HCT – Chapter 127 Lotus Seed and White Fungus Sweet Soup

Zhu Xiang took off his straw hat and used the towel hanging from his neck to wipe his sweat. “The weather in Wu Commandery sure heats up fast.”

Xiang He stood behind him like a bodyguard. Hearing this, he responded, “The weather has been unusual these past few years—winters are getting colder, and summers are getting hotter.”

Zhu Xiang said, “It will get worse in a few years.” That time was almost here.

Overall, the climate during the Qin and Han periods was relatively warm. It was considered a warm phase. Even during the Western Han, elephants could still be found in Henan.

It wasn’t until the end of the Eastern Han that the Earth began entering the Little Ice Age.

But that was just the general trend.

During the few decades between the unification of China by the First Emperor of Qin and the founding of the Western Han, there were several small fluctuations in temperature. The most intense fluctuations coincided with the Qin unification and the Chu–Han contention.

Times of chaos were often accompanied by natural disasters, which is why Confucianism later developed the theory of the interconnection between Heaven and man.

From the perspective of an agronomist, Zhu Xiang believed there was indeed a connection—but not the kind espoused by the theory of Heaven’s response. Repeated climate fluctuations led to widespread crop failure. When the people couldn’t survive, large-scale chaos became inevitable.

Natural disasters often sparked social upheaval, not because Heaven was responding to human affairs, but because natural disasters were the fuse that ignited turmoil.

After King Zheng ascended the throne in Qin, the state suffered from natural disasters year after year, with various regions experiencing famine annually. Each time famine struck, King Zheng would send troops to attack the Six Kingdoms. And during the course of these wars, he realized just how weak the other states were. The timing was perfect for unification—so he swept through the realm.

And it wasn’t just King Zheng. King Zhaoxiang of Qin had also launched several major wars during times of domestic famine.

In this alternate timeline, Lord Lian’s campaign against Yan was similarly linked to Zhao’s internal troubles.

Zhu Xiang’s thoughts wandered for a moment. When a warm gust of wind almost blew away the straw hat on his knee, he returned to his senses and said, “To deal with the coming crisis, I must work even harder.”

In his heart, Xiang He thought: Lord Zhu Xiang, you’re already working hard enough.

Even though followers of the School of Agronomy believed in tilling the land and advocated that all nobles should cultivate their own food to be self-sufficient, none of them actually spent every day walking through the fields and engaging with the lowest commoners like Zhu Xiang did.

Every philosophical school, no matter where it originated, always looked upwards. Even the Mohists ultimately aimed to enter officialdom, hoping rulers and lords would value them and help realize their ideals.

There was nothing wrong with that. To realize one’s ideals, one must first attain power and status.

Zhu Xiang had been granted power and status by the King of Qin. But instead of merely teaching the farmers of Lin Xiangru’s fief, he now taught the farmers of the entire Qin nation.

It seemed like he had changed, and yet, he hadn’t.

Zhu Xiang’s approach left both Xiang He and Xu Ming—leaders representing the lowest-class commoners within the Hundred Schools—somewhat lost.

They knew that the once-prominent Mohist and Agronomist schools had declined to the point of almost being regarded merely as craftsman classes. Even if some Mohists or Agronomists still held official posts, it had little to do with their original philosophies.

They followed Zhu Xiang hoping to find a path forward for their schools. And while they had indeed learned much from him, they were now even more confused.

Because of this confusion, both Xiang He and Xu Ming, now well past the age of doubt, abandoned their high-ranking positions in Xianyang and followed Zhu Xiang south once again, like students and servants.

They had set out a month later than Zhu Xiang, only after taking care of their own affairs, and caught up with him just as he lingered in Nan Commandery.

As a result, they arrived in Wu Commandery at the same time as Zhu Xiang and stayed by his side ever since.

“Lord Zhu Xiang, will the climate grow even more erratic in the future?” Xiang He asked. “Is it because the world is about to fall into chaos?”

Zhu Xiang, seated by the riverside enjoying the breeze, first motioned for Xiang He and the guards behind him to sit. Then he smiled and said, “Whether the world falls into chaos or not, the climate will behave erratically when it’s meant to.”

Xiang He said, “You truly are the disciple of Master Xunzi.” Xunzi had declared that Heaven and Earth operated independently of human affairs.

