HCT – Chapter 137 Smoked Bamboo Shoots Braised with Beef Brisket

Ying Zheng still got to eat beef in the end.

The cow belonged to Meng Wu’s household. As the prefect of Nanjun, Meng Wu owned many estates in the region, and naturally, plenty of cattle as well.

The Qin state was promoting cattle plowing in Nanjun. The government raised oxen and lent them out at low rates to farmers during the spring planting season.

During times of agricultural encouragement—like now—the government even provided oxen for free. All the farmers needed to do was sign a waiver agreeing to repay any loss of oxen with labor service.

But as a prefect, Meng Wu didn’t need to rely on state-owned oxen. His family had plenty. Never mind just eating one cow—if Ying Zheng wanted to slaughter ten of them, the Meng household servants would bring them forward without hesitation.

And if Meng Wu were here, and Ying Zheng willingly called him “Uncle Meng,” he’d probably hand over all his oxen on the spot and spend a fortune restocking them himself.

Of course, if that really happened, Zhu Xiang would just glare at him and say, “Get lost,” and still only take one small calf—enough to eat.

It was almost as if Meng Wu could smell what was going on. He had already gone south, but the day after Zhu Xiang arrived at his estate—the one with the most bamboo—he returned home just as they were in the middle of smoking bamboo shoots.

When he walked in, the Zhu household servants and his own were in the back kitchen, slaughtering one of his cows.

Ying Zheng even asked him, “Uncle Meng, the cow I’m eating is one you seized from Baiyue, right? It’s a war trophy, not a plowing ox, so I’m not breaking any Qin laws—correct?”

Before Meng Wu could answer, Zhu Xiang snapped, “Yeah, yeah, sure—it’s all from Baiyue. Everything’s from Baiyue. Meng Wu seized it all. Why are you just standing there? Come help me already.”

Meng Wu, still dazed, had just changed into clean clothes, only to get covered in ash again.

“What are you doing?” he asked, while helping out.

“Smoking bamboo shoots,” Zhu Xiang replied. “I’m making smoked bamboo shoots braised with beef brisket for Zheng’er. The dish only tastes right with smoked shoots. Want anything to eat?”

“Anything’s fine. I can eat whatever,” said Meng Wu.

Zhu Xiang grinned wickedly, “Then how about some deep-fried bamboo worms from the grove? Tasty stuff.”

Meng Wu: “…”

He shot Zhu Xiang a look that clearly said, Seriously?

Zhu Xiang burst out laughing.

In the end, the menu was settled as three meat dishes: chicken with bamboo shoot tips, smoked bamboo shoots braised with brisket, and stir-fried pork with sliced shoots.

While making the pork stir-fry, Zhu Xiang was reminded of a funny story about Su Dongpo.

Su Dongpo had once solemnly told his cousin Wen Tong that mixing meat and bamboo shoots was like a petty man bullying a gentleman—bamboo shoots were meant for vegetarian dishes. Wen Tong took him seriously and reflected on it for ages.

Yet Su Dongpo himself loved braised pork with bamboo shoots. He even wrote poetry about it—eating spring shoots with pork, he said, was “neither vulgar nor plain,” elegant and nourishing. It made him blissfully happy.

Talk about having it both ways.

Then again, people in ancient times likely didn’t think so deeply about their words being recorded. Sometimes they just joked or spoke off the cuff—saying one thing and doing another wasn’t uncommon.

It was later generations who mythologized them, overanalyzing everything.

Like when Su Dongpo teased Wen Tong—it probably had nothing to do with morality or context. He was just picking on his cousin, like close brothers do.

“If people heard I was eating smoked bamboo shoots with beef,” Zhu Xiang laughed, “do you think they’d spin it into something really refined?”

As he split ornamental bamboo into firewood, Meng Wu said, “How would I know?”

“Come on, make something up,” Zhu Xiang grinned. “Zheng’er, help your uncle think of something too.”

