After obtaining the land deed for three hundred mu of paddy fields, Ning Nuannuan did not rush to take action on it.
The fields were located in Tongzhou, on the outskirts of the capital, producing two rice harvests a year.
Based on current market conditions, the annual yield of three hundred mu of high-quality paddy fields would convert to at least 250 taels of silver.
It wasn’t a large sum, but it was stable—resistant to droughts and floods. In modern terms, it was a low-risk, fixed-income asset.
She locked the deed into a metal box and shifted her attention to another matter—the dowry list also included two shop properties.
One was a silk shop located on Qianmen Street, named “Ruijinxiang.”
The other was a general store at a corner alley outside Chongwen Gate, named “Guangjuhao.” Neither was large, but both were in good locations.
According to the original dowry list, these two shops had belonged to the first wife and were transferred along with the dowry into the Ninth Prince’s residence.
They were managed by appointed stewards, and their monthly profits were supposed to be handed over to the primary wife.
The phrase “supposed to” was worth pondering.
Ning Nuannuan searched through the original owner’s belongings and found the property deeds for the two shops hidden in a compartment of a jewelry box.
The deeds bore the name Dong’e Ningnuan, stamped with official seals—no issue there.
But tucked in the same compartment were several letters.
They were written by the shop managers to the original owner—four letters in total, spanning half a year.
The paper had yellowed, the edges creased, showing that the original owner had handled them repeatedly.
The contents were largely the same: business was difficult, income couldn’t cover expenses, please understand, and the payment for this month would have to be delayed.
Four letters. Four months without payment.
The earliest letter was from March of this year, the latest from the end of July.
Which meant that before the original owner was granted marriage, even the income from her dowry shops had already been cut off.
Ning Nuannuan laid the four letters side by side on the table and read them word by word.
The handwriting differed—two letters were from Shopkeeper Zhou of the silk shop, the other two from the manager of the general store.
But the phrasing followed the exact same pattern: first blame the poor market environment, then cite rising costs, and finally express loyalty while promising, “next month we will definitely make up for it.”
Ning Nuannuan had spent two years with a UN observation team, specializing in investigating underground financial networks used by African warlords for money laundering.
The rhetoric those people used to fool auditors, when translated into Chinese, had almost the exact same logical structure as these four letters.
A silk shop on Qianmen Street—one of the most prosperous commercial streets in the capital, near Zhengyang Gate, with massive foot traffic from all directions.
A general store outside Chongwen Gate—one of the capital’s tax gates, where seventy percent of incoming goods passed through, surrounded by merchants.
With these locations, even if the shopkeeper were a pig lying on the counter waiting for customers to hand over money, it wouldn’t suffer losses for four consecutive months.
Either the managers were embezzling funds, or someone was manipulating things behind the scenes.
In either case, sitting in the residence and reading letters wouldn’t reveal the truth.
She needed to see it herself.
Early the next morning, Ning Nuannuan changed into an inconspicuous brown outfit. She tied her hair into a simple bun with a cloth strip, wore no hairpins, and switched to flat cloth shoes.
She looked no different from the ordinary banner women walking along Qianmen Street.
She stepped out of the main room. In the courtyard, the young maids Cuiping and Yinxing were sweeping fallen leaves.
“You two, come with me.”
The two exchanged glances, put down their brooms, and followed.
They were dowry maids brought from her natal home, about fifteen or sixteen years old—timid but tight-lipped.
Passing through the front courtyard, Yinzhen was discussing matters with He Yuzhu.
He wore a slate-blue robe and was idly rolling a string of amber beads in his hand. Ning Nuannuan had noticed that ever since she entered the residence, his hands were never idle.
Seeing her come out, he stopped.
“You’re going out?”
“To check the shops.”
“Which shops?”
“The two from my dowry. The managers haven’t paid in half a year—I’m going to see if they’re dead or have run off.”
Yinzhen frowned.
“You’re going alone?”
“Two maids are enough. No need to make a scene.”
Yinzhen hesitated. Qianmen Street was a mix of all sorts of people—having a woman go out in public like that wasn’t quite appropriate.
Even if this “woman” could snap a stone lion with her bare hands.
“I’ll have He Yuzhu go with you. He knows the shops in the capital well.”
“No need.”
“Then take a guard.”
“Can your guards beat me?”
Yinzhen opened his mouth, then swallowed his words.
He thought about it—she was right.
Even if the entire Ninth Prince’s residence and its guards joined together, they wouldn’t be enough for one of her hands in a fight.
