During the Ming Dynasty, wool weaving was actually quite rare in the Central Plains. Han people traditionally worked with cotton and silk; wool processing was usually the domain of nomadic ethnic groups.
However, Shaanxi was different.
Because of the Silk Road, Shaanxi had long maintained extensive contact with various ethnic peoples and the Western Regions. Over time, its wool-weaving techniques absorbed elements from Han craftsmanship, Tuyuhun traditions, and Tibetan methods.
The result was a unique blend—ethnic boldness fused with Han delicacy and elegance.
This type of textile even had a name: a local specialty.
And it was extraordinarily valuable.
So valuable, in fact, that it could be selected as tribute and presented directly to the imperial palace.
That—
Was exactly what Liu Maopao and Zhebu's small textile factory was producing.
Zhebu's mother, An Jile, also came to the factory, bringing with her the wool-weaving techniques of the steppe peoples. At the same time, a group of Han women were hired, contributing refined Han craftsmanship to the production process.
After several days of careful adjustments and repeated testing, the Warm and Sleepy Textile Factory's very first wool blanket was completed.
The quality was unmistakably tribute-grade.
The moment it left the factory, it was instantly snapped up.
Who among the slightly wealthier residents of Gao Family Village wouldn't want one?
However—
In the end, the wool blanket was purchased by the Village Chief himself.
The Village Chief was deeply respected. Between Gao Yiyi, Gao Laba, and Gao Chuwu, who would dare compete with him for something he wanted to buy?
Even Gao Chuwu—who swept across battlefields like an unstoppable force—would kneel the moment he faced the Village Chief's staff and say obediently, "Grandpa, I was wrong."
As for those who didn't carry the surname Gao, they naturally kept their distance even more.
Besides, the Village Chief was elderly. Wasn't it perfectly reasonable for an old man to want a warm blanket to sleep wrapped in?
If younger people fought an elder over something meant to keep warm, that would be unreasonable.
"Brother Maopao!" Zhebu cried excitedly, clutching the hefty payment the Village Chief had handed over. "Look, look! Our factory's very first product already made so much money!"
Liu Maopao smiled calmly. "Not bad. Not bad at all."
Even An Jile was visibly excited. "I never imagined that something made from just a bit of wool could sell for this much money! With this, we can buy so many useful things—iron pots, iron shovels, tea leaves…"
Liu Maopao nodded. "You can write to your father and discuss it with him. From now on, send all the wool from your tribe here. We'll process it and turn it into money, then buy supplies and send them back to the Wushen tribe. Your people will all become wealthy."
Zhebu's eyes lit up. "Oh? If I help my tribesmen get rich, they'll definitely be grateful, right? And when I become chief one day, they'll be even more obedient."
"Exactly," Liu Maopao said with a grin. "If anyone refuses to listen to you, their family's wool won't be sold. Then they'll starve."
"Brother Maopao is truly incredible!" Zhebu exclaimed with admiration.
Liu Maopao laughed loudly.
Zhebu immediately got to work writing the letter.
He had attended school at Gao Family Village for quite some time now. Writing simple family letters no longer required Liu Maopao's help.
He picked up a brush and carefully—though clumsily—wrote out a few basic Chinese characters, explaining the factory's success, asking his father to send more wool, and describing everything that had happened.
The letter was quickly dispatched by a Gao Family Village courier to Wangjia Fork Fortress, then carried onward by Zao Ying's cavalry to the Wushen tribe.
At this moment, the Wushen tribe was already gearing up for conflict.
After Zao Ying's previous conversation with the Wushen Chief, his ambitions had been completely ignited.
He gathered together the tribes he had already subdued, forming a coalition army, and began systematically crushing the smaller tribes that had yet to submit.
On the Mongolian steppes, this kind of thing was nothing new.
This was how life had always been.
Those who could resist fought back. Those who couldn't surrendered.
Clean. Direct. Without pretenses or melodrama.
However, the Wushen Chief soon encountered a problem.
Supplies.
The steppe grew colder with each passing day. If they only fought among themselves and refrained from raiding Han territory, they would gain no provisions.
And without supplies, surviving the winter would be extremely difficult.
It was precisely at this time that the Wushen Chief received his son's letter.
He read it carefully, his eyes gradually lighting up.
"Well, well!" he laughed. "Zhebu and An Jile are doing quite well for themselves! To think that cheap wool could sell for so much money. In that case, I'll send even more wool over there. Earn more money—and this winter won't be nearly as hard."
At this point, the Wushen tribe effectively controlled six or seven other tribes.
All the sheepskins and wool accumulated by these tribes were gathered together, bundled up, handed over to the trading caravans sent by Gao Family Village, and shipped south.
The reserves of several tribes were completely emptied.
As a result—
Massive quantities of wool flooded into the Warm and Sleepy Textile Factory.
Soon, wool blankets, wool sweaters, and all kinds of woolen goods began pouring out at an astonishing pace.
The common folk of Gao Family Village could finally trade their thick, heavy cotton clothing for light, flexible wool sweaters.
The Wushen Chief's prestige skyrocketed.
Because he was not only fierce in battle—
He could also provide ample supplies for his people.
The tribes he had conquered now followed him with even greater loyalty.
In the seventh year of Chongzhen, early winter arrived.
The steppes were already locked in bitter cold.
In Ordos, a grand tribal council was convened.
The one presiding over the meeting was Bo'erzhijin Elinchen—a descendant of Genghis Khan, a representative of the old Yuan nobility, and the de facto ruler of the Ordos.
"Tribal chiefs," Bo'erzhijin Elinchen said slowly, "Ligdan Khan is dead. Our Great Yuan no longer has a leader. The tribes are fragmented. The Great Ming no longer trades with us or sends us supplies. The Jin watch us greedily, stirring trouble one day and attacking the next."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.
"Our situation is extremely dire. If this continues, we may not survive the winter."
The assembled chiefs remained silent.
After a moment, Bo'erzhijin Elinchen continued, "After careful consideration, I believe we should surrender to the Jin. The Jin are currently stronger than the Great Ming. Following the strong has never been a mistake."
He swept his gaze across the room.
"Who agrees?"
"Who objects?"
"I object!"
A voice suddenly rang out as a man leapt to his feet.
All eyes turned toward him.
It was the Wushen Chief.
Bo'erzhijin Elinchen's heart instantly burned with fury.
Someone dares to oppose me? This is an insult!
He was a descendant of Genghis Khan—the helmsman of the Ordos.
How dare this insignificant Wushen Chief be so bold?
Bo'erzhijin Elinchen sprang to his feet, his arm swinging out to slap the Wushen Chief across the face, intending to knock the insolent man to the ground in front of everyone.
But—
The Wushen Chief did not stand still.
He twisted his body, caught Bo'erzhijin Elinchen's wrist mid-swing, and locked their hands together, frozen in the air.