Ying Zheng tossed the bamboo husks he’d gathered into the fire pit. “Think of what?”

“Praises for your uncle,” Zhu Xiang said.

“I don’t do flattery,” Ying Zheng replied flatly. “Don’t ask me.”

Meng Wu sighed. “Fresh shoots represent clarity, and beef, turbidity. Their combination is like the harmony of yin and yang—a reflection of Lord Zhu’s noble philosophy of health and balance?”

Ying Zheng paused, firewood in hand, stunned. “Uncle Meng… you can actually come up with that?”

Meng Wu chuckled. “I used to be an attendant to the King of Qin. I do know how to talk a little.”

Ying Zheng frowned. “Then how come Meng Tian can’t talk? I’ve never heard him say a single flattering word. He’s like a mute—just silently does his work all day.”

“That’s odd,” Meng Wu said. “Tian’er can talk just fine.”

“Maybe he’s too tired from work,” Zhu Xiang offered. “Once he gets older, he’ll learn to juggle both duties and compliments.”

Zhu Xiang understood how demanding Ying Zheng could be. Even though he had persuaded him to slow down and be patient with Meng Tian, Meng Tian still had to give it his all to keep up. He probably had no energy left to figure out how to butter up Ying Zheng.

And with Ying Zheng’s personality, empty compliments without results would only backfire.

“That won’t do,” Meng Wu frowned. “Flattery is a key skill for an attendant. I’ll have to drill it into him.”

Ying Zheng kept tossing husks into the fire. “Flattery is a job now? Uncle, Uncle Meng is setting a bad example for me.”

Zhu Xiang joked, “Why not? Isn’t one of a royal attendant’s duties to keep his lord in a good mood?”

Ying Zheng: “…” No rebuttal.

He snorted. “Careful, Uncle. Say too much of that and someone might start rumors about Meng Tian ‘serving with his looks.’”

Zhu Xiang nearly burned his hand. “Zheng’er, who taught you that?”

“No one. It’s everywhere,” Ying Zheng said.

Zhu Xiang thought about it. Fair enough—the high ranks of the Warring States were a mess.

Speaking of attendants keeping rulers happy, they couldn’t avoid talking about the Liu family.

It was widely known that Han emperors were often bisexual. They had a position called “langzhong,” selecting attractive noble boys to serve at court. This role wasn’t unlike a royal guard in Qing dynasty dramas—a legitimate path for noble sons to rise through the ranks. Even in the Warring States, there was a similar role called langzhong.

But because of the Han emperors’ preferences, langzhongs often became romantic companions. These weren’t just pretty playthings or catamites—it was mutual affection.

Amusingly, when the elite Cui clan of the Tang dynasty bragged about their ancestry, they claimed a documented ancestor who had served as a langzhong.

Of course, not all langzhongs were chosen by the emperor. That Cui ancestor was likely a regular one.

Zhu Xiang found it funny and turned the Han dynasty into some obscure Spring and Autumn state just to share the tale with Ying Zheng and Meng Wu.

Having once been a royal attendant himself, and now with a son set to serve as one, Meng Wu wanted no part of the story.

Ying Zheng, however, burst out laughing, sending ash flying from the bamboo husks in his hands.

“Don’t worry, Uncle Meng. I’m not that kind of person.” Ying Zheng’s stomach hurt from laughing. His uncle always had the best jokes. “Still, it’s pretty common for nobles to gain power through their looks and then help their families rise. Didn’t Wei have that Lord Longyang?”

“I think so,” Zhu Xiang said. “He was supposedly quite talented too—good with a sword?”

Meng Wu snorted. “Talented or not, he couldn’t compare to Lord Xinling. The King of Wei favoring Longyang over Xinling—that’s a foolish ruler.”

Zhu Xiang rolled his eyes. “Don’t compare them. If Xinling were here, he’d challenge you to a duel.”

Meng Wu stacked his neatly chopped firewood. “He wouldn’t beat me.”