Zhu Xiang replied, “That’s easy to prove. Flip through historical records and see how many natural disasters occurred during the reign of each monarch. You’ll find that natural disasters are unrelated to human behavior. A wise ruler can mitigate the human suffering caused by disasters, but in times of chaos, disasters bring even greater harm.”

He untied his slightly loosened white hair, roughly combed it with his fingers, tied it back into a high ponytail, and fastened it with a wooden hairpin. “What we can do is to lessen the human suffering brought about by the coming disasters.”

Xiang He asked, “If natural disasters are unrelated to human affairs, then how does Lord Zhu Xiang know the weather will become even more extreme?”

“You just have to observe.” Zhu Xiang said, “Do you want to learn? Though learning it may not benefit you much.”

He wasn’t lying. Although he knew about the coming climate shifts from his past life’s data, it was also true that climate science could be learned through observation.

For example, by understanding the principles of Earth’s rotation and revolution, or the movement of the moon as a satellite, many natural phenomena could be explained.

Xiang He asked, “Why wouldn’t it benefit me much?”

Zhu Xiang laughed, “Because you might stop believing in deities and auspicious signs altogether.”

Xiang He couldn’t help but laugh. “If that’s all, don’t worry, Lord Zhu Xiang. I never really believed in them anyway.”

The Mohists believed in ghosts and spirits not out of devotion, but because they saw them as a tool to regulate human behavior. Like the Confucians, they respected such beliefs but did not blindly obey them.

In other words, if a Mohist discovered a ghost harming the people, they would raise their sword without hesitation.

So, if Xiang He discovered through study that some ghosts didn’t exist, then so be it—they simply didn’t exist.

Zhu Xiang said, “Very well. If you want to learn, I’ll teach you.”

Instilling in Xiang He a correct understanding of astronomy and geography might one day benefit the development of natural science in Huaxia.

He wasn’t worried about being burned at the stake for proposing heliocentrism or planetary theory. Huaxia had never been that kind of place.

The invention of the armillary sphere during the Han period already proved that.

Xiang He chuckled again, then his expression turned wistful. “Following Lord Zhu Xiang, there’s always something unexpected to learn.”

Zhu Xiang fanned himself with the straw hat. “And yet I still can’t resolve your inner confusion, can I?”

Xiang He asked, “Lord Zhu Xiang knows what’s troubling me?”

Zhu Xiang glanced at him. “Of course. Every philosophical school was founded with a strong and clear purpose. The same goes for the Mohists and Agronomists. Isn’t that right, Xu Ming?”

Xu Ming, silent and rustic like an old farmer, replied, “Yes.”

While fanning himself, Zhu Xiang looked out at the shimmering lake. “You chose Qin because it had the best chance of unifying the world. Farmers and artisans stand at the very bottom of society. During times of unrest, they suffer the most. To save them, the world must first be at peace.”

“But even if Qin does unify the world, their lives might improve a little, but not by much,” Xu Ming said, his eyes calm as still water. “I know that aside from Lord Zhu Xiang, no other noble would ever share in the farmers’ suffering. I see no path forward.”

Xiang He added, “Nor do I see a path for universal love.”

Zhu Xiang smiled bitterly. “Don’t just say you don’t know the path to your ideals—I don’t know it either. Nor do the Confucians, Legalists, or Daoists. No matter how the world progresses, there will always be those standing above others.”

Xu Ming asked, “Is there no road at all?”

Zhu Xiang hadn’t intended to say all this to Xu Ming and Xiang He. But seeing how spiritless they were when they came to find him—despite their high status and better lives—he couldn’t bear to disappoint them. They seemed like they were grasping for one last strand of hope.

He hesitated for a long time before finally saying, “Suppose the future turns out like this…”

He began to describe the future world.

Agricultural taxes were abolished, and rural healthcare was being implemented—but farmers still lived hard lives. Small-time craftsmen could make a fortune through labor, but also risked losing everything, and their social status remained low… There was a country—not perfect—where many lived unhappily, with such intense social contradictions that people had to uninstall all their social media just to breathe.

If Huaxia looked like this in a thousand years, would they be disappointed?

Xu Ming and Xiang He were entranced.

The guards behind Zhu Xiang all perked up their ears, craning their necks to catch his voice—clear but not loud—not wanting to miss a single word.

They had heard many people describe their visions of the future.

Xu Ming and Xiang He had both told their disciples about their ideal worlds countless times.

