1 JIN(Catty) = 600 gram(1.32277 pound)
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Winter had arrived, and the farther north in Sardinson you went, the colder it got. Many people had already switched to fur clothing, but the chill in the air couldn't extinguish the fire in their hearts.
After finishing the autumn sowing, the peasants, now free from farming duties, threw themselves eagerly into winter work. This year, there were more job opportunities than ever: whether working in factories or joining construction crews as laborers, the wages they earned were enough to ensure a warm, comfortable winter for their families.
And in their spare time, their attention turned to the pigs they had raised at home.
This year, nearly every family who could afford it had raised pigs—distributed by the castle earlier that spring.
At this time, pork wasn't popular among nobles; except for suckling pigs, they barely ate it. Thus, sows were far more expensive than boars because the former could breed. Naturally, the castle had given out only boar piglets to the peasants, while at the Uke Town breeding farm, they raised a batch of sows to improve future stock.
It made sense: since the pigs were meant for slaughter, not breeding, giving out cheaper boars was more economical. Plus, boars generally gain weight faster than sows.
In March and April, the peasants had collected their piglets from the castle. By June, the piglets had already grown to 50–60 pounds, which thrilled everyone—this was the weight their pigs usually reached after seven or eight months of raising.
Anyone who had raised pigs before knew: that pigs reached a growth plateau, and keeping them too long could even cause them to lose weight.
Many peasants thought 50–60 pounds was the limit. Some eagerly ran back to the castle officials who had handed out the piglets, asking if it was time to butcher the pigs—and whether there were more piglets available so they could raise another batch before winter.
If they could, they reasoned, they would have even more pork for the winter!
But the castle refused. The officials, under strict orders, patiently repeated:
"You have nothing to worry about! The Lady of the Castle said these pigs can grow to seventy or eighty pounds at least. If you slaughter them now, will you pay for the missing pounds yourself?"
Many peasants were skeptical.
One of the experienced swineherds spoke up: "Seventy or eighty pounds? That sounds like a joke! We've never seen pigs that big before."
The steward glared at him.
"Have you ever seen castrated pigs before either? And were they handed out for free before? Just because you couldn't raise pigs properly before doesn't mean the Lady can't!"
Indeed, at first, many peasants were uneasy about raising castrated pigs. They were afraid the piglets would die. But reality proved otherwise—these pigs were healthy, well-behaved, and easier to manage.
Previously, poor peasants lived side by side with their livestock during winter for warmth, sometimes risking injury if animals got aggressive. Now, everyone was allowed to build proper pigpens, keeping pigs separate but still enjoying their warmth if needed.
After hearing the stewards mention the Lady's instructions, most peasants reluctantly gave up on slaughtering early. They went home, continued raising the pigs, and watched anxiously.
Sure enough, the pigs kept growing.
By winter, they were in for a surprise.
"My pig weighs one hundred pounds now—I just weighed it! It's accurate!"
"That's nothing! The pig raised by Buck, the swineherd from Scar Village, weighs one hundred and forty pounds! Its belly practically drags on the ground! I've never seen such a fat pig in my life!"
"Thank goodness we listened to the stewards back then—otherwise we would've missed out!"
This year, all pigs raised according to the castle's handbook weighed at least ninety pounds, some even more. It was double what they used to achieve in the past.
Every family proudly bragged about their pigs, grinning like fools.
A ninety-pound pig meant the family would keep thirty pounds of pork for themselves—enough to last an entire winter once salted and preserved.
Of course, everyone knew pork wasn't the tastiest meat. But to the common folk, any meat was a luxury, no one was picky.
Meanwhile, Weiwei received reports from the castle's livestock farm: the boars ready for slaughter had reached one hundred thirty pounds on average.
The farm workers were jubilant, feeling they had performed miracles.
But to Weiwei, it was just acceptable.
Most of these pigs were hybrid breeds—crosses between captured wild boars and domestic pigs—and wild boars naturally grew fast, often reaching one hundred times their birth weight in a year. Castrated and penned pigs fattened even faster.
In her eyes, there was still plenty of room for improvement. In the future, she wanted their pigs to reach two hundred pounds if possible.
"Send word: start collecting pigs. Have them driven to the slaughterhouse. Weigh them, slaughter them immediately. No cheating allowed. Are there enough workers over there?"
"Plenty, my Lady. We recently hired a batch of strong men to assist the butchers. No problem."
"Also transfer a few literate people to help with bookkeeping—settle payments on the spot to avoid future disputes."
"Understood, madam."
