Chapter 17: Bringing Shame Upon Oneself

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Lü Hongzhuo was somewhat surprised by the reactions of these scholars; he had not anticipated such a response. Yet, unlike Xu Chengyue’s worries and anger, his expression was more of silent speechlessness, accompanied by a calm composure. Had she missed something? This bookstore lived off these scholars, so how could its owner be even more composed than her? His overly serene demeanor gave Xu Chengyue a surreal feeling, like the eunuch worrying while the emperor remains untroubled.

Perhaps her expression was too obvious, for Lü Hongzhuo caught her meaning and smiled knowingly. “Madam Xu, please wait a moment. I’ll fetch something, and once you see it, you’ll understand.”

He turned toward the counter and soon returned holding two ledgers. He flipped one open to a certain page and handed it to Xu Chengyue. Puzzled, she took it and began to read. The ledger detailed the costs and revenues of various literary works. Unusually, the expenses did not correspond proportionally to the costs; a significant portion of the profits was shared with the authors, making the bookstore a losing venture overall.

At last, Xu Chengyue understood. Yet even so, they had the audacity to threaten her! She sighed inwardly, feeling she had made a fuss over nothing that warranted a special trip. When she finished, Lü Hongzhuo handed her the other ledger.

“I already understand; no need to look further,” Xu Chengyue said.

“This one is different, Madam Xu. Please take a look,” Lü Hongzhuo insisted, keeping his arm extended.

Reluctantly, she took it and began to read again. This ledger recorded the sales and profits of her books, clearly itemizing each expense and profit. She was aware of the profits concerning her share, but other books’ profits were also listed, several of which looked familiar from the previous ledger.

What surprised her was that these books’ profits were several times higher here, finally turning a profit instead of losses.

“Madam Xu, don’t be surprised. Those profits come entirely from you,” Lü Hongzhuo explained. “Previously, the bookstore made no profit—not just because sales were low, but because we gave concessions to the scholars. The bookstore relied on them for income, hoping to improve its reputation and soften their disdain for profit-driven merchants, thus gaining favor in the scholarly community.”

Xu Chengyue fully understood: sales always required pleasing the target audience.

“But your arrival completely changed this. Not only did those articles become profitable, but the bookstore no longer depends on scholars for revenue. Now, when a new volume of The Divine Doctor’s Poisonous Consort is released, most buyers aren’t scholars at all.”

Xu Chengyue suddenly realized why he was so calm.

Lü Hongzhuo had heard his father analyze the reasons: first, common folk with some disposable income had no interest in reading classical texts; they had no desire to pass imperial examinations or bring honor to their families. Second, without teachers, ordinary people found the texts incomprehensible.

Madam Xu’s books shattered these barriers. The common people liked her work and naturally wanted to buy it. Even those with modest means could afford the low prices. Those with less money would share and take turns buying, so everyone could read.

This was something Lü’s father had never seen before. He never imagined the bookstore could one day earn money from ordinary people without having to cater to haughty scholars.

Frankly, he disliked dealing with those scholars. The social hierarchy of scholars, farmers, artisans, and merchants was unbreakable, and no matter how wealthy, merchants were deemed inferior. Moreover, those scholars were accustomed to looking down on others, their eyes seemingly on their foreheads.

Seeing Xu Chengyue fall into thoughtful silence, Lü Hongzhuo felt a touch of pride.

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From the moment he met Madam Xu, she had seemed unlike the typical young lady from a respectable family—always composed, unaffected by honor or disgrace, and remarkably well-informed. Though not necessarily versed in poetry or classics, her perspectives often astonished him, repeatedly overturning his preconceived notions about women.

She rarely showed such clear emotional fluctuations as today.

Understanding the key points, Xu Chengyue breathed a sigh of relief. Her thoughts shifted to a new idea.

Why were these scholars so confident and brazen? Because their voices were loud, and ordinary people had no platform to speak, so they could only accept whatever the scholars said. When gathered, even the authorities had to be cautious around them. In such disputes, only the scholars held sway, making it difficult to argue even with reason.

If they lacked popular support, perhaps their reputations among scholars would have been ruined by this incident, leaving no chance for recovery.

But could it be possible for them to have their own channel to influence public opinion?

Not seeking a grand impact, just so the next time something similar occurred, they would not be entirely passive.

“Mr. Lü, I have an idea—we could control public opinion ourselves.”