Zhu Xiang eyed the tidy pile—it was the stuff of a perfectionist’s dreams—and felt a mischievous itch.

Ying Zheng also stared at the woodpile, his dark eyes unreadable.

Then, uncle and nephew exchanged a glance—perfectly in sync—and simultaneously left the firepit.

Meng Wu: “?”

Meng Wu: “!”

The neatly stacked firewood collapsed with a loud crash under their combined effort.

The pair wore identical, satisfied grins.

“Something about perfectly stacked stuff just makes you want to knock it down. So satisfying!” Zhu Xiang said.

Ying Zheng didn’t speak, but his face clearly agreed.

Zhu Xiang added, “Meng Wu, want to stack it again?”

Meng Wu raised a fist the size of a clay pot. “Stack this, why don’t you!”

Zhu Xiang bolted, climbing a tree in a flash—quicker than a monkey. Who knew where he got that kind of agility.

Meng Wu punched the tree in frustration, making it shake violently.

Ying Zheng quietly took over his uncle’s task and continued smoking bamboo shoots over the fire.

He shook his head and sighed dramatically. Uncle really was something else—such a grown man, yet still so childish. This must be the first time Uncle Meng got so mad he actually chased after Uncle to beat him up, right? Why was Uncle always so troublesome?

Perched arrogantly up in a tree, Zhu Xiang shouted, “It wasn’t just me who knocked over the firewood pile—Zheng’er helped too! If you’ve got the guts, go beat Zheng’er! Bullying the weak and fearing the strong, that’s what you do!”

Meng Wu sneered, “If a son goes uneducated, it’s the father’s fault. Of course I’m beating you!”

Zhu Xiang replied, “Then you should go beat Xia Tong. Go on, go to Xianyang and beat up Xia Tong.”

Meng Wu was so furious he jumped with rage. Ying Zheng kept shaking his head and sighing with exaggerated woe.

The ruckus only ended when Li Mu arrived.

Li Mu’s visit to Nanjun wasn’t just to fetch Zhu Xiang—who, if left unchecked, would no doubt hang around Nanjun for ages with Zheng’er and abandon all duties in Wu Commandery—but also to consult Meng Wu about the situation with the Baiyue tribes south of Nanjun.

When the Qin army eventually marched south, the campaign would push forward across the entire front, from east to west. It wouldn’t be a single-route invasion. And the one commanding multiple armies across the region would likely be Li Mu himself, so he had come early to gather intelligence.

By his estimation, he had left Xianyang only two days after Ying Zheng, and arrived a day and a half later.

After asking for directions, he headed straight for the villa Meng Wu had lent Zhu Xiang, entering without waiting for a servant to announce him.

Before he even saw anyone, he heard Zhu Xiang’s aggravating voice. Li Mu paused, then quickened his pace. Upon stepping through the gate, he saw exactly what he expected: Zhu Xiang had climbed another tree, and Meng Wu was threatening to chop it down with an axe in hand.

“What now?” Li Mu asked irritably. “Zhu Xiang, get down!”

Zhu Xiang clung to the trunk and yelled, “I’ll come down if you stop Meng Wu from beating me.”

Li Mu sighed, “He’s not going to hit you. If he really did, do you think you’d still be alive? Come down—don’t set a bad example for Zheng’er.”

Meng Wu seized the chance to complain: “Li Mu, perfect timing! Judge this for me. I just finished stacking that woodpile, and Zhu Xiang, that bastard, brought Zheng’er over and knocked it all down! Then they told me to stack it again! Isn’t he corrupting Zheng’er? Doesn’t he deserve a beating?”

Li Mu looked puzzled. “That’s it? You’re this mad just because of that?”

Meng Wu: “……”

The corners of Zhu Xiang’s mouth lifted in triumph.

Ying Zheng struggled to contain his laughter—then burst out in a hearty “hahahaha.”

Meng Wu spat on the ground and muttered curses under his breath.

