Chapter 51: The Breeze of the Green River

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Hu Erlang’s beautiful dream was shattered, and how furious he felt deep inside was not yet known to others. Amid the chorus of congratulations from everyone celebrating his escape from misery, his reactions revealed that he was not truly joyful. Among them were some who shared his thoughts, envying and resenting the favor he had won from Lady Wu. If only they had not been so timid before, boldly risking everything to gain real benefits. Now, seeing him freed, their dissatisfaction eased somewhat.

After Wu Xuan released him, she felt unburdened and finally exhaled deeply. She genuinely sympathized with Lord Jiang from the letter and disapproved of Su Qishan’s approach. If he truly cared, why not give the man a proper title? Such frivolous behavior hardly counted as affection. Yet Wu Xuan found it thrilling—her heart pounding as if riding a young horse for the first time, bouncing with the jolts of the gallop. Abandoning moral boundaries in such a way was downright exhilarating.

She worried about Lord Jiang’s future but also eagerly anticipated what tricks Su Qishan might play to snatch him away—a truly conflicted state of mind.

Because the noble families of Chang’an had begun studying cookbooks, many affluent middle-class households followed suit, igniting a craze that swept through the city. On the streets, anyone with a taste for food could discuss recipes with great expertise. The joy was not only among those who ate but also among those who cultivated the ingredients.

Outside Chang’an at dawn, many farmers gathered. They lived in villages near the city and would haul fresh fruits and vegetables by donkey cart into town every morning to sell. Compared to selling wholesale to middlemen, they preferred to bring their goods themselves, enduring the fatigue for greater earnings. After all, farmers earned their living through hard work.

Old Liang was among them. His hair was frosted white at the temples; his face deeply lined with age, clearly elderly but spirited, rosy-cheeked, and full of vigor. He carried a pole on his shoulders, with baskets on either side filled with bright red fruits—cornelian cherries.

“Old Liang, selling cornelian cherries again? You haven’t finished selling last year’s yet,” someone asked in surprise.

“Just a little left, almost sold out,” Old Liang laughed cheerfully.

“You’ve really been lucky this year. If it weren’t for this sudden craze for eating cornelian cherries, most of your harvest would have rotted in your hands,” the man said with a sigh.

Old Liang’s family had grown many cornelian cherry trees, usually selling the fruit to apothecaries. But this year, due to an excellent harvest and falling prices, the apothecaries stopped buying after filling their stock. The large yield nearly ruined them.

Originally, cornelian cherries were medicinal herbs, growing well on the mountain behind their village. Once people realized they could make money, everyone rushed to pick them each year, stripping the trees bare. But the trees were far fewer than the pickers; each person only got a small share. Despite the low quantities, everyone was happy to earn some money.

Old Liang had a different idea—since cornelian cherries could be sold, why not cultivate some? Because they grew well on the mountain, they should grow on their land too. So, he collected some seedlings and planted them at home. They thrived and bore plenty of fruit, earning him a good sum.

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His success drew envy, and others in the village followed his example, planting cornelian cherry trees too. Old Liang shared his planting methods generously, considering everyone neighbors.

Most villagers joined in, but because so many planted, the fruit became unsellable at a good price. Those who lost money cursed and cut down their trees for firewood, blaming Old Liang for their misfortune. They had forgotten how, when he first made money, they had fawned over him, eager to learn his methods.

Despite making a profit the first year, Old Liang persisted even when he lost money the second year. But the third year brought the same problems, worsened by leftover dried fruit from the previous bountiful year piling up in storage, making it even harder to sell the fresh fruit. Many gloated, saying he deserved this fate.

At first, Old Liang was indifferent, but hearing it repeatedly stung. After all, he had acted with good intentions, only to see things turn out so differently. What troubled him most was the vast amount of fruit rotting in the fields—what could he do?

Then his grandson and daughter-in-law visited Chang’an and returned saying they should sell the cornelian cherries to the city’s restaurants. Old Liang thought it childish talk and ignored it, but his daughter-in-law agreed.

