40. Xu Guangqi and Sun Yuanhua

Guided by Mr. Liu, Yang Fan, accompanied by the little chubby boy and three bodyguards, headed toward Stone Lion Alley.

They arrived after a fifteen-minute walk. The area was slightly better than Xinghe, at least possessing a semblance of life. It was what later generations would call a shantytown.

"This is the place; the gate ahead is it," Mr. Liu said.

A crowd had gathered in front of the gate. A chubby boy, slightly older than Wei Fugui, was pounding on the door, surrounded by a group of henchmen wielding clubs and jeering.

"Dani, come out. Let your brother have a look," the chubby boy shouted.

"Come out! Come out!" the henchmen chimed in.

"What do you think you’re doing?" Mr. Liu hurried forward to intervene. "Is there no law in broad daylight?"

"What’s it to you, old man? Looking for trouble?" The chubby boy tilted his head and glared at Mr. Liu. The henchmen immediately bared their fangs. Mr. Liu’s legs began to tremble with fear.

"Who do you think you are, trying to act tough in front of me?" The chubby boy lunged toward Mr. Liu.

"Hey, you—" The bigger chubby boy opened his mouth to curse, but suddenly stopped. A short matchlock pistol barrel was jammed into his mouth. Yang Fan hadn't even seen the little chubby boy draw it.

The little chubby boy acted with composure, pulling out a slow-match, blowing on it until it glowed red, and igniting the fuse.

"B-big brother, let’s talk this over. Let’s talk," the surrounding henchmen shouted immediately. If anything happened to their young master, they would face severe consequences. If that flintlock went off, it would blow his head clean off.

"Get lost!" the little chubby boy spat.

The fat boy and his henchmen scrambled away in a panic. "Just you wait! You dare provoke me, Pang Er, here in Zunhua City? You’ll regret this!" the older chubby boy shouted as he ran, trying to save face despite his fear.

Bang! Without hesitation, the little chubby boy pulled the trigger, shooting the hat right off his head. The bullet grazed his scalp.

"Ah!" The older chubby boy let out a shrill scream, fell to the ground, and wet his pants. He was quickly hauled up by his henchmen and fled.

"Coward," the little chubby boy said, blowing the smoke from the barrel with a flourish.

"Where did you get that short matchlock?" Yang Fan took it to inspect. He had spent time online cramming on historical firearms before coming here. "It looks English-made."

Yang Fan nodded. The craftsmanship was excellent; the metal was well-polished and engraved with fleur-de-lis patterns. The handle and handguard were made of black walnut with a beautiful grain.

"Brother Yang, you’re amazing. My father had someone buy this from Macau. It is indeed that English-made thing," the little chubby boy said. It wasn't that Yang Fan had special insight; the inscription clearly read "Made in Liverpool."

"This type of gun isn't great. A flintlock would be better. For instance, an experienced bandit wouldn't have given you the time to calmly light the fuse. Matchlocks take too long to prepare; they aren't very practical," Yang Fan mused.

"This young man is also knowledgeable about firearms. These flintlocks are a new invention from the West in recent decades. None have reached our Ming Dynasty yet. You are truly well-informed."

Yang Fan turned to see five people standing behind them: a fortune-teller carrying a banner that read "Iron Mouth Predicts Heaven and Earth," with a satchel draped over his shoulder. To his left were two men in their thirties who looked remarkably similar; they were likely the brothers Song Yingsheng and Song Yingxing. On his right were two others: an elderly man of about sixty with an air of official authority and scholarly elegance, and a young man who also carried the bearing of an official.

"Brother Song, you’ve returned," Mr. Liu greeted him.

"Apologies, apologies. Guests arrived today, and I had to step out. I’ve kept you waiting, Brother Liu," the fortune-teller replied, returning the bow.

"This is my employer, Boss Yang Fan. He intends to open a school. I recalled that you two were looking for positions to prepare for the metropolitan examination, so I brought him to meet you," Mr. Liu explained.

"Thank you for your trouble, Brother Liu. My two younger cousins are indeed looking for work. These two gentlemen are friends of theirs, here to visit. Please, come in, let us talk inside," the fortune-teller said. He knocked on the door: "Zhen'er, your father is home. Open up. We have guests."

The door creaked open a crack. A girl with a long braid peered out cautiously before opening it fully. "Father, you scared me. That dead fat boy was harassing us again, and someone fired a gun outside."

The fortune-teller turned to Yang Fan and his group, bowing. "Thank you all for your righteous assistance."

The little chubby boy puffed out his chest. "A mere trifle, not worth mentioning."

The fortune-teller invited them into the main hall. Yang Fan explained his vision for the school: divided into kindergarten, primary school, and technical school, with separate classes for boys and girls. The curriculum would focus on arithmetic and literacy. It would not be geared toward the imperial examinations, though talented students could pursue that on their own.

The sixty-year-old elder looked surprised. It was the first time he had heard of someone willing to educate girls—in this era, a woman’s lack of talent was considered a virtue—and the idea of night school for workers was equally novel.

"Since you are both scholars, teaching children may seem beneath you. However, our compensation is quite good. We have positions for senior teachers, teachers, assistant teachers, kindergarten teachers, and school staff. Room and board are provided, and the monthly pay is 1,500 wen for senior teachers, 1,000 for teachers, 800 for assistants, 500 for kindergarten teachers, and 300 for staff."

Yang Fan pulled out a handful of Chongzhen Tongbao coins to show them. "We pay in top-quality currency. We never use the debased coins found in the markets."

The pay was incredibly generous. Yang Fan’s coins were worth double their face value. A senior teacher’s monthly salary was equivalent to about three taels of silver—nearly five taels in purchasing power. With the Tianqi Emperor levying military taxes for Liaodong, the money supply in the capital region had surged, driving up prices. A local magistrate’s monthly salary was only about 7.5 piculs of rice, often paid in aged, low-quality grain, worth only about three taels of silver.

The men looked at the gleaming copper coins in their hands with astonishment. The quality was impeccable; they weighed them and realized they might be pure copper.

"May I ask, young man, where this new currency comes from?" the elderly man asked with a bow.

"And how should I address you, sir?" Yang Fan asked respectfully.

"I am Xu Guangqi, and this is my student, Sun Yuanhua."