Li Mu genuinely didn’t get it—was such a small thing really worth getting this worked up over? But he was emotionally intelligent enough to see Meng Wu was truly angry, so he put on a stern face and said, “Have Zhu Xiang rebuild the pile himself. If that doesn’t calm you down, you can knock it over once too. How’s that?”

Meng Wu said, “Deal!”

Li Mu turned to the tree. “You hear that? Come down.”

“I didn’t agree to this,” Zhu Xiang muttered, but still climbed down, grumbling as he went.

Li Mu watched Zhu Xiang’s tree-climbing technique and covered his eyes, cursing Lin Zhi under his breath.

Zhu Xiang’s every move mimicked Lin Zhi’s climbing style exactly. He had clearly learned from him. Corrupted by bad influence, no doubt.

“Come on, Zheng’er. We knocked it down together, so we build it back together,” Zhu Xiang said, determined not to be punished alone.

Ying Zheng sighed, “Okay.”

The uncle-nephew duo, who had just knocked down the firewood, now happily played “building blocks” with it again, both wearing wide smiles.

Meng Wu felt even more depressed.

Was this supposed to be punishment?

Forget it—what else could he do? Actually beat Zhu Xiang? He didn’t dare go that far.

At that moment, Meng Wu had a realization.

Why did Zhu Xiang always run away in exaggerated fashion, putting as much distance as possible between himself and potential beatings?

Because deep down, Zhu Xiang knew—even if he stood still—his friends would never really hurt him.

Meng Wu looked toward Li Mu.

Li Mu asked, “What?”

Meng Wu lowered his voice. “Zhu Xiang runs away even though he knows we won’t beat him… Is that his way of saving our face?”

Li Mu said, “You’re just figuring that out now?”

Meng Wu rubbed his nose and gave an awkward smile. The knot in his chest finally loosened.

Zhu Xiang and Ying Zheng finished rebuilding the woodpile, and in the end, Meng Wu couldn’t bring himself to knock it down again. “Fine, this’ll do.”

But then Zhu Xiang slyly pulled out a log from the bottom—and the whole pile came crashing down. Beaming, he proudly showed off his “ingenious” stacking technique.

Meng Wu: “……”

Forget it. One tantrum over such nonsense was enough.

He was going to eat a big meal today!

Li Mu joined the cooking crew.

He took charge of cutting the beef. His precise knife work, like a seasoned butcher, made Zhu Xiang’s eyelids twitch. He didn’t dare ask where Li Mu had learned those skills.

Had he asked, he’d know there was no need to fear. Li Mu had honed the technique while dividing beef for soldiers back in Yanmen Commandery.

“The smoked bamboo shoots smell amazing,” Ying Zheng sniffed the air. “Can we just snack on them plain?”

Zhu Xiang chuckled. His Zheng’er really was devoted to food.

“You can, but they’re tough to chew, so they’re usually used as a side ingredient,” Zhu Xiang explained. “But I can cook up some fresh shoots and toss them cold with seasoning as a snack for you.”

Ying Zheng said, “It’s a deal! Uncle, when we go home, don’t let Auntie cook anymore.”

Zhu Xiang said, “Your aunt is actually a pretty good cook. But her health isn’t great—she gets short of breath if she stays in the kitchen too long. You should be grateful she cooks for you.”

Ying Zheng looked aggrieved. “I am grateful! But Auntie takes Bian Que’s health advice too seriously. She follows everything he says about balanced nutrition. But healthy food tastes awful! Low oil, low salt, mostly boiled—how can that be tasty? Seriously!”

I’m still young! I want to eat unhealthy food full of oil, salt, and sugar!

Zhu Xiang laughed. “Alright, I’ll talk to her when we get back. Mothers can be a little overprotective sometimes.”

Though Ying Zheng still sounded wronged, his face carried a smug little grin. “I know. Auntie loves me best!”

“Li Mu, why’d you come to Wu Commandery?” Zhu Xiang poured him a cup of tangy fruit wine.

