In another carriage, Qin King Zichu finally let go of the soft, pitiful flesh of Ying Zheng’s cheeks.

Ying Zheng held his reddened face and gave his father a defiant, unyielding glare.

Qin King Zichu reached out and lightly tapped him on the head, making a loud clang against Ying Zheng’s skull.

Lin Zhi intervened: “Be gentler, gentler.”

Qin King Zichu replied, “If you don’t hit the key points, it won’t work on him.”

Lin Zhi said, “Even if you hit hard, it won’t work—Zheng’er isn’t someone who can be tamed by beating.”

Qin King Zichu asked, “Then how do you make him obey?”

Lin Zhi answered, “Zhu Xiang wrote in his letter: if Zheng’er doesn’t behave, he’s only allowed to eat boiled meat in plain water—salt only, no other seasoning, and no cakes. That’s when he’ll admit his mistake. But only if he’s actually wrong. If he isn’t, he might say he’s sorry, but he’ll make the same mistake again next time.”

Ying Zheng’s phoenix eyes glared angrily. “Uncle!”

Qin King Zichu originally wanted to say, what a farce—treating the crown prince like a child?

But hearing Ying Zheng’s heartfelt roar, Qin King Zichu was speechless. Could it really work?

Rubbing his forehead, Qin King Zichu suddenly lost the mood to discipline the crown prince.

The mighty Crown Prince of Qin, admitting fault over a few bites of food? Was this the same prince who once smashed a vase over his own head?

“Exactly how did Zhu Xiang defend the city?” Qin King Zichu said, moving on to business now that he’d lost interest in scolding Ying Zheng. “Could he really withstand Xiang Yan’s hundred-thousand-strong army?”

Ying Zheng relaxed upon seeing his father’s reprimand fizzle out. He had really worried that his father might believe his uncle’s slander and cut back his meals.

Ever since leaving his uncle, Ying Zheng had felt his meals were less to his liking. And his uncle even egged his father on to make things worse.

Ying Zheng replied, “Not ‘withstand,’ but defeat. He observed Xiang Yan for only one day, and by the next morning, he had crushed Xiang Yan’s hundred-thousand-strong army!”

A radiant smile spread across the boy’s face, filled with pride and the urge to show off—it practically said on his face: My uncle is amazing!

Once again, Ying Zheng displayed his inherited storytelling talent from Zhu Xiang, recounting the city defense war from preparations to aftermath, as if he had witnessed it himself.

Qin King Zichu and Lin Zhi listened, eyes shining, smiles playing at their lips, occasionally interrupting to ask about details.

For example: how Jiao Yun discovered Xiang Yan’s fire ox formation in advance, what nonsense Meng Tian said, how Zhu Xiang fell spectacularly from his war chariot…

Lin Zhi laughed: “If Xiang Yan’s fire ox formation had been executed, it could have dealt Zhu Xiang a serious blow. But fortunately, Lord Lian and Lord Tian are friends. Lord Lian repeatedly mentioned the fire ox formation, and Zhu Xiang probably had calluses in his ears from hearing it so often.”

Qin King Zichu recalled Lord Lian’s tendency to go on and on after drinking and looked a bit weary. “Once Lord Lian gets drunk, he likes to repeat the same thing dozens of times, and only Zhu Xiang has the patience to listen.”

Both he and Lin Zhi would find excuses to leave, leaving Zhu Xiang alone to endure the increasingly bad-tempered drunk elder—no one else could handle him.

So when Zhu Xiang realized that most city defense devices were flammable and guessed the enemy might use fire, the first thing that came to his mind was, of course, the fire ox formation.

“And thanks to the telescope,” Ying Zheng said. “If Jiao Yun hadn’t brought the telescope, we wouldn’t have been able to spot the enemy’s movements from afar and make timely decisions. I have a report regarding the telescope.”

Qin King Zichu waved his hand: “We’ll talk about that after you’ve rested a day or two. No rush. Continue telling us about your uncle’s city defense.”

Ying Zheng felt a bit helpless. His father and uncle had rushed to the dock to meet him, probably not out of concern for him, but because they wanted to hear about his uncle.

He took a sip of warm water with red dates that Lin Zhi handed him, cleared his throat, and continued storytelling, boasting a bit about his own bravery in pursuing the enemy.

Qin King Zichu listened with envy: “My son has even earned military honors—this old man wants to go to the battlefield too.”

Lin Zhi scoffed: “Go to the battlefield, and fall around on a war chariot like Zhu Xiang? If you want to embarrass yourself like him, I can help persuade all the ministers and officials.”

Qin King Zichu frowned: “How dare you compare me to Zhu Xiang!”

