Grand Opening, Part 2

Su Qing had prepared thoroughly.

She’d revised the shop’s layout five times to ensure smooth operations, even at peak times, avoiding chaos.

Materials were ready a week in advance—candied fruits, toppings, spices, and seasonings neatly sorted. Morning prep included boiling toppings, and tea bases were cold-brewed overnight.

She’d rehearsed, simulated, tested—swearing she’d accounted for every factor.

It didn’t matter. She was *swamped*.

She wished for four legs and six arms. Even using qi to control tools, multitasking—peeling fruit, grinding spices, crushing ice—it wasn’t enough.

While pounding fragrant fruit, she stole a glance outside and nearly fainted at the endless queue. *So many people!*

Thankfully, as disciplined cultivators, most queued quietly, meditating in the spirit-gathering arrays’ aura, with few complaints.

This calmed Su Qing slightly. Tang Yueling had drawn the crowd; keeping them was her job.

Luckily, she’d chosen three main teas, keeping things manageable.

The star was Celestial Fragrance Glass Tea, its rich fruit aroma complementing the fresh green spirit tea base. Enhanced with silky honey and crushed night wind bell leaves, it added a light, delightful note.

No one disliked it.

Despite ample honey and sugar, the sweetness was smooth and pleasant, not cloying—perfect for cultivators.

Second was Full Sleeve Wind Fragrance, using snowbud spirit tea, brewed cold for crisp clarity, paired with a touch of milk and tree syrup. Simple, yet lingering.

These two were instantly likable, free of the “weird” taste from her early experiments.

The last, classic pearl milk tea, suited autumn-winter. Less accessible, but addictive once embraced.

Priced at three, four, and five spirit seeds, they were dirt-cheap compared to Lin’s 200-seed Spring Breeze Nightless Pot.

Cups, crafted by Artifact Sect students to mimic modern designs, were lightweight wood, easy to hold.

Costs were low—3-4 seeds per cup. Celestial Fragrance Glass Tea, at 4 seeds, earned 5 seeds profit with the buy-one-get-one deal. Ample margins.

Initially, many came for the spectacle or free qi, some lured by ads and the promotion. Cultivators or not, people loved a deal. The more who came, the longer the queue grew.

Su Qing, desperate for a cloning spell, occasionally sucked qi from a spirit stone. Stretching her sore neck, she spotted a vaguely familiar face.

“Hello, what’ll it be?”

“One of each, seeds in the jar.”

“Got it, six cups with the deal.”

Noticing their practiced order, Su Qing squinted. “You seem familiar. Been here before?”

They laughed. “Third time! My roommates loved it—tasty and novel—but they’re busy cultivating or sword-training, so I’m fetching. People are raving on the confession wall, urging others to try. It’s got qi *and* tastes great. I queued forever! Your shop’s amazing—you’ll get rich!”

Sweet words—Su Qing wanted more.

She’d add extra toppings.

Sword Sect students loved to eat, a fact now reconfirmed.

Checking her topping basket—nearly empty—she said, “Sorry, give me a moment to cook more.”

…

By nightfall, supplies were gone, forcing an early close.

After ushering out lingering customers, Su Qing didn’t count her mountain of spirit stones.

She collapsed in a chair, gulped leftover tea, and gasped.

Hire help. *Now.*

Recovering, she rushed to the cash box.

Day one: over 2,000 cups sold. With buy-one-get-one, that’s 1,000 paid cups at 5 seeds profit—5,000 seeds. Normally, she estimated 800 cups daily, earning 9 seeds each—7,000 seeds daily, 210,000 monthly. @Infinite Good Reads, Only at Jinjiang Literature City

Rent was 20,000 seeds. Subtracting labor and taxes, she’d net at least 150,000 seeds monthly—1,500 spirit stones, 18,000 yearly.

And beyond… @Infinite Good Reads, Only at Jinjiang Literature City

The back entrance, unopened, saved her from serving sit-in customers—she’d have collapsed otherwise. But keeping it closed wasn’t sustainable. The seating area wasn’t just for profit; it was for gathering intel.

She needed staff for customers. Rifling through boxes, she wrote a hiring notice overnight.

…

Honey Spirit Tea’s success shocked not just Su Qing but the Pill and Talisman Halls.

A Pill Hall worker grumbled, “That shop used to rely on us. Big river flows, small river fills—we’re the big river; they got our scraps.”

The accountant paused his abacus, eyelids drooping. “That’s the past. This momentum suggests a shift.”

A sharp worker chimed in, “We’re on the same street, selling different things. Their success benefits us. The one worrying is someone else!”