Xunzi had also spoken often with Zhu Xiang about the Confucian dream of a great harmonious society.

Even Lin Zhi had painted his vision of the ancient sage world described by Laozi…

But Zhu Xiang’s vision of the future was different.

That world didn’t seem especially beautiful—it was full of flaws. Yet it also contained astonishing wonders they never dared imagine. The more they thought about it—with all its discontent, grievances, and shadows—they realized it was somehow more desirable than the utopias they had envisioned.

Zhu Xiang gave a rough account of his past life, then took a sip from his bamboo flask to moisten his throat.

He touched the water droplets on his lips and asked again, “If we gave it everything we had, and a thousand years later Huaxia looked like this, would you lose hope? Would you lose the will to strive forward?”

Xu Ming and Xiang He came back to themselves.

They raised their hands and covered their faces.

“Lord Zhu Xiang, are you disappointed?” Xiang He asked, choking with emotion.

Zhu Xiang smiled. “No. To reach that distant and seemingly unreachable future, I will do everything I can. Even if what I’m doing now amounts to no more than a tiny ripple in the future over a thousand years from now—or even if that ripple has long since vanished.”

Xu Ming covered his face, voice trembling. “Neither am I. This is enough. Really, this is enough for me. I’m content.”

Xiang He said, “If the future over a thousand years from now looks like this, then another thousand years later, it’ll surely be even better.”

Zhu Xiang stood up, put his straw hat back on, and patted off the bits of dirt and grass from his body.

“Well, that’ll depend on whether the people a thousand years from now can uphold the idea that ‘the future will be better.’” He reached out his hands to Xiang He and Xu Ming. “We can’t see a thousand years ahead. And the people a thousand years ahead can’t see their own future. So we’re all walking in the dark.”

That’s why I’m luckier than them—and luckier than you.

Xiang He and Xu Ming lowered their hands from their tear-streaked faces and clasped Zhu Xiang’s hands.

“Lord Zhu Xiang, what must I do for the world you spoke of?”

“I will always follow you.”

“A lot,” Zhu Xiang replied. “First, we need to preserve ideas that value farmers and laborers. Then, we must break through superstition and establish a rational methodology for studying the world.”

“No food without farmers. No tools without craftsmen. Food production and tool-making are the foundation of a nation. I call all this ‘productive forces.’ The Mohist and Agrarian schools represent the most fundamental forms of productivity.”

“Because they’re so fundamental, they’re easily overlooked. In the future, people who study these ideas might even be considered lowly or as having ‘given up on ambition.’”

Zhu Xiang gave a bitter laugh and continued, “Just like how I’m now personally overseeing the fields. So while the influence of the Mohists and Agrarians still lingers, and while you’re still regarded as virtuous men, you must set an example for the future. The ignorant descendants will only follow the footsteps of sages. You must become those sages.”

Xiang He asked, “Surely Lord Zhu Xiang will be a sage.”

Xu Ming also nodded.

Zhu Xiang shook his head. “Me alone? Far from enough. Besides, I…”

He paused for a long time, then sighed. “My status is high. Perhaps people in the future will focus more on my private dealings with the King of Qin and other high officials, and ignore my thoughts and convictions.”

“For example, they might say I’m divine, fabricate an illustrious ancestry for me, and refuse to admit I was a commoner.”

“I don’t help the commoners out of pity. I help them because I am one of them. But people in the future won’t see it that way. They’ll take everything I’ve strived for as the noble virtue of some lofty aristocrat, as if it were a condescending act of charity toward the lower class.”

“I’m a close friend of a future King of Qin. I’m also the maternal uncle of another future King of Qin. I’m one of the most exalted individuals in the entire Qin state—perhaps even the Qin dynasty,” Zhu Xiang said. “That’s why you must become sages. Because you’re Mohists, Agrarians. In the eyes of posterity, you’ll seem more pure, more like sages. They’ll be more willing to learn from your ideas.”

Xu Ming and Xiang He didn’t fully grasp what Zhu Xiang meant at this moment.

Zhu Xiang didn’t continue explaining.

He couldn’t explain it. How would he even begin? There were too many “memes” about him. Perhaps people in the future would be obsessed with turning him into a meme, weaving countless amusing anecdotes and folklore, all while ignoring the truths he wanted to pass down.

Zhu Xiang himself didn’t mind. If future generations could be entertained, that was fine too. But as a sage—he probably didn’t qualify.

