HCT – Chapter 139 Tofu with Brain, and Brain-Burning Tactics

In recent years, the climate in the Central Plains had generally been warm, but every now and then—every year or two—there would be a sudden dip, delivering a touch of winter shock to the states in the region.

Just like that heavy snow when Zhu Xiang left Zhao.

Chu wasn’t as far north as Zhao, but its nobles, accustomed to life in Yingdu, had always found winters hard to bear after migrating northward to the Jianghuai Plain.

Silk clothes felt too chilly, and when it rained, the dampness made everything feel bone-deep cold. Yet fur clothes were too hot and suffocating—it was truly uncomfortable.

Originally, Chu’s ancestral land lay south of the Yangtze, so their robes were made with extra-wide sleeves and hems for better ventilation.

Now that they lived in Jianghuai, that same ventilation let in cold gusts of winter wind. Even silk underclothes had to be layered multiple times to keep warm.

If someone from modern times visited the Jianghuai Plain now, they’d likely be surprised at the relatively mild winters and think a single knit sweater under a trench coat would suffice.

But for the Chu nobility who had relocated northward, even after all these years, they still hadn’t adjusted. And with the added fluctuations in climate, things only became more frustrating.

The cotton cloth introduced by Lu Buwei conveniently filled this gap in demand and became wildly popular among Chu nobles.

As for where it came from—“Qin,” of all places—they didn’t care about notions like “aiding the enemy.” On the contrary, the more unique and exclusive the foreign product was, the more willingly they bought it.

The cotton from Zhu Xiang’s system was a high-quality medium-staple variety, refined over generations in later times. The textile machines crafted by Xue Ji spun fine and dense fabric.

Together, they produced cotton cloth far superior even to the native cotton cloth of the Ming and Qing eras—comparable to imported “Western fabric.”

The Chu nobility couldn’t stop touching the soft, durable cotton cloth. Those who practiced martial arts especially liked its sweat-absorbing properties. Wearing silk in summer and cotton in winter became the consensus among Chu elites. Even the five states of the Central Plains followed this cotton trend.

Even as Wei and Han were ravaged by Qin’s military, their upper classes still scrambled to buy cotton cloth at high prices—showing off their new clothes. The death of frontline soldiers and the debauched lifestyles of rear-echelon nobility had always coexisted. There wasn’t much worth saying about it.

Guangling (modern Yangzhou), which sat across the river from Wu Commandery, was developed during the reign of King Huai of Chu. It gradually grew prosperous thanks to convenient access to the Yangtze River and the Han Canal (an ancient canal linking the Yangtze and Huai Rivers).

After Qin conquered the lands of Wu and Yue, Chu stationed troops in Guangling, using the natural barrier of the Yangtze to guard against Qin’s army. But trade between Guangling and Wu Commandery wasn’t restricted at all—in fact, Qin’s development of Wu only made it more prosperous.

Merchants always chased the next market hotspot—and right now, Qin cotton was that “hotspot” in Chu’s markets. Merchant ships traveled north and south along the Yangtze non-stop. The Qin and Chu armies turned a blind eye and secretly accepted bribes.

After tallying up today’s “rewards” collected by Qin troops, Li Mu said, “We’ve earned enough to repair the warships.”

Wang Jian looked at Li Mu’s merchant-like demeanor and couldn’t help but feel uneasy. As a very traditional Qin general, Wang Jian was used to using however many troops and however much money the King gave him. At most, they’d loot wildly after capturing a city.

Li Mu, on the other hand, didn’t seem like a general at all—more like a shrewd businessman. He sourced his own troops, raised his own funds. If Zhu Xiang and Prince Zheng weren’t in Wu Commandery right now, Wang Jian would’ve worried that someone might accuse Li Mu of plotting rebellion.

Wang Jian had warned Li Mu before. Li Mu was stunned for a moment, then gave a bitter smile. “I’ve just been poor for too long.”

