HCT – Chapter 187 The King of Yan Rejoices in Revenge

Zhu Xiang fiddled with the sweet potato for a while before tucking it into his robe. He planned to roast it later to eat, but had no intention of promoting it just yet.

Of the three “divine tools” often spoken of by time-travelers—sweet potatoes, potatoes, and corn—the sweet potato was the most overrated.

On paper, the yield of sweet potatoes appeared to be the highest. But because they contained so much water, when reduced to dry matter, their yield was only about one-fifth that of grains, making the real yield roughly the same as traditional cereals.

Nutritionally, sweet potatoes were inferior. They had very little protein, and once dehydrated, their nutritional value was still weaker than grains. Their coarse fiber filled the stomach easily, but if one ate enough sweet potatoes to feel full, it often led to diarrhea—making hunger worse instead of better.

Another drawback, contrary to modern assumptions, was their poor palatability.

Modern people occasionally ate sweet potatoes, or paired them with staple grains, so they only thought of them as sweet and delicious. But if one used sweet potatoes as the main staple, their strong flavor clashed with most other ingredients. Eating them meal after meal quickly became cloying.

In ancient times, what farmers chose to plant actually had little to do with government promotion. What truly mattered was what crops the government demanded taxes in.

For example, wheat became the main staple of China after the Tang dynasty, when economic development made millstones common in villages. Rice boomed during the Southern Song, when the economic center shifted south. Even during the Qing dynasty population boom, farmers didn’t replace their traditional staples with these so-called “three divine crops.” There were good reasons for that.

In Qianlong’s reign, officials tried to promote sweet potatoes in the southern hills, but farmers showed no interest. At the same time, northern officials tried to forbid planting corn on slopes, fearing soil erosion. Farmers ignored that too.

Government promotion didn’t expand sweet potato cultivation, nor did prohibition reduce corn planting. What grew in the fields was not up to the court—or even some time-traveler’s schemes. Farmers had their own wisdom.

Even in the Republican era, when one would think farmers should spontaneously expand famine-rescue, high-yield crops, sweet potatoes, potatoes, and corn together only accounted for about five percent of cultivated land.

It was only after the founding of the PRC, with agricultural machinery and chemical fertilizers boosting grain yields, that land could be freed for other crops, giving sweet potatoes, corn, and potatoes unprecedented acreage.

Zhu Xiang and other experts in agriculture and history had stressed many times: while foreign crops played a role in the Qing dynasty population boom, their contribution was minor. The true credit lay with the hard work of the Chinese people.

Some economists, influenced by resentment toward Qing rulers, credited the “Chinese population miracle” entirely to foreign crops, handing all the glory to external factors. At its core, this was just another version of “foreign monks chant better scriptures.”

But the truth was: in the past and in the future, before and after the founding of the nation, it was the Chinese people themselves who fed their own, not some miraculous gift from outside.

Zhu Xiang shed tears when potatoes arrived—not only because they filled a gap in famine-relief crops, but because potatoes, like corn, could truly become staple foods. To gain another staple crop was of immense importance.

Sweet potatoes, on the other hand, were like pumpkins—purely famine-relief crops.

Of course, in this era, their significance was still huge. Each high-yield famine-relief crop was another lifeline for countless people.

In times of prosperity, what farmers grew hardly mattered. But in times of famine, one more famine-relief crop meant countless more lives saved.

Sweet potatoes were also well-suited to southern Qin.

They thrived in warm climates, and in later times, the main production regions were the southern hills. Li Mu had long eyed the lands of Nanyue, but the returns didn’t justify the cost, so he never launched a full conquest.

But with sweet potatoes, things changed.

Sweet potatoes, potatoes, pumpkins, and soybeans could be grown on fragmented mountain plots, with high yields that supported the daily needs of mountain dwellers. This encouraged them to settle, building towns at the foot and slopes of mountains.

Once settled, the people were easier for Qin to tax and govern, allowing Baiyue lands to be brought under control.

All frontier lands had to be developed before they could be integrated into the central dynasty. Cultivation came first; education and governance followed.

Zhu Xiang decided to clear out the flowers in Li Mu’s city garden and plant sweet potatoes for breeding. Once breeding succeeded, they would be transplanted into the southern Qin hills.

Qianzhong Commandery and Nanjun included what would later be Jiangxi. With its warm and wet conditions, Jiangxi was fertile, but its hilly terrain made traditional farming difficult.

Though he had promoted terracing, not all land was suitable. Most of the arable plots carved from the hills were small and scattered.

Now, with potatoes and soybeans already growing in these patches, and pumpkins climbing over fences and rooftops, sweet potatoes could be added as well.

