HCT – Chapter 27 Boiled Beans in Salt Water

The King of Qin had suddenly turned into a riddler, which made Bai Qi feel a bit irritated. But since the man was his sovereign, he had no choice but to endure it obediently.

The battle might be over, but for Bai Qi, the work was only just beginning. Now came the time to calculate military merit and compensate the families of the fallen Qin soldiers—this was when he would be busiest.

Prisoners counted toward military merit, but how exactly the credit was distributed required the commanding general to rack his brains and come up with a method that all parties could accept—an extremely troublesome task. That said, killing prisoners wasn’t any easier, so Bai Qi had become quite experienced at managing this.

Bai Qi visited the infirmaries, sending off those too injured to fight anytime soon to recuperate at the barracks near Shangdang and Yewang. He reorganized the military encampments, designated farming plots for the Qin soldiers to begin garrison farming on the spot, sent people to collect the remains of fallen Qin soldiers from the battlefield, had them cremated on-site, wrapped the ashes in clothing taken from the corpses, and delivered them along with compensation to their families…

In the Zhou Dynasty, burials were typically done in the ground. Only the surrounding “barbarian” tribes practiced cremation—such as the Yiqu tribes that lived alongside the Qin.

However, the Qin’s cremation of fallen soldiers wasn’t due to adopting the Yiqu customs. It was simply because it was impossible to transport the bodies of so many fallen soldiers back to their hometowns. Only their ashes could be sent home. If a soldier had no family or couldn’t be identified, their remains would be cremated and buried locally.

Throughout dynasties and kingdoms, sending back the remains of fallen soldiers always meant sending back ashes. Stories about burning corpses to eliminate “resentful energy” or “evil spirits” were just rationalizations for this practical solution.

If one lost the war, or the commanding officer didn’t care, the dead would remain buried under the soil of the battlefield, becoming part of local ghost stories for future generations.

If the victors intended to occupy the area, they would dig a large pit—or use a natural depression—to bury the enemy corpses, to prevent the spread of disease.

Bai Qi always treated his soldiers well, and since he had never lost a battle, he did everything in his power after each war to gather and cremate the fallen Qin soldiers.

This time, he personally led a team to the battlefield to recover the Qin dead buried in the mud. While there, he saw Zhu Xiang leading the Zhao soldiers in similar work.

The Qin were known for their cruelty and cunning—Bai Qi was even more fearsome. Zhao soldiers, even after surrendering, should have been trembling with fear every day. Yet they were calmly following Zhu Xiang, cleaning the battlefield and collecting the remains of their comrades.

Bai Qi approached Zhu Xiang, who had changed into Hu-style clothing better suited for physical labor, and asked, “Weren’t you going to farm?”

Zhu Xiang replied, “Before we can farm, we have to get the groundwork done.”

He began counting on his fingers:

— Rebuild the Zhao army’s camp, separating waste and garbage to prevent disease, and to compost as fertilizer;

— Clean the battlefield and gather comrades’ remains, while clearing land for cultivation;

— Dig irrigation channels, gather firewood, and set up workshops to make farming tools…

As Bai Qi listened to Zhu Xiang list these items one by one, his brow twitched slightly.

Why did it feel like Zhu Xiang wasn’t trying to negotiate for the survival of Zhao’s prisoners of war—but instead was preparing to build a new village?

Zhu Xiang had no real experience with what POWs were “supposed” to do. With over a hundred thousand people needing to survive here for at least three months, his first instinct was naturally to get the infrastructure in place. Saying he was building a village wouldn’t be wrong.

Moreover, many of the Zhao soldiers would have to remain here long-term, so it made sense to perfect the infrastructure while manpower was still abundant—it would make life easier in the future.

Now that the King of Qin had granted his request and agreed to take care of Xue and Zheng’er, the weight on Zhu Xiang’s heart had finally lifted. And besides, he was going to die in three months anyway. He’d become rather fearless.

When Bai Qi came over to question him, the other Zhao soldiers were trembling with fear, yet Zhu Xiang not only calmly explained his entire plan to Bai Qi, he even asked if Bai Qi had any suggestions.