If he insisted on sending someone, it wouldn’t be to protect her—but to protect others, in case someone foolish provoked her, at least there’d be someone to intervene.
But he didn’t say that aloud.
“Then… come back early.”
After saying that, Yinzhen paused.
Why did that sound… strange?
Ning Nuannuan glanced at him without replying, and left with Cuiping and Yinxing.
Yinzhen stood there, rolling the amber beads twice in his hand, suddenly feeling a bit warm in the face.
He turned to look at He Yuzhu, who was bent over, staring so intently at the ground it was as if he were counting ants.
“What are you looking at ants for!” Yinzhen snapped.
“This servant saw nothing! Heard nothing!” He Yuzhu hurriedly declared.
Yinzhen flicked his sleeve irritably and turned toward the study. After a few steps, he stopped again.
“He Yuzhu.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Do you know exactly where those two dowry shops are?”
“One is on Qianmen Street, the other outside Chongwen Gate.”
“Send someone to follow from a distance. Just keep an eye—don’t let Madam notice.”
He Yuzhu understood immediately, responded with a “Yes,” and went to make arrangements.
Qianmen Street.
In the capital during the forty-fifth year of Kangxi’s reign, the Qianmen area was the busiest commercial district.
From Zhengyang Gate southward, shops lined the streets in dense rows, banners waving, vendors calling out one after another.
Tea sellers, fur traders, silk merchants, dried goods dealers, interspersed with restaurants and opera houses—the crowd was so dense a needle couldn’t pass through.
In her previous life, Ning Nuannuan had traveled the world—from Wall Street in New York to the slums of Nairobi—seeing all kinds of markets.
But ancient commercial streets had a unique vitality. No electricity, no broadcasts, no neon lights—every transaction relied on human voices, face-to-face interaction, and hand-to-hand exchange of money.
She walked east with Cuiping and Yinxing for about fifteen minutes and found the silk shop.
The storefront wasn’t small—three connected sections, with a black signboard bearing gold characters reading “Ruijinxiang.”
The paint on the sign looked relatively new, the gold lettering freshly retouched. But the steps at the entrance were dusty, with rotting vegetable leaves piled in the corners—clearly not cleaned often.
“Cuiping, go to the shop next door and ask about this Ruijinxiang’s reputation on this street,” Ning Nuannuan instructed.
Cuiping nodded and went to the neighboring tea shop.
Ning Nuannuan ordered a bowl of coarse tea from a stall across the street and sat down to observe.
It was peak business hours in the morning.
She counted—within half an hour, seventeen groups of customers entered the shop, and eleven came out carrying goods.
A conversion rate of over sixty percent.
On Qianmen Street, silk shops usually had an average conversion rate of around forty percent, since silk was a high-value purchase and customers often compared multiple stores.
Ruijinxiang’s sixty percent meant one of two things—either competitive pricing or unique products.
Either way, it was impossible for the shop to be “operating at a loss.”
Ning Nuannuan quickly calculated in her mind.
She had a rough idea of rent prices on Qianmen Street, but since this shop was owned outright as part of her dowry, there was no rent.
That left only labor and procurement costs.
With three storefronts, at most four or five workers—assuming each earned two taels a month, total labor costs would be about ten taels.
Procurement costs depended on volume, but given the location and foot traffic, monthly revenue of sixty to seventy taels was guaranteed, with net profit of at least thirty to forty taels.
Over a year, that would amount to no less than four hundred taels.
Yet Shopkeeper Zhou had written “income cannot cover expenses”—his audacity was remarkable.
Cuiping returned from the neighboring tea shop and whispered in Ning Nuannuan’s ear, “Miss, I asked—the worker next door said this shop’s business is quite good, especially in summer when they sell cool silk. There are even lines outside. The shopkeeper’s surname is Zhou; he took over three years ago, and he’s good at socializing, maintaining good relations with other shops on this street.”
“Did he mention who owns this shop?”
“He wasn’t sure—just said it belongs to some wealthy household, and the owner rarely comes.”
The owner rarely comes.
Excellent.
When the owner doesn’t show up, the manager becomes a local emperor.
Ning Nuannuan set down her tea bowl and walked across the street. Yinxing hurried after her, tugging at her sleeve nervously. “Madam, should we announce your identity first?”
“No rush. Let’s see what he’s hiding first.”
Inside the shop, the silk was displayed fairly neatly.
On the left were plain silks from Jiangnan, arranged by color gradient, with several light green bolts placed prominently at the front.
In the middle were various patterned silks—gold-threaded, jacquard, and embossed designs.
On the right were darker-colored coarse fabrics and cotton, likely for lower-end customers.
