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Chapter 8: No Gods, No Masters—Only Spreadsheets
The village market was louder than usual, all clatter and clamor, as if prosperity had finally remembered the way to their dusty corner of the world. Shen Ci walked through the crowd like a ghost with purpose—quiet, calm, and clocking every conversation.
"Did you try her lemon balm tea? Knocked me out better than my husband's snoring!"
"I sold a whole basket of perilla to that logistics guy—paid me double!"
"Shen Ci said she's building a cold storage shed. In this village? She's mad."
Yes. Mad like a fox.
She bought four kilos of bamboo shoots, two dozen glass jars, and a roll of industrial-grade plastic wrap. The vendor tried to overcharge her.
She gave him a spreadsheet breakdown of regional prices, adjusted for inflation, and offered to buy in bulk next month.
He dropped his jaw. Then the price.
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Back home, she met Xiao Du outside the new shed. He was holding a sign he'd painted.
"Shen Farm Cooperative: Harvest, Heal, Hustle."
She squinted at it. "We're not a band, Du."
"But it slaps."
It did. She let him nail it above the door.
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That week, she launched her second online product: "Restless Root Balm." Xiao Du's sister modeled it with dramatic poses and overly sincere testimonials like:
"My back pain left, and so did my ex."
Orders poured in.
Shen Ci didn't flinch.
She just scaled up.
Hired two village aunties to help with packaging. One grandpa to handle deliveries on his old motorbike—paid in part cash, part high-end ointment for his knees.
Win-win.
By Friday, the system pinged.
[Local economic dependency on your supply chain: 17.8% and rising.]
[Influence threshold unlocked: Soft Power Level 1.]
Perks unlocked: Negotiation Bonus +10%. Loyalty retention rate +25%.
She laughed so hard she almost choked on her mung bean porridge.
"Soft power, huh?" she muttered. "I'm building a queendom out of pickles and good PR."
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The snakes slithered again, of course.
First came whispers. That she used black magic. That she'd stolen ancient formulas. That she'd sold her soul to the city ghosts for success.
Then came the sabotage.
A batch of her herbs was poisoned—cheap pesticide slipped into the irrigation line.
Shen Ci traced the leak to the pipe behind the shed. A bootprint in the mud told her what she needed.
She didn't react.
She simply called a community meeting.
On a sunny Sunday, thirty villagers stood under the banyan tree while she held up a wilted plant.
"This," she said, "was destroyed by greed. Someone wants us to fail."
Murmurs rose like smoke.
"I don't care if it was fear or envy. I don't want revenge."
Pause.
"I want to win."
Another pause.
"And I want you to win with me."
That day, she handed out tamper-proof seals, batch tracking charts, and a new incentive plan for top growers.
She didn't name names.
She didn't have to.
The village rallied tighter than ever.
Shen Li didn't show her face for two weeks.
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That night, Shen Ci updated her "Empire Blueprint."
Beneath "Build local loyalty," she scribbled in all caps:
Make betrayal more expensive than belief.
Then she smiled, leaned back, and whispered to no one:
"Let's scale."
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End of Chapter 8
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