With some doubt, he picked some fruit and took it to Chang’an, testing whether the restaurants would buy. To his surprise, they were eager and wanted to order more.

Old Liang’s cherries were of exceptional quality—carefully tended, bright red and round, with a spicy flavor. At first, he was delighted, unaware of anything else. Later, he discovered that the cherries were being served on dining tables in an unusual way.

He could not fathom this strange culinary practice. Cornelian cherries were highly pungent, hardly tasty—how could anyone like eating them? He attributed it to the peculiar tastes of wealthy families, who, after eating refined foods, sought out unusual flavors.

When he mentioned this to the restaurant manager responsible for purchasing, the manager smiled mysteriously. “Old Liang, you can read, right? Go to the Mountain and Sea Bookstore and buy a certain book. Then you’ll understand why your cherries sell so well. It’s all thanks to him.”

Old Liang was startled—how could this be related to a book? But since it concerned his benefactor, he decided to take a look, even if the book was expensive. He gritted his teeth and bought it.

At home, he opened the book and began to read, becoming engrossed. His wife called him several times to eat, but he didn’t hear her. The everyday affairs and trivial details were familiar to him, and he read with great interest.

What fascinated him most wasn’t the recipes, but a thing called white sugar. It was described as pure and crystalline like frost or snow, each grain distinct and sweet in taste.

The method of making it was peculiar—it even involved yellow clay water.

Impossible, he thought. But the other recipes in the book were authentic and workable. Could this method truly be viable?

His mind wavered between nonsense and wild imagination. The book confidently described the process in great detail, as if someone had indeed made it.

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The white sugar recipe brought immense wealth to the Han family and Wang Lanhui, earning her the favor and respect of the Han matriarch and the entire household.

Why not give it a try? The farming season was over; there was nothing else to do, so why not?

The method for making white sugar was a treasured secret in the hands of many time travelers. Xu Chengyue was naturally among them, and as the author, she was intimately familiar with the process. Though she could not make it herself without the right tools, she could certainly describe it.

She had no special reason to keep it secret; since the method was just sitting unused, she might as well share it for the public good. Perhaps someone could actually succeed, though the chances were slim.

Historically, the first appearance of white sugar required perfect timing, place, and conditions—a rare confluence. Later attempts to reproduce the ancient method all failed.

When the second volume of the book was finished, no white sugar recipes appeared, so Xu Chengyue knew it was a dead end.

What now troubled her was the storyline for the second volume.

After the initial phase where the protagonists met and the heroine forcefully took the hero, then the hero finally reluctantly submitted, it was time for intense emotional conflict between them.

The heroine admired the hero’s traits reminiscent of her past love but despised his discordant qualities. This part was easy to write since she initially liked only his face and knew little of his true character.

From the hero’s perspective, the outline said that, living closely in the mansion, he gradually learned about the heroine, cleared up misunderstandings, and grew fond of her.

Here was the problem.

Xu Chengyue couldn’t figure out how to make him fall in love genuinely.

First, the hero had been forcibly taken back to the mansion by the heroine, much like a bandit abducting a respectable woman. Then, she used her power to oppress him, cruelly trampling the dignity of a scholar.

He must have Stockholm syndrome to fall for such a person; otherwise, there was no plausible way to justify it!

Xu Chengyue felt her hair falling out in frustration.

But if he didn’t fall in love, the story couldn’t proceed.

Being liked as a substitute is very different from being hated as one. The latter only deepens hatred; the former tears at a passionate heart, even causing self-doubt of one’s own identity.

That sudden, intense shift and extreme rupture is what grips readers’ hearts.

Yet theory was easy; practice, impossible. She couldn’t devise a plot that logically fit, respected character traits, and advanced the romance.

She hadn’t written abduction romance in so long, she’d forgotten how to portray the emotional tug-of-war.

Should she just make the hero submissive? They would then bond through intimacy, becoming inseparable?

No, no—that would turn her novel into the style of some popular romance, losing the “pure and refined” tone of Green River’s work.