Li Mu said, “To drag you and Zheng’er back to work.”

Zhu Xiang: “……”

He turned to Ying Zheng. “Zheng’er, never let Li Mu become Chancellor. If he does, you’ll never catch a break.”

Ying Zheng nodded solemnly. “Uncle is right. I’ll make Uncle Lin Chancellor!”

Meng Wu turned away and covered his mouth, “Pfft—cough, cough, cough.”

Li Mu said, “Once the empire is unified and it’s time for peace and restoration, Lin Li as Chancellor is fine. He’s the best choice for stabilizing the nation.”

Zhu Xiang and Ying Zheng exchanged looks.

Zhu Xiang: Li Mu is no fun.

Ying Zheng: Totally.

They were joking, but Li Mu answered with total seriousness—how boring.

Meng Wu watched this exchange, thoughtful.

He understood! The way to survive Zhu Xiang and Zheng’er’s relentless teasing was… to keep a straight face and take everything seriously.

But did he have Li Mu’s self-control? Could he remain unshaken by Zhu Xiang’s antics? Meng Wu doubted himself.

No—he definitely doubted himself.

He sighed internally. Some people are destined for greatness. Others, like him, were born to be deputy generals and regional governors.

But still—clinging to someone powerful wasn’t a bad life. He was better suited to this. The lofty business of being generals and chancellors? Leave that to his sons. Every generation has its own blessings, and he had faith in his children.

Bamboo shoots really were the best match for pork, beef, chicken—and probably even fish. In short, bamboo shoots with meat was a foolproof combo.

Ying Zheng poured the smoked bamboo shoot and beef brisket sauce over his rice and wolfed down three bowls in a row. Li Mu and Meng Wu praised him, saying with an appetite like that, he could be a general someday.

Zhu Xiang had only one thought: Zheng’er was truly the living embodiment of the saying “a growing boy can eat a family into poverty.”

With a food intake like this, he’d be at least 1.8 meters tall someday.

Zhu Xiang had planned to stay longer in Nanjun to inspect the farmland. But with Li Mu personally coming to drag him back, he had no choice but to return to Wu Commandery, grumbling the whole way about how Li Mu was a slave driver.

Li Mu stood at the bow of the boat, sword in hand, letting the wind whip past him, treating Zhu Xiang’s complaints like background noise.

Ying Zheng sat to the side, pants rolled up, feet dangling in the water, singing Chu lyrics aloud.

After spending so long in the land of Chu, the melodies had seeped into his ears like a catchy pop song. He sang them without even realizing it.

Ying Zheng’s Chu dialect wasn’t very standard. Zhu Xiang listened for quite a while before realizing that what Ying Zheng was singing was probably the part from Qu Yuan’s poem about encountering a fisherman hermit—the lines about the river being either muddy or clear.

But Qu Yuan had rejected the hermit’s philosophy and did not agree with the attitude of “going with the flow.” Zhu Xiang wondered what Zheng’er would think.

Most likely, he’d reject it too. Zheng’er was a very stubborn person.

Zhu Xiang thought for a moment and felt like singing as well.

He took a qin (zither) out of his luggage, sat cross-legged at the bow of the boat, and used Li Bai’s To Li Yong to tease Ying Zheng:

“The great roc rises with the wind one day, soaring up ninety thousand li.
Even if it falls when the wind dies, it still stirs the vast ocean waters.
The world sees me as odd and mocks my lofty words.
But even Confucius feared the younger generation—
How can a man belittle the youth?”

Zhu Xiang had brought many Confucian scholars from Lu southward, and they were in other boats, nervously drifting along the river toward Wu Commandery.

On the journey, they had wanted to converse with Zhu Xiang but refrained when they saw he was busy with administrative affairs.

After arriving in Nan Commandery, they saw from a distance the young prince Ying Zheng who had come to welcome Zhu Xiang. They wanted to talk to this famously talented youth, but their status didn’t permit them to approach.

