A few days later, Li Si departed with a handwritten letter from Zhu Xiang.

After Li Si left, Lord Chunshen could no longer eat or sleep in peace. Even when lying in bed at night, Zhu Xiang’s aloof face, with its full head of white hair, kept flashing through his mind. In the end, he personally drove to the southern bank of the Yangtze River to wait.

As soon as Li Si crossed the river, Lord Chunshen tore open Zhu Xiang’s letter.

Zhu Xiang didn’t say whether the matter had anything to do with him or not. He simply described the nature of cotton, explaining that the people of Qin wove cotton cloth to replace hemp cloth.

Cotton fabric was softer and warmer than hemp. If the common people could switch from hemp to cotton, they might come a step closer to achieving the ideal of “adequate food and warmth.”

Zhu Xiang also warned that the processes for spinning cotton and hemp were different. If Chu blindly planted cotton without knowing how to spin it, it might harm the people. If Chu truly wanted to grow cotton, they should first have craftsmen modify the textile machines before proceeding. Qin certainly wouldn’t sell their cotton spinning machines to Chu outright.

Lord Chunshen read Zhu Xiang’s letter over and over but couldn’t discern any hidden scheme in it.

Could it be that he was just overthinking it?

Cotton really was a good thing—even Qin was cultivating it on a large scale. If Chu was just following Qin’s example, how could they end up stumbling into a river?

He began to feel somewhat ashamed. He shouldn’t suspect Zhu Xiang’s character simply because they had been at odds in the past.

Besides, the strategy Zhu Xiang had once employed was based on Lord Chunshen’s own intent to kill him. Had he not harbored murderous intent, Zhu Xiang’s plan wouldn’t have even existed.

With a long sigh, Lord Chunshen took the letter to see the King of Chu.

After reading Zhu Xiang’s letter, the King immediately tucked it into his robes and asked, “Is Lord Zhu Xiang implying that he doesn’t support Chu planting cotton?”

Lord Chunshen replied, “Lord Zhu Xiang is only reminding us that even if Chu grows cotton now, we still won’t be able to spin it into fabric.”

A minister immediately interjected, “If merchants could buy cotton seeds, then they can certainly buy the tools for spinning cotton too. The king hasn’t ordered a national campaign to grow cotton—what private individuals plant on their own land has nothing to do with His Majesty.”

The King thought about it—it did make sense. He preferred wearing silk anyway. Even if Chu managed to produce cotton fabric, he’d only wear the best cotton imported from Qin, so there was no need to promote cotton cultivation.

The reason he had rejected Li Si earlier was because Li Si accused Chu of “stealing” cotton seeds, which embarrassed him and provoked his anger.

Another minister chimed in: “If the commoners don’t know how to spin cotton, they won’t grow it. If merchants grow it for profit, then let them—it’s their own risk. As long as the state collects taxes, it won’t hurt Chu.”

The King mulled it over and agreed.

Lord Chunshen’s lips moved slightly, and his hands clenched on his knees. He sighed inwardly and didn’t argue.

It wasn’t just that his current position no longer allowed him to argue with all the ministers alone—it was also that, even if he voiced a different opinion, it would be pointless.

He had wanted to say: perhaps apart from collecting taxes, it was worth considering something else.

Zhu Xiang’s intention in replacing hemp with cotton likely wasn’t because Qin’s farmers were failing to pay taxes—but because, as he said in the letter, cotton is softer and warmer, and makes more comfortable clothing.

Chu produced an abundance of silk, but those who raised silkworms and wove brocade couldn’t afford to wear it themselves. Many couldn’t even afford fine hemp clothing and had to wear coarse hemp instead.

When Lord Chunshen followed the then-hostaged King of Chu to Qin and suffered hardships there, he was once imprisoned and wore coarse hemp garments. He knew just how rough they were—rough enough to chafe and break the skin.

Zhu Xiang’s encouragement for farmers to switch to cotton would allow them to wear softer fabric that didn’t tear the skin.

The popularity of Qin cotton throughout the six states was just a by-product. Zhu Xiang’s true wish was likely just that.

If the King of Chu ordered imitation of Qin’s cotton spinning machines and then promoted cotton nationwide, Chu’s commoners too could wear this soft fabric.

But Lord Chunshen only thought this in his heart.

To Chu, as long as the commoners could pay taxes and perform their labor and military duties, that was enough. Who would care about what something cheaper than livestock ate or wore?

So saying anything would be useless.

