HCT – Chapter 126 Boiled Eggs

While Meng Wu was discussing official matters with Lu Buwei and Li Si, he still didn’t forget to check in on how things were going with his son.

Upon learning that Zhu Xiang had given his son some pointers, he shot Meng Tian a glare filled with the frustration of “hating iron for not becoming steel,” making Meng Tian lower his head so much it nearly touched his chest.

“I gave you an opportunity. If you can’t seize it, don’t call yourself my son again,” Meng Wu scolded harshly.

Meng Tian didn’t dare utter a word in protest.

Later, Meng Wu approached Zhu Xiang and Ying Zheng to apologize, saying that if his son truly wasn’t up to the task, they could replace him—he couldn’t bear the humiliation.

Zhu Xiang chuckled, “Your Tian’er isn’t that bad. He treats Zheng’er with respect and courtesy. Among boys his age, he handles himself quite well. Zheng’er is dissatisfied with him only because he hasn’t truly accepted him as his lord yet. But that’s understandable. Mental adjustment isn’t something that happens overnight.”

It’s like when someone first starts a job—they know being respectful to their boss helps them get promoted, but very few can actually do it wholeheartedly.

Meng Tian’s behavior wasn’t wrong; it’s just that seeing how young Ying Zheng was, he couldn’t yet regard him as a proper “lord.” If it were another Qin prince, Meng Tian’s attitude would be perfectly acceptable—feelings can be cultivated over time.

But Ying Zheng was proud and ambitious, with unreasonably high standards for those around him—and Zhu Xiang indulged him in it.

Zhu Xiang treated those around Ying Zheng the way overindulgent parents treat spoiled children: “My Zheng’er is perfect. If he’s not satisfied with you, then you should change.”

He said this with a teasing smile, but instead of being moved, Ying Zheng glared at him fiercely.

Meng Wu couldn’t help but laugh, “That’s true—Zheng’er can never be wrong. Let Tian’er be the one to change.”

He understood Zhu Xiang’s subtle message—Ying Zheng’s temperament was very much like that of the former ruler, a born king. The sooner Meng Tian learned how to serve a “King of Qin,” the smoother his future would be.

If the King of Qin was dissatisfied with a subject, either the subject changed or packed up and left. What—was the subject going to rebel?

Meng Wu had served as a guard for King Zhao of Qin and understood this dynamic all too well.

“Your son is still gifted. Don’t worry too much,” Zhu Xiang consoled. “He’s young—a child still. No need to be too harsh.”

Meng Wu sighed, half-jokingly, “A child? After spending some time with Zheng’er, it’s hard not to be harsh on a ‘child’.”

Zhu Xiang rubbed Ying Zheng’s head and said, “Well, can’t help it—Zheng’er is just that impressive.”

Ying Zheng jerked his head away, slightly annoyed. He wanted to tie his hair into a topknot soon—he didn’t want his uncle treating him like a child anymore.

Seeing him shake his head, Zhu Xiang rubbed it again.

Ying Zheng shook it off.

Zhu Xiang rubbed again.

Ying Zheng bumped his head into Zhu Xiang’s chest in protest and ran off to find his aunt.

Zhu Xiang sighed, “Is he entering his rebellious phase this early?”

Meng Wu burst into laughter.

After hearing the sincere views of Zhu Xiang and Ying Zheng, Meng Wu no longer mentioned removing Meng Tian and instead began earnestly passing down the wisdom he’d gained serving as the King of Qin’s bodyguard.

The most important skills for serving a king closely were caution and keen observation.

Meng Wu’s father, Meng Ao, had been highly valued by King Zhao of Qin after joining Qin. Meng Tian was the third generation of the Meng family to serve Qin—he was usually proud and carried the air of nobility.

But if he wanted to climb higher, he would have to bury that pride and willingly become the king’s “servant.”

To the King of Qin, no matter how generous he seemed to ministers and lords, they were still his “subjects and concubines.” If Meng Tian couldn’t recognize this, it would be better for him to pursue an external posting—it would be better for both him and the family.