And when Zhu Xiang and Ying Zheng went to visit the governor of Nan Commandery, Meng Wu, they certainly couldn’t tag along—they were instead placed in another guest residence.

Now, seeing Zhu Xiang take out his qin, they tidied their clothing and prepared themselves to witness the poise and elegance of this great scholar.

The qin was a gentleman’s essential skill. It was used to cultivate one’s character and intellect. All Confucian gentlemen practiced it. There was even a saying: “To hear someone play the qin is to perceive their virtue through its strings.”

Surely Lord Zhu Xiang’s qin-playing would be the height of refinement?

But once Zhu Xiang sang, disappointed expressions spread across their faces.

His qin-playing was decent, and he wasn’t off-key, but the poem he chose? It followed no poetic meter—it sounded like a fisherman shouting rhythmically across the river.

Did Lord Zhu Xiang not study The Book of Songs?

Not only did the poem lack any rhyme or rhythm, its content was laughable. Like a teenager throwing a tantrum after being mocked—he even dared invoke Confucius! It made people shake their heads repeatedly.

But since the one singing was Lord Zhu Xiang, they only sighed in regret and didn’t think much more of it. Perhaps he had merely repeated something he’d heard from someone else in passing.

They wondered regretfully: When will Lord Zhu Xiang finally demonstrate his scholarly poise so we can observe and learn?

But while the Confucians were disappointed, Li Mu and Ying Zheng looked at Zhu Xiang with sparkling eyes.

Especially Ying Zheng—his next kick sent a much bigger splash into the air.

“Zhu Xiang,” said Li Mu, “this poem may lack proper rhythm, but its content isn’t bad.”

“No rhythm, but good content.”

Zhu Xiang burst into laughter.

Li Bai’s classic poem, an eternal favorite of angsty youths in later generations, received its highest praise in this era as merely: “Content’s not bad.”

Still, his friend and his nephew could accept and even appreciate a poem he liked, which kept Zhu Xiang from feeling too lonely in his amusement.

“Indeed, the content is good,” Zhu Xiang said. “Zheng’er, what do you think?”

Ying Zheng asked, “Is it for me?”

“Of course,” said Zhu Xiang. “Among all of us here, who else is still young?”

“You and Master Li aren’t old,” Ying Zheng replied.

He pondered for a moment. “A roc soars into the sky, becoming a giant fish that stirs the ocean—that’s from Zhuangzi’s Free and Easy Wandering, isn’t it?”

Zhu Xiang nodded.

Ying Zheng grinned. “If Uncle Lin heard this, he’d probably claim you were his disciple.”

“He’s always been shameless,” Zhu Xiang said. “So, comparing you to the roc and the kun—what do you think?”

“Well said!” Ying Zheng kicked at the water again, as if mimicking the great kun splashing through the waves. “But one line in your poem is wrong.”

He proudly added, “Though I am young, no one dares belittle me!”

Zhu Xiang and Li Mu burst out laughing and chorused, “Exactly right!”

Amid their laughter, the group returned to Wu Commandery.

Even after reaching Wu Commandery, the Lu scholars still didn’t get a chance to discuss scholarship with Zhu Xiang.

The summer harvest and planting were the most crucial periods in the double-cropping agricultural system. How could Zhu Xiang find time for academic exchange?

Looking at the slightly elevated temperature, Zhu Xiang was considering whether he could plant a third crop—winter wheat—after the late rice harvest.

In later times, Wu Commandery only allowed two harvests a year. But coastal plains like modern-day Wenzhou (formerly Dong’ou) could manage three. With the current heat, perhaps Wu could too.

Zhu Xiang decided to experiment on official and personal farmland. If successful, he’d promote it widely.

But farmers in Wu had only just gotten used to planting twice a year. Asking them to plant three times might trigger complaints.

The people of Chu and Yue were known for their easygoing ways. When Zhu Xiang pushed for two harvests a year, they already grumbled. If he asked them to toil through winter too, would they revolt?