Especially because he would become an in-law of the First Emperor of Qin.

“Enough rest. Let’s move.” Zhu Xiang said, “There’s still a lot to do today. Hopefully, we can reach the next county before nightfall.”

Xu Ming and Xiang He quickly wiped their faces and hands, then mounted their horses to travel to the next destination with Zhu Xiang.

They inspected farmlands, urged county magistrates to build irrigation canals, waterwheels, and stone mills.

They also gathered seeds of crops different from those in Qin. Zhu Xiang would use these to hybridize and cultivate new varieties.

He had already relocated the vegetable gardens to Wu Commandery. Once they returned, he planned to cultivate new vegetables.

Cabbage, oh cabbage—when will you finally appear?

Zhu Xiang hummed an out-of-tune melody, sighing inwardly.

That humble cabbage from the dining table—he had traveled from Zhao to Qin, from before Ying Zheng was even born, and now that Ying Zheng was already over nine years old—he still hadn’t managed to grow one.

One person’s strength is just too limited.

Now that Xu Ming and Xiang He had given up wealth and official rank to continue following him, he figured it was time to let them join in as well.

Zhu Xiang had, in fact, taught many disciples. But although they had come to value the land like he did, they focused mostly on guiding farming techniques. They couldn’t devote themselves to crop breeding like he did.

At this time—and for a long time after—the goal of scholars was to become officials.

Whether for wealth and power or for their ideals, the path always led through officialdom.

Zhu Xiang understood that, so he gave them his blessings and quietly continued his own work.

That’s why he really had no time to go be the Chancellor.

I wonder if Zheng’er is doing a good job as Governor of Wu Commandery. With Meng Tian and Li Si, both future heavyweights, by his side, things should be easier, right?

At the Wu Commandery Governor’s Office, a small figure sat high on a large chair, his legs now longer but still unable to touch the ground. Ying Zheng puffed up his cheeks and kicked his legs, slamming the table with a loud bang:

“You call this getting things done? You’re just slacking off!”

Meng Tian and Li Si stood in front of him, arms full of trembling documents.

Thank goodness Li Mu had come to Wu Commandery and built a paper workshop. Now most of the documents were on paper—if they had still been bamboo slips, the way these two shook, they would’ve dropped the whole pile by now.

Ying Zheng grabbed a “report” Li Si had just completed and jabbed at it with his finger.

“Who taught you to keep accounts like this? All the numbers are a mess—who can read this? Didn’t I give you examples? Don’t you know how to use tables? Simple notation? Can’t even draw a chart? I’ve taught you so many times—did you remember a single word?!”

Li Si said awkwardly, “I… I’m still learning… still learning…”

He really hadn’t meant to ignore Lord Zheng’s standards—he just hadn’t learned it yet. But Prince Zheng gave him a deadline, so he had to hand something in!

“And you, Meng Tian—do you even know how to count?!” Ying Zheng put down the report and threw a document at Meng Tian.

But the paper was too light and didn’t make it. At that moment, Ying Zheng really wished he were still using bamboo slips—so he could smack Meng Tian with them.

Oh great Ying Zheng, was Meng Tian really your favorite general? What did you like about him? That he couldn’t count?!

Meng Tian didn’t dare say a word.

Of course he could count—he was actually quite good at math.

But Lord Zheng’s standards were too high. The ledgers he was asked to compile required so many calculations, he had stayed up all night with counting rods and still couldn’t finish. As a result, the second half was a complete disaster.

Ying Zheng took a deep breath. “I even cut the workload in half for you—and you still couldn’t finish?!”

Meng Tian kept apologizing, silently.

“AAAAHHHHH!” Ying Zheng clutched his little topknot in frustration. “Why isn’t my uncle back yet?! And not only is he not back—he took everyone with him!”

This wasn’t his first time serving as acting governor.

Back in Shu Commandery, when Li Bing focused on waterworks, he had asked Zhu Xiang to take over part of the governor’s responsibilities. Zhu Xiang had delegated part of the work to Ying Zheng.

But back then, although Li Bing was away, he still handled part of the duties. Most financial matters were overseen by Zhu Xiang, who also handled the accounts. Zhu Xiang had brought many disciples, and they were all able to assist Ying Zheng.

Now in Wu Commandery, most of those who had followed Zhu Xiang south had become officials in Southern Qin. A small number had returned to Xianyang Academy to further their studies.