“I’ve never led a group of people to build a settlement from scratch,” Zhu Xiang said. “But Lord Wu’an, you’re often campaigning far from home—you must have plenty of experience.”

Seeing Zhu Xiang’s sparkling eyes, Bai Qi didn’t know why, but he felt an odd itch in his hand—he really wanted to give Zhu Xiang a thump on the head.

Why did this man have no sense of danger at all? Was Bai Qi’s reputation not fearsome enough?!

Bai Qi fixed him with a dangerously cold stare.

Zhu Xiang was utterly unbothered.

Whatever. I’m going to die anyway. It’s not like they’ll kill me ahead of schedule. What’s there to be afraid of?

Bai Qi took a deep breath and replied expressionlessly, “If you want to build a settlement, ask the Mohists and Agriculturists in your group—they’re better at this. The water source is the most important—make sure your water intake point is upstream from where waste is dumped. The Qin army is camped near the Shaoshui River; you’re near the Danshui River. Our water sources are different, so you don’t need to worry about overlapping with our camp.”

Zhu Xiang cupped his hands. “Thank you, Lord Wu’an! By the way, with over three hundred thousand people between the Qin and Zhao armies, what about firewood? It’s manageable for now, but once winter hits and the nearby trees are chopped bare, we won’t have enough fuel.”

Before the founding of modern China, the mountains in the north were almost bald—chopped bare by people for firewood, which was one reason why sandstorms became so severe.

During the Song Dynasty, the capital had such a large population that there was virtually no firewood to be had nearby. Luckily, coal had already come into use. Back then, firewood was more expensive than coal, creating the odd situation where the rich burned firewood and charcoal, while the poor burned coal.

Zhu Xiang had brought plenty of food supplies, and with what remained in the Zhao camps and leftover Qin rations, there was more than enough to last three months. But firewood—that was a big problem.

Bai Qi said, “I’ve already sent some of the wounded back to Qin, and stationed others in places like Shangdang and Yewang. The forested areas near the Qin army camp have enough firewood to last the winter. As for your Zhao army, you’ll have to figure something out yourselves.”

Zhu Xiang originally wanted to ask, Aren’t you afraid the Zhao troops might rebel, now that you’ve dispersed the Qin forces?

But then he thought better of it. The Zhao soldiers had already surrendered their weapons, and morale was gone—they only wanted to finish planting the potatoes and get home as soon as possible. Aside from a few noble-born officers, probably no one would even consider rebellion.

A few people stirring up trouble—Lord Wu’an would certainly be able to suppress it. But as for himself, he might be implicated. Perhaps this was one of King Qin and Lord Wu’an’s tests for him?

Bai Qi waited for Zhu Xiang to question why he dared to divide the Qin army. Zhu Xiang’s expression shifted slightly before revealing a look of sudden understanding, which piqued Bai Qi’s intense curiosity.

What exactly had Zhu Xiang figured out? Had he seen through his intentions?

Unfortunately, Bai Qi had to maintain his image and couldn’t ask.

“There’s a kind of black stone nearby that can be used to make fire. If Lord Wu’an trusts me, please send someone with me to mine it,” Zhu Xiang said. “Has Lord Wu’an ever heard of shi nie?”

“Shi nie” is the name for coal in the Classic of Mountains and Seas. That text was compiled between the late Warring States and early Western Han period. Even if it hadn’t been written yet, the terms in the book would have been common knowledge during this era.

Bai Qi raised his brows. “I’m aware. There’s shi nie nearby?”

Of course Bai Qi knew about shi nie.

Also called “mei” (since the character for coal hasn’t been invented yet), Mozi’s chapter on siege defense, Preparations for Tunnels, mentions laying forty catties of “mei” beneath strategic points in tunnel warfare, placing charcoal above it, and sealing it with a lid. When the enemy attacks, troops would feign retreat, light the charcoal, and escape through the tunnels—sealing the lid behind them to suffocate the invaders.

In the Spring and Autumn period, when King Helü ordered Gan Jiang to forge swords, it was written: “Pump the bellows and load the coal, then the metal can be tempered.” They sourced coal from the southern mountains, forming coal streams in the area—evidence that coal was already used in smelting iron ore.

