Spoiled and mad critic of powerful ministers

Uncle San was taken aback for a moment, then quickly realized what he meant and hurriedly replied, "Yes, yes! There's an empty courtyard at the east end of the village that's been sitting vacant for a while. I'll have someone clean it up right away and give it to Qiongju to live in!"

Pei Zhihui seemed not to hear, and slowly raised his pale finger, pointing lightly at the busy and chaotic construction site in front of him.

"The layout here," his voice wasn't loud, but it clearly pierced through the noise of rammed earth and sawing wood, "is problematic in several ways."

The third uncle and the foreman who had come over looked at each other, both with hesitant expressions.

Shen Qiongju couldn't help but raise her eyes and quietly look at him.

He took a half step forward, his gaze sweeping over the land with unwavering precision.

"The irrigation canal," he pointed to the newly dug ditch in the southeast corner, "has an inlet angle that's more than three inches off. It looks insignificant, but it wastes half the manpower to carry water—utterly foolish."

My gaze shifted slightly and landed on the newly placed stone mill base.

"The millstone is too far from the granary. Every time we transport a bag of grain, we will have to walk dozens of steps more, which will accumulate over time and waste time."

Finally, he looked at the few fermentation rooms that had already been built to a height of half a person and frowned slightly.

"The walls are as thin as paper, and the windows are as big as buckets. In winter, they can't retain a trace of warmth, and in summer, they can't block out even a bit of heat."

With each word he spoke, the foreman's face paled further, and beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

These seemingly minor flaws, once pointed out by him, suddenly appeared glaring and absurd.

Pei Zhihui said no more.

He walked straight to the corner where the waste was piled up, bent down and picked up a wide wooden plank with charred edges, and then casually scooped up half a piece of charred charcoal from the ground.

He held the charcoal in his fingers and began to sketch directly on the rough, uneven wood surface.

A wrist movement, a thread is created.

The unassuming piece of charcoal rose and fell between his fingers with a clean and crisp motion.

With just a few strokes, the irrigation canal was rerouted, meandering down the terrain and saving the effort of drawing water.

The locations of granaries, mills, and wine cellars were relocated and coordinated with each other, minimizing the flow of materials. Even the orientation of chimneys and the height and size of windows were clearly marked.

That was no longer an ordinary layout sketch.

The lines intertwine, with varying density, forming a seamless whole, like a precise mechanism where every part fits perfectly, operating for the sole purpose of "efficiency".

Shen Qiongju stood behind him, gazing at the gradually taking shape on the wooden board, her heart filled with surprise.

This talent for simplifying complexity and getting straight to the heart of the matter is so similar to the focused and absorbed expression on her late husband Pei Zhichao's face when he was studying mechanical arts.

Every stroke in the drawing reveals an almost demanding pursuit of "making the most of everything," with no redundancy and no room for compromise.

However, it was too perfect, so the craftsmen had to redo it.

"Cough...cough cough!"

With the final stroke completed, Pei Zhihui suddenly straightened up, and a burst of suppressed coughing erupted from his chest.

He quickly covered his mouth with his sleeve, his thin back heaving and trembling violently. The exclamations of amazement around him caused by the exquisite painting were instantly drowned out by this heart-wrenching cough.

After a long while, he finally managed to stop. When he lowered his sleeve, his pale lips were even paler, but his eyes, due to his previous focus and his current coughing and panting, were filled with an unusual watery light and blush.

He turned around, his gaze passing over everyone else and landing directly on Shen Qiongju's face.

"Until the distillery here is fully repaired," he said, his voice hoarse but firm and unwavering, "I will stay to oversee the work."

He paused briefly, then shifted his gaze to the undulating ridges of the fields in the distance, and gave his reason:

"Industrial expansion is crucial to our future livelihoods and cannot be taken lightly. Besides..."

