Zhu Cunji paced slowly across the platform of Hanzhong North Station, his hands clasped behind his back in a posture he probably thought looked dignified, though the twitch in his jaw betrayed a very different mood. The longer he looked, the darker his expression became, as if the station itself were personally insulting his lineage.
He lifted his sleeve and pointed at the ticket booth.
"This wretched place," he said coldly, "is supposed to represent the dignity of the Prince of Qin's mansion? Who built this? Who approved it? Bring that man to me."
A loyal guard stepped forward and lowered his voice. "Your Highness… this station was constructed by Prince Rui's mansion."
Zhu Cunji froze.
Ah.
Only then did he remember that he was not, in fact, the sole patron saint of the Xi'an railway. He was merely the largest shareholder. The second largest shareholder was Prince Rui, Zhu Changhao, whose fief lay in Hanzhong.
When the West Han Railway was first being built, both sides had agreed very clearly: Xi'an South Station would be handled by the Prince of Qin's mansion, and Hanzhong North Station would be handled by Prince Rui's.
Now, standing beneath the sagging eaves of what could generously be described as a thatched shed pretending to be a ticket office, Zhu Cunji finally understood what "handled" meant in Prince Rui's vocabulary.
Handled cheaply.
Handled painfully.
Handled as if every copper coin screamed when it left his hand.
He stared upward at the crude structure and muttered through clenched teeth, "Just how much silver did he think he was saving? Damn that Prince Rui, that shameless miser."
Beside him, Zhu Yujian smiled faintly, as though enjoying the performance. "Careful. He is a generation above you. Your maternal uncle. Try not to curse your elders in public."
Zhu Cunji snorted, but before he could respond, a commotion rose at the station entrance.
A large retinue was sweeping in.
At the front strode a well-dressed man in his mid-forties, robes perfectly arranged, beard neatly trimmed, his eyes sharp and alert like a shopkeeper counting customers from across the street.
Prince Rui, Zhu Changhao.
Although technically a generation senior to Zhu Cunji, the two were close in age. Both were middle-aged men in their forties. Both had reputations. But their reputations were very different.
Most dissipated men of their rank indulged in wine and women, spending their evenings drowning in songhouses and their mornings recovering from them.
Zhu Changhao did not drink much.
He showed no interest in women.
To him, beauties were bones wrapped in skin.
Money, however, was alive.
Money breathed.
Money sang.
Money was the only thing worth loving.
So when the Prince of Qin's mansion approached him about investing in the railway, carefully explaining projected profits and future returns, Zhu Changhao did not hesitate. He subscribed eagerly, bought shares, and immediately dispatched his eunuch, Supervisor Zhang, to oversee construction and manage expenditures.
Unfortunately, Supervisor Zhang discovered that railways had many workers, and workers had wages, and wages, if not delivered, tended to accumulate.
Into his own pockets.
When the Heir Apparent of the Prince of Qin wrote to inform Zhu Changhao that Supervisor Zhang had been embezzling labor wages, Prince Rui's reaction was not moral outrage.
It was personal betrayal.
A eunuch stealing from workers meant the railway profits would shrink.
Which meant his silver was being stolen.
That was unforgivable.
Supervisor Zhang received fifty planks.
After that, Zhu Changhao personally took control of the accounts. Especially Hanzhong North Station. Since it was within his own territory, he could supervise every beam, every tile, every thatch bundle, every nail.
Every coin.
Not a single copper coin would be wasted.
And thus, the station stood as it did now.
Frugal. Austere. Economical to the point of embarrassment.
Zhu Changhao entered surrounded by eunuchs and guards, surveyed the shabby ticket shed, and instead of feeling shame, felt pride. His gaze lingered on the thin thatch roof like a father admiring a promising son.
He walked to the ticket seller.
"How many tickets sold today?"
The ticket seller bowed deeply. "Your Highness, eighty taels of silver."
Zhu Changhao's eyes gleamed instantly.
