HCT – Chapter 205 Clear Chicken Soup with Vegetables

Zhu Xiang carefully reported everything he had seen along the inspection route to Zichu, adding his own suggestions for improvement.

The cruelty of Qin law, he said, lay in its excessive detail.

If even the precise depth of plowing the fields was written into law, and failure to comply meant fines or forced labor, then practically everyone would become a criminal. As long as the local officials were corrupt, the farmers could be tormented to death.

Whether in the economy or the law, a state’s system must match its administrative capability. Detailed matters should be handled through education and incentives, not by codifying them into law—and certainly not by punishing those who fail to comply.

Having lived in Qin for so many years, Zhu Xiang finally understood how, in history, one-fifth of the people under Emperor Qin Shi Huang became convicts.

Qin rose because of its laws—and fell because of them.

Even without Hu Hai’s reckless acceleration, Qin would have collapsed swiftly on its own.

Zichu listened attentively—so attentively, in fact, that he forgot he was physically frail.

A man in poor health should soak in a hot spring for at most half an hour before resting, cooling down in the breeze, or placing a cool wet cloth on his head. Otherwise, dizziness would follow.

But Zichu was so engrossed by Zhu Xiang’s passionate speech—spittle flying everywhere—that he stayed in the hot spring for two full hours.

By the time he realized something was wrong, he was already dizzy.

Li Mu was the first to notice. He quickly caught Zichu as he began to collapse into the water and dragged him to shore.

Startled, Zhu Xiang tried to press on Zichu’s chest to perform resuscitation, but Li Mu pushed him aside.

“Get cold water,” Li Mu ordered calmly.

Zhu Xiang fetched water while muttering, “Did he actually faint from the hot spring? That weak?”

Just as Zichu caught his breath, he threw a punch at Zhu Xiang in fury. Zhu Xiang merely leaned aside, easily dodging the feeble swing—whereupon Zichu, fuming, went limp again and fainted once more.

Li Mu swore, “Go get the imperial physician! And stop making trouble!”

Zhu Xiang made sure Zichu drank a cup of water before wrapping himself in a robe and running off to find the doctor.

The physician was nearby and arrived quickly.

After examining him, the physician confirmed that Zichu had simply overheated from soaking too long; he just needed rest and hydration.

The doctor gently reminded him, “Your Majesty, this humble servant did say you should soak no longer than half an hour.”

Zichu waved him off impatiently.

Zhu Xiang said cheerfully, “Next time, I’ll set an hourglass beside you while you soak.”

Zichu glared. “Can’t you say anything nice for once?”

Zhu Xiang replied innocently, “I care about you—how’s that not nice? Anyway, I’ll check the kitchen for some fresh fruit or vegetables to make you something light. Come to think of it, this area’s perfect for growing off-season produce. Have you planted any?”

“No,” Zichu said.

“Wasteful,” Zhu Xiang muttered in disgust.

He handed Zichu another cup of water, waited until he finished it, and then headed to the kitchen.

After Zhu Xiang left, Zichu complained to Li Mu, who was fanning him, “Don’t you think Zhu Xiang has no respect for me as the King of Qin?”

Li Mu said plainly, “Yes.”

Zichu was surprised. “You’re not going to defend him?”

“I can’t lie,” Li Mu sighed. “Your Majesty, you shouldn’t indulge him like this. He’ll only push further—like when you approved his ridiculous idea of crossing Chu.”

Originally, Li Mu had firmly opposed Zhu Xiang’s plan to traverse Chu territory, and Zhu Xiang had dropped the idea. Who could have guessed that Zichu, anticipating his thoughts, had secretly issued an order approving the trip and even arranged for Lian Po to meet him?

Seeing Li Mu’s face full of reproach, Zichu coughed lightly and said, “I’m tired. I’ll rest for a bit.”

He shut his eyes, pretending to be asleep.

Li Mu: “…”

Still fanning him, Li Mu tried again, “Your Majesty—”

“Zhen is asleep,” Zichu interrupted, eyes closed. “Don’t make noise.”

Li Mu sighed deeply and fell silent, a faint smile curling at his lips.