Meng Tian actually understood this in his heart. But going from being served to serving others—he was still young and spirited, and understandably uneasy.

But this boy would go on to become a favorite of Qin Shihuang himself—he would soon adjust his mindset.

Sure enough, within less than ten days, Ying Zheng had gone from giving him the side-eye to sharing half of a boiled egg he didn’t like.

Then, Zhu Xiang gave Ying Zheng another boiled egg—so he never shared with Meng Tian again.

“Uncle is so mean,” Ying Zheng complained to Meng Tian. “When I was younger and didn’t like boiled eggs, Uncle would make me steamed eggs, fried eggs, poached eggs… Now he says, ‘Zheng’er, you’ve grown up. You can’t be picky anymore!’”

Meng Tian had no idea how to respond.

Being a competent attendant was hard. Even his own father hadn’t taught him what to do when his lord complained about a close elder.

If he agreed with the young lord and said, “Yes, yes, yes,” the boy might fire him the next day. But if he didn’t agree…

Meng Tian broke out in a cold sweat.

Luckily, Zhu Xiang was nearby and overheard the complaint—he came to Meng Tian’s rescue.

“That’s right. Zheng’er is all grown up now—no more picky eating.” Zhu Xiang pulled Ying Zheng into a hug and ruffled his hair. “Don’t bully Meng Tian. You’re complaining about me to him—what’s he supposed to say?”

Ying Zheng struggled and said, “As a subject, of course he should agree with me!”

Zhu Xiang retorted, “As a subject, he should correct any inappropriate behavior of his lord. He should frown and say, ‘Young Lord, Lord Changping is right!’”

Ying Zheng shrieked in outrage—only to be silenced by Zhu Xiang shoving a plum jam cake into his mouth.

He stopped struggling immediately, cupped the cake in both hands, and puffed out his cheeks like a hamster.

Zhu Xiang looked at his hamster-faced nephew with a great sense of satisfaction.

Look at this—I raised the future Qin Shihuang into a little foodie who’s happy with just a treat. Who in the future wouldn’t be impressed?

Zhu Xiang winked at Meng Tian.

Meng Tian got the hint and quickly slipped away while Ying Zheng’s mouth was full—escaping his lord’s complaining.

After finishing his steamed cake, Ying Zheng licked his fingers and muttered, “He’s so dull.” How could the glorious Ying Zheng in his dream spoil such a boring gourd?

Zhu Xiang took out a handkerchief and wiped his hands and mouth, saying, “He just isn’t familiar with you yet. When I wasn’t familiar with your father back then…”

Ying Zheng looked up, curious, “When you weren’t familiar with him?”

Zhu Xiang wore a nostalgic smile. “When we weren’t close, I once docked his pay for messing up an account.”

Ying Zheng burst out laughing and threw himself into Zhu Xiang’s arms, urging his uncle to tell him more black history about his father.

So Zhu Xiang took Ying Zheng to find Xue, and the husband and wife whispered “bad things” about Zichu together.

Zhu Xiang: I’m just telling the truth. How can that be considered badmouthing?

Meng Tian accidentally overheard it once and quickly left.

When Meng Wu found out, he unceremoniously brought a small stool over and sat down to enjoy the amusing stories of the future King of Qin’s youth.

Meng Tian was utterly shocked by his father’s behavior.

Father—weren’t you the one who said a close servant must always act cautiously?

Once again, Meng Tian felt that his father’s words and actions didn’t match—and he was hardly a role model.

The light-hearted, happy life of Zhu Xiang’s family of three made Lu Buwei and Li Si envious once more.

Even Han Fei felt a little dejected.

He thought of the King of Han and the royal family. Whether the current king or the future one, their talents and upbringing didn’t even match a pinky of Ying Zheng.

To preserve Han… might just be a pipe dream.

Fortunately, once the boat docked, Zhu Xiang put Han Fei to work, keeping him busy and too preoccupied to overthink.

This time in southern Qin, Zhu Xiang had two main goals. The first was economic warfare—but for now, that simply meant establishing textile workshops as early preparation.