Talisman Hall caught on. “Should we cozy up to them? Maybe joint promotions—buy 100 seeds’ worth of talismans, get a free tea. Sounds good, right?”

“Don’t say it—genius! Worth a try!”

…

All afternoon, Manager Lin was restless.

He’d never admit it was due to external disturbances—like a sharp-tongued, hateful girl shaking his tree with laughable antics.

No, he was refined, above petty anger. It was his age, sensing fate. The older you get, the closer to knowing destiny, right?

The hall’s errand boys, bored, couldn’t grasp his midlife musings. Normally, work kept them busy, but today, even Lin Zhiqiang, the usual slacker, didn’t vanish. He lurked in corners, munching mountain pearls, eyeing the room.

Not that it wasn’t busy—half the tables were filled. But where was the other half, the regulars? Had they changed habits?

Odd.

Lin felt it too, maintaining his “knowing fate” air until evening accounting.

He was elegant, everyone said so. But he was a merchant—how else could he run such a grand tea house?

He loved elegance, but loved gold more. Nightly accounting was his joy—counting gleaming spirit stones washed away the day’s toil like a breeze.

Today felt different. Expectation mixed with dread, as if something loomed.

He reassured himself: count and see. You’re diligent, clever—fortune favors you.

The third-floor accountant reported first, his figures nearly identical to yesterday’s.

As expected, Lin thought.

He nodded haughtily. “Noted.”

The second-floor accountant followed, his numbers slightly up—a rare win.

Lin stroked his beard, smug. “Well done!”

No need to worry—he was a talented merchant.

The first floor’s accounts, messy and numerous, took longest—normal. Lin, in high spirits, waited patiently until the accountant, sweating, avoided his gaze after countless abacus flicks.

Lin’s heart sank, his face darkening. “What’s wrong?!”

Lin, ever poised, rarely lost composure. Other accountants glanced over, surprised. @Infinite Good Reads, Only at Jinjiang Literature City

The first-floor accountant, drenched in sweat, stammered a figure.

It was *half* the usual revenue!

Lin snatched the receipts, furious. “Nonsense! Can’t you count? Step aside if you can’t!”

The accountant, indignant, snapped, “I grabbed an abacus at my naming ceremony! By three, I’d worn out my father’s. I’m no amateur!”

Lin coughed, backtracking. “My anger spoke. No offense, Liu, recalculate.”

The receipts went to the second-floor accountant, now unsmiling, unable to speak after half a day’s abacus work.

Lin’s heart sank further.

“Speak!”

The second-floor accountant, wiping sweat, passed them to the third-floor accountant. “My skills are lacking, Wang, you try!”

Wang finished, unsmiling, eyes darting. All three accountants locked gazes, silent.

Lin felt rage surge, dizzy. “What, all mute? Talk!”

Wang, grim, bowed. “Same as Zhang’s count.”

Half the revenue!

Lin was speechless.

Admit his accountants were skilled but wrong? He wished they were!

Outrageous!

That girl stole half his business on opening day. Was fate sending her to ruin him?

A clever errand boy ventured, “It’s a trick! Buy-one-get-one—everyone’s just greedy. It won’t last.”

Lin, reeling, steadied himself on a table, finding his voice. He twisted the boy’s ear. “You fool! That’s all you scouted?!”

The boy yelped, “Don’t worry, boss! It’s a long game—wait and see!”

Lin wasn’t soothed but eased his grip. The words gave hope. Yes, a long game.

He’d run his tea house successfully for years. A novice girl wouldn’t beat him!

The future came fast.

Day two: first-floor revenue halved again.

By day three: down to a third!

Lin couldn’t sit still. He summoned a sharper errand boy. “Go to—that tacky place,” he hedged, “buy one of everything. Don’t let them know you’re from here, got it?”

Many places were tacky, but which?

The boy got it instantly, promising, “Leave it to me, boss!”

He left confidently but returned dejected, empty-handed.

Lin opened his mouth to scold.

The boy whined, “Not my fault, boss! You sent me too late—sold out when I got there!”

Peering at Lin’s ashen face, the boy saw the refined, mustached man collapse into a chair, as if struck by an invisible force.

…

The hiring notice drew a candidate quickly.

A familiar face, though barely so—met only thrice, but memorable.

Chen Minjing.

Thinner, but spirited, she cut to the chase. “You’re swamped and need help. I’m free and can work until you find someone permanent. No pay needed—I’m volunteering.”

Su Qing was surprised. “I thought you wouldn’t want to see me again.”

“My background’s rough, but I’m clear on who helps me,” Chen Minjing said lightly. “No grim talk—what do you need?”