Although current technology only allowed mining coal at the surface, people of this era were already using coal in warfare and metallurgy. Bai Qi had naturally used it before.

Bai Qi warned, “Shi nie releases toxic gas.”

Zhu Xiang replied, “We can use a waterwheel to drive an axle and wash the shi nie with water, separating out higher-quality coal with fewer impurities. Then we modify the stoves, and we can use the coal for cooking and heating.”

Zhu Xiang only knew the theory of coal washing and refining but lacked practical experience. However, this era already had mature techniques for water-washing copper and iron ores to extract refined minerals. Once Zhu Xiang explained the principle to Xiang He, Xiang He was immediately able to extrapolate and design a simple coal-washing apparatus.

Differences in geology and soil composition had a huge impact on wild plants. A student of agriculture naturally also had to study geology and geography. During his travels across the country to search for wild plants and cultivate good strains, Zhu Xiang had also made notes of mineral deposits.

Changping lay in Gaoping, Shanxi, which was rich in coal resources—much of it near the surface or shallow layers. There were also vast reserves of high-quality anthracite with low ash, low sulfur, and high caloric value. Though only strategically advantageous, the soil in Shangdang Commandery was mid- to low-grade; in Zhu Xiang’s eyes, it was a rare treasure.

“You know how to mine?” Bai Qi asked.

Zhu Xiang replied, “Farming is dealing with the land, so I know a little.”

Bai Qi didn’t know how to respond. Just from the few things Zhu Xiang had said, this was far more than “a little.”

“Very well. Write up the specific procedures for me, and I’ll make the arrangements,” Bai Qi said. He thought to himself: I’ll have to ask Xu Ming and Xiang He at some point—just how many skills does Zhu Xiang have?

“Huh? I have to write it? Can’t I just say it?” Zhu Xiang started to get a headache. What’s with Lord Wu’an? He’s acting like some modern-day high-level official—always asking for a written report first.

Seeing Zhu Xiang’s troubled expression, Bai Qi—oddly enough—felt a bit amused. He kept a straight face and said, “I have to submit it to…”

He glanced at the sky.

Most people still didn’t know the King of Qin was in the camp, so Bai Qi didn’t say it directly.

“Fine, fine, I’ll write it, okay?” Zhu Xiang grumbled. “If I’d known, I’d have brought Cai Ze. It’d be great if Xia Tong hadn’t left either. Oh right, Xia Tong said he’s now serving as a retainer under Prince Zichu. Lord Wu’an, do you know him?”

Xia Tong? Bai Qi thought about it and immediately figured out who “Xia Tong” was.

Prince Zichu’s mother’s surname was Xia—this half-hearted alias clearly referred to Prince Zichu himself.

Prince Zichu said he was a retainer under Prince Zichu? Bai Qi was curious to see how Prince Zichu would explain that when Zhu Xiang arrived in Qin.

“No, I don’t know him,” Bai Qi answered.

Zhu Xiang didn’t suspect anything. His buddy Xia Tong was just an ordinary retainer; it was totally normal for the high-ranking Lord Wu’an not to know him.

Wait, I can also write a letter to Xia Tong and ask him to take care of Zheng’er…

Does this mean I now have someone close to Zheng’er’s dad? The thought made Zhu Xiang smile.

Bai Qi was speechless. Why is this young man grinning like a fool? How can he space out while talking to me and then randomly start smiling?

“Go write the report,” Bai Qi reminded him.

Zhu Xiang’s smile immediately collapsed. He turned and gave Lian Yuan a few instructions, then carried a hoe and, escorted by several guards, trudged off heavily toward his residence.

Lian Yuan was the head of the personal guards sent by Lian Po. Though not part of the Lian family by blood, his family had served them for generations, and he’d been granted the surname “Lian.”

He had never interacted with Bai Qi before. Though he understood some Qin dialect, Bai Qi and Zhu Xiang spoke too quickly for him to catch much.

Seeing Zhu Xiang so downcast, Lian Yuan couldn’t help but step forward and clasp his fists. “Lord Wu’an, Lord Zhu Xiang is young and rarely interacts with nobles, so he may not be well-versed in etiquette. If he has offended you in any way, I ask your forgiveness.”