The more edible crops available, the greater people’s peace of mind.

After finishing his plans, Zhu Xiang felt a surge of complex emotions—sadness, irony, deep sighs.

Lord Pingyang, Zhao Bao, had hoped famine-relief food could save Zhao from its hunger. Yet those same crops were better suited for southern Qin.

But the sigh was fleeting.

In truth, men like Zhao Bao and the Zhao aristocracy, and even many scholars Zhu Xiang had met, had never really looked at the common people.

It was only because of Zhu Xiang’s presence that, when their eyes fell upon him, they also glimpsed the ordinary folk beside him.

That pain, that hope, had coalesced into the “gifts” of Zhu Xiang’s system.

Though the people of Zhao couldn’t eat sweet potatoes now, sooner or later they would.

Just like cotton—surely by now some Zhao folk were already dressed in cotton cloth.

“Good husband, wash your face. Don’t be too sad,” Xue Ji said, bringing him warm water.

After washing, Zhu Xiang said quietly: “I will fast for ten days, to send off an old friend.”

Xue Ji gently replied, “Very well, I will accompany you.”

Zhu Xiang’s robes were already plain, but Xue Ji still found him hemp garments.

He would not go so far as to wear mourning attire for Lord Pingyang, but changing silk and cotton into simple hemp was still a token of mourning from him and Xue Ji.

While they mourned, turmoil erupted in Zhao’s capital.

In the original history, the King of Zhao would not die for another four years.

But in this life, though there had been no Siege of Handan, the king’s heart was even more tormented. His health had long been poor.

Upon his accession, the king had already appointed a crown prince. Since there had been no Siege of Handan, that prince had not perished from terror. Everyone in Zhao expected him to succeed one day.

But perhaps destiny was inescapable: though the crown prince had reached adulthood, he died of illness this very year.

The King of Zhao was deeply shaken by the loss and soon fell gravely ill, eventually passing away.

Besides the Crown Prince, the King of Zhao had two other sons. His favorite among them was Lord Chunping.

By this time in the Warring States period, the titles of the feudal lords were mostly changed to “Marquis” rather than “Lord.” Just like how the records used both “Lord Ying” and “Marquis Ying” interchangeably, people commonly referred to Chunping as “Lord Chunping,” but his official title was “Marquis Chunping.”

In the official records, Zhu Xiang and Li Mu were also formally enfeoffed as “Marquis of Changping” and “Marquis of Wucheng.”

Coincidentally, in the history of Zhu Xiang’s previous life, there was also a famous imperial in-law titled “Marquis of Changping,” whose name was Wei Qing. Unfortunately, Zhu Xiang didn’t know of Wei Qing’s title—otherwise, he would certainly have said, “What a coincidence.”

When the Crown Prince was still alive, his position was firmly secure. The King of Zhao always hoped that Marquis Chunping could serve the Crown Prince just as Lord Pingyuan had once assisted King Huiwen of Zhao. So, in 251 BCE—the year before last—because Zhao Bao’s mind often wavered between lucidity and confusion, he stepped down from the post of Chancellor, and Marquis Chunping was appointed as Zhao’s Chancellor.

However, Marquis Chunping did not win the favor of the Zhao royal clan and the close attendants of the King.

He was indeed talented and much beloved by the King, which made him rather proud and aloof. In his youth, he had been close to Lord Pingyuan and Lord Pingyang, and disliked the flatterers constantly surrounding the King.

Later, when Zhao dispatched troops to mediate on the Chu border, in order to avoid a Qin attack, ministers proposed sending a hostage prince to Qin as a gesture of goodwill and reconciliation.

They argued: King Zichu of Qin had once been sent to Zhao as a hostage prince and had not lived well there. He must surely harbor deep hatred toward Zhao. If Zhao did not send a hostage prince now to show goodwill and submission, King Zichu might take the chance to avenge himself and his dear friend Zhu Xiang.

This was no empty worry.

Back then, King Zhaoxiang of Qin had stirred up trouble for both Wei and Zhao just to vent his anger on Lord Ying Fan Ju’s behalf. Marquis of Changping’s importance to King Zichu was likely even greater than Fan Ju had been to King Zhaoxiang.

The King of Zhao, terrified of Qin, was persuaded.

The Crown Prince could not be sent, of course, since the King’s health was failing and the Crown Prince had to be ready to succeed at any time. Thus, the choice lay between Marquis Chunping and the youngest son, Zhao Yan.

The King originally favored sending Zhao Yan as the hostage, but Zhao Yan’s tutor was Guo Kai, a trusted court attendant of the King. The attendants around the King all supported Zhao Yan.