Two clerks stood behind the counter.
One, in his twenties, was measuring fabric for a middle-aged man in a blue robe, his movements efficient. The other, older, leaned against the counter dozing, with an account book spread before him, the ink long dried.
“Where is the shopkeeper?” Ning Nuannuan asked the younger clerk.
The clerk glanced at her, sizing her up.
Brown clothes, no jewelry, accompanied by two plainly dressed maids—not someone likely to spend big.
“The shopkeeper isn’t here. Are you buying fabric?” His tone was polite but carried a hint of dismissal.
“Not buying. I’m looking for the shopkeeper.”
“He’s gone south to purchase goods. Won’t be back until at least the afternoon. Come back tomorrow if you have business.”
After speaking, he turned away and continued measuring fabric, ignoring her.
Ning Nuannuan didn’t leave.
She strolled slowly through the shop, her gaze sweeping over each bolt of fabric.
The older clerk behind her woke up and watched her with an unfriendly expression.
From his perspective, this woman didn’t look like a customer—more like someone casing the place.
Ning Nuannuan stopped in front of the plain silk rack on the left.
The light green bolts at the front looked decent, labeled “Top-grade Hangzhou silk, 7 taels per bolt.”
She reached out and rubbed the edge of the fabric.
The texture felt thin. Pinching it between her fingers, she could feel the gaps between the threads—it lacked density in both warp and weft.
Holding it up to the light from the window, the sheen was also inferior. Genuine top-grade Hangzhou silk should have a flowing luster, but this one reflected a dull, grayish light.
Not top-grade—at best upper-mid quality, worth about four and a half to five taels.
Priced at seven taels—each bolt carried a markup of nearly two to three taels.
With thirty to forty bolts in stock year-round, just this category alone could generate dozens of taels in excess profit monthly.
Ning Nuannuan released the fabric and moved to the patterned silk section.
The issues there were even more obvious.
In the most prominent spot were three bolts labeled “Suzhou tribute silk,” in the popular colors of deep purple and lotus, priced at thirteen taels per bolt.
Ning Nuannuan ran her fingers over the satin. The weaving was coarse, the texture rough. Authentic Suzhou tribute satin used a double warp and double weft technique, with double-sided jacquard patterns—when flipped over, the design on the reverse should be just as clear and complete.
She turned over a corner of the fabric.
The pattern on the reverse was blurred, with obvious broken threads and skipped stitches where the silk interlaced.
This wasn’t tribute satin at all. It didn’t even qualify as mid-grade Suzhou silk. A counterfeit like this cost at most three taels, yet it was being sold for thirteen—ten taels profit per bolt.
Just as Ning Nuannuan set the satin back down, a rude shout came from behind her.
“Hey, hey, you there! Don’t touch that!” The dozing old shop assistant finally got up, circling out from behind the counter and striding toward her.
“These are all premium goods! If you ruin them, who’s going to pay? Just look—if you can’t afford it, don’t mess things up!”
Yinxing’s face flushed red as she was about to argue.
Ning Nuannuan raised a hand to stop her.
She turned and looked at the old assistant approaching.
“How much did you purchase this Suzhou tribute satin for?”
The man froze, the flesh on his face twitching. “Th-that… purchasing prices are the shopkeeper’s business. What’s it got to do with you?”
“What’s it got to do with me?” Ning Nuannuan picked up the so-called tribute satin again, flipped it over, and held it toward the light. The broken threads and skipped stitches were clearly visible under the sunlight.
“Real Suzhou tribute satin uses double warp, double weft, and double-sided jacquard. This one can’t even manage proper single-sided jacquard.” She tossed it onto the counter.
“A three-tael counterfeit sold for thirteen. You’ve been doing business on Qianmen Street for three years—has no one from the authorities ever checked on you?”
The old assistant’s face changed.
The shop suddenly fell silent. The young assistant measuring cloth stopped mid-motion, and the customer in a blue robe turned to watch.
“Y-you… where did you come from? What right do you have to say our goods are fake?” the old man raised his voice, trying to intimidate her.
“Our Ruijinxiang has been open on Qianmen Street for three years—everyone knows us! And you, dressed like this… coming here to cause trouble?”
He stepped forward, reaching to snatch the satin from her hand.
The moment his fingers touched the cloth—
Ning Nuannuan’s right hand casually rested on the edge of the wooden counter.
Her five fingers gripped the hardwood edge.
No deliberate show of force, no dramatic motion—she simply curled her fingers slightly.
Crack.
A faint, crisp sound.
