When Jiang Zhao opened her eyes, she was kneeling in the Chen family ancestral hall, with a white cloth on her head and a deed paper in front of her that she was asked to sign.
After her husband died, the shop was confiscated. The family said that a woman could not afford to support a blacksmith shop.
She opened the account book that had been "kindly" sent to her room and stopped at page nine.
"There were three credit accounts in the first month, five taels, eight taels, and fifteen taels, a total of twenty-eight taels. But what is written on the account is - a total of twenty taels of cash received."
"Third uncle, where did those twenty-six taels go?"
There was a room full of elders and no one answered.
No one knew that there was a warm sheet hidden in the middle of her mourning clothes, with a number floating in the upper right corner: ninety-seven. It was something she had spent six years in another world creating, and it fell into the Great Jing Dynasty with her.
She calculated the accounts one by one. Shop, she took it back inch by inch.
And the blacksmith shop is just the beginning.
