Chapter Thirty-Five: The Adopted Son

Zhen Qian listed out one, two, three, four points at length, and finally didn’t forget to add, “These Qin family members helping at the distillery will receive five hundred coins each month as wages and extra rewards at the end of the year. The Qin family cannot interfere, nor will the distillery meddle in Qin family matters. There’s no issue with these terms, is there?”

First act the villain, then the gentleman—this has always been Zhen Qian’s principle.

Qin Hao stared at Zhen Qian, somewhat dazed, finding it hard to believe these words came from such a young man. Even he couldn’t have untangled these matters so quickly; how did Zhen Qian manage it?

Though he didn’t understand, Qin Hao couldn’t help but admire Zhen Qian’s clarity. The young man had anticipated nearly all possible eventualities, even those that seemed unlikely. Qin Hao found himself unable to see through the person before him.

“Did you think of all this yourself?” Qin Hao asked, though his gaze lingered on Wang Qun, hoping to find a clue in his expression. Unfortunately, Wang Qun’s face showed only shock and confusion.

“Does Patriarch Qin find my terms unsuitable?”

“Not at all!” Qin Hao was unsure whether to regret involving Zhen Qian or to be glad. Judging by Zhen Qian’s confident demeanor, there was no hint of deception—Qin Hao grew only more confused.

“In that case, Uncle Wang, please help us draft a contract. From now on, our cooperation will be governed by its terms.”

Wang Qun grew uneasy, quietly tugging Zhen Qian’s sleeve and whispering, “Eldest Young Master, can you really guarantee the Qin family will earn five hundred strings of coins in a year? That’s no small sum. What if…”

For most families, five hundred strings of coins was astronomical. Even the wealthy Zhen clan wouldn’t treat such a sum lightly. Wang Qun couldn’t fathom where Zhen Qian’s confidence came from.

Zhen Qian was currently penniless, but that didn’t mean five hundred strings intimidated him. Based on Wang Qun’s analysis of common distilleries, even ordinary ones could earn one or two thousand strings a year. His own distillery would cater to the middle and high end, with only a slight increase in costs. If he didn’t earn two or three thousand strings annually, he’d be embarrassed to claim his modern origins.

To Zhen Qian, the Qin family was guarding a mountain of wealth. Perhaps not gold, but certainly enough to avoid hunger and poverty. Yet their current state was dire; dressed in shabby animal skins, living in crude bamboo huts, their homes barren. Surrounded by a vast bamboo sea, they failed to realize its potential for profit. Wasn’t this the epitome of holding a golden rice bowl but begging for food?

“Uncle Wang, don’t worry. Earning a thousand strings in a year won’t be an issue.”

Uncle Wang’s jaw nearly dropped in astonishment—Zhen Qian had understated things earlier. Still, the Qin family hardly seemed capable of earning a thousand strings a year, so he could only listen with half-belief, hoping Zhen Qian was right.

A contract was placed in front of Qin Hao, who struggled to believe its contents—a yearly five hundred strings, more than the Qin family’s combined earnings from three years, resolved so lightly by a young man. Was this possible?

Qin Hao wanted to believe every word on that paper; who else could he trust?

Just then, Qin Meng approached, carrying several charred bamboo tubes wrapped in cloth. “Master Zhen, these have been cooking for a quarter of an hour. Are they still edible?”

“Of course! Bring your knife!”

Qin Meng handed his steel blade to Zhen Qian, who made a slit in the bamboo tube. With a crack, the scorched bamboo burst open, revealing snowy white rice inside.

“How fragrant!”

A wave of bamboo aroma wafted out; Qin Meng sniffed, his mouth watering.

“What is this?” Qin Hao came over, amazed at the rice inside the bamboo tube. “Did you make this, Master Zhen?”

By now, Wang Qun harbored no doubts about Zhen Qian’s culinary skill. He sniffed and his eyes lit up. “I never imagined rice cooked in bamboo could smell so good. Why didn’t we discover this before?”

Zhen Qian chuckled, “This is nothing. If you add ham, sausages, or mountain mushrooms, the flavor gets even better!”

Qin Hao couldn’t resist any longer. Hearing Zhen Qian’s explanation, his eyes brimmed with anticipation. “The Qin family lacks many things, but mountain produce is plentiful. We have spices and wild game too. Master Zhen, could you make a few more?”

Zhen Qian had been waiting for a chance to win Qin Hao’s trust; now it had come, so he had no reason to decline.

“Very well! Since we’re already at it, let’s make a few more. I noticed the village keeps chickens—why not slaughter a few and prepare Beggar’s Chicken?”

Qin Meng, always eager for good food, saw Qin Hao nod and dashed off to catch some chickens. After a while, he returned carrying four, declaring, “Master Zhen, everything’s ready!”