Five finger-width indentations appeared clearly on the two-inch-thick elm counter.
The wood fibers compressed and warped under her fingertips, splinters falling softly to the floor.
The old assistant’s hand froze midair.
He looked down at the indentations.
Then at Ning Nuannuan’s hand.
That hand still rested lightly on the counter—slender, fair, with neatly trimmed nails, nothing unusual about it.
But the marks on the wood didn’t lie.
His throat bobbed. He didn’t know who this woman was, but his survival instinct told him—if that hand landed on bones…
“Whether my goods are real or not doesn’t require you to tell me,” Ning Nuannuan said, releasing the counter and brushing off the wood dust from her palm.
“You just need to tell me one thing—is your Shopkeeper Zhou in the capital or not?”
The old man swallowed.
“H-he’s… in the back courtyard.”
“Go call him out.”
“He… he’s not feeling well today.”
Ning Nuannuan gave him a look.
No extra expression, no threatening words—just a calm glance.
The old man turned and ran, faster than a rabbit, disappearing into the back curtain, which swayed for a while afterward.
Yinxing leaned close, her voice lowered. “Consort, just now… you…” She glanced at the indentations on the counter, tongue tied.
Cuiping, on the other side, covered her mouth, eyes wide as bells.
She had served the second miss for years—when had she ever seen something like this?
Ning Nuannuan didn’t explain. She walked around the shop again, opening several storage chests in the corner and checking the stock inside.
At the bottom was a layer of damp, moldy old silk—worth at least forty or fifty taels at cost price, yet left here unattended. By next year, it would be completely ruined.
The back curtain lifted again.
The old assistant led the way, followed by a lean man in his forties.
He wore an indigo silk robe—the fabric was finer than anything sold in the shop. That was the first detail Ning Nuannuan noticed. The second was his shoes: black satin boots with silver-thread patterns—not something an ordinary merchant could afford.
Selling genuine goods to himself, selling fakes to customers.
Shopkeeper Zhou stepped behind the counter, a shrewd smile on his face.
“Madam, I am Zhou Heshun, the shopkeeper of Ruijinxiang. I heard you were looking for me?”
His gaze swept over Ning Nuannuan—plain clothing, not like someone wealthy.
But he noticed something the assistant hadn’t: the five indentations on the counter.
“My surname is Dong’e,” Ning Nuannuan said.
Zhou Heshun’s smile stiffened.
He rolled the name over in his mind, and his shrewdness quickly turned into guarded caution.
Dong’e—that surname was tied to the owner of this shop.
“You are…?”
“The owner of this shop.”
Zhou Heshun inhaled sharply, reassessing her. The owner of the dowry shop—that meant the principal consort of the Ninth Prince’s residence.
But he didn’t kneel or panic. In three years, the owner had never come personally—he had long prepared for such a situation.
“So it is the Consort gracing us with your presence. I failed to recognize Mount Tai,” Zhou Heshun said, stepping around the counter and giving a half-kneeling salute—one knee bent, the other ready to push him up at any moment.
“Forgive me, Consort. The shop is humble and has treated you poorly.”
“Stand and speak,” Ning Nuannuan sat on the only guest chair. “I’m here to check on the shop—and to ask about those letters.”
“Letters?”
“You haven’t submitted any silver for half a year. You wrote four letters, each saying expenses exceeded income. I sat across the street for half an hour—your shop received seventeen groups of customers and completed eleven transactions. On Qianmen Street, does that count as operating at a loss?”
Zhou Heshun’s smile finally faltered.
He opened his mouth to explain, but Ning Nuannuan didn’t give him the chance.
“I checked that bolt of so-called Suzhou tribute satin. Three-tael cost, sold for thirteen. If you think I’m mistaken, I can go to the authorities right now and bring an expert to verify.”
“Also, the Hangzhou silk on the shelves is priced at seven taels per bolt, but its actual quality is worth at most four and a half. There’s also a batch of damp, moldy silk sitting in storage. Which ledger are those recorded in?”
A thin layer of sweat formed on Zhou Heshun’s forehead.
Ning Nuannuan stood and walked to the counter.
“I’m not here to argue. Today is just to assess the situation. In three days, bring all the account books since you took over to the Ninth Prince’s residence—not a single one missing.”
“Purchases, sales, inventory, labor—organize them clearly.”
Her fingers tapped lightly on the five indentations on the counter.
“If I don’t receive the ledgers in three days—or if the numbers don’t match reality…”
She didn’t finish the sentence.
Zhou Heshun stared at the indentations, sweat running from his temples to his chin.
“Y-your servant… understands.”