Zhu Xiang had brought a new group from Xianyang Academy, but most of the students there had already taken positions under professors like Xunzi—who served at the Qin king’s side. That was far more attractive than “going out into the field” with Zhu Xiang.

The few students he had now—some stayed in Southern Commandery, others followed Zhu Xiang. They had refused the lure of central power in Qin and chosen to walk the new lands with Zhu Xiang, measuring them with their own feet rather than sitting in Wu City processing paperwork.

So beside the local officials of Wu Commandery, Ying Zheng only had Li Si and Meng Tian—Zhu Xiang had jokingly called them the “Two Mighty Generals of Grumble and Groan.”

The Wu officials couldn’t keep up with Ying Zheng’s efficiency, so he had to pin his hopes on these two future heavyweights of the Qin empire.

He had estimated the amount of work he could handle and cut it in half for the two of them. Yet even with that, they still couldn’t finish it.

Ying Zheng was furious.

If not for the old servant his uncle had left behind before departing—who kept a watchful eye on him to ensure he got the four hours of quality sleep his uncle had strictly instructed—he could’ve simply cut two hours from his own sleep and done all the work himself!

“Zheng’er, if children stay up late, not only will they not grow tall, but they’ll also gain stress weight. You don’t want to grow into a short, chubby lump, do you?”

His uncle’s devilish voice echoed in Ying Zheng’s mind.

Ying Zheng clutched his head and shook it violently.

Uncle, get lost!

After mentally cursing him out, Ying Zheng folded his arms and glared furiously at the two close aides. “Looks like I’ll have to teach you both from scratch.”

He had to admit—his uncle was right again.

Before leaving, his uncle had warned him that although Meng Tian and Li Si were capable, they weren’t used to Ying Zheng’s work methods. The tools Ying Zheng had already mastered—numerical symbols, abacuses, charts—were entirely foreign to them. Of course, they couldn’t keep up with his efficiency.

His uncle had advised him to temporarily put down his work and teach them these tools first before gradually increasing the workload.

But when Ying Zheng saw the mountains of documents that had piled up after Li Mu came to “fetch” both him and his uncle, he immediately rolled up his sleeves and got to work.

He couldn’t tolerate leaving work unfinished. Who had the time to teach people first?

The tools were so simple. He figured if he just demonstrated once, Li Si and Meng Tian would pick them up as they worked.

Now, his trust had been let down.

“Is it that hard?” Ying Zheng ground his teeth. He barely had any left, and now another one felt loose from all the clenching.

The two lowered their heads in silence.

What could they say? That they’d never even heard of the tools Ying Zheng taught them, and instinctively resisted them?

If they said that, they’d probably be thrown out on the spot.

Only after witnessing how much faster Ying Zheng worked than them did they realize those strange symbols and diagrams might actually be useful.

But even then, those symbols and charts were so completely different from the numbers and arithmetic they knew that, even with examples to follow, they still couldn’t grasp them.

To be blunt, looking at Ying Zheng’s samples felt like staring at ghostly scribbles. Staring too long even made circles appear in their vision.

Just as Ying Zheng was about to resume scolding them, Zhu Xiang’s voice came from outside.

To Meng Tian and Li Si, Zhu Xiang’s voice sounded like that of a celestial being—enough to move them to tears.

“Zheng’er! I told you to nap at noon every day. Why are you still working?”

The anger swelling in Ying Zheng instantly vanished, replaced by panic.

He jumped down from his seat and bolted behind the screen. Behind it was a small bed—he wanted to pretend he was taking a nap.

He ran so fast he forgot to take off his shoes.

Zhu Xiang lifted the thin blanket in one swift motion, looked at Ying Zheng lying there with his hands crossed on his chest pretending to sleep, and said, half amused and half exasperated, “I heard you yelling all the way from the door. Who are you trying to fool? You didn’t even take your shoes off!”

Ying Zheng opened his eyes. “Uncle, why are you back?”

“I told you I’d come back every half-month, didn’t I? What’s wrong—work not going well?”

“Hmph.” Ying Zheng buried his face under the pillow.

He didn’t want to admit he hadn’t followed his uncle’s advice and thus ran into trouble. Although his uncle would soon find out anyway.

“Not sleepy? If not, then get up first. I brought fresh lotus seeds and made a lotus seed and white fungus soup to nourish you,” Zhu Xiang said. “It’s only been half a month, and your cheeks are already less chubby.”

