Chapter 858 - Cultural Bookstore

After receiving his new household servants, Zhao Yingong's mind had already turned to calculation. Given the resources currently at his disposal, a direct assault on the raw silk and cocoon trade was beyond his means. His capital was limited. Delong Bank, still establishing its local presence, could hardly mobilize substantial funding on short notice. And the capitalists of Jiangnan would prove far more formidable adversaries than their counterparts in Leizhou—not only were they well-capitalized, but most operated under the patronage of powerful gentry and officials. His position here was infinitely more precarious than that of the Leizhou or Guangzhou stations. He could not simply encroach on entrenched interests without courting a devastating backlash.

After careful thought, the wisest approach was to enter at the production stage. As a transmigrator, his greatest advantage lay in harnessing Lingao's technological capabilities to establish a modernized, semi-mechanized silk-reeling factory capable of producing superior raw silk. Wang Siniang's description had made the situation abundantly clear: traditional hand-reeling was not merely inefficient—it produced inconsistent, inferior thread. If industrial mass-production's cheap, high-quality goods struck this market, the transformation would come swiftly.

He harbored no illusions about who would suffer. Once such a factory began operations, the resulting shockwave would drive countless silkworm farmers like the Shen family into ruin—stripped of land and property, cast destitute onto the streets. And he would be the architect of their destruction.

Yet such an outcome served the transmigrator collective's interests. The Elder Council's agricultural policy had always aimed at dismantling small-scale production. A large, stable class of peasant proprietors—whether freeholders or tenants—was precisely what the Council did not want. What they needed was abundant freely-hireable labor.

Beyond silk-reeling, there was also tremendous potential in modernizing sericulture and mulberry cultivation. Zhao Yingong had witnessed firsthand the explosive productivity gains that the Agricultural Committee's improvements and extension work had brought to Lingao. Introducing similar methods to Hangzhou would certainly elevate both the yield and quality of mulberry leaves and cocoons.

Both approaches, however, depended entirely on Lingao's technology and material support. Zhao Yingong himself knew nothing about silk-reeling machinery or modern sericulture. He would employ his usual method: first conduct a thorough field investigation.

He had already resolved to establish a silk-reeling factory. But doing so meant solving a cascade of practical problems: land, factory buildings, equipment, workers, raw material sources.

The technical requirements for silk-reeling were modest. Having the machinery factory replicate late nineteenth-century reeling equipment would not be particularly difficult. The factory itself would require minimal power equipment—no steam engine was necessary; a water wheel would suffice. When Zhao Yingong had originally designed his vision of transmigrator textile industry, water-wheel power had always been part of the plan.

To build a factory with water-wheel power required suitable land. That land needed to be large enough, with a river nearby—both mulberry cultivation and silk-reeling demanded substantial water. Within Hangzhou's city walls, such conditions were impossible. He would have to look outside.

Zhao Yingong had long had a particular location in mind. His eye had fallen on Phoenix Mountain, beyond Fengshan Gate—once the site of the Southern Song imperial palace. During the Song and Yuan dynasties, it had lain within the city walls. When Zhang Shicheng rebuilt Hangzhou's fortifications at the end of the Yuan, Phoenix Mountain was left outside. In the fourteenth year of Zhiyuan, fire had consumed most of the palace complex. Ten years later, Yang Lianzhenji petitioned the Yuan court and used the remaining foundations, structures, and materials to construct five Buddhist temples on the mountain. These temples, too, had fallen into ruin during the Yuan dynasty, obliterated entirely in the wars that marked the Yuan's collapse. By the late Ming, Phoenix Mountain had become a desolate wasteland, virtually uninhabited. Zhao Yingong had already made inquiries—despite its proximity to the city walls, the area was extraordinarily deserted, populated by only a handful of small villages.

For his purposes, this was ideal. Wasteland meant cheap land, which suited his limited finances. Since the terrain had once supported palace construction, it could not be too rugged—the slopes were relatively gentle. Besides constructing buildings, those hillsides could support large-scale mulberry planting to supply the sericulture operation. Phoenix Mountain bordered both the Central River on one side and the Qiantang River on the other, providing convenient access to water for power and for production and daily use. Should more factories be built in the future, water access and drainage would be close at hand.

The future Hangzhou Station would also need to process incoming populations—establishing a purification camp at his city residence would be thoroughly unsuitable. Space was insufficient, and the location was an upscale neighborhood; large numbers of impoverished newcomers passing through the Zhao residence would attract far too much attention. Phoenix Mountain was a place close to the city yet inconspicuous.

