HCT – Chapter 207 Qualification to Enter the Kitchen (Part 1)

With the academy’s curriculum changing, the talent-selection examination also needed to change.

Zhu Xiang suggested that they begin with mainly objective questions, supplemented with fill-in-the-blank items and scenario analysis. Then, when the King of Qin personally presided over the palace examination, they could conduct essay-style policy discussions, and finish with an interview.

This kind of examination would minimize the influence examiners had on candidates, placing the power of personnel selection directly in the hands of the King of Qin.

But doing it this way required the King to have high personal caliber, the ability to discern talent, and enough energy to personally review the candidates.

For Zichu and Ying Zheng, that was certainly no problem. For future kings of Qin… who knew? Zhu Xiang could only think: if future Qin emperors can’t handle it, then let them change it themselves.

In high spirits, Zhu Xiang handed his proposal to Zichu.

Zichu rubbed his brow and said, “Why don’t we return to Xianyang immediately and make Cai Ze and Lin Li do the work?”

Zhu Xiang replied, “I don’t mind. But you look exhausted—can you hold up?”

Zichu gave him a sideways glance. “Even if I can’t, I have to.”

He yawned, then forced himself to concentrate as he finished reading Zhu Xiang’s proposal. “Feasible. Once we’re back in Xianyang, have the bóshì discuss it.”

The term bóshì (“Doctor”) in Zhu Xiang’s original timeline was a rank Qin Shi Huang created specifically to appease scholars from the eastern states—low in status but with considerable influence, similar to remonstration officials who could criticize the emperor directly. Eventually, they became a group dedicated to opposing Qin Shi Huang.

When King Zhao of Qin founded the Xianyang Academy and absorbed scholars from the six states, Ying Zheng casually blurted out the term “bóshì,” earning the king’s approval.

Afterward, King Zhao formally created an institution responsible for editing, managing books, and overseeing education; its official members were called bóshì. Under Zhu Xiang’s suggestion, the institution resembled the Ministry of Rites in later dynasties.

“Did Zheng mention his proposal regarding the Xianyang Academy to you?” Zichu asked suddenly.

Zhu Xiang said, “Zheng’er has too many wild ideas every day—I don’t know which one you’re referring to.”

Zichu said, “The one about the natural sciences you want to promote—physics and chemistry.”

Zhu Xiang’s eyelid twitched; he had already guessed.

Sure enough, Zichu was talking about exactly what Zhu Xiang had suspected.

Ying Zheng was far too perceptive. After the Battle of Guangling and hearing Li Mu’s thoughts when he returned from the naval patrol, he realized something important—scientific development not only improved civilian life, but had an even more direct impact on warfare.

Zhu Xiang had not hidden this fact, but he had not openly emphasized it either.

He felt conflicted.

As a timid, ordinary person, even if he knew something was the general trend and the truth, he still didn’t want it to be his mouth that spoke it, or his hands that set it in motion.

Even though he had secretly told Li Mu while drunk, and even though it was already being applied within the army.

Hearing Zichu bring it up stirred complicated feelings in Zhu Xiang’s heart.

There was relief—because he had long expected this outcome.

There was mockery—because he had been lying to himself.

And there was helpless confusion—about what direction the future would take.

He knew that although the Qin dynasty would collapse after just two emperors, and the common people would suffer, it was merely a small wave in the long river of history. Coming from more than two millennia in the future, he knew what that future looked like.

Farming alone was fine. But what if warfare technology advanced? What path would the future take?

No one knew.

Absent-mindedly, Zhu Xiang’s right hand clutched his robe. Suddenly, a conversation he once heard among colleagues came vividly to mind. It was the sort of idle chat he normally wouldn’t recall so clearly—yet now it surfaced with perfect clarity and dissolved his doubts:

“It’s impossible for Chinese civilization to follow the Western path—this is determined by the structure of the civilization itself.

Chinese civilization has never been broken for thousands of years. It developed a complete system where self-sufficient farmers and small-scale craftsmen coexist with a top-down bureaucratic hierarchy.

Economically, when the West began the Industrial Revolution, China still had strong competitiveness in handicrafts due to its large population and perfected craftsmanship. Its self-sufficient economy was solid, so even at the end of the imperial era, China maintained a trade surplus.

When the Qing dynasty claimed its vast land and abundant resources made foreign goods unnecessary, it wasn’t bragging—it was true. But that very reality made Western-style reform impossible. Industrialization would put countless small craftsmen and farmers out of work.