Suddenly, Lord Chunshen wondered—had Zhu Xiang already foreseen all this? Was that why he didn’t mind giving Chu the cotton seeds?

Or was he once again wrongly suspecting Zhu Xiang?

Zhu Xiang probably just thought: the commoners of Chu are commoners all the same, and cotton isn’t something that would strengthen Chu’s national power—anyone should be allowed to plant it.

When Lord Chunshen left the palace, he asked the King of Chu to return Zhu Xiang’s letter. The King bluntly said he was collecting Lord Zhu Xiang’s calligraphy treasures and refused.

Lord Chunshen persisted, asking repeatedly. The King got up and left, instructing his guards to stop Lord Chunshen.

Seeing the King act so shamelessly, Lord Chunshen couldn’t help but laugh.

Everyone joked that if the King hadn’t snatched it first, they would’ve fought to grab it too.

Lord Chunshen played along and exchanged pleasantries with the others, but sighed again on the way home.

The King and some Chu ministers genuinely admired and revered Zhu Xiang—enough to snatch the letter he had written to someone else. But admiration was admiration, and reverence was reverence—they had no understanding of Zhu Xiang’s ideals and had no intention of understanding them either.

Ironically, the one who had once wanted Zhu Xiang dead was the only one who truly understood him.

Lord Chunshen slipped a hand into his sleeve and took out several sheets of paper. He hadn’t handed over the entire letter to the King. He had kept the pages where Zhu Xiang casually discussed greetings and the methods of cotton cultivation.

He would recopy the planting instructions and deliver them to the King and the other lords.

“I should write to Lord Changping to thank him for his generosity,” Lord Chunshen said, gazing at Zhu Xiang’s instructions on cotton planting, and sighed once more—deeply.

While spring farming was in full swing on the southern bank of the Yangtze, it was bustling with activity on the Jianghuai Plain as well.

When merchants from the Seven States learned that the state of Chu could also grow cotton, they hurried over to place early orders.

It turned out that the Qin state imposed strict controls on import and export goods. Merchants from other states could only purchase cotton cloth—it was extremely difficult to buy raw cotton. From raw cotton to finished cloth, the price increased several times over. Even though merchants could still profit by selling cotton cloth to other countries, for a merchant, earning less was as good as losing money.

The Guanzhong and Guandong plains of Qin had long promoted cotton cultivation. Peasant households owned simple cotton gins and weaving looms that worked for both hemp and cotton. It was easy for merchants to purchase gins and looms, but they didn’t know how to grow cotton, so they remained hesitant.

Now that Chu had obtained the cotton cultivation method personally written by Lord Zhu Xiang, they believed Chu would definitely succeed in growing it, and so they came to purchase cotton.

Most of Chu’s fertile farmland was in the hands of feudal lords. It didn’t matter if the common farmers didn’t dare switch from hemp to cotton—the feudal lords themselves didn’t wear rough hemp cloth anyway. Naturally, they immediately ordered the farmers under their control to replace all hemp with cotton.

When merchants came to place their orders, they offered cotton seeds and some cotton cloth as deposits, so Chu had no shortage of seeds—only to focus on planting.

As more and more merchants scrambled to buy cotton, the purchase price was driven higher and higher. A new method of “profit-sharing” even emerged.

Merchants would supply the cotton seeds, weaving machines, and textile workers. The feudal lords only needed to provide land and labor to grow the cotton. Once the cloth was woven, the profits would be divided between the two parties.

Such a good deal? The Chu nobles rushed to invest in cotton cultivation.

As for manufacturing and improving cotton gins and looms—nobody was doing that anymore.

In this era, most people still looked down on craftsmen. If Chu had truly valued handicrafts, then during the southern migration, when craftspeople dwindled and craftsmanship regressed, they would have offered heavy rewards to train artisans. How else would even the bronze ware used by the King of Chu be so crude?

Merchants wove cloth for nobles and sold it for profit. The nobles simply waited to collect their money, unwilling to dirty their hands with such vulgar matters.

Zhu Xiang sat on a field ridge with a letter from Lord Chunshen on his lap and another letter from Lu Buwei in his hand.

In his letter, Lord Chunshen thanked him for his generosity and sighed that the Chu court didn’t understand his compassion for the commoners. Still, he would do his best to convert hemp fields to cotton on his own lands so that the farmers might wear soft fabric too.

Lu Buwei, on the other hand, was gleeful. He wrote that Chu was now in the grip of a cotton-growing craze, and many feudal lords, driven by immediate profit, had reduced grain cultivation.