Zhu Xiang pulled his nephew out from under the pillow and gently pinched his cheeks with concern.

They were still soft, but the baby fat had noticeably reduced.

With his cheeks being squished, Ying Zheng mumbled, “Less fat is better.”

“Nap first, or soup first?” Zhu Xiang asked.

“I can’t sleep, I’m too mad,” Ying Zheng said.

Zhu Xiang asked curiously, “What got you so angry? Weren’t Meng Tian and Li Si supposed to be competent?”

“They’re far from it,” Ying Zheng snorted.

Zhu Xiang had a good guess what happened. He rubbed the small tuft of hair on top of his nephew’s head and said, “Rest first. I’ll take care of what they couldn’t handle.”

With that, he lifted Ying Zheng into his arms.

“I can walk myself,” Ying Zheng murmured, wrapping his arms around his uncle’s neck.

“Let your uncle carry you a few more times while I still can. Once you get bigger, I won’t be able to anymore,” Zhu Xiang said.

Lying against Zhu Xiang’s shoulder, Ying Zheng suddenly felt drowsy.

He yawned, rested his cheek on his uncle’s shoulder, and closed his eyes.

Zhu Xiang looked at his nephew’s exhausted face and smiled helplessly with a sigh.

Seems he shouldn’t have placed so much faith in his little First Emperor nephew this time. He’d thought Zheng’er had handled things well enough in Xianyang and Shu Commandery, so it’d be the same this time. That’s why he’d dared leave.

Zhu Xiang pretended to walk outside, and once Ying Zheng’s breathing evened out, he returned behind the screen and gently laid him back onto the small bed. He took off the boy’s shoes and clothes, tucked him under the thin blanket.

Just like always, Ying Zheng slept like a piglet full of food. Even as Zhu Xiang moved him around, he only let out a few grunts, eyes still shut tight in deep sleep.

Zhu Xiang rubbed his nephew’s face, then stepped outside the screen and gestured to the stiff, nervous Meng Tian and Li Si to carry the documents into another room.

The two quickly followed him.

After skimming through the mess of documents Ying Zheng had crumpled together, Zhu Xiang chuckled and shook his head.

He had suggested that Ying Zheng teach the two men the number symbols and diagram tools first, but Ying had been too impatient. He wanted them to learn while working. After half a month, they hadn’t picked it up at all—and that’s when Ying Zheng panicked.

This kind of thing often happened when a professor took on students.

Of course, this kind of “professor” didn’t teach hands-on. Once the students were brought in, the veterans would throw them into the workflow.

The experienced seniors thought the tools were simple and assumed newbies could learn by doing. Newcomers, however, were clueless—some bold enough to ask questions, some too timid and just muddled through, falling further behind.

Meng Tian and Li Si clearly didn’t dare bombard Ying Zheng with questions, so they remained in the dark.

Zhu Xiang now regretted it a little. Maybe he shouldn’t have emphasized the difference in status between ruler and ministers so early.

If he’d tried to foster a closer relationship between the three, maybe Zheng’er would’ve been a little more tolerant for his sake.

But as soon as that thought arose, he suppressed it.

He had purposely stayed out of how Ying Zheng dealt with his new subordinates because he knew how out-of-place his own views were. Even if he didn’t instruct anything directly, others might observe his actions and pick up on the wrong ideas—potentially disastrous ones.

He could maintain his current position only because he had the title of a great sage, the help of friends, long-standing ties with Xia Tong, and the bond of raising Zheng’er.

Meng Tian and Li Si, if they were to become high-ranking ministers under Ying Zheng, needed to understand the ruler-minister distinction as early as possible.

“Zheng’er can never be wrong” wasn’t just an indulgent joke—it was a fact.

King Zheng of Qin, and the future Qin Shi Huang, couldn’t be wrong. Even if mistakes occurred, it was the ministers’ job to bear the blame—not the king’s.

Zhu Xiang had once hoped Meng Tian, the son of an old friend, could become friends with Ying Zheng—just like Xia Tong and himself.

But after spending these years with Ying Zheng, Zhu Xiang realized that was impossible.

If Xia Tong had only met him after encountering Lu Buwei, they wouldn’t have become friends either.

Their friendship was only possible because, at the time, Xia Tong never imagined he’d one day become King of Qin. They met as equals.