He immediately wrote a memorial to the King of Qin, admitting fault and asking to be supervised. At the time, King Zhaoxiang of Qin was ill in bed. Upon reading it, he scolded Li Mu in a reply.

“If Zhao’s king can tolerate you, why can’t I? My successors will tolerate you too! Just act as you see fit!”

Even after reading this letter, Li Mu didn’t relax. Although he continued acting with a high degree of autonomy, he made a habit of sending detailed reports of all his actions to the King.

According to Zhu Xiang, this was called “regular reporting is essential.” If the report included some personal correspondence, it made the king even more reassured.

That’s how Zhu Xiang and Li Mu both earned the King’s permission to “act independently.”  According to secret letters from Zichu and others, both Qin kings trusted Zhu Xiang and Li Mu more than the regional governors who had no such autonomy.

Zhu Xiang had learned this tactic from the correspondence between Emperor Yongzheng and his favored minister Man Bao.

Whenever Man Bao submitted reports about military or political matters as governor of Fujian and Zhejiang, he would also include a “nonsense letter”—like the popular internet meme centuries later: “Lychees taste great, mangoes taste great, does Your Majesty like them?”

Man Bao was one of the rare Qing officials who took coastal defense seriously, adding over a thousand artillery positions along the southern coast.

These old gun emplacements would still be used during the Opium War. So of course he wasn’t writing nonsense out of stupidity.

The greater the power granted, the less appropriate it became to submit cold, detached reports.  When the monarch gives you immense authority, it reflects personal trust. That’s the time to share a bit of chit-chat and build rapport.

Li Mu learned this from Zhu Xiang and now passed it on to Wang Jian. He instructed the Qin army to openly take the merchants’ bribes—but to report them truthfully. He would use the money to improve the soldiers’ lives.

The troops trusted Li Mu, their general who never embezzled their rations or pay. So they obeyed without question.

Li Mu prepared three copies of the bribery records: one for his own archives, one for Ying Zheng, and one—along with some “specialty goods”—for King Qin.

This was not only “small talk” with the King, but also submitting “evidence of corruption.”

Zhu Xiang had advised him that generals should learn to “dirty themselves harmlessly.” Accepting merchant bribes was just such a method. Even if discovered, at worst, one would be dismissed or reassigned—not a big deal.

Wang Jian learned about “harmless self-smearing” from Li Mu, but hadn’t yet figured out how to do business.

He held his forehead and sighed over and over. He was really no good at business. Could he just lead soldiers, fight wars, and then go home to enjoy his riches?

Was Li Mu aiming to become a Wu’an Jun (a noble title)?

No—Wang Jian had the sneaking suspicion Li Mu was aiming to become Chancellor! With his ability to revitalize Wu Commandery and the Qin navy, Li Mu had more than enough skill to be Chancellor.

Li Mu, stone-faced, simply said: “This was all forced on me.”

King Wuling of Zhao established the three commanderies of Yanmen, Yunzhong, and Dai to defend against the Xiongnu. From then on, the Li family served as generals in these border regions for generations. However, Zhao’s main focus remained in the Central Plains, where the bulk of its troops and supplies were directed. When Li Mu served as a general in Yanmen, it coincided with the rise of the nomadic tribes.

In addition to the Xiongnu, there were also the Donghu—steppe nomads located to the east of the Xiongnu—who were becoming increasingly powerful. When water and pastures were abundant, the Xiongnu and Donghu fought each other; but in winter, when the rivers dried and the grass withered, they would join forces and launch raids into the Central Plains.

Facing such powerful enemies, with insufficient troops and food, how could Li Mu hold the commanderies of Yanmen, Yunzhong, and Dai without real administrative skill?

Wang Jian, while bitterly trying to learn things he wasn’t good at from Li Mu, joked: “If you manage to run Yanmen, Yunzhong, and Dai properly, wouldn’t the northern three commanderies basically become your personal fief? Are you sure the King of Zhao won’t kill you by then?”

