Chapter Twelve: The World Has Long Suffered Under Feng's Rule

With accurate information in hand, Qin Zheng’s eyes lit up.

“Only one kiln every three or four days? That means we can put all these small furnaces to use!”

Qin Jun chuckled. “Does our village have that much coal? Or can we even buy it?”

Right now, buying coal required ration tickets, which were hard to come by.

His family had coal powder only because they scavenged it from the slag heaps of the Hongqi and Hongquan mines.

These slag heaps, also called slag mountains, were essentially small hills formed by the waste dumped from coal mines.

Mostly rocks were dumped there; the better stuff was coal gangue, and coal itself was mixed in with the debris, tossed out indiscriminately.

Since it was discarded waste, there wasn’t much coal in it.

His family’s stockpile of over a thousand jin of raw coal had taken more than a year to accumulate.

Of course, it wasn’t just his family; such a large slag heap was dumped on daily.

So, diligent folks from the surrounding ten or so villages would rise early before dawn to gather coal.

The early bird catches the worm—this proverb held true everywhere.

Seeing the coal brought home, Qin Jun suddenly recalled that every day at dawn, his mother and two elder sisters would climb the slag heap to scavenge coal.

Climbing the small hill daily was no easy task. He remembered doing the same often in his childhood in his previous life.

Qin Zheng spoke again, “Our village does have some quotas, though not many. It’s not profitable to make money this way now, but every household can still burn a kiln of lime.”

“That’s not bad at all; at least every family won’t lack lime,” Qin Jun said casually, never having intended to profit from this craft.

“Exactly. As long as we don’t have to deal with the accountant Feng from the commune,” Qin Zheng said, his face full of resentment.

It seemed they were not the only ones who had suffered Feng’s foul temper.

Thinking about it, that fellow’s eyes seemed to be on the top of his head; even the team leader wouldn’t get a kind word from him.

Is the world suffering under Feng’s tyranny? Qin Jun laughed inwardly.

If the neighboring villages knew they could get free lime, would anyone still buy it from the commune?

Anyway, since he couldn’t profit from this skill, causing some trouble for a few was acceptable.

With no desires or demands, he felt fearless now.

Thinking about future challenges, Qin Jun chuckled.

“Shouldn’t we keep watch here? The fire’s lit successfully now, right?”

“Yes, ignition succeeded. Now we just wait for the kiln to open.”

“Then what are we waiting for? Let’s eat! Don’t worry, I’ve arranged for the militia to guard the place; no one will sabotage it!”

Saying this, Qin Zheng pulled Qin Jun along.

The small furnace was right on the village’s edge, so sabotage was unlikely.

The village was small—only about twenty or thirty households at most.

At its peak, when all children had their own households, the village had no more than seventy or eighty families.

Such a tiny village could be crossed quickly from west to east.

But instead of heading to Qin Jun’s home, they arrived at Qin Zheng’s place.

Dragged inside, Qin Jun immediately noticed the square table in the center.

No surprise—the table was the finest piece in the house. Otherwise, how else could the group of young men staring so intently at him be explained?

Luckily, no one drooled; otherwise, Qin Zheng’s hand might have met their backsides.

“Captain, are you living the good life now?” someone teased upon seeing the steaming pot of chicken stew with mushrooms.

“It’s just an old hen! Eating it won’t kill us!” Qin Zheng replied stubbornly, his lips twitching.

Qin Jun wanted to laugh but stopped himself.

In this era, many families didn’t even slaughter chickens for the New Year.

Why? Because every family kept at least one hen, unwilling to kill it for meat.

The “chicken butt bank” was no empty name here.

Especially in farming households without land or grain to sell, this was a true lifeline.

And today, they were even eating chicken!

Qin Jun’s heart felt heavy. He had chosen to burn lime for a meal, never imagining the team leader would sacrifice his family’s old hen for it.

“Sit down quickly, don’t overthink it. You must understand how much your efforts today have solved for our village,” Qin Zheng said, pulling Qin Jun down to the head-left seat at the table.

Qin Jun stood immediately.

At his own home, he would never claim the head seat.

They were family, after all, and he wouldn’t let his elders sit below him.

Just then, Qin Shi entered.

“Haha, little Third finally gets to sit at the head seat,” he joked.

Qin Jun gave him a sharp look. “What’s going on? If you don’t explain, I won’t sit here!”

“No big deal. According to our Qin family rules, achievements earn the head seat. Just sit down quietly,” Qin Shi said solemnly.

Qin Jun was stunned—how long had it been since he’d heard that?

The Qin family’s rules ensured order, no matter the hardships.

For instance, no matter how difficult, the Qin family never sold their children.

Reluctantly, Qin Jun sat down. Even Qin Zheng’s father had to take the seat below him.

Of course, Qin Zheng’s grandfather didn’t join the table.

The old man was over eighty and bedridden, eating in another room.

Without the grandfather’s generation, Qin Jun sitting at the head of the uncle generation was bearable.

Once seated, Qin Jun saw that Qin Zheng had truly splurged today.

Besides the pot of chicken stew with mushrooms, the table held three dishes and one soup.

A plate of vinegar-cooked cabbage was standard fare.

Next was a very noticeable stir-fried eggs dish.

There were quite a few eggs; without at least seven or eight, such a large dish wasn’t possible.

Another plate was bacon stir-fried with shredded potatoes—there was meat!

Real pork. Half a month back in this era, he could only dream of such a thing.

In this time, many families couldn’t even eat pork during the New Year.

Finally, a pot of salted vegetables stewed with tofu, a beloved childhood delicacy.

As Lu Xun once said, a plate of salted vegetables stewed with tofu surpasses even the emperor’s feast.

At this moment, Qin Jun wanted to remark what sort of family they were, eating four dishes and a soup—this was the kind of treatment visiting high officials received.

“Little Third, you’re already fourteen this year, right?”

Before Qin Jun could answer, Qin Zheng picked up the wine.

“After the New Year, I’ll be fifteen. I can drink!” Qin Shi added.

Qin Zheng’s father, Qin Zhixin, smiled warmly. “Then pour him a bowl.”

Qin Jun was taken aback—he could drink wine already?

Though fond of good wine, he never drank much, so he said habitually, “Just half a cup; I won’t drink more.”

“Good, we won’t pressure you,” Qin Zheng said hesitantly.

People of Shandong don’t pressure others to drink—that’s hard to believe.

But right now, they truly had no grounds to push anyone.

Their family had only one jar of unaged white liquor.

They did have pure sorghum wine, but since other grains were scarce, the village didn’t dare use them for brewing.

The sorghum wine in the small clay jar before him had a faint aroma without any musty smell.

This wasn’t just new wine in an old bottle—it was truly cellar-aged.

The village’s handmade pottery and self-distilled sorghum wine had been stored for who knew how many years; the jar certainly showed its age.

“This was brewed the year your eldest niece was born. I think it was ’58, a bountiful year with plenty of grain. We didn’t touch the sorghum then. Who would have thought that by ’59…”

Qin Zheng’s voice trailed off with some emotion.

It was hard not to feel nostalgic because after ’58, whether the harvest was good or not, their village never brewed wine again.

It wasn’t that they lacked leftover sorghum—its taste was poor, so it was mostly animal feed.

If they brewed wine and sold it secretly, they could have exchanged it for grain.

But from ’58 onward, the villagers refused to use grain for brewing, holding it in reserve.

Qin Jun could easily imagine why. If this were his old life, he would have just been a clueless fourteen-year-old boy, unaware of the bitterness behind it all.