Lin Zhi said: “Oh right, can’t compare. Zhu Xiang is stronger than you. Even though he was covered in bruises after falling on the battlefield, it didn’t stop him from going back to work the next day. You, on the other hand, would be bedridden for two or three months. Zhu Xiang says: an injury to muscles and bones takes a hundred days to heal.”

Qin King Zichu pretended to strike Lin Zhi, who immediately blocked, not sparing the king any dignity.

Ying Zheng covered his mouth, stifling laughter.

His father and uncle were still bickering like children—so immature.

The carriage was spacious, but not enough for two adults to fully spar. After a few moves, Qin King Zichu and Lin Zhi stopped and scolded Ying Zheng, berating Li Mu for sending him into danger.

Although the crown prince had achieved military glory, as elders, Qin King Zichu and Lin Zhi didn’t want him to face any mishaps.

This time, Ying Zheng obediently accepted the scolding, vowing never to repeat his mistake.

As for vows, mentioning the ancestors or heavenly spirits was enough—no need to make a real promise. Ying Zheng wasn’t stupid.

Seeing him behave so, Qin King Zichu and Lin Zhi realized he had likely already suffered a severe lesson from Zhu Xiang and Xue Ji.

Their curiosity piqued, they kept asking questions.

Although Ying Zheng wanted to hide it, Qin King Zichu used the Qin royal decree to pressure him, so he had no choice but to painfully recount his miserable experience, providing a source of endless amusement for his father and uncle.

Qin King Zichu and Lin Zhi laughed so hard the carriage seemed to shake.

Whether it was swearing over the osmanthus cake or Ying Zheng trying to rename the cake to avoid a vow, it was utterly hilarious.

Lin Zhi gave Qin King Zichu a knowing look: See? I told you it’s interesting that Zhu Xiang keeps a diary about raising Zheng’er, but you insisted it was boring.

Qin King Zichu nodded in agreement. He hadn’t expected it to be so amusing either. Once Zhu Xiang returned, he would borrow his diary to read. Raising a son from afar—truly a delight.

Ying Zheng scowled, listening to his father and uncle teasing him continuously, their laughter so loud it might have been heard outside the carriage. He sighed inwardly. His position as Crown Prince felt far too low. How he wished to become the King of Qin soon, so that anyone who mocked him would be silenced by royal decree—even his own uncles couldn’t defy the king’s orders.

Xue Ji held Chengjiao in her arms, speaking to him in gentle tones, when she heard the carefree laughter coming from the carriage ahead.

Chengjiao, curious, asked, “Father and the Chancellor seem very happy?”

Xue Ji, perceptive, detected a hint of schadenfreude in the laughter. She said, “His Majesty and your brother might be happy, but Zheng’er probably isn’t.”

Chengjiao frowned. “Why?”

Xue Ji sighed. “They’re likely laughing at your Crown Prince brother.”

Chengjiao’s face fell in disbelief. “Brother is so capable! How could Father and the Chancellor laugh at him?!”

Xue Ji gently rubbed Chengjiao’s little head and sighed inwardly. Now that Zheng’er’s hair was tied up, it wasn’t easy to mess with. “No matter how capable Zheng’er is, he’s still a junior. When elders want to tease or bully a junior, what can he do?”

Xue Ji looked troubled. Zhu Xiang wasn’t here, so she couldn’t argue directly with the King and his brother to defend Zheng’er like a partner might. How could she protect Zheng’er? Speak to Empress Dowager Huáyáng? Ask Xún Zi for help? Or simply comfort Zheng’er privately?

After thinking for a long time, she couldn’t come up with a perfect solution and decided to note it down and write to her husband.

Chengjiao leaned against Xue Ji’s chest, holding his comparatively large, round head with both hands, looking completely dazed.

He had always believed the Crown Prince brother could do anything. Yet even the Crown Prince could be mocked by Father and the Chancellor?

If even his super capable Crown Prince brother wasn’t safe from their teasing, then what was the point of his own efforts?

For the first time, Chengjiao felt a seed of “giving up” planted in his heart.

…

Zhu Xiang had no idea that his rebellious nephew was already keeping mental notes of him. He kept a diary of his son’s “black history,” and the son kept grudges—perfectly reasonable.

In the blink of an eye, May arrived again.

This time last year, the farmers around Guangling City had tearfully cut down nearly-ripe rice, fleeing east and west with their families in panic.

This year, however, Guangling City experienced favorable weather, and the rice harvest was abundant.

The farmers stood on the ridges, looking over the fields even broader than last year, unable to hold back tears.

Chen Qi was still the magistrate of Guangling.

The Qin King had issued a decree, confirming his appointment.