Lian Po had sent Lian Yuan with Zhu Xiang precisely because of his finesse with social situations—he could help Zhu Xiang navigate such interactions. Seeing Zhu Xiang out of sorts, Lian Yuan assumed Bai Qi had scolded him and quickly stepped in to smooth things over.

Bai Qi said leisurely, “He wants to mine shi nie, and I agreed—told him to submit a written report. As soon as he heard ‘write a report,’ his face turned to misery. Isn’t Zhu Xiang supposed to have been taught by Lin Xiangru? Why does he hate writing reports so much?”

Lian Yuan’s mouth fell slightly open.

He hadn’t expected that Lord Zhu Xiang’s low spirits were just him throwing a tantrum.

As expected of Lord Zhu Xiang—even facing Lord Wu’an, he wasn’t the least bit afraid.

He hesitated, then gently explained, “Lord Zhu Xiang was taught by Lords Lin and Xun. He’s certainly well-educated—just not fond of writing essays.”

“Xun?” Bai Qi asked in surprise. “Could it be Xun Kuang, the former headmaster of the Jixia Academy?”

“Yes,” Lian Yuan replied.

Bai Qi said, “Neither Lin Xiangru nor Xun Kuang seem like the kind of men who’d indulge their disciples. If Zhu Xiang was taught by them, how could he dislike writing essays?”

Lian Yuan replied tactfully, “Lord Lin and Lord Xun have indeed scolded him, but Lord Zhu Xiang has to inspect the farmlands every day—it’s exhausting. They can’t bear to reprimand him too harshly.”

Bai Qi understood now. It seemed both Lin Xiangru and Xun Kuang were overly fond of Zhu Xiang.

He asked, “And General Lian? Are you the same?”

Lian Yuan thought for a moment, then said, “The lord is slightly better.”

Slightly… Bai Qi understood again. Apparently, even Lian Po spoiled Zhu Xiang quite a bit.

After receiving this information, he immediately went to share it with the King of Qin.

The elderly king, who had been laughing while eating salted boiled beans and reading his great-grandson’s embarrassing writings, waved Bai Qi over. “Come, General, take a look. Zhu Xiang’s portrayal of Zheng’er is quite amusing. Are your sons and grandsons like this too?”

Bai Qi first reported that Zhu Xiang was in the process of collecting and burying Zhao soldiers’ corpses and would soon submit a memorial to lead an expedition to excavate stone salt. He then passed on the intel he had gathered from Zhu Xiang’s guards.

He knew the king would be interested in Zhu Xiang’s past and current social relationships—after all, these were important for ensuring Zhu Xiang would willingly join Qin.

“Xun Kuang, hmph.” At the mention of Xunzi, the King of Qin’s face immediately soured.

The Qin state, its past kings, and even the current one had long been targets of Confucian criticism—phrases like “Confucians do not enter Qin” still echoed. Though the king pretended not to care, inwardly he fumed.

I may not need you, but how dare you look down on Qin and me!

Still, Xunzi had once visited Qin. Though he refused to meet the king, he did accept an audience with Fan Ju and even praised Qin. So, the king disliked him less than he did other Confucians.

As for Xunzi’s warning that “Qin will perish if it does not cultivate virtue,” the king simply chose to ignore it.

“Zichu once said that Zhu Xiang was not only a retainer of Lin Xiangru, but was treated like a nephew or son by him. Seems that’s true,” the king mused. “Xu Ming, Xiang He, even Xun Kuang—all quietly protected him. This man must come to Qin.”

Bai Qi felt like something was scratching at his heart.

If Your Majesty thinks Zhu Xiang must come to Qin, then why let him return to Zhao? Why agree to let him risk his life by approaching the Zhao king?

He asked again. The king once more kept him in suspense.

Seeing the normally expressionless Bai Qi finally show signs of frustration, the old king was delighted. During the meal, he not only polished off the hard-earned river fish the Qin army had managed to catch, but also had two extra bowls of bean rice and a large bowl of bean leaf soup.

Although Zhu Xiang had brought new provisions, beans remained the staple. So the old king continued his daily fare of bean rice and soup.

He rubbed his belly, missing the delicacies of Xianyang. But with so much excitement in Changping and the crown prince performing well, it was more interesting to stay here—watch the drama and mentor the prince.