Zhen Qian glanced at their meager spice collection; he hadn’t expected this impoverished village to offer much. He began preparing the meal in front of everyone, soon forming four lumps wrapped in clay.

“Take these and bury them in the fire for half an hour!”

Qin Meng cheerfully assisted. Qin Hao, who had been dumbfounded, now began to wonder about Zhen Qian’s true identity. At first, his sharp bargaining had seemed like the eccentricity of a learned man, but now he appeared an adept chef. Which was the real Zhen Qian?

Qin Hao, no longer able to keep calm, edged closer to Wang Qun and whispered, “Brother Wang, is your young master always like this?”

Wang Qun dared not mention Zhen Qian’s fall and loss of memory. Though puzzled, he put on an unusually composed front. “Our young master is erudite and talented, interested in everything, always keen to explore the roots of things. Such trivialities are hardly a challenge…”

“So that’s it!” Whether Qin Hao understood or not, even Wang Qun himself found his explanation unconvincing—he had plenty of questions himself.

Qin Hao beckoned to Qin Meng, who was squatting by the fire, awaiting food. Qin Meng hurried over. “Patriarch, what is it?”

“I’m asking if you’re willing to become Master Zhen’s adopted son. You’re old enough to see the world. If you agree, Master Zhen will take you out of the mountains—good for you to learn more by his side. Would you?”

“What… be Master Zhen’s adopted son?”

Qin Meng sprang up, glancing at Zhen Qian, who was only a few meters away, and muttered, “Patriarch doesn’t want me anymore?”

“Nonsense! I’m doing this for your sake. To become Master Zhen’s adopted son is a blessing. Even if you want it, he may not accept. It took me much effort to arrange this. I’m asking your opinion; you won’t have such a chance again.”

Qin Meng refused to compromise, “I’m fine on my own—I don’t want anyone telling me what to do!”

Qin Hao grew agitated, his hands trembling with frustration. “You foolish child! Others would beg for such an opportunity. If not for your deceased parents, I wouldn’t trouble myself. If you still acknowledge me as your patriarch, then it’s settled!”

Qin Meng feared nothing, but held a deep respect for his caring patriarch. Seeing Qin Hao genuinely upset, he muttered, “If you say so, then so be it.”

Qin Hao nodded in satisfaction and called out to Zhen Qian, “Master Zhen, could you come here for a moment?”

Zhen Qian was busy explaining Beggar’s Chicken to Xiao Zhu and Xiao Mei, both insisting that food eaten by beggars couldn’t possibly be edible, convinced Zhen Qian was trying to fool them and demanding a proper explanation. Hearing Qin Hao call, he quickly excused himself.

“Uncle Qin, what is it?”

With the matter of cooperation settled, Zhen Qian reverted to a more familiar address—building good relations was vital for future dealings.

“Master Zhen, the matter I mentioned earlier—the person concerned has agreed, so there’s nothing left to discuss.”

“Wait! Didn’t we already come to an agreement? Why have you changed your mind, Uncle Qin?” Zhen Qian was genuinely annoyed; barely any time had passed, and already things were changing. The contract in his pocket hadn’t even warmed up.

Qin Hao realized Zhen Qian misunderstood and pointed to Qin Meng. “I was referring to the adoption. Earlier, you said as long as the person agreed, it would be settled. Qin Meng, go on—kneel to your adoptive father…”

With a thud, Qin Meng knelt, banging his head three times and intoning, “Qin Meng greets his father!”

Zhen Qian stood frozen—what was happening? When had he agreed to this? Wasn’t this absurd?

“Get up! I don’t recall agreeing to this!”

Qin Hao’s expression darkened, “Didn’t you say the person’s consent was required?”

He had indeed said so, but it didn’t mean he’d agreed to adopt Qin Meng. It was a negotiating tactic, and Qin Hao had said Qin Meng wouldn’t want to be adopted, so Zhen Qian thought it wouldn’t happen. Now, unexpectedly, it had. “Can I have more time to consider?”

“The child has already knelt and called you father—do you think it’s a joke?”

Wasn’t this forced upon him? Zhen Qian’s face twitched; he looked down at Qin Meng, still kneeling, and thought of the boy’s orphaned state. His heart softened, “Rise. From now on, you’ll follow me. When you grow up, whether you stay or leave is your own choice—I won’t force you.”

Qin Hao breathed a quiet sigh of relief; with this matter settled, a burden was lifted.

Zhen Qian had no idea that Qin Meng was a handful—the village had worried about him endlessly, hoping someone would take him in hand. But the boy was too wild, impossible to control, so they’d passed him off as a burden to Zhen Qian.