Ning Nuannuan stepped out of Ruijinxiang and headed south along Qianmen Street.
Cuiping and Yinxing followed behind, both maids barely daring to breathe.
Not because they were afraid of Ning Nuannuan—they were growing used to her astonishing displays of strength—but because they were furious at what they had seen in the shop.
“Consort, that Shopkeeper Zhou is shameless!” Yinxing finally burst out, her face flushed red.
“Selling fake satin at real prices—he’s cheating people! If our shop sells counterfeit goods, how disgraceful would that be!”
Cuiping, more composed, tugged her sleeve. “Lower your voice, we’re on the street.”
Ning Nuannuan turned into a side alley. There was still a general store outside Chongwen Gate to inspect, but she wasn’t in a hurry.
“Yinxing, you’re right—fake goods can’t be sold. But the problem with this shop isn’t just counterfeit goods.”
“What else is wrong?”
“Shopkeeper Zhou has been in charge for three years and hasn’t handed over a single coin to the owner. In the early years, when he was still with the Dong’e household, he at least submitted some silver quarterly—though always short. This year, he didn’t even bother pretending and directly wrote letters claiming losses.”
Ning Nuannuan searched through the original host’s memories about these shops—there was barely anything.
The original host knew nothing about business. After handing the shops over to the stewards, she never asked about them again. In modern terms, this was called “agency risk”—simply put, if you don’t manage it, someone else will manage it straight into their own pockets.
“Let’s go. Check the next one.”
From Qianmen to outside Chongwen Gate, they had to cross half the outer city. In the autumn afternoon, the sun slanted westward, and the streets gradually thinned out.
The situation at the general store was even worse than Ning Nuannuan had expected.
The shop had only a single storefront, squeezed into the corner of a small alley. The location wasn’t bad—the alley faced Chongwen Gate Street, with merchants, porters, cart drivers, and nearby residents passing through.
If managed properly, even selling daily goods could bring in ten to twenty taels a month.
But the shop gave off only one impression: a complete mess.
One of the doors hung crooked, its hinge rusted through, screeching like a pig being slaughtered when pushed.
The window paper had two holes patched clumsily with yellow mud. Several empty baskets sat at the entrance, filled with rotting vegetable leaves turned into black sludge, swarmed by flies.
Cuiping covered her nose.
Yinxing stepped back on tiptoe.
Ning Nuannuan stood at the entrance, looking up at the signboard. The words “Guangju Store” were crooked, the paint peeling so badly that half the characters were missing.
She pushed the door open and walked in.
The shelves held sparse supplies—oil, salt, soy sauce, vinegar, and coarse cloth.
The salt jar was open, the salt clumped from moisture.
A vinegar bottle had toppled, its sour smell filling the cramped space, mixing with the stench of rotting vegetables outside.
In the corner stood a square table, with a jug of wine, a plate of peanuts, and sliced pork head meat.
The wine jug was polished bright, the peanuts golden and crisp, the pork neatly arranged on a blue-and-white porcelain plate—worth more than anything sold in the shop.
Behind the table, a fat man in his fifties lounged in an armchair, robe open to reveal his round belly stained with grease. He sat with one leg crossed, lazily cracking sunflower seeds, shells scattered all over the floor.
He wore a lake-blue silk robe—better quality than the so-called premium silk sold at Ruijinxiang.
The shop’s goods were trash, but the manager dressed in silk and drank fine wine.
If this scene were photographed, it could serve as a textbook example of embezzlement.
“What do you want?” the fat man asked lazily, not even getting up or lifting his eyelids.
“You’re the steward here?”
“Yeah. What about it?”
“What’s your surname?”
“Ma.” He spat a seed shell near Ning Nuannuan’s feet. “If you’re buying, say what you want. If not, don’t stand there blocking the light.”
Ning Nuannuan glanced around. Behind the counter was a locked cabinet—likely holding the account books.
“Where are the shop’s ledgers?” she asked.
The man finally raised his eyelids, sizing her up.
“Who are you, coming here asking about ledgers?”
“I’m the owner of this shop.”
He paused mid-chew, then looked her up and down again—plain clothes, cloth-bound hair, two maids in rough garments.
He burst out laughing, spitting seed shells and saliva.
“The owner? Ha!” He leaned back, his belly jiggling.
“The owner of this shop is the second young lady of the Dong’e family—now married to the Ninth Prince as his consort. The principal wife of a prince! You think she’d dress like you? Get out of here—some fraud trying to scam people.”
He waved his greasy hand. “Go, go, don’t get in the way of my business.”