Of course, after hearing from Zhu Xiang about Fan Ju’s unease, the king began writing to Fan Ju every few days. He expressed his trust and appreciation, urging him not to believe malicious gossip. How could little Bai Qi compare to you, the Chanceller, the shining moon in the sky?

Fan Ju broke into a cold sweat upon receiving the king’s letter.

After Bai Qi’s renewed triumph at Changping, people from both Qin and the other six states tried to halt his momentum, hoping to see him fall from grace—perhaps even be falsely accused and executed. Fan Ju had been approached by many such persuaders recently.

“Bai Qi was not only a brilliant general but also skilled in governance and pacifying the people. A true all-rounder. His achievements now surpassed all others in Qin. As a native of Qin, he was highly favored by the king. Many speculated that Bai Qi might become a figure akin to the Duke of Zhou or Jiang Ziya. If so, Chanceller, your days beside the king are numbered. Between you and His Majesty will stand a “Chanceller Bai.”

Though Fan Ju kept a calm and unfathomable expression as he dismissed the lobbyists, their words had planted unease in his heart.

Qin valued military merit. Bai Qi was a native son. Would the king really elevate him above me?

Fan Ju’s first great accomplishment after entering Qin had been persuading the king to strip Queen Dowager Xuan of political power and banish her brother Rong Hou, Lord Huayang, and her favored younger sons (who were also the king’s full brothers) Lords Jingyang and Gaoling from the capital, sending them back to their fiefs and out of office.

Rong Hou, Wei Ran, had originally been Qin’s Chanceller. Only after the king dismissed him did Fan Ju assume that post.

Wei Ran was already old. The more he stewed over the loss of power, the more bitter he grew—until he died of rage. Fan Ju always believed Wei Ran bore him a grudge.

Bai Qi’s rise had been aided by Wei Ran, and the two had been close. Fan Ju thus always assumed Bai Qi harbored resentment toward him and, if ever elevated above him, would seek revenge on Wei Ran’s behalf.

Fan Ju believed this because he judged others by himself. He was the kind to repay every slight.

Coming from humble beginnings, he had once nearly been falsely accused and flogged to death by Chanceller Wei. That brush with death left deep psychological scars, making him intensely fearful of losing power.

The thought of Bai Qi replacing him as the king’s favorite advisor haunted his nights. He kept dreaming of the moment he had almost died under Wei Xiang’s whip.

Just as he was about to succumb to the lobbyists’ persuasion and draft a memorial urging the king to recall Bai Qi and subtly accuse him of arrogance and disloyalty—the king’s letter arrived.

Fan Ju broke into a cold sweat and nearly fell seriously ill.

In truth, he was already sick, but he dared not let the king find out that it was the letter that scared him into worsening. He forced himself to keep attending court and assisting the crown prince.

Had the king already heard what the lobbyists said and begun to suspect him?

Fan Ju grew more and more fearful, even contemplating fleeing Qin.

But then another letter arrived.

In letter after letter, the king reassured Fan Ju, belittled Bai Qi, and casually mentioned Zhu Xiang and “Zheng’er” from Zhu Xiang’s writings—as if chatting about everyday life with an old friend.

Fan Ju’s fear gradually faded with each letter.

He wept bitterly—and recovered from his illness.

He realized that the king surely knew about the lobbying. But instead of reprimanding him, he offered comfort and reassurance. These letters were the king’s way of expressing trust and esteem!

Even though he was in Changping, right by Bai Qi’s side, the king still wrote to say Bai Qi wasn’t as valuable as Fan Ju. How deep that regard must be!

Fan Ju thought back on his own doubts about the king’s favor and felt overwhelming guilt—and even self-loathing.

Fan Ju, oh Fan Ju! You nearly died because the Chancellor of Wei suspected you. You loathe groundless suspicion more than anything—so how can you now suspect Your Majesty without any reason? You almost betrayed Your Majesty, and yet he still wrote to comfort you. Can you really say you’ve lived up to your sovereign’s trust? I, Fan Ju, have wronged the King!

After sending several properly formal letters, Fan Ju finally wrote a heartfelt letter of remorse to the King of Qin.

