Zhu Xiang was not stupid. Judging by the attitude of the people around him, he had already guessed the general situation. But he said nothing. The next morning, he got up, washed, and joked around with his friends as usual, was knocked on the head by Xunzi, and then went to bid farewell at Lin Xiangru’s tomb.

Originally, Zhu Xiang had wanted to stay a few more days, but Xunzi urged him to leave. Lin Zhi was also leaving with him, and for Lin Zhi’s sake, he couldn’t linger any longer.

A hasty tribute and an even hastier farewell—just before he left, Zhu Xiang received the parting gift from Lin Xiangru as mentioned by the system, standing before the tomb.

It was a seed—only described in words. Based on Lin Xiangru’s final wish, Zhu Xiang could recite a type of seed that matched the description in order to receive it.

The description was neither poetry nor prose—more like the offhand musing of an old man.

“This winter is bitterly cold. If only common folk could grow something in the ground as warm as fur to wear.”

Zhu Xiang wanted to say that the sentence was flawed. One couldn’t grow clothes in the ground, only the raw materials for clothes.

Ancient tombstones only bore words, no pictures. But in Zhu Xiang’s mind, an image appeared naturally: Lord Lin wearing a thick fur coat, standing under the eaves, hands tucked into his sleeves, watching the snow fall outside.

He imagined Lin Xiangru looking at the snowflakes and sighing, “This winter is bitterly cold. If only common folk could grow something in the ground as warm as fur to wear.”

Hugging a hand warmer and shrinking his neck against the cold, Zhu Xiang bantered, “My lord, you can’t grow clothes, but you can grow cotton.”

With a turn of his hand, a handful of cotton seeds appeared in Zhu Xiang’s palm.

Cotton seeds are small. The system hadn’t played any tricks—it had provided “one thousand portions” of cotton seeds to Zhu Xiang, with each portion defined as the maximum number of seeds that could be sown in a single planting pit.

What he held now was one such portion.

“Lin Li,” Zhu Xiang said, addressing Lin Zhi, “I have a portion of seeds here. Have someone plant them before Lord Lin’s tomb.”

“It’s April now—perfect for sowing. They’ll be ready for harvest in half a year.”

“I’ll recite the methods for planting, harvesting, and processing—make sure to write them down.”

“When the cotton is harvested, it’ll be just in time for winter. Offer it before Lord Lin’s tomb, and tell him…”

Zhu Xiang paused for a moment, tightening his grip around the seeds. “It’s called cotton—specifically, fine-staple cotton. It can be spun into cloth that is softer and warmer, and the cotton can be stuffed into cloth to replace fur for insulation. It is… the warm clothing that common folk can grow from the soil.”

Lin Zhi looked at Zhu Xiang in shock.

On the day he had said farewell to his father, under the warm sunlight of spring, his father had once again muttered those words he’d spoken during the past winter.

Zhu Xiang had once said that perhaps someday, people could grow something in the ground as warm as fur. If that were true, wouldn’t it be wonderful?

Even though his father had closed his eyes forever under the spring light, right until the very end, he had still worried about last winter—and the next one.

But how did Zhu Xiang know what his father had muttered before passing? Had he learned it through a dream too?

And where had Zhu Xiang gotten those seeds? He certainly hadn’t had cotton seeds before leaving Zhao—otherwise, he would have told Lin Zhi already. On the journey to Qin, there hadn’t been any opportunity to acquire seeds either.

In fact, it had already been strange when Zhu Xiang had suddenly produced potato seeds. Though Zhu Xiang gave a reasonable excuse, he often shared his interactions with the trade caravans. Yet suddenly, a caravan unknown to Lin Zhi had given Zhu Xiang seeds and vanished quickly afterward—it all seemed far too uncanny.

They simply didn’t ask. Instead, they took the initiative to help Zhu Xiang cover things up, acting as if “this is perfectly normal.”

“This is the seed you and Father searched for so long and secretly cultivated for a long time. After I enter Qin, I will offer it to the King of Qin. How do you write the word cotton? What does it mean? What will it grow into? Tell me everything in detail—I’ll draw it first and leave the illustration at home,” Lin Zhi said, frowning.

“Alright,” Zhu Xiang replied. “I’ll be relying on you from now on, too.”

Lin Zhi said, “Leave it to me. If Cai Ze remains true to his nature, I’ll be the one to leak the news to him. As for Xia Tong…”

Lin Zhi thought for a moment and continued, “You don’t need to tell him, nor do you need to deliberately hide it from him. Just keep using your leaky excuses to deal with him. He’ll know what to do.”

Even if friendship wasn’t reliable, interests were. As long as Xia Tong didn’t get bewitched by some beautiful concubine in the future and want to strip Zheng’er of his heir status, then he would help Zhu Xiang cover up the truth on his own initiative, allowing Zhu Xiang to use his mysterious abilities in peace.