Li Mu remained expressionless and replied, “By then, you’ll probably be marching to attack Zhao under Zheng’er’s orders. Didn’t Zheng’er say he’d use a ruse to have me killed? That would likely be the excuse.”

Wang Jian burst into laughter, finally dispelling the frustration of being constantly outdone by Li Mu.

Watching him laugh, Li Mu kicked him once and sighed inwardly. Though he was no longer in Zhao, he could already see the dead end awaiting him had he stayed. His feelings were complicated.

Under Li Mu’s deliberate leniency, Chu merchants with various motives soon discovered the secret of Qin cotton.

It turned out that Qin’s cotton was actually grown from the ground? If Qin could grow it, why couldn’t Chu? Soon, they secretly purchased cotton seeds and even colluded with bandits to kidnap old farmers who knew how to cultivate cotton.

If the kidnapping had been straightforward, Li Mu would have intercepted them at the riverbank and had the culprits executed—just enough to give Chu people the impression that the Qin placed great importance on cotton cultivation techniques.

Later, the merchants changed their approach—either sending people to secretly learn from the Qin, or bribing Qin merchants who had traveled to Chu (such as Lu Buwei, who posed as Li Mu’s retainer) to obtain old farmers skilled in cotton growing. In this way, the technology of cotton cultivation was brought into Chu.

In this era, agricultural knowledge was hard to keep secret and easy to spread. The people of Chu never realized that the Qin had deliberately allowed this to happen.

Li Mu even set up a mock execution ground by the river, publicly punishing lawbreaking merchants. Word of this reached the ears of Chu nobles, leading them to believe that the Qin were killing people to guard the secret of cotton planting.

Since Qin valued cotton technology so highly, the nobles of Chu naturally rushed to divide fields and start planting cotton themselves.

Ying Zheng, acting governor of Wu Commandery, immediately dispatched Li Si to visit Chu and lodge a formal protest with the King of Chu over the theft of cotton seeds.

The King’s ministers harshly refuted Li Si’s accusations, claiming it was absurd. They argued that Chu had always grown cotton—just that it hadn’t been popular in the past.

“Isn’t cotton now being grown in Wu and Yue? And aren’t Wu and Yue historically part of Chu? Naturally, cotton came from Chu and spread to the Jianghuai Plain.”

They even invoked Zhu Xiang’s name, saying: “Something as beneficial as cotton—Lord Zhu Xiang would surely want to share it with the world. Would Lord Zhu Xiang want people to freeze to death?”

Hearing Zhu Xiang’s name dragged through the mud, Li Si genuinely grew angry.

He knew he was petty and scheming, and even Han Fei—who considered him a close friend—was often the target of his jealousy. He admitted to himself that, if it served his interests, he might even betray Zhu Xiang one day. But hearing others insult Zhu Xiang still enraged him beyond reason.

“Lord Zhu Xiang certainly cares for the common folk—but are the ones wearing cotton cloth now even commoners?” Li Si sneered and listed the prices at which Qin merchants were buying cotton, as well as how much cotton cloth sold for in various countries.

“You lot, who live in luxury, dare to say Zhu Xiang isn’t sharing with you? What exactly should Zhu Xiang be sharing—how not to starve or freeze to death?”

“If you can ensure that even the commoners can wear cotton, then not only will Zhu Xiang stop blaming you—I, Li Si, will personally guarantee that Qin won’t pursue the matter of your cotton theft and will even send people to teach you how to grow it.”

“I’m willing to put this in writing. Are you?” Li Si laughed coldly. “Are you?!”

He swept his gaze around the Chu royal court. Not a single person dared meet his eyes.

Li Si knew well—no one in Chu would take that bet.

Cotton cloth was the current favorite among the nobility. If commoners also wore it, what dignity would the nobles have left?

Lu Buwei had once confided in Li Si: the reason he was so desperate to rise in the world wasn’t just to gain more wealth, but because as a merchant, even if he had money, he couldn’t freely enjoy it.