After discussing with Xue, Zhu Xiang realized she was fully capable of handling the task, so he left recruiting and business operations to her and Lu Buwei.

During the Warring States period, many men were drafted into the military, so women often went into commerce to support their families. Textile work, in particular, was a woman’s specialty—Lu Buwei was very cooperative with this.

The second goal was to guide spring farming—his main professional responsibility.

Unlike last time, which was about promoting new, high-yield rice and wheat strains, this time Zhu Xiang was doing the opposite: guiding farmers to plant traditional legumes and millets.

The rice and wheat Zhu Xiang had promoted produced high yields. And with Meng Wu and Li Mu promoting stone mills in the south, taxes were now being collected in wheat and rice—so farmers began planting only those.

But this crop structure was unscientific and vulnerable to natural disasters.

Ancient Chinese farmers rarely grew just one crop. Even in the Tang Dynasty, when the north grew wheat and the south grew rice, farmers still intercropped grains in their fields.

Sometimes they rotated crops, other times they used different fields for different grains.

This was hard-earned wisdom passed down through generations. If land deteriorated or a single crop was struck by pests or disease, the entire yield could be lost. Only by growing diverse grains could they ensure survival even if one failed.

Though Zhu Xiang’s crops were high-yield, the seeds would degenerate over time and weren’t immune to pests. Even if their yield was better now, they could still face total failure. To ensure food security, it was necessary to guide farmers to reintroduce older crops even after learning about new high-yield ones.

Modern monoculture farming was viable only because technology reduced the risk of pests and supported seed improvement. Farmers now had to bear these risks themselves.

In theory, changing the crop structure in southern Qin should have been easy.

The Qin legal code was very detailed—even specifying what to plant and how deep to till. Violators would be punished. So all Zhu Xiang needed to do was amend the local laws.

Han Fei, whom Zhu Xiang brought along, was full of praise for the Qin code and thought it would be easy.

But Zhu Xiang just smiled and sent him out into the fields to try implementing it for himself.

Han Fei confidently set off to be a local agricultural officer. Less than ten days later, he returned frowning to ask Zhu Xiang for guidance.

Zhu Xiang was crouched by the field, chatting with farmers. When he saw Han Fei approach, he didn’t get up but looked up and smiled, “I heard you’ve arrested so many people that the county jail is full.”

Han Fei flushed red with embarrassment and cupped his hands, “Please instruct me, Lord Zhu Xiang.”

Zhu Xiang waved his hand and said, “Wait here for me for a moment.”

Han Fei obediently lowered his head and stood to the side.

Zhu Xiang continued chatting with the farmers.

They were discussing crop diseases, pests, and land degradation. He asked the farmers if they had encountered such problems, how they solved them, affirmed their wisdom, and then offered his own insights.

A quarter of an hour passed, and more and more farmers gathered around Zhu Xiang.

After finishing the discussion, the farmers all sighed and agreed that planting coarse grains was still the safest way to ensure a harvest.

“I brought some excellent millet seeds from the north,” Zhu Xiang said. “Once I’ve cultivated more, I’ll share them with you. Planting soybeans, potatoes, pumpkins, and the like in the fields yields high output and allows for crop rotation to maintain soil health. If you also grow chili peppers, garlic, ginger, cotton, or hemp, you can even earn some money to buy your family good clothes. Oh, and the king is currently recruiting textile workers in southern Qin.”

Zhu Xiang then mentioned that Xue and Lu Buwei had opened a workshop in southern Qin, and that during the off-season, women could go work there to earn some fabric and grain.

The farmers quickly noted this down. Some even ran back to the village to call others to come and hear the news.

Zhu Xiang smiled and said, “Soon, the officials will come to post a notice and inform you of these matters. No need to rush. I’m just giving you advance notice so you can be prepared.”

The farmers were very interested in this “advance” information, and the crowd around him grew larger and larger.

By the time dusk fell, Zhu Xiang finally left the fields.

Seeing how exhausted Zhu Xiang looked, Han Fei didn’t ask any questions right away.

The next day, after Zhu Xiang had woken up and finished breakfast, Han Fei came to consult him.