Zhu Xiang put away his wistfulness and smiled, saying, “You two have worked hard. You did well. Zheng’er is just too demanding. But to keep up with him, you’ll need to keep learning. I’ll teach you both before I leave again.”

Li Si and Meng Tian quickly bowed in thanks.

Zhu Xiang sighed. “I should’ve opened an arithmetic course in Xianyang Academy. You both studied there—how could you know nothing about this?”

Li Si and Meng Tian exchanged a glance.

Did the academy even teach these symbols?

Zhu Xiang hadn’t interfered much in Xianyang Academy’s affairs. It was a sensitive institution, filled with the brightest minds from across the land.

He already had too much influence as a royal relative. The academy was closely tied to him. If he paid it too much attention, it would easily arouse the king’s suspicion.

Even now, though King Zhu was mild-mannered, he was still the King of Qin. Zhu Xiang always had to remember his place.

Although he acted “recklessly” around the king, in truth, he was always careful. He stayed far from power, never meddled in decisions that could shake the state’s governance, and kept himself weak—Zhu Xiang didn’t even have retainers or bodyguards. His safety and honor depended entirely on the king.

Any random noble or minister in Xianyang had more personal protection than Zhu Xiang—let alone the lords with their own fiefdoms.

Because he was so “weak,” he could still walk away unharmed after arguing with the king and stealing his sheep.

But thinking about how he’d designed so many useful courses for Xianyang Academy, only for them to apparently be ignored, made Zhu Xiang feel slightly bold.

“I’ll write to the king. These things are really useful for officials—they must be taught,” Zhu Xiang sighed. “You can’t just study laws and moral essays. If you don’t know arithmetic, how can you handle administrative duties? You can’t expect scribes to do all your work while you just stamp documents.”

That’s how many feudal officials ended up in later dynasties.

Because they advanced through civil exams focused solely on classical texts, they knew nothing about administration. Some couldn’t even read account books.

So as local officials, they’d hire tons of scribes—who ended up holding real power. And those scribes were often from local influential families, effectively putting the power of local governments into the hands of local gentry.

That’s why “even a powerful dragon cannot suppress a local snake.”

But the Qin state wasn’t like that—yet.

Thanks to its detailed laws, Qin officials had heavy responsibilities. They had to handle everything themselves, and those who made no errors in evaluations were often skilled administrators.

It was precisely because Qin’s officials were so good at administration that, after unifying the empire, they couldn’t find enough qualified officials—and the local systems began to fall apart.

Zhu Xiang had proposed building Xianyang Academy to fix that flaw early. But if the academy only trained “elite talent,” it missed the point.

He sighed again.

Would Xunzi be mad that he’d meddled in the academy’s affairs? Probably not. But the other “professors” might complain.

If they didn’t, Li Si and Meng Tian wouldn’t be so clueless about the material.

Zhu Xiang scratched his head in frustration.

He was in Xianyang, yet still didn’t know what was going on at the academy. Without modern media, unless one deliberately asked around, they were basically blind and deaf.

If even he didn’t know, how could people in distant regions get accurate news?

But even though he knew this flaw existed, Zhu Xiang didn’t dare suggest the king start a newspaper.

These were times when “keeping the people ignorant” was still mainstream policy. He had already stretched limits by establishing official schools for training bureaucrats. If he pushed for free speech, even King Zhu might beat him with a ruler.

He’d once tried to bring it up, and Lin Zhi quickly shut him down.

Back in the Zhou dynasty, city dwellers could discuss politics in taverns, and there were officials to report public sentiment—basically the ancestors of novelists.

But as central feudal power grew, such practices dwindled.

Especially in Qin. Since the Shang Yang reforms, speaking recklessly about politics in public could get you executed.

Most philosophies now promoted “ignorant simplicity”—keeping the populace straightforward and obedient. Opening free speech channels among the common people would only be possible once feudalism began to collapse.

Right now, the world needed unity. Unity required unified thought—which meant suppressing dissent.

Qin Shi Huang’s infamous book burning was a direct result of that.

And not just him. Most emperors who “compiled books” actually wanted to control which books circulated. Qin Shi Huang was just more heavy-handed—and then Xiang Yu torched all the palace backups.

Usually, new dynasties protected old records, because their legitimacy relied on inherited knowledge.

Zhu Xiang shook his head to rid himself of such wild thoughts, then sent the exhausted Li Si and Meng Tian home to rest while he handled the rest of the paperwork himself.