Right now, only a few cash-strapped lords were doing this, but once this year’s cotton harvest came in, more and more would follow suit.

“I, Lu Buwei, have never delayed payment in any business transaction. So long as they’re willing to grow cotton, they’re guaranteed to make money. With my honesty and integrity, they’re bound to increase their cotton fields year after year!”

Trade wars aren’t won in a single move. The trade war Zhu Xiang was initiating—if he didn’t say anything himself—even the King of Qin might not realize what he was up to. He might even think Zhu Xiang was simply acting saintly again, handing Chu benefits for nothing.

Two years, three years… For short-sighted Chu, two or three years might be enough.

“Next, we’ll sell them grain at low prices,” Zhu Xiang said. “As for what excuse to use to sell it without arousing suspicion, Zheng’er, that’s up to you.”

Ying Zheng stood beside him with his hands behind his back. “Don’t worry, Uncle.”

“With you handling it, I’m at ease.” Zhu Xiang sighed, folded up the letters, and added, “I heard Xia Tong has gone to Shu Commandery. Lin Li will soon be heading south too.”

Ying Zheng said, “Uncle Lin will definitely enjoy the mountains and rivers of Wu Commandery. As for Father… with his health, can he really handle such a long journey?”

Zhu Xiang replied, “Even if he can’t, he can’t sit still. He’s just like you.”

Ying Zheng wanted to deny it, but thinking of the “memories” from the dream of the future Qin Shi Huang, he changed his words: “He’s nothing like me. I’m strong and healthy.”

Zhu Xiang laughed. “That you are. Looks like it’s going to rain—let’s head back.”

As he stood up, he suddenly felt a bit of abdominal pain.

Zhu Xiang pressed on his stomach but didn’t say anything. On the way home, he drank some water boiled with pumpkin seeds, and the discomfort faded.

Xue Ji noticed he seemed tired and applied warm compresses to his legs and hands, massaging him gently.

She complained, “You’re no longer a farmer, yet you still go to the fields every day. You’re always lecturing Xia Tong, but when have you ever cared about your own health?”

“Farming brings longevity,” Zhu Xiang chuckled. “I’m definitely healthier than those who sit all day.”

Xue Ji replied, “I don’t care about your nonsense. You must rest for a while.”

Zhu Xiang didn’t refuse. “Alright. I’ll stay home for ten days before going out again.”

Only then was Xue Ji satisfied.

Zhu Xiang kept his word and stayed idle at home for ten days.

When he finally felt fully recovered and ready to return to his beloved fields, the small vegetable garden at home gave him a surprise—his napa cabbage had finally grown successfully.

Seeing the rows of young cabbage sprouts, Zhu Xiang was so delighted he lay down on the ground to admire them up close, calling them “precious” and “sweeties” with a slightly perverse look on his face.

Lin Zhi, who had secretly come to Wu Commandery, immediately sought out Zhu Xiang, planning to give him a scare.

Seeing Zhu Xiang lying on the ground, he grinned mischievously, tiptoed up behind him, lifted his robe, and gave him a solid kick in the rear, flattening Zhu Xiang completely.

Before Zhu Xiang could get up, he heard a loud, familiar laugh he hadn’t heard in ages—Lin Zhi’s—and gritted his teeth. “Lin Zhi!”

Lin Zhi roared with laughter. “Why call me ‘Brother’ now?”

Covered in dirt, Zhu Xiang got up and flung a clump of soil at Lin Zhi’s face, hitting him squarely.

Lin Zhi was now also dirt-covered.

“Hmph!” Lin Zhi bent down and grabbed an even bigger clump of mud and threw it harder.

Zhu Xiang wasn’t one to back down and retaliated in kind.

Xue Ji, who had come with Lin Zhi, arrived just in time to witness the scene and screamed, “That soil was just fertilized with manure!”

Lin Zhi’s arm froze mid-throw—then he balled up an even larger lump and hurled it with greater enthusiasm.

Hearing that Lin Zhi had arrived, Ying Zheng dropped his official duties and rushed over to ask him about Xianyang.

Upon witnessing the scene, he was just considering whether to help his uncle when Xue Ji grabbed him and covered his eyes.

“Zheng’er! You’re not allowed to learn that!” Xue Ji’s voice was sharp. “You’re not allowed to play with manure!”

Play with manure… Ying Zheng was speechless.

So filthy, so smelly—yet as long as it was something Uncle Lin did, it somehow didn’t feel out of place.