News that the castle had begun collecting pigs quickly spread throughout Sardinson.
Over the next few days, it was common to see groups of peasants herding their fat pigs toward the slaughterhouse.
The sight of so many plump pigs amazed many people.
Some traveling merchants, riding along the roads in horse-drawn carts, marveled at the scenes:
"I heard rumors that the Countess of Sardinson was extraordinarily skilled in farming and animal husbandry. I didn't believe it before, but now I see it with my own eyes."
And it was true.
The Countess's reputation for agricultural prowess wasn't new. Locals had long known it, but outsiders often dismissed it as an exaggeration. In their minds, how could a delicate noblewoman even recognize a stalk of wheat, let alone be skilled in farming?
Yet reality slapped them hard in the face—she wasn't just skilled; she was better than most families who had farmed and raised livestock for generations.
Of course, some people began to speculate: if she knew so much, maybe she wasn't a real noblewoman after all.
Rumors spread privately:
"Maybe she's a commoner pretending to be noble. How else could she know all this?"
At first, such gossip gained traction.
But soon, locals countered:
"If she were a commoner, she'd know even less! And look at the changes she's brought to Sardinson. Look at her knowledge, her manners, her education. Does she look like a commoner to you?"
"Commoners can't even read! But the Lady speaks several languages fluently. I saw her conversing with foreign merchants without any trouble!"
"Exactly! Her refinement and poise are rare even among royalty. Some say she might be a princess from the Eastern Silk Country!"
And so, rumors grew even wilder.
By the time Weiwei heard about it, she had somehow become the exiled crown princess of a faraway eastern empire, forced into flight by a ruthless palace coup.
Weiwei just laughed when she heard these stories.
Compared to her background gossip, what people cared about was whether Sardinson's pigs would be sold.
Many livestock traders, seeing the herds of fat pigs on the roads, were eager to buy.
After all, while pork wasn't popular with nobles, commoners would eat it, and fat pigs made excellent breeding stock. Buying a few of these to raise piglets would be very profitable.
Unfortunately, they soon learned a hard truth.
The pigs being driven to the slaughterhouse were all castrated—they couldn't reproduce.
Some newcomers were still unaware. One eager merchant approached a peasant and made an offer, only to be laughed at:
"You must be new here! Everyone in Sardinson knows—the pigs we raised this year were all castrated! And they're meant for the Earl. We're not allowed to sell them privately."
"If you want pigs for breeding, you have to go to Uke Town. The Countess has a breeding farm there!"
The merchant realized he had been tricked—his "friend" who told him about the pigs had deliberately omitted this crucial detail, hoping he'd waste his time.
Still, the merchant wasn't completely out of luck.
He thanked the peasant and rushed off toward Uke Town, hoping to buy breeding pigs directly from the farm. Even one good boar would make the trip worthwhile—November was prime breeding season, after all.
Meanwhile, back at the slaughterhouse, the first groups of peasants began arriving with their pigs.
Originally, the slaughterhouse was just a seasonal setup—built outside the estate for the castle's autumn and winter meat processing needs.
But after the meat paste factory opened last year, the slaughterhouse became permanent and expanded into a full-fledged livestock market.
Now, not only locals but also foreign merchants brought their cattle, sheep, and pigs here to sell, process, and trade.
The slaughterhouse offered butchering services for a small fee and even purchased unwanted organs and by-products.
Curious onlookers once wondered what the castle did with the offal.
When they learned it was cooked and served to the Earl's farm laborers, they shrugged—at least it wasn't wasted.
Those laborers would happily tell anyone who asked: that the food was delicious. A steaming bowl of lamb offal soup in the winter was heavenly.
The peasants who lived nearest were the first to bring their pigs for weighing.
One butcher called out after weighing a pig:
"Your pig's about one hundred pounds. If you want meat, you'll get thirty-three pounds of meat, bones, and organs. If you want money, we'll pay you one silver and eight large copper coins."
Without hesitation, the owner shouted: "I want the money!"
In this era, money was precious. A single large copper coin could buy a whole chicken (albeit a scrawny one). Twelve large coppers made a silver coin.
In the past, a full-grown pig barely fetched two to three silver coins after months of raising. Now, the castle offered a fair price—far more generous than private traders.
Given a choice between tricky meat distributions or ready cash, most people sensibly chose the latter.
Some still hesitated, though—especially those craving fresh meat after a long, hard year.
The slaughterhouse had clear guidelines: if you wanted more meat, you got less money; if you wanted only choice cuts (like just lean meat), the quantity would shrink accordingly. Everything was documented, no cheating allowed.