He slowed his speech, as if carefully choosing his words, "When the Pei family suffered misfortune in the past, during our exile, Uncle Shen secretly sent people to provide us with cotton-padded clothes and money. This time, it is as a way of repaying that kindness."

The reasons were sound, reasonable, and even carried a hint of the courtesy expected of scions of noble families to repay kindness.

Shen Qiongju gazed at his slender profile and the fleeting, unfathomable darkness in his eyes, and suddenly, the corners of her lips curved slightly.

That smile, like a spring breeze melting thin ice, quietly spread across her eyes and brows, dispelling the gloom and tension that had enveloped her for days.

She took two steps forward, getting closer to him.

Her warm breath, carrying a woman's unique fragrance, almost brushed against his hard-lined jawline.

"Second Uncle has gone to such great lengths," she said in a low voice, her tone soft and gentle with a hint of teasing, her eyes sparkling, "it's as if my Shen family has hired a master craftsman at great expense."

She blinked, her tone light, "However, the Shen family might not be able to afford to pay for such craftsmanship these days."

Pei Zhihui's body stiffened almost imperceptibly.

She was so close that he could see the faint shadow cast by her eyelashes and the small, flickering light in her eyes.

The light was both unfamiliar and vibrant, causing him to feel a tightness in his throat and momentarily lose his speech.

All the prepared, cold, and distant responses were stuck in my chest.

After a long pause, he managed to utter a short, almost inaudible syllable from between his tightly pursed lips:

"Um."

It's as if adding even one more word would be a luxury.

Before he finished speaking, he suddenly turned around and strode towards the group of craftsmen who were still marveling at the wooden planks. His back was straight, and there was even a sense of haste in his movements.

Only the fingers hidden in the wide sleeves unconsciously rubbed the remaining charcoal ash at their fingertips.

The rough texture and the inexplicable ripples in my heart intertwined in the pale winter sunset, forming a trace of wretchedness that no one could see.

He cleared his throat, his voice regaining its usual cool and resolute tone:

"All the old structures have been demolished."

"Everything will be rebuilt according to this plan."

.

The night was as dark as ink, and the cold wind swirled snowflakes, lashing against the makeshift shed with a soft "crackling" sound.

Inside the distillery, however, the scene was completely different.

Inside the newly built stove, the flames roared, making people's faces feel hot.

Inside the huge earthenware vat, the fermented grain mash churned, and the rich, sour aroma of fermented grains mixed with the scorching steam, creating a unique fragrance that permeated every corner of the workshop.

This was the first night of rushing to finish the project.

Shen Qiongju, wrapped in a thick cloak, stood beside a new vat, holding an account book and a charcoal pencil.

She frowned slightly, and by the dim light of the lantern, she repeatedly made calculations on the booklet.

With the addition of manpower and cooking equipment, production has indeed doubled.

Even so, after burning the fire for three days and three nights without sleep, they could only produce 400 catties of "first-pressed firewood".

It's still 350 jin short of the 800 jin requested by that distinguished guest.

Moreover, although these farmers are willing to put in the effort, they are novices after all, and their control over the heat and time is far less precise than that of experienced farmers.

Brewing is a delicate art; even the slightest mistake can ruin an entire batch of hard work.

Thinking of this, her heart sank even further.

In a corner not far away, a slender figure sat quietly.

Pei Zhihui didn't look at her, nor at the busy workers.

He held a book in his hands, his expression focused, as if the surrounding noise had nothing to do with him.

But the very presence of his sitting here is a kind of invisible pressure.

"oops!"

A cry of alarm, accompanied by the crisp sound of a broken earthenware pot, abruptly shattered the tranquility of the workers' shed.

Shen Qiongju's heart skipped a beat, and she immediately looked in the direction of the sound.

A young man responsible for watching the fire was slumped on the ground, his face deathly pale.

In front of him, a ceramic jar about half a person's height had cracked open, and scalding hot wine mash mixed with murky liquid gushed out, quickly spreading a mess on the ground.