When he heard the number "thirty-five pounds," Zhang Bo's eyes flickered. He hesitated for a moment, then said reluctantly, "Alright then."
As he came down from upstairs, Zhang Bo suddenly felt like one of those ancient-era spies who illegally resold military weapons and provisions. 'If I get caught…' 'Wait, screw that! What do you mean, "resold"? This is a fair trade.'
The residents of the Gated Community were more receptive to refined salt than coarse salt. After all, the industrial salt they used to eat had spoiled their palates, so refined salt had more purchasing power.
By Zhang Bo's estimate, twenty-five pounds of refined salt would be enough to get the materials for ten bows. The remaining ten pounds would be his fee for the trouble.
Of course, the price couldn't really be calculated that way. Dumping a large amount of salt on the market in a short time would also cause the price to drop.
'But new people are arriving soon, aren't they?'