At that time, the field official from the village Zhu Xiang had visited the day before reported that all the farmers were willing to switch crops. Even nearby villages that heard the news were showing interest.

The official was extremely excited.

At this rate, he might not need to arrest anyone at all — the crop rotation order for spring planting could be completed today.

Zhu Xiang nodded. “As long as it’s effective, that’s good. I’ll write up the official notice soon and give it to you. You hand it over to the county magistrate so he can post it throughout the villages.”

After the official left, Han Fei asked, “Why… didn’t the county magistrate come to see Lord Zhu Xiang?”

Zhu Xiang smiled. “I told him not to. Yesterday, while I was in the fields, I sent him to another place to promote the benefits of crop rotation.”

Han Fei frowned deeply.

Zhu Xiang pointed to a chair and waited for Han Fei to sit before saying, “I understand your confusion. The laws are detailed, the punishments severe, and yet the people still don’t support them, efficiency is low — isn’t that right?”

Han Fei nodded. “Aren’t they… afraid?”

Zhu Xiang replied, “Of course they’re afraid. But they’re more afraid of starving to death. When it concerns their basic survival, even if they know they’ll be punished, they’ll still find ways to disobey in secret. Besides, there are so few officials — how could they inspect every single farmer’s field? People rely on luck.”

Han Fei still frowned, seemingly dissatisfied with this answer.

Zhu Xiang continued, “People are emotional beings, not puppets. Even with strict laws and harsh punishments, if they don’t understand the reasoning behind the laws, they’ll resist. Especially since southern Qin was originally Chu territory. The people of Chu are used to a more relaxed way of life — they’re not accustomed to the harshness of Qin’s legal code.”

Seeing that Han Fei still looked troubled, Zhu Xiang smiled bitterly in his heart.

He knew Han Fei must be thinking: if the punishments aren’t scary enough, make them harsher; if there aren’t enough officials, appoint more.

That was the Legalist mindset.

But reality isn’t that simple.

Zhu Xiang began by talking about training officials, then moved on to their salaries and duties — helping Han Fei realize that more officials don’t necessarily mean better governance.

Too many officials not only burden the national treasury, but also — quite frankly — Qin doesn’t have enough qualified people.

Then Zhu Xiang brought up the harmful effects of overly detailed laws during enforcement.

For example, Qin law might stipulate exactly how deep land must be plowed. But in reality, how could an official monitor every person digging a field?

Most of the time, this law was useless. But if someone wanted to punish a person intentionally, they could dig it up and use it against them. After all, the farmer had no way to prove how deep they’d dug.

Overly detailed laws become unenforceable and end up as tools for officials to abuse the people.

“Laws are the bottom line. In farming terms, that means defining how much tax the farmer must pay,” Zhu Xiang said. “As for the rest — like motivating farmers to work hard — we have to rely on moral teachings and social customs.”

“Detailed farming techniques must also be explained clearly, because many farmers simply don’t know the best methods. But this should be taught through encouragement, not punishment. Because even the best farming methods aren’t always easy to achieve due to various real-world constraints,” Zhu Xiang sighed, speaking earnestly. “That’s why a country doesn’t just need Legalism — it also needs Confucianism, Daoism, and all the other schools of thought.”

Han Fei’s frown finally eased slightly. He cupped his hands and said, “Your student has learned much.”

Zhu Xiang said, “You’ve studied Legalism on your own, and also apprenticed under the great Confucian master Xunzi. You’re the perfect person to understand this. I hope in the future, you won’t lean entirely toward one school of thought but instead combine Legalism and Confucianism. With your talent, I’m sure you can do it.”

Han Fei replied, “Lord Zhu Xiang is even more capable of achieving this.”

Whenever Han Fei talked with Zhu Xiang, his stammer would gradually lessen.

Zhu Xiang smiled. “Of course I can do it too, but I probably won’t appear in the court.”

Han Fei didn’t understand. “With your ability, you’re more than qualified to be Prime Minister.”