……

Without refrigerators or cold transport, even the King of Qin’s kitchen lacked much fresh produce.

There was an ice cellar in the hot spring palace containing southern fruits like oranges, but most were shriveled and tasteless. Edible, but far from good.

Vegetables were easier—cabbage and radish could still grow in winter, adding some freshness from the fields to the royal table.

After fainting in the hot spring, Zichu couldn’t stand anything greasy. Zhu Xiang chose some mushrooms and made a clear chicken broth with the kitchen’s prepared stock—simple and light.

The kitchen always had something simmering—soups, congee, and stews kept warm for the king’s convenience.

Chicken broth, duck broth, fish soup, sweet and savory porridges—all rich and flavorful.

Zhu Xiang selected a pot of chicken soup, strained it once through a bamboo sieve, then again through fine cotton cloth. Next, he minced chicken breast finely and stirred it into the double-strained broth. When the meat was cooked, he filtered it again, producing a pot of crystal-clear yet deeply flavored soup. The kitchen servants were dumbfounded.

One of them had served the king for many years and had learned much about cooking from Zhu Xiang when he lived in Xianyang.

But Zhu Xiang had never liked overly complicated cooking—he thought it wasteful. He preferred simple, home-style dishes that tasted good without extravagance.

And truth be told, he wasn’t a professional chef—too fancy a dish, and he wouldn’t know how to make it anyway.

This was the first time he’d ever demonstrated something this “wasteful.”

A pot of chicken broth so refined that it looked like plain water—this must be what Lord Changping once jokingly called “chicken you can’t see but can taste.”

After finishing, Zhu Xiang warned the cook solemnly, “Don’t get addicted to such wasteful cooking, or you’ll become another Yi Ya.”

The cook snapped out of his excitement, sweating profusely. “Y-yes, I’ll remember, sir.”

Zhu Xiang nodded, then sliced mushrooms, cabbage, and radish into fine strips and cooked them in the clear broth. He served it to Zichu.

Seeing Zichu asleep, while Li Mu fanned him, Zhu Xiang said loudly, “Since Xia Tong is asleep, let’s drink his soup.”

Zichu immediately opened his eyes.

Li Mu helped him sit up. “Do you have to provoke His Majesty?”

Zhu Xiang blinked. “How did I provoke him? It’s hot—wait a bit.”

He placed the bowl on the table. “While we wait for it to cool, how about I tell you a story?”

Zichu chuckled. “Are you coaxing me like a child now?”

“Just tell me if you’ll listen or not,” Zhu Xiang replied.

Zichu took the fan from Li Mu and fanned himself. “What story?”

Zhu Xiang said, “It starts with Nüwa mending the sky. Once, there was a mountain, and on that mountain, a vine of gourds—”

“Wait,” Zichu interrupted, “what does that have to do with Nüwa mending the sky?”

“I made it up,” Zhu Xiang admitted.

Zichu smacked him with the fan while Li Mu sighed, rubbing his forehead.

Would these two ever stop? Why couldn’t Cai Ze or Lin Zhi be here instead?

No—Cai Ze only. If Lin Zhi were here, it would be even worse.

Amid teasing and laughter, Zhu Xiang told the Seven Calabash Brothers story—though he barely remembered the original, so he simply improvised.

As the two of them played around, Li Mu resignedly picked up another fan and began fanning the soup to cool it.

When Zichu was with his friends, he disliked attendants hovering nearby. Zhu Xiang, Li Mu, and the rest all respected that, so they did everything themselves.

After drinking the soup, Zichu felt life returning to his limbs.

The dizziness faded quickly, and he even had the energy to complain: “You should’ve added some noodles or rice. This doesn’t count as eating—it didn’t fill me up.”

Zhu Xiang explained, in detail, the careful steps he had taken to make that clear soup.

But Zichu insisted, “Still not full.”

Li Mu pressed his forehead again in exasperation.

Would these two ever stop? Weren’t they discussing serious matters earlier?

He tried steering the conversation back, but the pair—so anxious earlier—now declared that they’d think about it tomorrow instead.