Because he caught a chill while mining coal, and was tattled on by Xu Ming and Xiang He, Zhu Xiang was dragged off by the King of Qin to recover by his side. Peeking in on the situation, Zhu Xiang muttered to himself in verse: “My heart mirrors your heart; surely it will not betray our shared longing.”

This was a variation of the line “May your heart be like mine, and never betray our longing,” from Li Zhiyi’s Bu Suan Zi. Though the poem is about romantic longing, it’s well known that ancient writers often used romantic metaphors to convey the relationship between ruler and subject. Li Zhiyi’s poem mourned the fact that Emperor Huizong of Song had believed slander and banished him.

The King of Qin glanced at Zhu Xiang and said, “Quit quoting folk songs and read the Book of Songs instead. That was completely off rhythm.”

Zhu Xiang thought to himself, Of course I know that in this era, Tang and Song poetry are considered rustic ditties, out of step with proper meter. He argued, “It was just something I said offhand, not a real poem.”

The King of Qin couldn’t be bothered to respond to this young man who always climbed higher when handed a stick. He simply said, “As you guessed, someone has indeed been whispering nonsense into the teacher’s ear. They deserve death.”

Zhu Xiang replied, “They must have all run away after failing to persuade him—no chance of killing them now.”

Hearing their exchange, Bai Qi broke out in a cold sweat. He wiped his forehead, his gaze toward Zhu Xiang full of deep admiration. How could Zhu Xiang dare to speak so casually to the king? Wasn’t he afraid the king would be enraged and kill him?

Oh, but Zhu Xiang had said he wasn’t afraid. He claimed he only had a few months to live. The King of Qin was waiting for the King of Zhao to kill him, so of course he wouldn’t bother doing it himself.

Bai Qi took slow, shallow breaths. By now, he had mastered the art of deep breathing without anyone noticing.

The King of Qin put the letter away and asked, “Enough with the quips—have you finished building the waterwheel? It hasn’t collapsed again?”

While digging coal, Zhu Xiang had found a limestone deposit and eagerly wanted to make cement and use it for building a waterwheel. But although he knew the ingredients of cement, he didn’t know the right proportions. The cement cracked quickly, and the prototype waterwheel collapsed. The King had mocked him for a long time because of it.

“This time I didn’t use cement, so of course it didn’t collapse,” Zhu Xiang defended himself. “Failure is the mother of success. I’ll get it right next time!”

The King gave a dismissive “Mm-hmm,” still smirking with mockery. Bai Qi’s forehead was once again slick with sweat. He resumed his subtle deep breathing to calm his inner turmoil.

After the teasing, the King continued, “Now that the waterwheel’s done—you said you wanted to forge farming tools out of captured Zhao weapons. I’ve approved it.”

In this era, rulers only used formal titles like “Guaren” (孤/寡人, lit. “the lonely one”) during ceremonies or when asserting authority. The King of Chu used “Ben Da Wang” (本大王), but otherwise, kings used casual pronouns like “wo” or “yu.” Far fewer rigid protocols than later generations.

Once the King of Qin became familiar with the always-overfriendly Zhu Xiang, he couldn’t be bothered to keep up appearances.

In the eyes of people from the other six states, the old kings of Qin were terrifying—like ghosts or gods. But in reality, he was an easygoing, uninhibited man. In fact, looking at Qin’s historical records, most Qin monarchs didn’t care much for formalities. They were laid-back, often to the point of being recklessly carefree.

When the King of Qin first sought counsel from Fan Ju, he had knelt for a long time and called him “Sir.” When Fan Ju, afraid of offending Queen Dowager Xuan, hesitated to speak candidly, the king had plaintively asked again and again, “Sir, will you not enlighten me?” “Will you truly no longer teach your unworthy king?” He even claimed he was too dull to understand anything, and that having Fan Ju as a teacher must be the result of ancestral blessings.

How intimidating could such a king be in private?

Zhu Xiang’s “First Emperor baby” (i.e., the future Qin Shi Huang) once drove out in the middle of the night to cry and cling to Wang Jian’s leg, begging him not to leave—exactly the same mold as his great-grandfather. It was just the Qin family way.