Zhu Xiang scratched his nose awkwardly and said, “I once told the former ruler: Qin has many who can serve as Prime Minister, but only I have the status to guide farmers in how to grow crops. So it’s better for me to be in the fields than in the court — better for Qin, and for all the people.”

“That was true under the former ruler, and it remains true for the future,” Zhu Xiang said. “So the future of Qin’s court lies in your hands — in you, Li Si, and your peers.”

Han Fei lowered his head. “I may not enter Qin’s court.”

Zhu Xiang smiled. “No, I believe you will. Perhaps not now. But after Qin unifies the world, you will.”

Han Fei pursed his lips, clenching his sleeves. “Does that make me…?”

Zhu Xiang teased, “A bit conflicted?”

Han Fei lowered his head even more.

Zhu Xiang said gently, “No. What you’re doing is perfectly normal. You’re a prince of Han — not helping Qin destroy Han is the right thing to do. But you’re also Han Fei, a man who cares for the world. Entering court after Qin has unified the world is also the right thing to do.”

Zhu Xiang pointed at his own face. “I won’t help Qin attack Zhao either.”

Han Fei suddenly looked up, seeing Zhu Xiang’s smiling face — his eyes welled up with emotion.

He knew his current stance was contradictory, that many people didn’t understand him, even looked down on him.

But Lord Zhu Xiang truly understood him and had even said, “I’m the same.”

“Do your best. Until Qin unifies the world, stay by my side and learn the things you’re still lacking. Once that’s done, you can reveal your talent,” Zhu Xiang said, patting Han Fei’s shoulder. “What you lack now is a real understanding of the grassroots. Your learning isn’t yet applicable to practice.”

Han Fei nodded vigorously, then stood and bowed deeply to Zhu Xiang.

He still had many questions, but being a student of Confucianism, he decided to re-examine things using what Xunzi had taught him.

Though the Qin laws were harsh, Zhu Xiang had been given full authority by the Qin King to amend them. So he casually found an excuse to give the people Han Fei had arrested a light punishment, then released them under the guise of “making amends.”

In a feudal era governed by men, this was perfectly normal.

Zhu Xiang claimed that “the King of Qin is magnanimous and willing to give the people of southern Qin — still unaccustomed to Qin law — a chance.” With this, he directed all the cheers from the people toward the Qin King, winning the king great favor in southern Qin while keeping himself in the background.

This move finally opened Lu Buwei’s mind a bit — making him reflect on how to properly be a minister.

While Zhu Xiang was flourishing in southern Qin, a month later, Li Mu arrived by boat, face black with anger, and dragged Zhu Xiang from the fields.

“Zhu Xiang! Did you forget something?!” Li Mu bellowed.

Zhu Xiang blinked. “Forget what?”

Li Mu yelled, “Did you forget you’re supposed to replace me as governor of Wu Commandery?!”

Li Mu had been stuck in Wu, waiting for Zhu Xiang to come relieve him.

He had sharpened his weapons and was ready to head south to train the troops as soon as Zhu Xiang arrived.

Spring plowing was critical. For that reason, Li Mu had set down his armor and buried himself in paperwork for weeks. Even Wang Jian had picked up a brush to help him handle administrative affairs.

Both of them had been eagerly awaiting Zhu Xiang’s arrival.

When they heard Zhu Xiang had reached southern Qin, they were thrilled — thinking they would finally be free from their burdens.

But they waited a day, then two, then a whole month — and still, no Zhu Xiang.

Wang Jian thought that Zhu Xiang must have some important mission entrusted by the King of Qin, which was why he temporarily stayed behind in Nanjun.

After investigating Zhu Xiang’s recent behavior, Li Mu personally boarded a boat to come and “arrest” Zhu Xiang.

“He doesn’t have any important mission at all! He just got so caught up in farming that he forgot everything else!” Li Mu ground his teeth in frustration. “He probably just thinks the farmlands in Wujun aren’t as good as those by Yunmeng Marsh!”

Wang Jian didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Lord Changping shouldn’t be that kind of person.

But Zhu Xiang was exactly that kind of person.