Moreover, the King’s favoritism toward Chunping made the Crown Prince wary.

Although the King had appointed Chunping as Chancellor in hopes he would become the next Lord Pingyuan, the Crown Prince was no King Huiwen. He lacked Huiwen’s magnanimity and did not trust Chunping.

What’s more, King Huiwen had only relied on Lord Pingyuan after he himself had ascended the throne—not while his father was still alive. This was a very different situation.

For the Crown Prince, it already looked absurd enough that another prince was made Chancellor before he inherited the throne.

Unfortunately, by the time the King made this decision, Lord Pingyuan had already died, and Lord Pingyang was senile. There was no one left to stop it.

Many in Zhao who understood the situation also hoped Marquis Chunping could leave Handan for now and only return after the Crown Prince took the throne.

Zhao could not withstand another internal conflict. Only if Chunping left Handan could the Crown Prince’s position remain secure. Once Chunping returned from Qin after serving as a hostage, the Crown Prince would hopefully be more generous in employing him.

Persuaded, the King tearfully sent Chunping away from Handan to Xianyang.

But no one expected that shortly after Chunping left, the Crown Prince suddenly fell ill and died. The King of Zhao was devastated, collapsed in grief, and soon followed him in death. Zhao Bao too, struck by grief, died not long after. The Queen had already passed away years before.

Handan was left leaderless, in utter chaos.

The King had left no clear instruction regarding succession. Some ministers argued that since only Prince Yan was still in Handan, naturally he should inherit the throne. Others believed that by appointing Chunping as Chancellor, the King had shown that—besides the Crown Prince—Chunping was the most trusted and talented, and thus better suited to inherit.

As a result, the late King’s body lay unattended in the palace while the ministers quarreled, even as they dispatched people to chase after Chunping, who had only just departed Handan.

Those who supported Prince Yan sent assassins to kill Chunping. Those who supported Chunping sent escorts to protect him and bring him back to Handan to claim the throne.

Lord Pingyang’s family watched coldly from the sidelines, using mourning as a pretext to avoid involvement.

Lord Pingyuan’s family had long since retired to their estates and no longer involved themselves in politics.

Now, without Lord Pingyuan or Lord Pingyang to steady the realm, nor Lian Po or Lin Xiangru to defend Zhao internally and externally, disaster loomed.

King Xi of Yan, ever since his succession, had brooded over the humiliation of Zhao sending Lian Po to attack Yan, which had led to his father’s grief and death. He constantly had spies watching Handan, waiting for a chance at revenge.

When news arrived that the Crown Prince of Zhao had died and the King had collapsed from illness, the Yan spies swiftly reported back.

King Xi of Yan was overjoyed and immediately dispatched Ju Xin to launch a hasty attack on Zhao.

Many in Yan opposed this. They argued that after suffering slaughter at Lian Po’s hands, Yan had not yet recovered. Besides, Yan and Zhao were currently allies, jointly mediating Chu’s internal strife. With Qin looming like a tiger on the horizon, how could Yan betray its ally and attack Zhao?

But King Xi invoked his father’s death. To oppose him now would mean stopping him from avenging his father—branding him as unfilial. With this justification, breaking the alliance seemed trivial.

Now it was only a matter of whether Yan could seize this chance to bite off a piece of Zhao. If Yan triumphed in this war, everything would be justified.

Ju Xin had once been a renowned general and a favored minister of King Zhao of Yan. But after that king’s death, he had been sidelined by the new monarch and had not commanded troops in years. By now he was nearly seventy. Still, his reputation remained, and the people of Yan had great confidence in him.

Meanwhile, Zhao had no generals of renown left. Even with Yan’s hasty mobilization, the odds of victory seemed favorable.

The news of Yan’s invasion soon reached Handan.

With an external threat pressing at their gates, the factions squabbling for power in Handan instantly calmed down.

To raise troops and resist Yan’s army, Zhao urgently needed a king. Since Chunping had not yet returned, the only option was to enthrone Prince Yan.

Thus, on the eve of civil strife, the crisis of Yan’s invasion forced unity: Prince Yan ascended the throne as King of Zhao.

Marquis Chunping had nearly returned to Handan. But upon hearing that Prince Yan had ascended the throne, he immediately turned his carriage around and fled toward Qin.

As soon as King Yan of Zhao took the throne, he was confronted with the grave crisis of having no generals to command.

At this time, someone recommended an old veteran — Pang Nuan.