Hearing all this, even the most cautious peasants understood and quickly made their choices.
Many decided it was smarter to take the money and buy something else.
Some planned to buy chickens; others wanted lamb for stews.
Gradually, as more people realized the process was safe and fair, things moved smoothly.
Interestingly, the castle wasn't slaughtering all the pigs at once—they did it batch by batch, sending meat to the meat paste factory, while keeping some pigs alive for a few more days.
When Weiwei heard that many people complained about pork being "stinky" and preferred cash, she immediately had an idea.
She ordered her people to set up a stall at the Dingle market.
There, they cooked and sold "braised pork".
The pigs raised in Sardinson were naturally fattier, with more fat than lean, which made them perfect for braising.
Of course, proper braised pork needed soy sauce for that rich, dark glaze—but unfortunately, Weiwei had only just harvested her first batch of soybeans this year. She planned to expand soybean farming next year, but for now, there wasn't enough to brew soy sauce.
Without soy sauce, the "braised pork" lost some of its signature red color and deep flavor. Still, even without that extra touch, the dish was delicious enough to captivate anyone.
Chunks of pork were cut into pieces the size of mahjong tiles, stir-fried with seasoning, and then simmered for hours.
The fat melted into the sauce, and the meat became tender and flavorful, with a hint of sweetness from sugar and a slight kick from chili peppers.
The aroma was irresistible.
The moment the giant pot began bubbling and sending up wafts of rich fragrance, people started hovering near the stall, unable to resist the tantalizing smell.
Some curious folks approached and asked the busy cooks what was in the pot.
When they learned it was pork, a few wrinkled their noses and walked away.
Everyone knew how unpleasant pork could smell. They assumed it would smell good but taste awful and didn't want to waste money.
The servant in charge of the stall, originally a castle kitchen worker temporarily reassigned to this task, grew anxious seeing people hesitate.
He quickly called out, "Don't look down on pork! This is the Countess's recipe! Do you think the Lady of the Castle would serve bad food?"
"We're all kitchen workers from the castle," he added earnestly. "The Countess sent us here personally. She wants everyone to know Sardinson's pork can be delicious. We're only selling for a few days. If you miss it now, there won't be another chance!"
Hearing that this was sanctioned by the Countess herself, the crowd wavered.
Even if they disliked pork, how could they disrespect the Lady?
Everyone living in Sardinson understood clearly: never offend the Earl and Countess if you wanted to survive here.
Even if it tasted bad, they would still praise it politely.
Besides, they had heard the castle's kitchens were famous for their good food, and that all the cooks had been trained under the Countess's guidance.
So they decided to give it a try, even though the braised pork seemed a bit pricey.
And the moment they took a bite—
They were stunned.
Even modern-day foreigners were famously seduced by Chinese-style braised pork—how could these medieval folks, used to "dark cuisine," possibly resist?
Tender, melt-in-your-mouth pork, not a trace of unpleasant odor, soaked in a rich, slightly sweet, slightly spicy sauce—it was sheer heaven.
"My God, how is it so soft? It's even softer than roasted suckling pig!" someone exclaimed, wide-eyed.
"This is pork? I can't even taste any stink!" another gasped.
"The fragrance! How much seasoning must have gone into this? The Countess is so generous!"
"I can taste the sweetness. They must've added sugar. No wonder the sauce looks slightly red—the color is beautiful!"
"The red's probably from the chili peppers! The Earl's Spice Shop sells those!"
Once they tasted it, there was no going back.
Everyone suddenly wanted more.
Even the hardest black bread became a feast when paired with that luscious sauce.
Each serving of braised pork was portioned into small bowls. Customers eating on-site could use bowls provided at the stall. Those who wanted takeaway had to bring their containers, or the stall could wrap the meat in large, clean leaves tied with string—practical, if a bit messy.
Smart customers realized the sauce itself was pure gold.
Many rushed home or to nearby shops to buy bowls, not just for the meat, but to scoop up extra sauce to take home.
The sauce could be stretched by adding water and a bit of salt, then simmering additional meat in it—the resulting dishes would still be delicious.
As word of the "braised pork" spread, so did Sardinson's reputation.
Now everyone knew: Sardinson pigs weren't just edible—they were downright gourmet.
When properly cooked, their meat could rival even the finest beef and lamb.
And Sardinson's markets became even livelier, as people rushed to enjoy a rare, mouthwatering delicacy to warm their harsh winter days.