"Eighty taels. Excellent. The Prince of Qin's mansion takes sixty percent, that is forty-eight taels. I receive forty percent, thirty-two taels." He nodded with satisfaction. "A splendid day. By the way, how many tickets did Xi'an sell?"
"The train has just arrived, Your Highness. We have not yet received the figures."
Zhu Changhao waved dismissively. "No need. I will ask myself."
He hurried toward the locomotive like a merchant rushing toward a warehouse shipment.
"Driver!" he shouted. "How were ticket sales in Xi'an today?"
One of the drivers leaned out. "Two hundred and fifty taels."
Prince Rui blinked.
Then his face exploded with joy.
"Two hundred and fifty taels? So much more than Hanzhong?" He began calculating aloud, fingers twitching. "Forty percent of two hundred and fifty… one hundred taels. Added to thirty-two… one hundred and thirty-two taels. I have done nothing today and earned one hundred and thirty-two taels!"
He laughed loudly, almost affectionately.
For a money-grubber, few sensations rival watching silver multiply without effort.
In that moment, Zhu Changhao felt life had reached its summit.
Then he paused.
Something felt… off.
He looked up again. "Why so high today? That is not normal."
The driver gestured behind him. "All carriages were fully loaded. A vast quantity of cargo. Tickets were purchased for all of it."
"A vast quantity?"
Zhu Changhao's eyes sharpened.
He turned and saw the Gao Family Village Militia logistics team unloading basket after basket from the train, grain and cloth spilling out in endless succession.
It looked like a moving treasury.
His interest flared instantly.
He walked briskly toward the unloading scene.
Zhu Cunji and Zhu Yujian exchanged a glance. Should they greet him? Reveal themselves?
After a silent calculation, they decided against it.
Better to watch.
Meanwhile, Zhuge Wangchan, who adhered faithfully to his principle of questioning anyone who looked relevant, noticed Prince Rui approaching and deliberately drifted closer.
Prince Rui asked first.
"What are all these goods? Basket after basket, grain, cloth… what is this for?"
Zhuge Wangchan smiled calmly. "Reporting to Your Royal Highness, Sichuan is in chaos. Rebels have risen. The Regional Commander, Hou Liangzhu, has been killed. Thirty-eight cities have already fallen."
Prince Rui's brows rose.
"Thirty-eight?"
"Yes. The situation is grave. Therefore, gentry, wealthy households, and certain officials in Xi'an have personally contributed these supplies. They are being sent to Sichuan to aid refugees."
For a brief moment, Prince Rui was startled.
But Sichuan was far.
Far enough that concern dissolved quickly.
What did not dissolve was the sight of silver embodied as grain.
He watched basket after basket being unloaded, each one representing expenditure.
"Donated by gentry and officials?" he asked.
"Yes, Your Highness."
"Which officials?"
That question tightened the air slightly.
Zhu Cunji and Zhu Yujian both frowned subtly.
The intent was obvious.
Prince Rui was testing strength. Measuring backing. Calculating leverage.
If the names were weak, perhaps a portion could be… adjusted.
Zhuge Wangchan smiled in a peculiar way. "No great ministers. Merely small officials. Wang Zheng, Surveillance Commissioner for Shandong. Liang Shixian, magistrate of Chengcheng County. Feng Juan, magistrate of Heyang County. And others of similar rank."
Prince Rui's lips curved faintly.
"Ah. Those people."
He withdrew into his circle of eunuchs and guards. They formed a tight cluster and whispered. Heads leaned in. Eyes flicked toward the cargo.
Moments later, a eunuch stepped forward.
"You have come from afar," the eunuch said politely, "and may not be aware of Hanzhong Prefecture's regulations. All goods transshipped through Hanzhong must pay a five percent transit tax to Prince Rui's mansion."
He paused.
"However, seeing the considerable quantity of your goods, His Highness has graciously reduced the tax. You need only pay one percent."
One percent.
On donated relief supplies.
Even the wind seemed to hesitate for a breath.