Pang Nuan had once been a trusted minister under King Wuling of Zhao. After King Wuling was starved to death, just like many other talents who recognized only King Wuling, Pang Nuan withdrew from Zhao’s court and went into seclusion among the common folk.

He had originally gone into reclusion in Chu, but by now he had returned to Handan. Although he was nearly eighty years old and had no experience actually leading troops into battle, he had written many military treatises. Judging from those works, he seemed to be a capable commander.

Now that King Yan of Zhao had no one else to use, they might as well give this old general a try.

Although the king had little confidence in this nearly eighty-year-old man, in desperation he had no choice but to clutch at straws and summoned Pang Nuan.

Pang Nuan, still spirited and eloquent, quickly won the favor of the king.

Thus, King Yan of Zhao appointed Pang Nuan as general to confront Yan’s army.

By coincidence, Pang Nuan and Ju Xin had once been good friends in their youth, both having served under King Wuling of Zhao.

Ju Xin had been drawn away by King Zhao of Yan’s call for talent and had gone to serve under him. After King Zhao of Yan’s death, Ju Xin had been sidelined ever since. Pang Nuan, after King Wuling’s death, had likewise left Zhao and lived in seclusion until now.

Both had achieved fame in their youth, then sank into obscurity, only to be brought back into prominence with white hair on their heads, entrusted with command, and sent to war.

Wei Wuji also received the news that Yan’s army was pressing the border.

He himself was already renowned in battle, and his personality and character made him deeply beloved by the frontier soldiers. With Li Mu’s letter as his backing, he quickly supplanted the Li family’s former position in the three commanderies of Yanmen, making the Zhao frontier army obey him like an arm at his command.

Upon learning of Zhao’s danger, Wei Wuji considered himself already a Zhao general. Even though the king had not issued a decree summoning him, he believed he should prepare. So he readied his troops, waiting for the call to rescue Handan.

When Pang Nuan marched out, Wei Wuji left his retainers to guard Yanmen Commandery and personally led three thousand elite troops, departing without any edict.

This hidden force, unknown to both Pang Nuan and Ju Xin, would draw the final line under the Yan-Zhao war.

Yan’s betrayal of its alliance also shook Chu.

Chu’s peace talks had long stalled — not because Chu and its enemies could not reach agreement, but because the “allies” who had sent troops under the banner of assisting Chu — Wei, Han, Yan, Zhao, and Qi — all sought to profit from the negotiations. Chu could not satisfy them.

When Yan and Zhao sent Ju Xin to war at King Xi of Yan’s order, they abandoned the talks and hurried back home, fearing sudden attack from the other.

The remaining Wei, Han, and Qi, seeing their strength diminished and with Qin’s Lord Xinping, Lian Po, occasionally watching over their movements, no longer dared to drag things out. They hastily accepted some money and slaves as concessions and withdrew as well.

Thus the peace negotiations that had stalled for so long in Chu finally came to an end.

The agreement drew a boundary from Gaoyou Lake to Chao Lake (later names), dividing Chu into north and south. The Jing and Zhao clans and all their supporters went to South Chu, which would serve as their new domain.

However, the Jing and Zhao clans could not call themselves kings, only “Lords of South Chu,” vassals still in name under the King of Chu. South Chu would be a tributary state. In the future, whenever Chu marched to war, South Chu would be obliged to provide troops alongside them.

Since Chu’s new capital was now centered along the Huai River, the new South Chu’s territory would border South Qin to the south, threatened by Li Mu’s forces, and face Mount Dabie to the west, under the menace of Wang Jian. By carving out South Chu, the King of Chu had effectively made it a buffer against Li Mu and Wang Jian.

The Chu rebels, having suffered repeated defeats after the king appointed Xiang Yan as general, had grown weak and had no choice but to accept this arrangement.

But they insisted that Xiang Yan be lent to them as commander, to drive the Qin from the north bank of the Yangtze.

The King of Chu agreed, appointing Xiang Yan as South Chu’s general-in-chief, commanding its forces against the Qin strongholds on the north bank of the river.

By the time South Chu finally marched, it was already April of the following year.

By then, the rice fields Zhu Xiang had planted around Guangling were nearly ready for harvest, and the mulberry-fish-pond system he had implemented was beginning to show results.

Zheng Guo truly deserved his fame as the waterworks master immortalized by the Zhengguo Canal. Upon hearing of the mulberry-fish-pond model, he had immediately incorporated the fishponds into his irrigation network, creating around Guangling a system that provided irrigation, fish farming, and flood control.

And his cost management was superb.

Although the entire network would take at least three years to complete, each section could be used as soon as it was finished, so parts of it were already in operation.