In the end, under Xue Ji’s scolding, Lin Zhi and Zhu Xiang obediently stopped and went off to bathe.

On the way, the two of them were still kicking each other and smearing mud on one another—so childish even a five-year-old would scoff at them.

Xue Ji sternly reminded Ying Zheng again: he absolutely must not copy Lin Zhi and Zhu Xiang.

Ying Zheng nodded firmly.

Who plays with manure? I didn’t even do that when I was little!

…Wait a second. Ying Zheng suddenly remembered a moment from his childhood—Uncle Lin had taught him to pee in yellow mud, then mold it into little mud figurines.

Ying Zheng’s face stiffened.

Sometimes having a good memory really isn’t a blessing. Why do I have to remember this?!

I don’t want to remember all the stupid things I did as a child with Uncle Lin and my uncle Zhu Xiang!

Ying Zheng suddenly thought: to stop himself from constantly recalling all these humiliating memories, maybe once he became King of Qin, he should assign Lin Zhi far away.

Uncle Lin had once led troops—surely he could be sent to guard the northern or southern frontier with ease.

I’m not sidelining Uncle Lin! Only the most trusted people are sent to guard the borders!

Ying Zheng’s thoughts were in a mess. He wanted to grab his head and shake it hard, to shake off the cringe-inducing black history playing in his mind.

Tonight, when I go into the dream room, I must properly complain to the Great Ying Zheng.

Just look at the “good things” Uncle Lin did! What kind of uncle plays with pee-mud with his nephew?!

Even Lu Buwei, that surrogate father, is better than this!

In that moment, Lu Buwei’s status in Ying Zheng’s heart temporarily rose.

Lin Zhi and Zhu Xiang rinsed the mud off their bodies, then jumped into the bath pool side by side, sending up splashes.

After playing around in the water like total children, they finally leaned back in the pool and started chatting openly.

“You actually want to stir chaos in Chu? That’s not like your kind nature,” Lin Zhi said. “What’s this, finally had a change of heart? Not trying to be a saint anymore?”

Zhu Xiang snapped, “I never tried to be a saint.”

Lin Zhi brushed it off. “Mm-hmm, you’re just doing what you want to do. What got to you? What pushed you to take the initiative against Chu?”

Zhu Xiang had already expected Lin Zhi to ask this the moment he arrived, and had prepared his answer.

“When I was helping Li Mu and Wang Jian with logistics, every time they marched south, a few dozen people would die,” Zhu Xiang said. “And that’s just during raids… drills.”

“Call it what it is—raids,” Lin Zhi sneered. “No need to sugarcoat it in front of me. So what? You figured that if Qin and Chu went to war, far more people would die, so you thought you’d weaken Chu first, so fewer would die overall.”

He paused, then added, “It’s uncertain how many would die in Chu amid internal chaos, but one thing’s for sure—fewer people would die in Qin.”

Zhu Xiang said, “Chu would lose fewer lives too. Even if chaos broke out, the nobles know each other. They’d likely divide up Chu through scheming rather than open war. During that time, Li Mu would escort a large number of Chu civilians south.”

“Like the partitioning of Jin or the Tian clan replacing Qi? Fair enough.”

Lin Zhi spread his hands underwater and then clenched his fists, sending up more splashes.

It didn’t mean anything—he was just playing with water while sorting his thoughts.

“Zhu Xiang, are you no longer content just farming for Qin, but ready to take the front stage?” Lin Zhi asked.

Zhu Xiang replied, “I was never just farming for Qin.”

Lin Zhi rolled his eyes. “But everything you did was back-end. You didn’t even interfere in domestic governance. At most, you were a kind of personal advisor raised by the King of Qin. Now you’re going to appear publicly as Lord Changping?”

Zhu Xiang was silent for a long time before he gave a bitter smile. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Lin Zhi raised his voice.

Zhu Xiang said, “I do want to speed up Qin’s unification and reduce the suffering that comes with it. The smoother the unification, the fewer people die. Prolonged war is like grinding meat between pestle and mortar—it turns people to pulp. But I honestly don’t know if I’ll be on the frontlines. Because I don’t know if I’m any use there.”

“I can’t lead troops. I’m no match for Cai Ze or you when it comes to strategy or intrigue. Even now, when I say I want to split Chu, I just saw the opportunity and handed it to you all. At the end of the day, I haven’t truly stepped forward.”