He stood beside Zhu Xiang, seeing the farmers’ deep brown, furrowed faces streaked with tears—ugly, yet deeply moving.

Chen Qi choked up, saying, “A bountiful harvest again.”

Zhu Xiang remained calm. “It’s not guaranteed yet. It depends on whether Heaven favors us. If heavy rain comes during the harvest, the rice could rot in the fields.”

Even in the modern era, with all technological advancements, farming still relied on Heaven’s favor.

If rain struck while rice or wheat was filling, a total loss was possible. Modern disaster relief could mitigate losses by quickly harvesting and drying the crops, preventing a food crisis.

But in the Warring States, even after a whole season of hard work, after watching the rice fields turn golden, a single ill-timed rain could destroy everything.

Chen Qi was so frightened by Zhu Xiang’s words that he dared not shed a tear.

He looked up anxiously. “Should we hold a Heaven-worship ceremony, pray for mercy?”

Zhu Xiang replied coldly, “If Heaven could show mercy, chaos wouldn’t exist. Rather than hoping for pity, we must prepare. I’ve ordered new harvesting tools to be built and granaries constructed. You organize the kilns; if it rains during harvest, we’ll use them to dry the rice, and later for brick-making.”

Chen Qi said, “There might not be enough firewood.”

Zhu Xiang pondered. “Straw can be burned. For what’s missing, Li Mu will bring timber from the south.”

The mountains of Nanyue were full of trees. If Li Mu gave a little food and cloth, the Baiyue tribes would direct their slaves to cut trees for money.

Over-cutting would worsen soil erosion, cause landslides, and block rivers. But Zhu Xiang could only manage his own fields; others’ lands were beyond him.

The mess left for the Baiyue would be for future generations to handle. With few people there now, the impact shouldn’t be too great.

Zhu Xiang was becoming increasingly “free-spirited.”

Chen Qi let out a sigh of relief but still looked uneasy. “Are we really not going to make offerings to Heaven?”

Zhu Xiang looked at Chen Qi’s anxious expression and sighed inwardly. “Offering to Heaven may calm the people; perhaps it has its use. I’m not very familiar with sacrificial rites, Fu Qiu.”

“At your service,” Fu Qiu replied respectfully.

“Discuss with Magistrate Chen how we should offer sacrifices to Heaven—keep it simple. Right now, Guangling lacks everything; sincerity is what matters. I believe the gods won’t mind a few formalities,” Zhu Xiang said. “Once you’ve decided, I will personally perform the ritual.”

Fu Qiu was instantly excited. “Your student will obey!”

As a Confucian scholar, who wouldn’t want to preside over a major ceremony? Fu Qiu could hardly wait.

Zhu Xiang let Fu Qiu and Chen Qi make arrangements while he busied himself with the summer harvest and planting.

After harvesting the rice, autumn crops had to be sown immediately—no day could be wasted. Rice sustains hundreds of millions in China, relying on the uninterrupted labor of farmers. By later standards, rice cultivation is the quintessential labor-intensive industry. Only the most diligent people can produce the highest yields.

After Zhu Xiang walked away, Chen Qi quietly asked Fu Qiu, “Lord Changping doesn’t seem too keen on worshiping the gods. Is it because we honor the gods of Chu?”

Chen Qi was concerned. Although Guangling had fully aligned with Qin, local traditions of worshiping spirits and gods were deeply rooted. Could it be that Lord Changping disapproved for that reason?

Fu Qiu said, “Lord Zhu Xiang is not such a narrow-minded man. Sages respect but keep their distance from spirits and deities; Lord Zhu Xiang is no different. When he was in Xianyang, he competed with magicians; in Yunmeng Marsh, he personally led armies to destroy harmful temples and slay malicious spirits.”

A look of admiration and nostalgia crossed Fu Qiu’s face. “For a sage, the gods who protect the people are honored; those who harm the people are slain. Gods may be powerful, but to them, the lives of the people weigh far more. That is why Lord Zhu Xiang performs sacrifices to Heaven and the gods but doesn’t overly concern himself with what the deities might do. He trusts in the people themselves.”

Fu Qiu grew enthusiastic and went on to recount Zhu Xiang’s work with Li Bing, the governor of Shu Commandery, managing the waters of the Chengdu Plain: diverting rivers, moving mountains, opening canals—feats that might seem mythical, yet were accomplished in reality.

“By the way, the Wu and Yue lands are the homeland of Emperor Yu. Mount Kuaiji is said to be his tomb. Yu’s flood control relied on the people, not Heaven,” Fu Qiu said.

In this era, information was scarce. Zhu Xiang’s accomplishments were barely known to the elite of the Six States, and local scholars like Chen Qi knew even less. Even the events in Qianzhong Commandery were not necessarily known to those who had spent their whole lives in Guangling.