It was late anyway, they reasoned, and nothing productive would come tonight. Tomorrow would do.

Li Mu couldn’t hold it in anymore and asked, “Then why did Your Majesty even faint in the hot spring?”

Zhu Xiang burst into laughter.

Indeed, some things couldn’t be rushed.

The next morning, Zichu reviewed Zhu Xiang’s memorial, edited and shortened it, and had Zhu Xiang rewrite a clean copy. Then, with the revised document in hand, he gathered the ministers accompanying him in the palace to discuss it.

Even while away from Xianyang, Zichu never completely handed off governance—he always brought several senior officials with him.

Meanwhile, Cai Ze and Lin Zhi, who stayed behind to guard Xianyang, would send important matters by fast courier to Zichu for his decision. They never acted entirely on their own.

The horses, however, suffered for it.

Zhu Xiang’s rewritten memorial omitted many specific details, summarizing only the key points.

That way, he wouldn’t offend anyone directly.

Although Zichu believed that under his protection, Zhu Xiang need not fear enemies, fewer troubles were still better.

Similarly, Zichu removed Zhu Xiang’s harsher criticisms of Qin law. The Qin legal code had been entrenched for years; if brought to open debate, it would stir great unrest.

Zichu therefore planned to quietly revise the laws himself upon returning to Xianyang—consulting with Lin Zhi, Cai Ze, and Xunzi—and then issuing the changes by royal decree.

The Qin code was amended yearly anyway. To avoid commotion, such small adjustments could simply be slipped into the usual revisions and enacted directly.

The King of Qin had his own unique way of handling disputes during court meetings—simply bypass the ministers altogether.

Zhu Xiang thought this was not a good idea, but remembering that this was an autocratic monarchy, he felt relieved. After all, once a foolish ruler ascended the throne, chaos was inevitable anyway—one more loophole wouldn’t make much difference.

The discussion between King Zichu and his ministers concerned agricultural structures. Even though some ministers had never worked a day in the fields, when Zhu Xiang explained that crops of the same type were prone to the same diseases—something that sounded almost too obvious—they still understood.

He went further, saying, “Farming is like leading an army. One must adapt to the seasons, the terrain, and the strength of the farmers. You can’t rigidly follow agricultural manuals any more than you can follow a military manual word for word on the battlefield.”

Lian Po interjected, “In other words, don’t become someone like Zhao Kuo.”

The ministers had been seriously pondering Zhu Xiang’s words, but the moment Lian Po spoke, they stopped thinking and nodded enthusiastically.

Got it, got it—now that he gave an example, they understood perfectly!

Zhu Xiang continued, “Even I couldn’t give specific advice without standing beside the fields. I can only provide general guidance. This too is like commanding troops.”

Lian Po interrupted again, “Exactly! No matter how skilled I am, if you ask me to command Qin troops in Nanyue while I’m in Hanzhong, I’d be completely blind to the situation. I don’t even know what Nanyue looks like.”

The ministers nodded again, casting admiring glances at the old general. Who would’ve thought that General Lian was not only a top military commander but also had the talents of a prime minister!

Xunzi glanced sidelong at Lian Po. Perhaps the man did have some talent for governance—but his eloquence now was clearly something he had developed back when he pretended to “reluctantly” teach military strategy at the Xianyang Academy, claiming he didn’t want to serve Qin.

Since Bai Qi’s second illness forced him to retire, almost no one else came to the Academy to teach warfare. Xunzi thought he should suggest to the King that more military philosophy should be included in the curriculum. It would keep those clamoring for the restoration of the feudal system and Zhou rites quiet for a while.

This was Qin’s era, soon to be the Qin dynasty.

Zhou rituals would evolve into Qin rituals—an unstoppable trend.

As Confucians, their role was to guide this trend toward moral ideals, not to resist it.

Lian Po, senior and well-respected, could silence the Qin ministers with his experience—even if that experience wasn’t earned in Qin itself. Li Mu, in contrast, stayed quiet, humble as always.

With Lian Po and Zhu Xiang playing off one another, and King Zichu repeatedly voicing agreement, the tone of the matter was settled.