The patterns on their clothes, the ornaments they wore—everything was strictly regulated to ensure they didn’t resemble the nobility. Some rulers even restricted commoners from wearing certain fabrics at all.

Even Qin had such laws—for example, commoners couldn’t wear certain colors. But because Qin people favored black (a color also practical and hard to stain), everyone wore black. As a result, the visual distinction between noble and commoner was less glaring.

“Lord Zhu Xiang never concerned himself with bureaucratic matters. Wherever he went, he toiled in the fields with the commoners.”

Li Si regained his composure and spoke calmly. “If you truly want Lord Zhu Xiang’s opinion, then I shall return to Wu Commandery to ask him personally. But if Lord Zhu Xiang agrees to share cotton with Chu—are you even willing to accept it?”

With that, Li Si stood and swept his sleeves, ignoring the King of Chu, and strode out of the royal palace.

A mere emissary had turned his back on the king and left—arrogant to the extreme.

The King of Chu’s face darkened, and he nearly ordered the impudent envoy seized—but thinking of Qin’s power, he held back with great effort.

“Lord Chunshen, what do you think…” the king asked, scanning his court before turning to Lord Chunshen, whom he had previously marginalized.

The old nobles of Chu all had their own interests at heart. After looking around, the king realized that only Lord Chunshen still seemed truly competent.

Lord Chunshen remained silent for a long while before saying, “This was the despicable act of Chu merchants chasing profit. Your Majesty can simply feign ignorance, or say such matters are beneath your attention. Comparing Lord Zhu Xiang to common merchants—if word spreads to other states, they will only laugh at us.”

The official who had carelessly invoked Zhu Xiang immediately knelt down. “Lord Chunshen is right. It was my mistake.”

Lord Chunshen said, “Please allow me to meet with the Qin envoy and personally extend our apology to Lord Zhu Xiang.”

The King of Chu said, “Granted. But about the cotton…”

Lord Chunshen replied, “Since Chu has already started planting cotton, it cannot be stopped. The Qin know this as well. Their protest is merely for appearances.”

The King of Chu sighed, “Very well. Go meet the Qin envoy. I’m tired—everyone else may leave.”

The nobles filed out in order. Lord Chunshen also left.

But as he did, none of the nobles spoke to him—completely different from when he had first become Prime Minister of Chu.

After losing favor with the King, even though Lord Chunshen had regained central power by launching a successful campaign against Lu, things were no longer the same.

To the entrenched old nobility of Chu, a rising noble who had already once shown signs of decline was no longer someone worth taking seriously.

Lord Chunshen sat in his carriage, drew the curtain, held his head in his hands, and let out a long, weary sigh.

Zhu Xiang’s reputation for kindness was completely at odds with the cunning man he had encountered in Xianyang, leaving Lord Chunshen feeling deeply confused and uncertain.

“Zhu Xiang, oh Zhu Xiang… Was the cotton affair truly just merchants seeking profit, or do you have some deeper plan in mind?” Lord Chunshen rubbed his forehead and murmured to himself. “You claim you went south just to farm and stay out of politics, but I don’t buy it. What… exactly are you planning?!”

No matter how hard he racked his brain, Lord Chunshen couldn’t figure out Zhu Xiang’s true intentions.

With no other option, he went to personally meet Li Si, the little-known envoy from Qin, hoping to glean something of Qin’s intentions.

But Li Si was tight-lipped.

He poured out grievances to Lord Chunshen, saying he understood it was merchants chasing profit. The matter could have been settled easily if the King of Chu had simply reprimanded them and offered a token compensation to save face. Who could have guessed the Chu court would make such an outrageous fuss and even drag Lord Zhu Xiang into the affair?

“What does Lord Zhu Xiang have to do with merchants? Whoever makes such accusations—do they feel no guilt?” Thankfully, Chu still had someone as sensible as Lord Chunshen.