Foreign countries had smaller populations—England could absorb millions of displaced farmers into sweatshops. But when China had finally accumulated enough to industrialize, the land held at least hundreds of millions of people, with a long tradition of peasant uprisings.

If a Chinese ruler tried to industrialize, he’d be cutting his own throat. Feudal rulers saw the trend coming, but would still crush it.

During the century of humiliation, China had to change or perish. The pioneers explored many paths; almost every possible road was tried. In the end, only one remained.

That path began with the ritual culture of the Zhou, grew during the Hundred Schools of Thought in the Spring and Autumn and Warring States, was shaped through the Han dynasty’s continuation of Qin institutions, and after Tang, Song, Yuan, Ming, and Qing, became something embedded in the very bones and spirit of the Chinese people.

It is the path of Great Unity.

It is the only road Chinese civilization has ever walked—and will ever walk.”

“Zhu Xiang, what are you spacing out for?” Zichu asked.

Zhu Xiang replied, “I was wondering—if we raise the level of warfare technology now, what impact will it have on later generations?”

Zichu looked puzzled. “What?”

Zhu Xiang shook his head. “Nothing.”

After all, emperors would disappear eventually—so what did it matter?

The Chinese people were practical. If gods stopped being useful, they tore down the temples. When they no longer needed an emperor, why would they let someone sit around enjoying unearned privilege?

Even capitalists hung from the electric poles still had to work.

All of Zhu Xiang’s resistance came from fear. Because developing military technology would cost many lives. Even though he knew that without such development, cold-weapon warfare would still kill countless people. But since he wasn’t personally responsible for those deaths, he felt no guilt.

He also worried that if military technology developed too early while philosophy lagged behind, Chinese civilization might collapse.

But Zheng’er had already noticed the issue—Zhu Xiang had no way out anymore.

Besides, over the years, he had realized that he wasn’t as capable as he once thought. His knowledge wasn’t enough to rapidly advance Qin’s weapons technology; at best, he could help establish the foundations of mathematics, physics, chemistry, and other natural sciences.

Thinking of this, Zhu Xiang felt a bit embarrassed.

After all, he wasn’t in the defense industry—he wasn’t even a natural science researcher. His only true skill was farming. As for suddenly becoming some multidisciplinary genius… if he could do that, he wouldn’t have been a young professor—he’d have been a young academician.

Zhu Xiang: So it turns out I’m useless. Well, that’s fine then. Qin people can do whatever they like!

“Zheng’er is right,” Zhu Xiang said. “Whenever science and technology erupt, it’s always during periods of frequent warfare. Physics is used to create offensive and defensive machinery, chemistry for developing better explosives, biology is born from medical research on the battlefield, and mathematics’ greatest use was originally for calculating the range of artillery and crossbow bolts.”

Zhu Xiang paused. “It’s like we’re using iron knives while the enemy uses wooden swords.”

Zichu was utterly stunned after listening to this long speech; for a long while he couldn’t utter a word.

He stared blankly for a long time before stammering, “Zheng’er—Zheng’er didn’t say all that. You don’t have to…”

Zhu Xiang cut him off. “Since you’ve found out already, I won’t hide it anymore.”

He smiled freely. “Establishing an Academy of Sciences, researching military technology, supporting the study of civilian technology—this will lay the foundation for science and help end wars sooner. Very good.”

Zichu grabbed Zhu Xiang’s shoulder. “Wait, wait. The more you talk, the less I understand.”

Zhu Xiang replied, “It doesn’t matter if you don’t understand. It’s enough to know that I agree with Zheng’er.”

Zichu shook his head vigorously. “No. You’re always like this—keeping things to yourself. Even if we disagree, you can still tell me. Isn’t that what friends are for?”

Zhu Xiang looked at Zichu for a moment, sighed, and slumped over the table.

The two sat facing each other across the desk; once he slumped down, Zichu could only see his topknot.

Zichu poked Zhu Xiang’s head. “What exactly are you worrying about?”

Zhu Xiang mumbled, “I was worrying… whether rapid advancements in military technology, when ideology can’t keep up, would be like a child swinging a broadsword—too easy to hurt themselves.”

But now he wasn’t worried anymore, because he realized he couldn’t even manage that much.

He didn’t even know the formula for yellow gunpowder! He did know nitrocellulose, but not how to produce pure nitric acid.

These basic chemicals were always purchased in bulk by the school—he simply signed for them.

Zichu tried hard to follow Zhu Xiang’s line of thinking.