He sighed. “Li Mu, it’s just being the prefect of a commandery. What’s the harm in you doing it a bit longer? The spring plowing in Wujun is nearly done, and you’ve done a great job. I don’t need to interfere much. Nanjun isn’t as developed as Wujun, and the people here are harder to manage. Of course I had to stay.”

Li Mu gritted his teeth. “His Majesty appointed you as prefect. This is dereliction of duty!”

Seeing how furious Li Mu was, Zhu Xiang scratched his head sheepishly. “My bad, I’ll go to Wujun right away and hand over everything to Zheng’er.”

Li Mu: “…”

Li Mu gave Zhu Xiang a light kick, knocking him to the ground, then grabbed him by the collar and hauled him up. “Stop dumping everything on Zheng’er!”

Zhu Xiang said, “This isn’t on me. His Majesty decided that Zheng’er would temporarily take over as prefect of Wujun. He can also assist you in military affairs and gain experience in governance. I’m just a figurehead. I have the official decree—I’m not lying!”

Li Mu took a few deep breaths and asked, “If that’s the case, why didn’t you send Zheng’er over sooner?”

Zhu Xiang slapped his forehead and said sheepishly, “I forgot.”

Li Mu rolled up his sleeves.

Zhu Xiang hiked up his robes and bolted. “Hey, hey, hey! Let’s talk this out! Don’t hit me! With your strength, if you beat me up, will I even be able to get out of bed?!”

Li Mu said coldly, “You should lie in bed for a few days to teach you a lesson!”

Zhu Xiang replied, “It’s only been a month!”

Li Mu shouted, “Stop running! Get back here!”

Xue held Ying Zheng’s hand, watching as Zhu Xiang fled up a tree with Li Mu chasing after him. She could only shake her head and smile bitterly. “Don’t learn from your uncle. But Zheng’er, even if your uncle forgot, why didn’t you remind him?”

Ying Zheng replied, “Because I wanted to play for another month too. Grandfather won’t blame me or Uncle, so why not rest a little longer?”

The truth was, Ying Zheng was worried about his aunt.

It was the first time Xue was handling such an important task. His uncle had given her a “I believe in you” and left her alone, leaving Ying Zheng very anxious.

Though it turned out Aunt really was impressive, Ying Zheng still wanted to support her more during her first big responsibility.

As for the teacher, it wasn’t a bad thing to serve longer as prefect of Wujun. What was the harm in staying a bit longer?

His teacher had done a great job as prefect—the spring plowing and crop changes didn’t need Uncle’s help at all.

Xue said, “It’s time for you to head to Wujun now. I’ll join you soon to set up the textile workshop.”

Ying Zheng asked, “What about Uncle?”

Xue smiled helplessly, with both indulgence and resignation in her eyes. “Let him be. Even His Majesty can’t do anything with him—what can I do?”

Ying Zheng huffed. When he became King of Qin, he definitely wouldn’t let his uncle be so lazy and disobedient.

When Meng Wu heard Li Mu had arrived, he knew Zhu Xiang was about to get a beating.

He actually felt a little guilty.

While Nanjun was much harder to govern than Wujun—once the heartland of Wu and Yue, where people were well-educated and experienced in farming—Nanjun had only been developed during the Warring States period. Later, after intense warfare, Chu abandoned the region entirely, and many immigrant tribes from Chu’s vassal states settled here.

Still, the fact remained that as prefect, he hadn’t done as well as Li Mu. That’s why Zhu Xiang stayed to help him.

But guilty as he felt, he wasn’t about to miss the fun.

Meng Wu brought Meng Tian along to watch Li Mu “beat up” Zhu Xiang, laughing so hard his eyes nearly disappeared.

Meng Tian glanced at Lord Changping up in the tree begging for mercy, then at his father who was enjoying the show a little too much, and felt his image of his father crumble once again.

At the same time, Meng Tian realized something: perhaps his father, Lord Changping, and General Li were truly close friends.

“Meng Wu, the axe,” Li Mu said.

