Third Aunt Gao's down jackets became an overnight sensation.
The moment they appeared in the store, word spread like wildfire. Wealthy households, minor gentry, merchants with quick noses for trends, all rushed over as if a treasure chest had been opened in broad daylight.
But their excitement lasted only a few breaths.
There were barely a hundred jackets in stock.
Before some people even squeezed through the door, the shelves were empty. Those who arrived a little later could only stare at the vacant display stands with disbelief, as if someone had stolen spring itself.
The down jackets were more expensive than the wool sweaters from Liu Maopao factory. That alone would have made them luxury goods.
Yet the real cruelty lay not in the price, but in the scarcity.
"When will they restock?" someone demanded.
The clerk bowed with an apologetic smile that did not change no matter how many times the question was asked.
"There is currently no fixed date."
The crowd nearly exploded.
Only after prolonged questioning did the truth emerge.
A single goose could produce only about one tael of goose down.
A duck yielded even less, merely two qian of usable down.
And the Saintess herself had endorsed the highest standard: ninety percent goose or duck down for premium jackets. Even the more affordable versions required seventy percent.
This was not cotton. It could not be grown in fields in vast quantities.
It had to be plucked from living creatures.
Feather by feather.
The wealthy patrons gradually understood.
They could complain about the price, but they could not complain about arithmetic.
Raw materials were limited.
Therefore the finished product was limited.
But human greed is a powerful thing.
Some people left disappointed.
Others left thoughtful.
At Horseshoe Lake near Bai Family Fortress, one man stood by the water that afternoon, staring at the rippling surface.
He had always considered the lake ordinary.
Now it looked like a silver mine.
Ducks and geese loved water.
He had water.
The thought settled quietly in his mind.
If he raised geese, sold down to Third Aunt Gao's factory, perhaps he would not need to bow to anyone again.
He was not alone in this realization.
Across villages, wherever there was a pond, a stream, or a marsh, similar calculations were taking place.
Individual households could only raise a few birds.
But merchants began to think on a larger scale.
Why not organize farms?
Why not contract villagers?
Why not create entire flocks dedicated to down production?
The shortage of down jackets was quietly reshaping agricultural planning.
This was no longer merely about warmth.
It was about supply chains.
It was about capital.
It was about a new economy forming around feathers.
Meanwhile, far to the southwest.
Sichuan.
The Standard Avatar of Dao Xuan Tianzun stood at the bow of a riverboat, watching the current guide them toward Chaotianmen Pier in Chongqing.
After traveling extensively within the diorama world, Li Daoxuan had returned to the city where he had once lived in another lifetime.
Ming Dynasty Chongqing was smaller, rougher, and far less crowded than the sprawling metropolis he remembered.
In modern times, towering steel and glass structures dominated Chaotianmen. Here, the ancient gate itself was the most magnificent sight.
Chaotianmen was not merely architecture.
It was ceremony.
For more than a thousand years, imperial envoys had sailed up the Yangtze, disembarked at this pier, and proclaimed edicts beneath its arch. Authority flowed through this place like the river itself.
It had to be grand.
And it was.
Li Daoxuan stepped ashore.
Cheng Xu followed closely, accompanied by a disciplined escort of militia.
Their formation was impressive enough that the dockworkers immediately sensed the arrival of an important figure.
Several porters instinctively retreated.
Ordinary people had learned caution through generations of hardship.
Officials and powerful men often meant trouble.
Just as they were shrinking away, a voice rang out in thick Chongqing dialect.
"Brothers, are you free? A few of you come help me unload."
The porters froze.
The tone did not match the imposing procession.
Li Daoxuan waved casually.
"Ten copper coins each. I pay what I promise. If even one coin is missing, you can take my head."
The dialect was warm, almost playful.
The dockworkers looked at one another.
Then they grinned.
Fear dissolved quickly in the presence of fairness.
They rushed forward enthusiastically and began unloading the cargo.
Cheng Xu stood slightly behind, listening to the Heavenly Lord speak fluent Chongqing dialect without the slightest hesitation.
In Shaanxi, he had never once used the local accent.
Now he sounded like a native dockside youth.
Unable to suppress his curiosity, Cheng Xu stepped closer and asked carefully, "Heavenly Lord, you seem very familiar with this place."
Li Daoxuan chuckled softly.
"I used to spend a lot of time here."
Cheng Xu's heart trembled.
So it was true.
This land must be one of Dao Xuan Tianzun's former cultivation grounds.
Perhaps he had once meditated in the mountains of Shu.
Perhaps he had ascended here.
The thought filled Cheng Xu with reverence.
Li Daoxuan, however, was not thinking about immortality.
He was studying the city.
The walls stretched along the riverbank, climbing the uneven terrain. Inside and outside the walls, houses clung to slopes in irregular clusters.
Too many of them were empty.
Especially outside the walls, nearly nine out of ten homes stood abandoned.
As someone who had lived in Chongqing in another era, he understood why.
Only a few years earlier, She Chongming, the Yongning Pacification Commissioner and an Yi chieftain, had rebelled and seized Chongqing.
Later, Qin Liangyu led reinforcements to assist. Together with Governor Zhu Xieyuan, they retook the city.
But the conflict had left scars.
And worse was yet to come.
Zhang Xianzhong would arrive in the future.
Then the Daxi Army.
Then Qing forces.
Then Southern Ming forces.
Occupation would follow occupation.
Slaughter would follow slaughter.
Nineteen years of turmoil.
By the early Qing era, only three thousand people would remain in Chongqing's main urban area.
The rest would vanish into history.
Li Daoxuan watched the dockworkers laughing as they competed to lift heavier crates.
If he failed here, these living, breathing men would become statistics.
That thought weighed heavily on him.
At that moment, an official figure emerged from Chaotianmen.
From a distance, he cupped his hands respectfully.
"Esteemed guest, forgive my delayed welcome."
Wang Xingjian, Prefect of Chongqing, had arrived.
He was young, barely past twenty-five. Fresh from the imperial examinations. Originally destined for a comfortable post in Nanjing.
But Sichuan was chaos. Bandit armies roamed freely. Few officials with connections were willing to come.
So he had been sent instead.
A shield.
He approached without arrogance, speaking politely.
"Master Li, your arrival could not be more timely. A bandit force has been lingering outside Jiangbei City. I stationed militia there to deter them, but they are poorly trained. If the main rebel force attacks, I cannot guarantee we can hold. I have no regular troops, only local militia. I scarcely sleep."
His voice carried genuine anxiety.
"With your militia here, I finally feel some relief."
Li Daoxuan returned the courtesy.
"You have held the city under difficult circumstances. That is no small merit."
He glanced toward the countryside beyond the walls.
"But the villages outside likely suffer. Many common people may already have been coerced into joining bandit ranks."
His tone grew firmer.
"I did not come merely to defend walls."
"I came to restore the land beyond them.