Harvesting more grain and having more food in storage could actually lead to public resentment—such an absurd thing might really happen.

If promotion proved impossible, Zhu Xiang decided he might have to be ruthless: submit a memorial to the King of Qin to “swap land and people,” relocating northerners south and southerners north.

Right now, with sparse populations, people in Wu Commandery could still afford to be lazy and not go hungry. But northerners were different. Even though the climate was milder now, northern farmland still produced less than the south. With the wars in the Central Plains, countless people had starved to death.

Only those on the verge of starvation could understand how lucky it was to be able to feed yourself through hard work.

Most of the time, they toiled year-round and still couldn’t get enough to eat.

Later southern development came only after northern refugees migrated south—not just because of greater numbers, but because hungry people were more hardworking.

But if it came to that, Zhu Xiang would likely be remembered as a notorious figure in later generations.

When Zhu Xiang mentioned this idea to Ying Zheng, the boy rolled his eyes. “Uncle, did you forget I’m the governor of Wu Commandery now? You don’t have the authority to do that. Go plant your crops.”

Zhu Xiang pinched his lips, making them look like a duck’s. “Be respectful to your uncle.”

Ying Zheng struggled free and ran to the back courtyard, shouting, “Auntie! Auntie! Uncle is bullying me again!”

Zhu Xiang chased after him, laughing and scolding. “How old are you already, and you still tattle over every little thing?”

Xue Ji, who was making new clothes for Ying Zheng, had just put down her embroidery when she stepped outside—only to have Ying Zheng crash right into her. She was startled.

Zhu Xiang, seeing her so startled, didn’t comfort her but laughed heartily instead.

Flushed with embarrassment and annoyance, Xue Ji scolded, “Zhu Xiang!”

Zhu Xiang quickly raised his hands in surrender. “I’m laughing at Zheng’er for being so blind he bumped into someone—not at you!”

“Pah!” Ying Zheng shouted over his shoulder.

Zhu Xiang said, “Xue, don’t you think Zheng’er deserves a spanking for being so rude?”

Xue Ji wrapped her arm around Ying Zheng. “Serves you right!”

Ying Zheng agreed smugly. “Exactly!”

Zhu Xiang shook his fist at him menacingly.

Ungrateful child! Just you wait until your aunt goes off to manage the weaving workshop—then I’ll deal with you properly!

Ying Zheng wasn’t afraid at all.

What could his uncle do besides nag? At least his aunt would slap his palm when disciplining him.

The Lu scholars continued to wait and wait. Not only did they not get to discuss learning with Lord Zhu Xiang, they were even sent to the Hangjiahu Plain to educate captured Yue people.

Zhu Xiang had said: The Yue were descendants of Yu the Great—how could they be considered barbarians? Confucius said, “Whoever wears our robes and honors our rites is our compatriot.” So as Confucian disciples, it was their duty to civilize the Yue people and transform them from barbarians into people of ritual.

Even though many of these Lu scholars disagreed with Zhu Xiang’s teacher Xunzi on political matters, when it came to civilizing others, their attitude was the same as other Confucian lineages.

They’d spent their lives buried in bamboo slips in Lu, teaching only noble youths, rarely interacting with commoners. But Confucius had three thousand disciples, many of whom were commoners or even outcasts. These scholars might discriminate against commoners while serving as officials, but when teaching, they didn’t.

This contradiction was odd—but real.

They would normally sneer at the sight of a farmer. But now, when teaching barbarians, they didn’t even mind getting dirty.

The heat in Wu Commandery was unlike anything in Xianyang or Lu. Their formal dress wasn’t suited to the climate.

At first, they insisted on wearing their proper robes despite the risk of heatstroke, claiming decorum must be maintained. But in order to teach the Yue more effectively, they took the initiative to alter their clothes and hats to be better suited for long hours of instruction under the sun.

There were no paper, brushes, or bamboo slips—just sticks used to write in the dirt. But they still taught with the utmost seriousness.