Meng Wu chuckled. “You seriously want to drag him down and beat him? Forget it. Even if you could, you wouldn’t really be able to bring yourself to hit him. Zhu Xiang, you’d better find a way to calm General Li down, or you’ll be sleeping in that tree tonight.”

“I stayed here for a month to help someone, and now I get this?!” Zhu Xiang shouted. “Are you really enjoying this spectacle that much?”

Meng Wu quickly straightened his face. “Not at all. I absolutely am not enjoying it. I’m just stating facts.”

Zhu Xiang growled, “Don’t use my own words against me!”

Li Mu snorted, “So you do know your words are infuriating.”

Zhu Xiang gave an awkward cough. “Ahem… Fine, I really was wrong. I’ll go to Wujun with Zheng’er.”

After all, spring plowing here was almost done. Han Fei could handle the rest.

Li Mu raised an eyebrow. “That’s what you should be doing.”

Zhu Xiang muttered, “Then… how about I stay on a bit longer as prefect of Wujun?”

Li Mu didn’t respond.

Zhu Xiang said sheepishly, “How about this—I’ll share duties with Zheng’er in Wujun and help you develop the region properly. Once the farming season is over, I’ll be your advisor and help with logistics?”

Only then did Li Mu roll down his sleeves. “Get down.”

Zhu Xiang let out a sigh of relief and prepared to descend from the tree.

Only to realize, embarrassingly, that climbing up had been easy—but getting down was a different story.

Ying Zheng bounced over to Li Mu’s side and began teasing his uncle from the ground, jumping and pointing, calling him silly.

In the end, Meng Wu and Li Mu fetched a ladder. Li Mu climbed up himself to help Zhu Xiang down.

Ying Zheng was overjoyed.

When his uncle was embarrassed, he was happy.

Zhu Xiang gritted his teeth and flicked Ying Zheng’s forehead.

Xue couldn’t help laughing. “You’re the one who embarrassed yourself—why bully Zheng’er?”

Zhu Xiang gave a dismissive hum and flicked Zheng’er’s forehead again.

Even though his forehead turned red, Ying Zheng was still all smiles.

It was rare to see his uncle so flustered. Delightful!

Seeing Ying Zheng’s bright smile, Zhu Xiang couldn’t help smiling himself.

Li Mu sighed and smiled helplessly too.

Meng Wu shook his head. In his heart he thought: Li Mu, Li Mu, that’s why Zhu Xiang “bullies” you—who else would he tease like this?

Since Li Mu came to fetch him, Zhu Xiang had no choice but to board the boat to Wujun and complete the handover, jointly assuming the role of Wujun’s prefect with Ying Zheng.

Xue temporarily stayed behind in Nanjun, continuing to work with Lu Buwei on the textile workshop.

Han Fei remained as well, while the long-absent Li Si accompanied Zhu Xiang to Wujun.

It was only then that Zhu Xiang learned of the task Lin Zhi had assigned Li Si.

Lin Zhi wanted to revise the land laws and had dispatched Li Si to southern Qin to gather public opinion. Lin Zhi himself was inspecting the core farming regions east of the Qin Pass to collect data on old Qin lands.

Li Si presented his findings:

“Due to the Qin-Chu war, nine out of ten men are gone in southern Qin. Most farming is done by women.”

“The same is true for the Qin military households relocated here. The men train for war; the women stay home to weave and farm.”

“Many men with military merit have died in battle. While there are laws for widows with sons to inherit farmland, those without sons fall into a grey area. The government turns a blind eye, so these women farm without land rights…”

Li Si laid out all his data one by one.

As Zhu Xiang listened, he remembered something he’d once heard during a business trip with his archaeology colleagues.

The discovery of Qin bamboo slips at Yunmeng and Liye had greatly advanced the study of Qin history—especially the Liye slips, which were mostly county-level records and extremely valuable.

In modern China, the early 20th century saw a trend called the “Doubting Antiquity School.” Its core idea was that all transmitted historical records were fake; only materials unearthed from tombs were real. And the more unofficial the source, the more “authentic” it was. Official records were all deemed false.

This was the beginning of historical nihilism.

