household‑division deed, earning eighty copper coins.
When he packed up, old Master Chen, a veteran scholar who ran a neighbouring stall, ambled over and stroked his beard, studying him.
“Young man, putting interest clauses into IOUs breaks local customs.
Our trade values ‘human sentiment’.
Writing interest on loans harms harmony.”
“Respected Master,” Shen Xian cupped his hands.
“Precisely by writing down interest, loans can be made, repaid, and lent again.
IOUs without interest lend money, yet return enemies.
Which harms harmony more?”
Old Master Chen’s beard‑stroking hand halted.
He bowed solemnly.
“I have learned something today.”
The next morning beside Master Chen’s stall appeared a second wooden sign: Draft loan contracts.
Fair interest.
Clear terms for breach of agreement.