Finally, Phoenix Mountain commanded the high ground overlooking Fengshan Gate and bordered the Qiantang River. When the Taiping Army had attacked Hangzhou, they seized this very location as a crucial staging base. Controlling it meant preparing a suitable dock for refugee transfers and receiving naval vessels. And for Zhao Yingong—who styled himself a descendant of the Song imperial house—Phoenix Mountain held particular political significance. This high ground was one he absolutely had to secure.

Of course, the entire expanse of the palace ruins stretched from Shaozhouwan in the south to Wansong Ridge in the north, running along the western bank of the Central River to the eastern foot of Phoenix Mountain, with a circumference of nine li. Such a vast area was neither within his means nor necessary to acquire completely. After all, he was here to establish industries, not to create a memorial park for nostalgic contemplation of Song dynasty ruins. He immediately instructed Cai Shi and Sun Wangcai to begin local inquiries about land ownership around Phoenix Mountain, approximate prices, and to survey locations suitable for establishing an estate.

He also drafted a telegram, reporting his ideas and plans in full to the External Intelligence Bureau—including all the support he hoped to receive: funds, machinery and equipment, and specialized technical personnel.

While awaiting a reply, Zhao Yingong explored other business opportunities—not merely for profit, but with an eye toward breaking into local social circles.

He had considered opening a printing press. Movable type and lithographic printing were among the transmigrators' most readily profitable technologies. The collective also possessed vast resources available for "plagiarism"—texts that had been carefully collated in the old time-space, editions whose content quality alone would surpass the books sold in local shops, to say nothing of printing quality itself.

Jiangnan's woodblock printing industry was famous throughout the realm, a natural outgrowth of the region's flourishing literary culture. Nanjing, Suzhou, and Hangzhou all boasted substantial bookshops that integrated editing, publishing, printing, and sales into considerable commercial enterprises. The market was unquestionably there.

Moreover, books were considered "elegant objects" in contemporary thinking—intimately connected to scholars and scholarship. In a society where knowledge was monopolized by the few, books held not only practical value but cultural and psychological significance. Bookshop owners who printed, edited, and sold books enjoyed a certain air of refinement, making it easier to be "looked upon favorably" when dealing with literati.

But printing presses required equipment, technology, and personnel—currently available only in Lingao. As far as Zhao Yingong knew, the problem of carving type dies for casting movable type remained unsolved. Before his departure, the head of the printing office had specifically asked him to watch for master woodblock carvers in Jiangnan who might be recruited to Lingao. Skilled woodblock workers might also prove capable of carving type dies.

At this thought, Zhao Yingong smiled bitterly. Truly, it was difficult for one person to accomplish much alone. Solo time-traveling was indeed a demanding proposition.

However, opening a bookshop was far less daunting. Even without movable type printing, traditional woodblock methods were perfectly acceptable—established technology with a complete industry chain already in place. Woodblock materials, printing paper, skilled woodblock workers—all were readily available. He need only invest.

Simply opening a bookshop, though, remained a merchant's endeavor. Literati might condescend to "look upon it favorably," but would never treat him as an equal. He needed something more refined. Zhao Yingong suddenly recalled the "cultural bookstores" of the old time-space—establishments with tea seating or coffee bars where customers could browse freely, linger over a cup of tea and a book, and leave without purchasing anything. The owner simply made money on the refreshments. Everyone considered such places terribly elegant and artistic. What if this concept were introduced to the Great Ming?

The more he thought, the more the vision expanded. This bookshop should have as many volumes as possible, creating the atmosphere of a library. Besides the classics, histories, philosophers, and collected works, he could also introduce some of the "Australian books" printed in Lingao. These volumes—superior in printing quality, paper, and content—would serve as "curiosities" to attract readers. Every business needed a distinguishing feature.

Beyond books, he could also sell Australian paper, stationery, and other small items. This would set his shop apart from ordinary bookstores, avoiding direct competition for their regular business. He could even establish a membership-based lending system, allowing readers to borrow books and read them at home. Through the membership registration process, he could survey the local network of connections. And of course, the greatest benefit was reputation. In ancient times, books were rare and precious—not only were there few varieties, but prices were extremely high. An ordinary poor scholar typically owned only a handful of Four Books and Five Classics volumes and essential examination essay collections. To read more broadly, one had to borrow from others constantly. For major multi-volume works or rare editions, one needed to seek out people with private libraries, often pleading and requesting introductions for any chance of borrowing. Precisely because books were so scarce, collectors were reluctant to lend, and around this scarcity had grown countless stories, anecdotes, and legends of book collecting and borrowing in ancient China.