Lin Zhi frowned. “I don’t care whether others think you’ve stepped forward. I’m asking you—do you believe you’ve taken that step? Stood at the front, personally pushing this war of unification? Just answer yes or no.”

Zhu Xiang stayed silent.

Lin Zhi raised his fist in warning.

Zhu Xiang gave a bitter smile. “Yes.”

Lin Zhi snorted loudly, then snapped, “Idiot!”

Zhu Xiang lowered his head, not daring to argue.

Lin Zhi said, “How did I end up with such a foolish little brother? We’ve protected you so well—why must you be reckless? If you drive yourself sick obsessing over this, how could we live with ourselves? Do you think Qin’s unification hinges on you alone? If Li Mu hears what you just said, he’ll definitely punch you—twice.”

Zhu Xiang said softly, “Please don’t tell him. If he accidentally uses too much force, he’ll have to sit at my bedside crying. I don’t want the future Lord Wu’an crying over me—it’s bad luck.”

Lin Zhi snorted again. “Then behave.”

Zhu Xiang replied, “But if I see something I can do…”

“You won’t be able to stop yourself,” Lin Zhi rolled his eyes. “I knew it. Back in Handan you had the same fit—you just had to go to Changping.”

Zhu Xiang said sheepishly, “People… sometimes can’t control themselves…”

Then he started rambling about how “a man always carries a youthful heart to the grave,” or some other nonsense. Lin Zhi crossed his arms and watched Zhu Xiang babble silently.

“You done?” Lin Zhi sneered.

Zhu Xiang lowered his head. “I’m done.”

Lin Zhi said, “Give me the full details of your plan. After that, go farm and stop meddling.”

Zhu Xiang said, “But—”

“No buts. I’m not doing this for you, I’m doing it for the plan. It really does have a high chance of success, but it has to be airtight. You think inciting a nation’s nobility into rebellion is easy? One crack and it all falls apart.”

Lin Zhi raised his fist and thumped Zhu Xiang hard on the head. “If you get soft halfway through, all our prep goes to waste. You think you’re some top-tier strategist? Cold and ruthless enough to manipulate others? Wake up—who knows you better than me? Not even Xue Ji knows you like I do. Xue Ji only knows how to say ‘My Husband can do anything! He can achieve anything!’ Oh, and Zheng’er too!”

Zhu Xiang rubbed his head. “I may not be a top strategist, but—”

“But nothing! Have you ever truly schemed against someone? Truly wanted someone dead and succeeded in plotting their downfall? Even the Zhao King and Lord Chunshen—whom you said you wanted dead—you never really acted.”

Zhao King was a victim of his own sins—Zhu Xiang only got caught in the crossfire. And though he provoked Lord Chunshen with words, it was just to make him strike first and expose his network in Qin—Zhu Xiang never tried to hurt him.

“So who would trust you to carry out something like this? Something this huge—how could the King of Qin or I possibly let you handle it?” Lin Zhi said seriously. “Understand?”

Zhu Xiang sighed. “Understood.”

It was true—he was just a keyboard political commentator with zero real-world experience. If he truly led such a major scheme, he had no confidence in pulling it off.

He was better off spotting opportunities, drawing up plans, and letting the professionals execute them.

Mastermind? That role really didn’t suit him.

Seeing Zhu Xiang finally admit defeat, Lin Zhi’s expression softened. “Zheng’er has grown up a lot. He must be even more amazing now.”

“Of course!” Zhu Xiang immediately started praising his little Zheng’er.

Listening to Zhu Xiang praise Zheng’er nonstop, Lin Zhi couldn’t help but smile.

Zhu Xiang was so easy to coax—just let him brag about Zheng’er.

Though Zheng’er really had gotten much more capable.

“Cough… cough…” Zichu lay in a carriage, the white bandages around his shoulder stained with red. “Write letters to Royal Father, Cai Ze, and Lin Zhi. When delivering the letter to Lin Zhi, absolutely do not let Zhu Xiang find out!”

His most trusted retainer, Bu, knelt beside him, eyes bloodshot. “Yes, sir!”

Zichu smiled. “It’s just a light injury. Nothing serious. Hmph. I should thank him for his foolishness.”

Ying Zixie, you finally made your move.

And I finally have a chance to eliminate you before ascending the throne!

Zichu clutched his shoulder. He had deliberately leaked his travel plans just to lure an assassin. The arrow wound was an accident—he hadn’t expected to actually be hit.

But Zhu Xiang absolutely must not find out—otherwise he’d get scolded for years.