The moment she spoke, Lü Hongzhuo nearly spilled the hot tea in his hands. His pride vanished instantly, his eyes wide with shock as his double eyelids disappeared, leaving him with single folds.

Such an audacious idea! He often appeared foolish because he could not keep up with Madam Xu’s thoughts.

Public opinion was tied to upper-level politics. As ordinary commoners, were they not courting death by meddling?

Lü Hongzhuo trembled.

“Where are you going with this? I’m not talking about rebellion,” Xu Chengyue said with a twitch of her mouth.

Lü could not bear to hear the word “rebellion.” If not for propriety between men and women, he would have covered her mouth.

“Oh, don’t be so nervous. It’s like a bulletin, but not aimed at court officials, and it doesn’t report on state affairs. It could print stories about people’s livelihoods, interesting rumors from the streets, articles submitted by scholars, interpretations of policies relevant to common folk, even gossip about noble families…”

During the Tang Dynasty, speaking out was not punished, and secrets of the palace and aristocracy were always topics for common chatter.

Xu Chengyue explained the function of newspapers patiently.

Lü Hongzhuo slowly relaxed his furrowed brow; his eyes grew brighter.

“We could publish daily, every two days, or at longer intervals…”

“Madam Xu, you are truly a genius!” Lü Hongzhuo had lost count of how many times he had said this.

Unaware of his limited vocabulary, he trembled slightly with excitement.

As the owner of a bookstore, no one knew better than him what this meant.

Public opinion? No, it was far more than that.

This feeling defied precise description. Lü Hongzhuo felt as if he stood at the cusp of social transformation, and the entire Tang Empire would undergo unimaginable changes.

But establishing a newspaper would not be accomplished overnight.

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Neither of them had experience running a newspaper, and both had their own affairs to attend to. Xu Chengyue had her novels to write, and Lü Hongzhuo still had to manage the bookstore’s daily operations. Neither could spare the time to handle this alone.

So, they planned to hire staff.

Xu Chengyue also had her own ideas about recruitment.

“I would like to prioritize hiring women,” she proposed.

“Why? I think there should be more literate men, so it’ll be easier to find them,” Lü Hongzhuo asked, not out of bias, but simply because men were more convenient.

“Men who can read can usually find work anyway. Women are different; there are very few jobs they can do, which is partly my own concern. Besides, capable scholars probably wouldn’t want to come here to work for money, so it makes sense to hire women. But I don’t want favoritism—just to prioritize women under equal conditions,” Xu Chengyue explained.

This was no problem; Lü Hongzhuo readily agreed.

Hiring wouldn’t be accomplished in a day. Lü Hongzhuo posted a notice outside the store, and Xu Chengyue promoted the opportunity in her books, waiting for applicants to come forward.

“Madam, I’m terribly sorry, but we only hire gentlemen here,” Xue Zhenrui heard from the scholar’s apologetic voice as she sadly walked out of the tavern.

This was the thirty-second place she had inquired at today, and the answer was always the same.

Why was it so hard to find a job?

She had studied diligently since childhood, never slacking off. Her knowledge might not be top-tier, but it was respectable, and she was perfectly capable of bookkeeping.

Yet most shopkeepers refused her outright upon seeing she was a woman.

Dejected, she hung her shoulders, unconcerned with her demeanor.

It was already the last day.

Xue Zhenrui was a rare only daughter in Luoyang’s Xiushan district. Her family had modest means, enough to support her education, and her mother doted on her, as their choice of the characters “Zhen” and “Rui” in her name showed.

However, when she came of age, she was pressured to marry. She resisted, and her mother agreed, unwilling to part with her.

But this caused a rift: her mother wanted to find a son-in-law to marry into the family to establish the household and protect her from mistreatment.

Xue Zhenrui opposed this. Society looked down on men who married in, and those willing to do so were often unsuitable or had ulterior motives. Proud and high-spirited, she refused, preferring to serve her mother all her life.

Her mother retorted that without a husband or means to support herself, what would she do when they were gone?

Unwilling to hear this, Xue Zhenrui argued fiercely and swore that if she could find a job to support herself within five days, they would no longer pressure her to marry.

With curfew approaching, time was running out.

Was she really forced to settle with a decent but unremarkable husband?

The thought sent shivers down her spine, a chill creeping at the back of her neck.

As she walked down the next street, she noticed a bookstore with a hiring notice on the door.

She did not want to enter; such places were usually conventional and would only reject her again.