Guangling was on the verge of abundance, yet Zhu Xiang’s prestige here was not as unprecedentedly high as it had been in South Qin.

He sharply noticed that in Guangling, from the gentry to the commoners, loyalty to Qin was low. Although they now obeyed, their hearts resisted Qin.

This was natural.

The north bank of the Yangtze had belonged to Chu for centuries. Unlike South Chu, Guangling was not separated from Chu’s heartland by the river, so travel and contact were close. Their customs and identity were thoroughly steeped in Chu, and they recognized Chu as their own.

Even when Chu had famine, then later rebellion by the Jing and Zhao clans, the people of Guangling simply blamed the rebels.

Man-made disaster was the rebels’ fault; natural disaster was the gods punishing the rebels. In their eyes, the King of Chu was blameless.

As for Qin, its reputation in Chu had always been poor. Now, having taken advantage of turmoil to seize Guangling, the people resented Qin, refusing to see themselves as Qin’s subjects, waiting only for Chu’s king to rescue them.

Only with Zhu Xiang’s arrival had this “hatred” cooled into “indifference.”

The towns Qin held along the north bank of the Yangtze were not limited to Guangling. Other towns had already seen scattered rebellions, suppressed by Qin. That Guangling had not rebelled since Zhu Xiang’s arrival showed that his popularity among the people was indeed high — they were already giving him considerable face.

Zhu Xiang was fully aware of this.

The people of Guangling hated Qin. If the King of Chu sent troops, they would certainly side with Chu. Once Chu recovered, it would be difficult for Qin to hold Guangling.

Li Mu also realized he had miscalculated and sent word urging Zhu Xiang to hurry back to Wu Commandery.

When Li Mu learned the peace talks had ended, he stood long on the warship’s deck, hands clasped behind his back, letting the sea wind whip him until he coughed the next day and needed medicine.

He still did not believe his earlier judgment had been wrong.

By his estimation, Chu and the Five-State coalition should have dragged on much longer, until both sides were exhausted and the Five States had secured enough profit before peace could be struck.

He had believed Chu, gravely weakened, would have no strength to bother about the few towns north of the Yangtze, constantly under Qin’s naval threat.

He had thought those towns were already in his pocket.

Li Mu racked his brains yet could not understand why Yan had broken the alliance.

Admittedly, with Zhao’s crown prince and king both dead and succession unsettled, this was indeed a fine chance to strike Zhao.

But this was not the right moment!

By the time the news reached him, Yan’s general Ju Xin had already been ambushed by Lord Xinling, Wei Wuji. Then, struck head-on by Pang Nuan, caught in front and rear, he had been utterly defeated.

Looking back on Yan’s campaign, Li Mu, though not a Yan man, could only feel his eyes burn from witnessing a strategy with not a single sound step.

If it had been him, he would have waited for Marquis Chunping to return to Handan, and for him and Prince Yan to clash. Only then would he strike.

Once factions supporting Chunping and those supporting Prince Yan drew blood against each other, even if foreign enemies came, neither side would easily cease hostilities. For whoever stopped first would certainly be purged. None could gamble on that.

Yan could even secretly aid the weaker side, promising them the throne, and in return seize a few cities with ease.

No matter how he reasoned, launching an invasion before Marquis Chunping reached Handan’s battlefield was sheer folly! Wasn’t this just pushing Zhao to end its civil strife immediately and crown Prince Yan, the only prince in Handan, as king?

Li Mu even suspected that King Xi of Yan’s court harbored Zhao spies, whispering such rotten schemes into his ear to ensure Zhao’s survival.

He had heard that Yan’s veteran Ju Xin had once served under King Wuling of Zhao. Perhaps his suspicion was right?

Yan’s blunder had not only pulled Yan and Zhao from the coalition pressuring Chu, but also forced the other three states to retreat.

With no external pressure, Chu quickly concluded peace — and now turned its attention toward Qin.

Li Mu clutched his head in pain. His temples throbbed.

For some reason, he thought back to the days in Xianyang, when he and Bai Qi had stayed at Zhu Xiang’s house, discussing the art of war.

Back then, Lord Wu’an Bai Qi had sighed, unable to understand why Zhao Kuo had acted as he did, nearly forcing him into a dilemma. Luckily, Zhu Xiang had intervened.

Li Mu finally understood Bai Qi’s feelings.

“What are you Yan people doing? Why are you so foolish? Is there not a single clear-headed man in your entire court?

“It’s not that you shouldn’t attack, but why couldn’t you wait until Marquis Chunping and Prince Yan fought? Are you in a hurry to help Zhao unite against you?”

Li Mu was in utter torment.