“I once studied under Lord Zhu Xiang,” Li Si said, showering flattery. “He often spoke highly of Lord Chunshen. If not for official duties, I would have come personally to pay my respects.”

His words were full of praise, yet he gave nothing away.

Lord Chunshen couldn’t help but smile bitterly to himself.

He had seen through it: Li Si might be young and unknown, but he was not an easy man to deal with.

Then a rumor about Zhu Xiang suddenly came to his mind.

“Were you recommended for office by Lord Zhu Xiang?” he asked.

Li Si’s eyes flickered. He lowered his gaze respectfully and replied, “I dare not speak of any such recommendation.”

Lord Chunshen fell silent.

Did “dare not speak” mean denial—or was it that, before achieving success, he feared mentioning Zhu Xiang’s name would tarnish his mentor’s reputation?

Lord Chunshen scrutinized Li Si and finally let out a long sigh. “Did Lord Zhu Xiang praise me… or does he wish to see me dead?”

This time, Li Si didn’t dance around the question. Maintaining his respectful expression, he calmly replied, “Doesn’t Lord Chunshen admire Lord Zhu Xiang so much that you wish to see him eliminated as quickly as possible?”

Hearing this, Lord Chunshen became even more certain: Li Si truly must have been recommended by Zhu Xiang.

“Then is Zhu Xiang doing all this because he wants to kill me?” he asked.

Li Si shook his head. “This matter truly is the work of merchants. As for your message, I will report it to Lord Zhu Xiang and return with his reply.”

Lord Chunshen sighed again. “Very well. I await Lord Zhu Xiang’s response.”

When he left, Li Si escorted him all the way to the door.

After shutting it behind him, Li Si rubbed his hair so hard he nearly dislodged his hair crown.

When Lord Chunshen had asked whether Zhu Xiang had recommended him, he had almost admitted it.

He knew full well what kind of reputation that admission would bring.

But when the moment came, he denied it.

“I was afraid that using Lord Zhu Xiang’s name so casually might displease the princes and the King of Qin,” he muttered.

That truly was his reasoning—yet why did his own words feel tinged with frustration and shame?

How strange.

Li Si later reported the matter in full to Zhu Xiang, especially Lord Chunshen’s visit and his inquiries.

Zhu Xiang fell into a long silence, then waved him off to rest. He needed time to think before advising Li Si how to proceed.

Xue Ji noticed Zhu Xiang’s troubled expression and asked about it.

He had initially intended to keep it to himself, but perhaps he’d needed someone to confide in too badly—so he told her everything.

“I originally went to Changping just to save some villagers,” he said. “But then people lifted me onto a pedestal, claiming I carried the common people in my heart. I know I’m no such saint. So when I have to do something that harms others, I still feel ashamed.”

Xue Ji was puzzled. “Why aren’t you a saint? You do carry the people in your heart.”

Zhu Xiang smiled bitterly and shook his head. “I don’t. My heart is small—only big enough for those right in front of me.”

Still, Xue Ji didn’t understand why he was being so self-deprecating. “You do. Which other titled lord would farm alongside the commoners? Back in Zhao, even when others wielded the knife, you refused to kill.”

Zhu Xiang’s lips parted, but his rebuttal dissolved into a long sigh.

He hadn’t wanted to kill because that would have shattered the fragile moral line he still held as a modern man. He farmed because he had always been a commoner—past life and present.

Now he didn’t want to harm the people of Chu either—again due to modern values. That hardly made him a saint.

But to people of this era, maybe it did.

War was inevitable, but the psychological burden of initiating one himself was nothing like passively watching Qin wage war from the sidelines.

Yet this time, Zhu Xiang didn’t want to hide behind his friends.

If he didn’t take part in Qin’s wars of unification, would they really have nothing to do with him?

It was he who helped increase food production; he who improved weapon design; even strategic plans had been shaped by countless private discussions with friends.

Just because he stayed in the background, criticism for the war fell on others’ shoulders. But as for what he had done—how could he not know?