The trend was quickly suppressed, because it was clear their motive was to deny Chinese history and discredit its sages.

Though the argument sounded logical, it fell apart under scrutiny. Applied to modern times, the fallacy became clear: would you believe a clickbait blogger or the national academy’s report? Would you trust a novel or a scientific journal?

Yes, official and expert sources can be wrong—but they’re still far more reliable than anonymous folklore. Plus, Chinese history was often written retrospectively, with less censorship.

And while archaeological findings are valuable, they’re only fragments. The people of the time knew far more and chose what to record—these aren’t imaginative fictions.

So now, archaeologists emphasize “objective materials” like administrative records, and mistrust overly narrative bamboo slips—such as many found from the Strategies of the Warring States.

The Yunmeng and Liye Qin slips are among the most valuable archaeological documents.

In the Qin slips, many military merit records were followed by the character “gua” (widow), meaning that even though the law didn’t officially permit widows to inherit land, it had become common practice.

By the early Han dynasty, Emperor Gaozu and Empress Lü officially established laws for female and widow inheritance, especially for families of deceased soldiers.

Given the intensity of current wars, the situation was just as severe as during Qin’s unification.

Lin Zhi, despite his eccentricity, was extremely prudent in policymaking.

To push through a new law, he needed indisputable evidence. Sending Li Si to southern Qin was part of that.

And Li Si did an excellent job.

Zhu Xiang thought, In history, Li Si started as a high-ranking official. Who knew he was so good at grassroots work too?

“You’ve done very well,” Zhu Xiang said. “His Majesty granted me the authority to draft laws myself. You can start a trial run of Lin Zhi’s policy here in southern Qin and see what needs adjustment.”

Li Si was thrilled. “You’re giving the task to me?”

Zhu Xiang smiled. “I trust you. Besides, our great General Li is off to war again—who knows how much land we’ll gain? We’re short on capable people.”

Li Mu rolled his eyes at Zhu Xiang.

Upon arriving in Wujun and seeing the towering pile of paperwork, Zhu Xiang immediately began complaining.

He kept it up for several days, and still didn’t stop.

As if he’d forgotten that this was originally his and Zheng’er’s responsibility—and that he had already handled it alone for a whole month.

Li Si declared, “I won’t let you down, Lord Changping!”

Zhu Xiang said, “Good. Then you can assist Zheng’er.”

Li Si: “…”

Why?! Wasn’t he supposed to study and work under Lord Changping? Why follow Prince Zheng? Was this… study duty?

Though he knew winning over Prince Zheng was important, he really wanted to work—do real tasks!

But he dared not argue and followed Ying Zheng with a heavy heart.

Only to discover that Lord Changping had escaped the city, leaving Prince Zheng alone on a tall seat, frowning as he handled government documents.

“Your Highness, where is Lord Changping?” Li Si asked.

Ying Zheng snapped, “Uncle? Where else would he be? Of course he’s off inspecting farmland.”

Li Si stammered, “B-but the prefect’s duties…”

Ying Zheng slapped the decree on the table. “Read it yourself.”

Li Si looked and was dumbfounded.

No wonder Lord Changping had assigned him to assist Prince Zheng—it turned out he was the actual prefect of Wujun.

But he’s just a child! Can this really be okay?

Li Si was full of concern. If Prince Zheng made mistakes, nothing would happen to him—he was the Qin King’s favorite grandson. But those around him wouldn’t be so lucky.

Yet clearly, no one else in Wujun’s upper ranks was concerned.

Li Mu and Wang Jian had already left the city, heading south to drill troops and expand Wujun’s territory.

Seated at the head of the Wujun prefect’s office was a child who hadn’t even grown out his hair, just two little tufts tied up—Ying Zheng.

Li Si and Meng Tian looked at the mountain of paperwork beside him and wanted to say something but held back.

For the first time, they felt genuine dissatisfaction toward Zhu Xiang—Zhu Xiang, the universally admired sage.

Even if the King of Qin was using Wujun to train Prince Zheng, wasn’t it too much for Zhu Xiang to disappear without a trace?!