Listening to Zhu Xiang’s feats, Chen Qi’s face mixed awe with fear, leaving him in confusion.

But when Fu Qiu mentioned Yu the Great controlling floods, Chen Qi’s fear suddenly eased.

Indeed, wasn’t Yu, our forebear in Wu and Yue, such a man? Flood control was human effort; when helpful gods appeared, one thanked them; when troublesome ones appeared, one slew them. Worship was merely a precaution to keep spirits from interfering, not a means of placing all hope in them.

“Yes, sages of all generations acted thus,” Chen Qi suddenly felt courage swell within him. “Offering to Heaven is necessary, but what matters most is ourselves.”

He looked at the thin clouds in the sky, recalled Zhu Xiang’s instructions, and felt his aged body surge with newfound energy.

There was still much work to ensure a bountiful harvest.

Zhu Xiang was surrounded by a sea of scholars. Under his guidance, some took up hoes, others swords. But even when they put down their tools, they could arrange the minor details of the sacrificial ceremony with elegance and precision.

Dressed in Qin ceremonial attire, Zhu Xiang performed his first ritual to Heaven and Earth. After reciting the prayers, he added his own words: may Heaven lend a hand if it wishes, but if not, humans will overcome obstacles and endure Heaven’s trials. No matter the gods or spirits, humanity must not place all hope in them and must strive for self-reliance.

Thus, one honors the gods but fears them not.

When Zhu Xiang stepped down from the altar, most scholars of Guangling appeared somewhat dazed. Yet those adhering to the teachings of various schools remained calm, as if this were quite natural. Even disciples who studied divination treated gods as mere warnings; no one surrendered out of fear of divine wrath. Such was the pride of the scholars of this age.

News of Zhu Xiang’s sacrifice spread among the farmers, along with embellished tales of him slaying spirits. They also learned of Yu the Great’s flood control.

While the legend of Yu was widespread, most farmers, focused on their fields, might not even know which state their land belonged to, simply paying taxes to whoever collected them. Now, during the lull before the harvest, wandering storytellers relayed the tales, revealing to the farmers their formidable ancestor Yu, one of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors.

Once, both Wu-Yue and Chu lands belonged to Zhou, Shang, and Xia; Wu-Yue had even been the land of dragons. The farmers were no different from those in Qin or other Central Plains states. Only with the decline of the Zhou kings did regional lords temporarily separate.

Indeed, temporarily. In the grand span of Chinese history, the five-hundred-year Spring and Autumn and Warring States period was but a fleeting moment.

Chen Qi asked, “Lord Zhu Xiang, why send storytellers to the farmers?”

Zhu Xiang replied, “Farmers are people too. They should know the glory of their ancestors, that they are not barbarians, that the Seven States share common roots, and that the world should be united. They should also know that once unification comes, there will be no more wars.”

Chen Qi still did not understand. “And if they know, what then?”

Zhu Xiang smiled. “Perhaps nothing. It simply gives them hope for the future, joy in life, and a few more smiles. That is all.”

Zhu Xiang explained clearly, but those who did not understand, still did not. He did not intend for everyone to grasp his thoughts; he simply did what he wanted.

He wanted people preoccupied only with survival to think of something beyond it, to have idle dreams, and find a touch of happiness in them.

Human needs have many layers; one need not always satisfy the lowest to reach the higher. Even in the hardest times, people could hear stories, sing songs, play games—small comforts for souls wearied by survival.

Thus, Zhu Xiang turned storytellers into traveling narrators, leveraging the creation of legends to bring joy.

Perhaps startled by Zhu Xiang’s slightly austere sacrifice, Heaven cooperated during the summer harvest, sending only a few light rains in the end to express minor displeasure.

The straw was ready; the moist rice was dried in prepared kilns—minimal loss. It was still a year worthy of praise.

As the summer harvest succeeded, the small rains were just right for the farmers. The newly sown rice seeds required such gentle rain to sprout well.

Before they could savor the harvest’s joy, Zhu Xiang led the farmers into busy summer planting. Seeds were sown in dry land first, then transplanted. New tools for transplanting were put to use.

The primitive rice transplanter Zhu Xiang and his disciples developed, called a “seedling horse,” resembled a small boat. Farmers sat on it, sliding the “boat” with their feet, placing seedlings at the front for planting or collecting at the rear, saving much effort.

Chen Qi could not resist composing a short Chu song in admiration of the seedling horse.

The system chimed, and Zhu Xiang saw Chen Qi’s avatar appear, bestowing a small token of favor to Xiaocong, making him chuckle.