BDSMST -Chapter 158 When Bureaucrats Meet the “Playboy Teaching Assistants”

Sun Zhicai, accompanied by several officials, reached the edge of the wheat field. He deliberately stomped heavily, the soles of his official boots thudding against the earthen ridges, trying to assert his authority.

In the field, Li Er stood with hands on his hips, gesturing animatedly at Leo.

“How many times have I told you! Look at these wheat leaves! Yellow tips, dark roots—this isn’t lack of water, it’s lack of nutrients! The fertilizer you mixed this morning—too little wood ash!” Li Er’s voice was loud and blunt, utterly unconcerned with the golden-haired prince before him.

Leo, notebook in hand, quickly jotted down notes in his peculiar symbols while muttering in halting Mandarin: “Wood…ash…too…little…”

Nearby, another scar-faced youth pinched a handful of soil, rubbed it, and brought it to his nose. “The soil’s too sticky—retains water well but lacks air. This afternoon, we’ll mix in some river sand, or the wheat roots will rot come spring.”

These were the same privileged boys once sent to the village by Gu Yan. Now, sun-darkened, hands calloused, clothes streaked with mud, they had lost every trace of their former arrogant city-dweller airs. They discussed farming with confidence, appearing like seasoned old farmers.

Sun Zhicai listened with a frown. Clearing his throat, he asked in a condescending tone, “So you are the instructors of this ‘academy’?”

Li Er and the others finally noticed the group of officials standing on the ridge. They paused, then recognized the official robes. Yet after living in Woniu Village for a while, they no longer feared such displays of authority.

Li Er casually plucked at a blade of grass and replied lazily, “Instructor? Not exactly. Madam just thought well of us and had us guide the new students.”

“Hmph, such arrogance!” a junior clerk from the Ministry of Revenue snapped. “Seeing the Vice Minister, why not kneel and pay respects?”

Li Er shot him a glance, shrugged, and said nothing. For over a year, they had gladly shown respect to Jiang Suisui and Gu Yan, but toward outsiders—especially those relying on official authority—their innate playboy defiance resurfaced.

Sun Zhicai waved his hand, stopping his subordinate. His eyes studied Li Er, a mix of appraisal and disdain. “I ask you—if you are an instructor, do you know why some lands are fertile and some barren?”

The question was grand but vague. In Sun Zhicai’s mind, fertile land was a gift from heaven, beyond the understanding of common peasants. He intended to use such a question to embarrass them.

Unexpectedly, Li Er answered without hesitation: “What’s so hard about it? Land is like people—it needs food. Its food is the things in the soil. Some land has more food, so it’s fertile. Some has less, so it’s poor. We grow crops by letting the land eat the food. So if you want the land to stay fertile, you have to feed it.”

“Feed it?” Sun Zhicai thought the expression crude and vulgar, almost insulting to his sense of refinement.

“Yes, fertilizing,” the scar-faced youth added. “But feeding also requires skill—you can’t just toss anything in. Different crops have different tastes. This wheat likes the stuff in wood ash—it makes the roots strong. Those beans over there can make their own food, and store some in the soil. So each year we rotate the wheat and bean fields—letting the land rest. That’s called ‘crop rotation.’”

“Barren land?” another tall, thin youth chimed in. “First, you need to ‘treat’ it. Acidic soil—add lime powder. Too sticky—mix in sand. Adjust the foundation first, then feed it slowly; eventually, it gets fertile. That slope behind our estate? It used to grow nothing but sour jujubes. Look at the cotton now.”

These “playboy teaching assistants” spoke in turn, explaining basic concepts of soil science, plant nutrition, and agricultural ecology in the simplest, most practical language. No quoting classics, no lectures—everything was firsthand experience from the fields.

Leo chimed in with his broken Mandarin: “In Frank, farmers only pray to God for harvests. But here, Madam teaches us to pray to the land, to listen to what the soil says.”

Sun Zhicai and the accompanying officials were dumbstruck.

They had expected empty platitudes about “timing, terrain, and harmony.” Instead, they heard a clear, systematic, and entirely logical set of “farming theories” they had never encountered before.

The theory was simple—so simple it seemed crude—but utterly practical. Every word could be verified directly in the fields around them.

Sun Zhicai opened his mouth, intending to refute, but found he had no argument. A fourth-rank official, well-versed in poetry and classics, now felt like a clueless schoolboy facing these mud-covered youths.

His face, slightly puffed from a life of comfort, flushed red and then pale in embarrassment.

Li Er, enjoying this, stepped forward and held up a wheat seedling.

“Your Excellency, look at these roots,” he said, pointing to the fine white root hairs. “These are capillary roots—the plant’s mouth. A strong, dense mouth eats well and grows strong. Our seedling method ensures these roots develop fully before planting.”

The muddy wheat almost poked Sun Zhicai in the face. He instinctively stepped back, staring at Li Er’s teasing expression, feeling a sense of unprecedented defeat.

He realized this trip was not for “inspection.”

It was for “lessons.”

Seeing Sun Zhicai’s flustered face, Li Er chuckled, adding, “Sir, what we’ve shown you is just basic knowledge. This afternoon, Madam herself will teach ‘hybrid selection.’ That’s the real deal. Would you like to stay and listen?”

Sun Zhicai’s mouth twitched involuntarily. He waved his sleeve, said nothing, and turned away. His retreating figure looked unmistakably humbled.