What they were teaching was Qin’s official seal script, which King of Qin was now promoting.

Though they were Lu Confucians, they had already mastered Qin’s seal script and its laws.

They adapted their teaching to the students, not dumping complex classics onto them, but picking out moral lessons from the classics and combining them with simple Qin laws relevant to commoners, crafting catchy mnemonic rhymes for early education—like a proto–Three Character Classic or Thousand Character Essay.

Originally, Zhu Xiang had some prejudice against these Lu Confucians, influenced by Xunzi’s views and later historical opinions.

But after disguising himself as a farmer and observing their teaching a few times, Zhu Xiang smiled and sighed.

“Zhu Xiang, Zhu Xiang, you’re making the classic mistake of time travelers again.”

Who said all Lu Confucians were useless? That they were all just reputation-chasing hypocrites?

Lu Confucians were a group, not a single person. Their ideas might differ from his in scholarship or politics, but that didn’t make them “completely worthless villains” or “expendable background characters.”

In this era, anyone who seriously pursued learning had to have both ambition and perseverance.

Ying Zheng was also paying attention to the Lu scholars.

In his dreams, he had seen that it was these same Lu Confucians who had humiliated the future him—Qin Shi Huang—the most.

He instinctively disliked them. He already had Master Xunzi—what did he need these Lu Confucians for?

He thought they were useless, only ever ranting about restoring Zhou rites without any practical ability.

But watching them set aside their usual pretensions and modify their dress to better educate the “barbarians,” Ying Zheng didn’t know how to feel.

If he didn’t have a bias against them, if he believed they might one day truly submit to him and to Qin, perhaps… perhaps he might have respected them a little?

When Ying Zheng entered the dream room again, he chattered at Qin Shi Huang.

“Uncle says everyone and everything has multiple facets, and we need to look at them dialectically. For example, we can reject the Lu Confucians’ stubbornness and still praise their moral integrity.”

“But I can’t do that. If I dislike someone, I can’t praise them, even if I know they’ve done some things worthy of praise.”

Ying Zheng sighed.

“Dialectics… dialectics… Uncle says that all the time… Can you do it, the other me?”

“You seem to be able to. In your memories, you endured many things I couldn’t have. If it were me, I’d have flipped the table and walked away.”

Ying Zheng sighed again, then scratched his nose and mumbled, “But then, you probably couldn’t flip the table. Doing so would’ve meant death. I can say I’d flip it only because I know I don’t have to, since Uncle and the others always shield me.”

His tone was both happy and troubled.

He was troubled by how spoiled he was—far less mature than the version of himself in the dream.

That version of himself should already be Crown Prince of Qin, showing early signs of latent power, able to keep his emotions hidden beneath a calm exterior.

And himself?

“Forget it, nothing I can do. Uncle spoils me too much—I never get a chance to suffer.”

After brooding for a while, he gave up.

Brooding was pointless. Better to think about what delicious food to make Uncle cook tomorrow.

Uncle had been lazy lately, leaving all the cooking to the kitchen staff. He’d have to find a way to make Uncle less lazy.

“Let me see more of how you endure things, and learn well,” Ying Zheng said, shifting into diligent study mode again. “I must learn to hide my feelings soon, just to surprise Uncle!”

The cheerful, sunny boy clenched his fist in resolve.

Ying Zheng kept working hard, while the other Ying Zheng remained unmoving, a mere shadow.

Only when the dream faded did that shadow stir, turning almost lifelike—only to dissolve again, as if someone had stormed in but then backed off in frustration.

Ying Zheng knew nothing of this.

The next morning, he shouted at Zhu Xiang, who was brushing his teeth, that Uncle was too lazy and that Zheng’er wanted a feast—completely ignoring the fact that he had just declared himself a mature Qin nobleman at age ten.

Zhu Xiang mumbled, “Mmm hmm, okay, sure,” and kept rinsing his mouth.