“That makes sense. So as the Confucians say, the people must be restrained not only by law but also by morality—that is necessary,” Zichu said. “And scientific technology must remain firmly in the hands of the government.”

Zhu Xiang said, “Even if ordinary people learn basic knowledge, creating powerful weapons is very difficult. Look at me—have I ever made anything impressive?”

Zichu finally laughed. “Now that you say that, I feel relieved.”

Zhu Xiang sat up. “Improving basic scientific education is important. If we can give equal weight to ideological and literary education, perhaps our future will be much better.”

Zichu helplessly replied, “Why do you always think too far ahead? Can you first think about Qin unifying the world?”

Zhu Xiang also felt helpless. “What is there to think about? Should I think about you becoming Qin Shihuang, or Zheng’er becoming Qin Shihuang? You two can fight it out yourselves—why should I pick sides?”

Zichu said seriously, “Maybe you really will need to step in. What if Zheng’er wants to be Qin Shihuang and forces a palace coup?”

Zhu Xiang rolled his eyes fiercely. “If Zheng’er is stupid enough to stage a coup just for the title of Qin Shihuang, then he doesn’t deserve to be Qin Shihuang.”

Only idiots would stain their perfect position as heir with a pointless scandal.

Truly capable people are cautious—they plan before acting and carefully weigh all gains and losses.

Zichu burst into hearty laughter. As long as Zhu Xiang joined him in joking about Zheng’er, he was happy.

Though Zhu Xiang wasn’t actually joking about Ying Zheng.

Since Zhu Xiang was willing to take charge of this matter, Zichu didn’t need to ask others. He immediately set up the Academy of Sciences within Xianyang Academy, as an institution subordinate to the academy.

Zhu Xiang believed that Xianyang Academy could eventually be divided into “faculties”—physics, chemistry, medicine, classics, geography… Sooner or later they would need to separate.

Zichu, after listening, believed that placing another institution above Xianyang Academy would be even better. This institution could be merged into the “Doctor” (Scholar-Official) system and become part of Qin’s bureaucracy. They would only need to focus on research.

But Zhu Xiang opposed it. If researchers only received fixed salaries, they might just idle away and lose ambition.

The two talked from sunset to moonrise, candles were lit, and they still hadn’t reached an agreement.

Such an important matter couldn’t be finished in a day or two.

Zichu excitedly set off, dragging Zhu Xiang back to Xianyang to gather ministers and scholars of Xianyang Academy to discuss it together.

Now that Xianyang Academy had scholars studying many disciplines, it was time to divide fields.

Dividing by schools of thought would make students “pick sides,” forming actual factions according to ideological allegiance. Dividing by knowledge disciplines meant students learned knowledge while still following teachers of different schools, making it harder to be swayed by ideology.

As King of Qin—like his predecessors—Zichu deeply detested the various philosophical schools whose teacher-student relationships were nominal but whose organizations were too independent and escaped governmental control.

The Mohists and Agriculturalists already had their organizational structures dismantled—that was the price for continuing to spread their teachings in Qin.

The Confucians originally had a fairly strict hierarchy too, but because Xunzi and the disciples of Mencius (the Lu Confucians) did not get along, and because many other factions within Confucianism fought fiercely, the Qin kings had not yet acted against the Confucians.

The Qin kings supported Xunzi. Because Xunzi’s reform of Confucianism produced what later was called the “dross” of Confucianism—learn the arts of war and peace, and serve the emperor.

With such reforms, loyalty to the monarch became woven into Confucianism’s bones, and emperors did not need to fear Confucian backlash.

However, the Qin kings would not place their entire bet on the Confucians.

Majestic Great Qin—its unified ideology would encompass all the Hundred Schools, just as future Qin citizens included people from all six conquered states.

With Zhu Xiang as their trump card, social conflict eased, and the Qin monarchy’s ambitions grew.

When Zichu returned to Xianyang, Cai Ze and Lin Zhi came out to greet him.

Zhu Xiang stood behind King Zichu, accepting their formal bows head-on.

Cai Ze and Lin Zhi lifted their heads to look at Zhu Xiang.

Zhu Xiang returned their gaze with an innocent expression.

Cai Ze and Lin Zhi exchanged looks.

Cai Ze: He’s doing this on purpose.

Lin Zhi: This brat needs a beating.

Lin Zhi said to King Zichu, “Your Majesty, may you tolerate my discourtesy for a moment?”

He didn’t say what he would do, but King Zichu instinctively stepped aside, exposing Zhu Xiang behind him.