Zhu Xiang was someone with little regard for class distinctions. Even after years in this world, he was still dying soon—so he lived as freely as he liked. If the King of Qin wanted to act like an elder, Zhu Xiang would play the cheeky junior. The kind who would even argue with their elders, like people from later generations.

“Thank you, Your Majesty! You’re a great guy!” Zhu Xiang cupped his hands happily. “I’ll head over right now—ow!”

The King of Qin lightly thwacked him on the head with a rolled-up bamboo slip. “You’re recovering. Let Xiang He go.”

Rubbing his head, Zhu Xiang said, “Didn’t expect Xiang He to be the Mo family’s Juzi (leader). I thought ‘Juzi’ was a name—like Xunzi, Mencius, Confucius, Laozi…”

The King frowned. “What has Lin Xiangru been teaching you? You don’t even know this?”

Zhu Xiang replied honestly, “Master Lin just tried to teach me the Book of Songs, and already wanted to beat me three times a day. How could he have the energy to teach anything else?”

The King: “…” This guy actually sounded proud of that.

He gave him two more light whacks. “Also, you said you wanted to make millstones. Have Xiang He take people to pick out stones and build them.”

Zhu Xiang grinned and cupped his hands again. “Once the millstones are done, I’ll make tofu for you! It’s made from soybeans—tastes better than just beans!”

The King nodded. “Suit yourself.”

Ending their small talk, he unrolled a map of the area around Shangdang and asked Zhu Xiang how to go about “development.”

“Development” was Zhu Xiang’s word.

Which areas were best for farming, which had mineable resources, where to build roads to avoid landslides, how to combine slag from mining with road construction… and plans for flood-control and irrigation infrastructure—Zhu Xiang laid out all kinds of measures for managing and “developing” the Shangdang and Yewang regions.

The King of Qin kept nodding, jotting down symbols Zhu Xiang couldn’t read on his bamboo slips. It was probably the King’s own shorthand system—likely only Chancellor Fan could understand it.

King Qin’s attitude toward Zhu Xiang grew increasingly kind. Besides Zhu Xiang’s own personality, the most important reason was that Zhu Xiang, because he was close to death, no longer hid the knowledge he brought from the future. Qin would eventually unify all under heaven, and he wanted to do more for his own child.

He did not understand matters of warfare, and Qin did not lack people to fight battles. What Qin lacked were people who could inform the kings of Qin what they should do after unifying the realm.

Taking Shangdang Commandery as an example, Zhu Xiang shamelessly instructed the King of Qin on how to properly govern this highland surrounded by mountains, which had been snatched back and forth among Wei, Zhao, and Han, with the common people lacking a true sense of belonging to any state, so that this land and its people could be fully integrated into Qin.

Although building roads was crucial, heavy corvée labor left the people with no way to live and they would rebel against Qin. Therefore, road construction had to be combined with wealth creation, so that the people could see that these roads would benefit them too, and then they would voluntarily build the roads.

Fields, irrigation, mineral resources… Roads should be built in places that would bring benefits to the people. The more roads they built, the richer the people would become, the fuller their bellies, and they would no longer oppose Qin’s corvée labor.

Zhu Xiang had only just arrived in Shangdang but was already thoroughly familiar with its terrain and geography. Such a miraculous feat amazed both King Qin and Bai Qi.

Zhu Xiang only said that he had seen maps from Lian Po and Lin Xiangru and had interviewed refugees from Shangdang. But that was not enough to explain why he knew so much.

Zhu Xiang knew these explanations were insufficient, but he did not care. Exposing his knowledge and making people think that he was taught by some immortal or spirit might cause fear and jealousy, but in the end, it would only lead to death.

Was he still afraid of dying now? King Qin guessed Zhu Xiang’s mindset and felt very strange.  He wondered if Zhu Xiang would regret his actions after surviving this calamity. Thinking of this possibility, King Qin could not help but laugh and the next day he took up his brush to write about his happiness to Fan Ju.

Fan Ju unfolded the King’s letter, showing the first genuine smile in many days. Now, he had completely no psychological burden and only thought about how to repay his lord. Naturally, he did not envy Zhu Xiang’s favor or the miraculous things about him. But even before, he would not have envied him. Zhu Xiang was a junior to King Qin, the relative and friend of Prince Zichu. He would only carefully nurture Zhu Xiang.