After this meeting, King Zichu decided to personally tour the regions east and west of Guanzhong to adjust rigid administrative policies. How to adjust them was for him and his ministers to figure out.

That wouldn’t be easy. They had to give farmers autonomy over what to plant—but farmers were shortsighted and easily swayed by trends. So Qin would have to help guide them in structuring their crops.

They could use tax incentives to encourage the cultivation of staple grains—wheat, rice, millet—to protect the nation’s food base. The remaining minor grains would rely on guidance.

Zhu Xiang proposed: “Each region has royal estates and gardens that supply the King. Those lands can be used to grow miscellaneous grains. Then, exchange those for staple grains at a favorable rate—say, three to one or five to one. That way, farmers will find it profitable to trade for these unfamiliar grains. After a few meals, once they grow used to the taste, they might start planting them themselves.”

Instead of forcing the change, it would be better to let farmers develop a taste for coarse grains naturally. That way, enthusiasm for planting them would grow.

Moreover, since coarse grains spoiled easily, the estates’ surplus could be exchanged for staple grains—solving storage issues too.

Zhu Xiang added, “There are two points to watch for. First, some farmers might overtrade and hoard coarse grains, only for them to spoil—so set a limit per household and call it a royal favor. Second, wealthy households might exploit the system, forcing farmers to exchange at unfair rates.”

King Zichu said, “Then let it be decreed that anyone trading coarse for staple grains must do so at the same or better rate as that of the royal estates.”

Zhu Xiang bowed. “Your Majesty is wise.”

King Zichu swept his gaze across the court. “All of you must have more grain than you can eat. Don’t stoop to such petty profiteering.”

The ministers hurriedly declared, “We wouldn’t dare.”

The King continued, “If your kin engage in such behavior, I will have them executed—and then hold you accountable for poor discipline.”

All the ministers quickly promised to keep their families in check.

Later, King Zichu issued an edict assigning the matter of the grain exchange to Xu Ming, who was then teaching and writing at the Xianyang Academy. As a scholar of the Agricultural School and a steady, experienced man who had long worked with Zhu Xiang, he was perfect for the job.

The King also appointed a Qin royal clansman and the senior minister Meng Ao to supervise the markets—to prevent the wealthy from interfering and ruining a good policy. Everyone knew that when the King and Zhu Xiang spoke of “the wealthy,” they really meant the Qin aristocracy.

Meng Ao, ever since Lian Po and Li Mu joined Qin and with Wang Jian rising in prominence, no longer led troops. Instead, he contentedly wrote letters urging his sons and grandsons to improve themselves.

When his grandson Meng Tian achieved military success, Meng Ao proudly visited nearly every acquaintance in Xianyang, showing off with every excuse imaginable.

His friend, Wei Zhuang, was a mild, unassuming man. After enduring several rounds of boasting, Wei Zhuang finally chased Meng Ao out with a broom.

But judging by his vigorous broom-swinging, Wei Zhuang must’ve been quite the warrior in his youth.

Now that Meng Ao had recommended him for office, Wei Zhuang found himself supervising the bureaucracy. He wasn’t grateful—in fact, he was furious.

All he wanted was a quiet career as senior minister until retirement, not to be dragged into factional squabbles. “Some friend you are!”

When Zhu Xiang heard his name, he gave Wei Zhuang an extra look. Wei Zhuang—unknown in history until unearthed artifacts revealed he had been one of Qin Shi Huang’s chancellors.

Under Qin, the position of Chancellor of State (Xiàngguó) was later replaced by Left and Right Chancellors. Lü Buwei had once served as Xiàngguó, and Li Si later as Chancellor. In Qin Shi Huang’s time, besides Li Si, there were others—such as Wei Zhuang and Wang Wan.

Though they differed with Li Si on policies, they always supported Qin Shi Huang once he decided. Wei Zhuang helped implement the unification of currency, weights, and measures, while Wang Wan oversaw the transformation of feudal states into commanderies. Thus, though Li Si proposed these ideas, it was these elder chancellors who carried them out.