“The king permits you to be rude,” King Zichu said to the other ministers. “You may all leave first. Chancellor Lin has old matters to catch up on with Lord Changping.”

The ministers had been ready to go, but the moment the King said that, none of them wanted to leave anymore.

There was going to be drama!

Qin’s laws were strict and life was stifling; it was rare to encounter anything entertaining. Their legs refused to move.

Xunzi slammed his cane against the ground and scolded, “Stop embarrassing yourselves here!”

Lin Zhi, who had rolled up his sleeves, immediately dropped them back down and said respectfully, “Yes, Master Xunzi.”

Then Xunzi smacked Zhu Xiang on the back with his cane. “The Prime Minister and the Chancellor are saluting the Qin King. Why didn’t you step aside?”

Zhu Xiang replied while running away, “I did it on purpose! I wanted to see them get angry and flustered!”

Xunzi’s eyes rounded.

Lian Po crossed his arms and said, “After all these years, Zhu Xiang hasn’t changed at all. Still loves to provoke you on purpose. Can you still run? If you can’t, I’ll grab that brat Zhu Xiang and bring him over for you to teach a lesson.”

Gritting his teeth, Xunzi said, “I’ll teach him later—stop embarrassing yourselves at the city gate.”

Lian Po shook his head and sighed. “He doesn’t feel ashamed, so why are you trying to protect his face?”

Xunzi glared at him.

Lian Po continued sighing, “Fine, fine, I’ll stop. Sigh… I haven’t been back to the manor in ages. Wonder if my courtyard has been cleaned.”

Xunzi said, “Even when Zhu Xiang isn’t in Xianyang, the King of Qin, Cai Ze, and Lin Zhi often gather there. The manor is cleaned constantly. Your rooms are exactly as they were.”

Lian Po laughed. “Good, then I don’t need to find another place to stay.”

Although the King had granted him a large residence in Xianyang, he only returned to the city to rest. Staying with Zhu Xiang was still more convenient.

After Zhu Xiang visited Empress Dowager Huayang and Empress Dowager Xia, he returned to the manor with Zichu and the others.

Sure enough, Lian Po’s courtyard was just as before. He took his completely overlooked son Lian Fu for a walk around the manor, introducing everything along the way.

“This is the courtyard where King Zhaoxiang lived. See that table? The small chair on the table is where Zheng’er used to sit. When King Zhaoxiang handled government affairs, Zheng’er would sit there listening to his teachings.”

“This courtyard with the osmanthus tree was where the late King lived. That osmanthus tree was transplanted from the palace gardens because Zheng’er loved osmanthus cakes.”

“Both King Zhaoxiang and the late King spoiled Zheng’er terribly.”

Seeing his son’s terrified expression, Lian Po shook his head in disgust.

He dragged the boy along to look at Fan Ju and Bai Qi’s residences.

Fan Ju’s courtyard was still piled high with bamboo scrolls and wooden documents, as if he might return any moment to read them. Bai Qi’s courtyard was filled with weapons of various sizes—the smallest ones were used when Ying Zheng practiced as a child.

“Lord Wu’an Bai Qi passed away too?” Lian Fu sighed. “To think I came to Qin without ever seeing the legendary God of War.”

Lian Po kicked him. “Your own father is Lord Xinping. What are you worshipping Bai Qi for? That old geezer isn’t dead yet. He’s been sick for years—every year I think we’ll be offering sacrifices at his grave, but he’s still alive. Tsk.”

Lian Fu: “…”

Just what kind of relationship did his father have with Wu’an Jun? If they weren’t close, why was Bai Qi’s courtyard right next door? If they were close, why did Father look so regretful that Bai Qi still hadn’t died?

After finishing the tour, Lian Po tossed the task of cleaning his quarters to Lian Fu and went to the kitchen to see what Zhu Xiang was cooking.

Whenever Zhu Xiang returned home, the first thing he did was prepare a feast.

Seeing Lian Po enter, Zhu Xiang said, “I didn’t prepare anything ahead of time today, so we’ll have hot pot. The palace was simmering mutton bones and beef bones—I brought the broth back to use as the base.”

Lian Po laughed and cursed. “You used to just ‘borrow’ small things from the palace. Now you’re bringing back whole pots?”

Zhu Xiang replied, “The King eats here all the time. What’s wrong with me taking the King’s pot? He’s still the one who’ll eat from it. Right, Xia Tong?”

“Huh? Fine, as long as you don’t take all my pots,” Zichu said while tending the fire.