“No wonder proud and arrogant men like Lin Xiangru and Lian Po dote on Zhu Xiang so much. Zhu Xiang is talented and pure-hearted; as elders, they must worry about him,” Fan Ju sighed.

Having such a junior, elders are both proud and worried. The more affection they invest, the more they value him. King Qin probably felt the same.

Fan Ju recalled that King Qin had complained that both his son and grandson were always timid before him. Only Fan Ju could chat with him comfortably without fear. Now King Qin had finally found a junior who was not afraid of him.

He just did not know whether Zhu Xiang was fearless because he was about to die or if he would remain so after surviving this ordeal. Fan Ju truly wanted to go to Changping himself to see this possibly miraculous but naively foolish Zhu Xiang who was headache-inducing.

He thought for a moment and summoned Prince Zichu. That he could directly summon Prince Zichu to his residence showed Zichu’s status in Qin and his position in King Qin’s heart.

Zichu came to Fan Ju’s residence trembling with fear. Fan Ju handed him the letter from King Qin and asked, “Zhu Xiang seems completely unafraid of His Majesty.”

Zichu immediately felt a headache coming on. He quickly glanced at the letter and his headache worsened. Zichu explained, “Zhu Xiang’s temperament is somewhat… overly casual. May I be sent to deliver a letter to His Majesty?”

Zichu no longer cared if he lost face with Zhu Xiang and wanted to go to Changping immediately to beg King Qin not to kill Zhu Xiang.

“His Majesty will bring Zhu Xiang back to Xianyang. You can meet him then,” Fan Ju understood his lord’s dark humor well. Obviously, His Majesty was very much looking forward to the moment when Prince Zichu would reveal the truth to Zhu Xiang, so he would not spoil His Majesty’s fun.

Zichu worried, “But Zhu Xiang like this…”

Fan Ju interrupted, “His Majesty does not mind; why should you? I summoned you to ask in detail about Zhu Xiang’s affairs in Zhao. The talents Zhu Xiang has displayed could never have been nurtured by Lian Po or Lin Xiangru. He just arrived in Shangdang yet knows it as well as his own hand. It’s almost as if he had divine teaching.”

Zichu hesitated a moment, then said, “I don’t know much. Zhu Xiang is afraid of arousing jealousy, so he hides many of his talents. But he does talk about knowledge that ordinary people do not know. He once said the earth beneath our feet is spherical and revolves around the similarly spherical sun. However, he said that while drunk, and upon sobering he refused to admit it.”

Fan Ju said, “He even knows about things in the heavens. Could he really be a deity incarnate?”

Zichu said, “There have been many records, ancient and modern, of deities descending to aid wise rulers. Zhu Xiang being one among them is not strange. But I think he might have just received divine teaching in a dream.”

Zichu had investigated Zhu Xiang’s background. Zhu Xiang was clever as a child but only slightly better than his peers, nothing remarkable. After losing his parents and nearly dying, he suddenly awakened and knew much knowledge ordinary people did not.

Lin Xiangru also knew this. They all guessed that Zhu Xiang might have received divine help and gifts near death. People of this era believed in and respected spirits and gods. Even Confucians say they do not speak of strange powers but still hold respect and fear for them. Stories of divine aid in desperate times are common in history and folklore. They readily accepted Zhu Xiang’s unusual encounter.

Fan Ju pondered for a long time. Zichu waited silently without complaint.

“Which deity does Zhu Xiang admire most?” Fan Ju finally asked.

Zichu shook his head, “That’s the strangest thing. Zhu Xiang respects spirits but does not believe in them. I thought he was guided by Shennong, but he only admired what Shennong did, not with reverence. I have tested many times; he has no special faith in any deity.”

Fan Ju frowned, “Yet he worships the gods every year.”

Zichu said, “Zhu Xiang never initiates worship. He simply follows whoever his family worships.”

Fan Ju was stunned. Could Zhu Xiang not know which deity saved or guided him? Even if not, how could someone have no reverence or faith toward the gods at all?