After Wei Zhuang’s death, Li Si filled his position; after Wang Wan’s, it was Feng Quji. Though Li Si ranked below Feng, he held true administrative power. And ultimately, Li Si mismanaged everything—creating deep divisions.

Zhu Xiang gazed at Wei Zhuang, momentarily lost in thought. Perhaps Li Si was indeed brilliant—but not at governing a country just emerging from war.

King Zichu noticed Zhu Xiang’s look and quickly praised Wei Zhuang. Later, when he had changed out of his royal robes, he asked, “You know Wei Zhuang? I barely know him myself.”

Zhu Xiang smiled. “I’ve only heard he’s capable in economic matters.”

Zichu said, “If even you say so, then he must be talented.”

Zhu Xiang chuckled helplessly. “Not necessarily. I don’t know much about him.”

In truth, historical records about Wei Zhuang were scarce—even Records of the Grand Historian got his name wrong. Only archaeological discoveries later revealed that “Wei Lin” was actually “Wei Zhuang.”

But anyone who could serve as chancellor under Qin Shi Huang surely wasn’t ordinary.

Zichu mused, “I’ll observe him for a while. If he’s truly capable, next time Cai Ze threatens to resign, I’ll have Wei Zhuang assist him.”

Zhu Xiang quipped, “You might as well appoint Li Mu as Chancellor directly. Qin has plenty of generals—anyone can lead troops to Nanyue.”

Li Mu glared. “Zhu Xiang, don’t push me.”

Zhu Xiang tilted his head. “And if I do?”

Li Mu said coolly, “Then I’ll tell Xunzi everything you did in Nanyue.”

Zhu Xiang: “…”

Zichu burst out laughing. “Do it, quickly! I’ll support you!”

Zhu Xiang gritted his teeth. He wanted to retort that he’d done nothing wrong in Nanyue—but after thinking carefully, he wasn’t entirely sure there wasn’t something that would make Xunzi want to beat him.

“Enough of you both,” he said. “I’m off to serve Master Xunzi and General Lian. Xia Tong, Li Mu—you two can sort out your own dinner.”

Zichu and Li Mu exchanged a glance and followed immediately

When Zhu Xiang cooked, there was no way they were eating elsewhere!

Besides, Xunzi and Lian Po wouldn’t mind extra company—they were all family at the table.

When Xunzi saw Zhu Xiang and Zichu approaching—the two people who gave him the biggest headaches—he sighed deeply as Li Mu smiled apologetically beside them.

“Zhu Xiang,” Xunzi said, “have you rested enough?”

Zhu Xiang blinked. “Rested? Uh… yes, I have.”

“Good,” said Xunzi. “Come here.”

Zhu Xiang walked over. “Have you studied properly during your years away?” Xunzi asked. “I’ll test you.”

From his sleeve, he drew out a ruler.

Zhu Xiang: “…” Wait—why an exam all of a sudden?!

Lian Po quickly pulled Zichu and Li Mu aside, handed them roasted pumpkin seeds, and grinned as he watched Zhu Xiang’s “test.”

Ever since Ying Zheng left Wu Commandery, Zhu Xiang had been too busy to read much. Escorting Lord Chunshen afterward left even less time for study.

He tried to bluff his way through with his memory and wits—but Xunzi wasn’t someone who missed mistakes. The moment Zhu Xiang slipped up, Xunzi raised the ruler, and Zhu Xiang extended his palm, wearing the resigned look of a man who’d accepted his fate.

Li Mu sighed. “Zheng’er has completely learned from Zhu Xiang’s bad habits.”

Zichu nodded vigorously. “Exactly! That’s the same look he has when he admits fault.”

Lian Po shook his head. “No, Zheng’er is much better than Zhu Xiang.”

Far away in Wu Commandery, Ying Zheng—now at the governor’s office, buried under a mountain of paperwork—sneezed loudly.

Slamming his brush down, he shouted in frustration, “What on earth is Uncle doing? Why isn’t he back yet?!”

Handling state affairs was easy—but teaching his younger brother Chengjiao how to study? Ying Zheng was about to lose his mind!