Now that Zhu Xiang was home, the whole group naturally gathered in the kitchen, working and chatting just like before.

Lian Fu finished unpacking and came to find his father.

The moment he saw the King of Qin, Prime Minister Cai, Chancellor Lin, and Lord Changping all cooking, and his own father leaning by the door criticizing Lin Zhi’s knife skills, his face turned pale with terror.

Who dared eat food cooked by the King?!

He rushed forward hoping to take the King’s place at the stove, only to be dragged out by the back of the collar.

“Look at who’s in that kitchen. And you want to help? Do you think you’re qualified?” Lian Po scolded. “If you want to join them, then show real skill. At least become someone like me.”

Lian Fu was horrified. “You need qualifications… just to tend the fire in a kitchen?”

Lian Po shot him a sideways glance. “Of course. If you had great cooking skills, you could at least help out like a palace chef. Oh, but today they sent every chef away. Even if you learned now, you still couldn’t go in.”

Lian Fu was completely lost. Was this some new Qin social ritual? Only people approved by the King could cook with him?

Why cooking, of all things??

“Then… how many people can enter that kitchen?” he asked cautiously.

Lian Po answered, “Li Mu is one… huh? Where is Li Mu?”

He scratched his head.

Li Mu had gone with Zhu Xiang to the hot springs palace—so why didn’t he return to Xianyang with them?

Only now did Lian Po realize he had lost track of one whole Li Mu.

Li Mu had ridden off to Lord Bai Qi’s fief to visit the ailing general.

Bai Qi’s illness had risen and fallen countless times—neither improving nor worsening. He simply lived with it.

When he first fell ill, Bai Qi deeply regretted that unlike Lian Po, he could no longer continue battling on the frontlines.

But eventually he grew accustomed to peaceful family life, finding joy in teaching his descendants. He had grown comfortable with this calm.

When Li Mu arrived, Bai Qi immediately shooed his family away and complained, “Teaching fools is torture. I want to return to the Xianyang Academy. The students there are far smarter. I could recuperate in Xianyang all the same—can you help convince the King?”

He knew King Zichu would not fear him.

Wu’an Jun Bai Qi belonged only to the era of King Zhaoxiang.

King Zichu had Li Mu and Wang Jian; even Lian Po’s brilliance was overshadowed by these two young generals. With such trusted commanders, King Zichu would not fear an aging Bai Qi.

The King had sent him back to his fief simply out of concern for his health—believing Bai Qi’s family could care for him better.

Zhu Xiang was often absent from Xianyang; Bai Qi’s relatives were more dependable caregivers.

But clearly, Bai Qi did not enjoy spending so much time with them.

Li Mu lifted a jar of wine and smiled. “I’ve heard that Wu’an Jun is feeling much better. If so, could you handle some travel? If you can, would you like to recuperate in the south?”

Bai Qi raised an eyebrow. “Oh? There’s something this old man can still do for the King?”

Li Mu replied, “It’s not about work. Zheng’er simply misses you.”

Hearing Zheng’er’s name, Bai Qi’s expression softened with fondness. “How is he?”

Li Mu said, “How could he not be well? He’s gotten so bold he even argues with the King—and was scolded thoroughly by Master Xunzi.”

Bai Qi burst into laughter. “Among the princes of Qin, only Zheng’er would dare argue with the King.”

Li Mu laughed as well. “Perhaps. Actually, it’s my fault—I’ve been busy with military duties and haven’t been teaching him military strategy enough. He complains constantly.”

Bai Qi said, “If the King agrees, I would be glad to teach the Crown Prince. But are you confident in my health?”

Li Mu answered, “Not entirely. And that’s precisely why Zhu Xiang wants you to recuperate in the southern Qin territories.”

Bai Qi joked, “What, does he think my family can’t look after me?”

Li Mu quickly said, “Your family is wholly devoted. How could Zhu Xiang doubt that? It’s just that the winters in the north have grown colder these years, and you cough often. Wu County might be better for you. And Bian Que is there—he’s likely more capable than ordinary physicians.”

Bai Qi sighed. “Sounds exactly like something Zhu Xiang would consider. But did he think about how inauspicious it would be if I died in his home?”

Li Mu said, “Zhu Xiang has already seen many elders off in their final years—what’s unlucky about offering proper care? He only wants you well. And besides, Zheng’er truly misses you.”

Bai Qi stood. “If Zhu Xiang has put it that way, what reason do I have to refuse?”

He immediately began packing with great enthusiasm.

His family could only look on helplessly.

They were genuinely being abandoned.