To want to hasten Qin’s unification of the world while still pretending to be a noble ostrich…

Zhu Xiang, oh Zhu Xiang. Even if the world praises you as a saint, can you really claim a clear conscience?

“You’re right. I’ve figured it out.” Zhu Xiang draped his outer robe over Xue Ji’s shoulders. “Even if Wu Commandery’s winters are mild, it’s still best to wear something extra.”

Xue Ji nodded. “Alright. But… are you truly not troubled anymore?”

Zhu Xiang smiled. “Before doing something that will hurt others, a troubled conscience is only natural. But I won’t forfeit an opportunity for mercy’s sake.”

He truly had made up his mind.

Xue Ji said, “If you really don’t want to do it, you can leave it to Zheng’er. He’d surely help you.”

Zhu Xiang laughed so hard he bent over. “That won’t do. If I leave everything to Zheng’er, I’ll be a completely useless uncle!”

Xue Ji thought about it, then nodded again. “That’s true. Then stop brooding, or Zheng’er will worry.”

Zhu Xiang’s laughter faltered.

He had realized something: in Xue Ji’s heart, his status had indeed fallen behind Zheng’er’s.

Tomorrow, I’m making food Zheng’er doesn’t like!

The next day, Ying Zheng stared in disbelief at the food on the table. “What is this dish?” He wasn’t sure he dared eat it.

Zhu Xiang smiled warmly. “Bean curd with brain in basil sauce, stinky tofu with stewed stinky mandarin fish, stir-fried sour bamboo shoots with crispy intestines. The veggie dish is just chili paste over chives.”

Even Ying Zheng—accustomed to eating scallions dipped in garlic—was intimidated by the visual and aromatic assault.

“I haven’t been sneaking work in bed lately,” he protested.

“I know,” said Zhu Xiang.

“I really have been resting, even if I skipped a few naps.”

Zhu Xiang replied, “We’ll discuss that later.”

Pinching his nose, Ying Zheng asked, “Why do I have to eat this?!”

Zhu Xiang said, “Just try it—it’s really delicious.”

Li Mu facepalmed. “Stop bullying Zheng’er just because Xue Ji’s gone to the textile workshop. Is this even edible?! Zheng’er! Don’t eat it!”

But the moment Zhu Xiang said, “It tastes good,” Ying Zheng shed his doubts and scooped a spoonful—something between bean curd and brain—into his mouth. His eyes lit up. “It really is!”

Li Mu: “…”

Then Zheng’er tasted the intestines.

They had been thoroughly cleaned, marinated, and stir-fried with sour bamboo shoots. The flavor was irresistible.

“The intestines are amazing! So are the bamboo shoots!”

He even reached for the stinky tofu and fish, bravely pinching his nose and eating a few bites. “It stinks, but it’s seriously delicious—the more you eat, the better it tastes.”

As for the chili chive salad—that was just normal.

“It’s really good! Teacher, you should eat too!” Unfussy eater that he was, Ying Zheng started devouring the meal with gusto.

Li Mu hesitated, then kicked Zhu Xiang hard under the table.

Zhu Xiang yelped and clutched his leg, worried it was fractured.

“Stop feeding Zheng’er weird food!” Li Mu growled. “The palace serves mild meals for a reason—it’s etiquette. If he gets used to this… what then?”

Zhu Xiang, clutching his leg, said, “Then change the etiquette?”

If Qin Shi Huang could destroy six kingdoms, why couldn’t he eat stinky fish and brains in the palace? Who were they looking down on?

“You trying to raise a tyrant?” Li Mu barked.

Zhu Xiang replied, “Can you honestly say the King of Qin isn’t a tyrant? You say it—do you believe it?”

Ying Zheng looked up. “My father counts too?”

Zhu Xiang said, “Even a sickly tyrant is still a tyrant.”

“Oh.” Ying Zheng kept his head down and continued eating.