Zhu Xiang muttered, “They’re not all full of holes… okay, fine, they are.”

Honestly, if he didn’t take out new seeds so frequently, he could hide things just fine. But since everyone around him could be trusted, he hadn’t paid much attention to it. Toward Lord Lin and Lin Zhi, Zhu Xiang always showed a kind of arrogant attitude like, “I’ve got secrets—you deal with it.”

Once he reached Qin, though, he really would need to discuss things with Lin Zhi first before taking out any new seeds.

After the serious matters were dealt with, Lin Zhi didn’t question the origin of the seeds. Instead, he nudged Zhu Xiang’s shoulder and raised his eyebrows jokingly. “I’m going to use your cotton seeds to earn myself merit and a noble title—you’re not mad, are you?”

Zhu Xiang, who had been full of sorrow, was completely thrown off by Lin Zhi’s overly theatrical tone.

Annoyed, he pushed Lin Zhi’s arm aside, bowed respectfully to Lord Lin’s tomb, and complained to him in his heart: If you can still appear in dreams, please give Lin Zhi a few more—and beat him up properly while you’re at it.

Without Lord Lin watching over him, Zhu Xiang truly had no idea what Lin Zhi would turn into once he reached Qin.

If Lin Zhi really started imitating those decadent scholars of Wei and Jin—taking drugs, drinking heavily, running around unclothed—then he’d team up with Xia Tong and throw Lin Zhi into prison to sober up.

Ah, why did Lin Zhi have to study Lao-Zhuang philosophy? Studying Huang-Lao would’ve been better!

Zhu Xiang suddenly remembered the story of Zhuangzi discussing swords with King Hui of Zhao. Maybe that’s when Lin Zhi was “led astray.”

While Zhu Xiang and Lin Zhi were bidding farewell to Lin Xiangru, Zichu had gone to find Meng Wu to arrange their return to Qin.

When Zichu returned, Zhu Xiang and Lin Zhi were in the middle of forging cotton cultivation records.

Lin Zhi tossed Zichu a brush and a roll of paper. “Help us make it look aged,” he said.

Zichu was confused but helped first before asking any questions.

“My father and Zhu Xiang cultivated a type of plant that can grow into clothing even warmer than hemp. Remember—my father and Zhu Xiang cultivated it together,” Lin Zhi said seriously. “You understand the King of Qin better than we do. Think—how can we convince him to believe it?”

Zichu: “?”

Zichu: “!”

He glanced at Zhu Xiang, who was scratching his head anxiously, then at Lin Zhi, whose face was full of mischief. Rolling up his sleeves, he said, “Alright. Leave it to me.”

Forget it. No questions.

Even if Zhu Xiang really did have some sort of divine power, given how much he was being forced to use it, any god backing him probably couldn’t even fulfill people’s wishes—much less grant immortality.

From the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors down through the legends of Xia, Shang, and Zhou, every founding sage-king had virtuous ministers who were taught by the divine. Zhu Xiang was clearly one of them.

They worked hard the entire day and then left under the cover of night.

When they left, a group of Zhao scouts who had been lying in wait slipped away and sent the information to two different locations.

A month later, Li Mu received the news in Yanmen Commandery.

He had anticipated that Zhu Xiang would come, so he had sent men to lie in ambush around Lin Xiangru’s ancestral land—just in case someone tried to trouble Zhu Xiang, he could lend a hand.

“Lin Li has entered Qin as well,” Li Mu let out a long sigh. “Zhu Xiang’s hair… it’s all white now.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, waved the scout away, and leaned back in his chair in silence for a long time.

The chairs and stools from Zhu Xiang’s household were especially suitable for armored soldiers. After returning to Yanmen, Li Mu had them made as well, and now they’d spread throughout the entire military camp.

While he was silent, Li Mu didn’t think about anything. He emptied his mind, just staring blankly out the window at the daylight outside.

After a long while, Li Mu stood up and summoned his subordinates to discuss the road ahead.

The northern border between Yan and Zhao was the front line against the Xiongnu. Lord Lian would undoubtedly achieve his goal, which meant the Yan State would soon fall into famine and military shortages. The northern frontier would bear the brunt. The Xiongnu would likely seize the opportunity to invade in full force from the north.

If the Xiongnu broke through Yan’s northern defenses, they could potentially flank Zhao’s lines from behind. This winter, he might be facing a brutal battle.

Lord Lian had defended Zhao; now it was his turn.

On the road, Li Mu recalled drinking and chatting with Zhu Xiang, Lin Zhi, and Cai Ze by the campfire, and the talk of unifying the realm that had come up.

If the world were unified, and famine struck Zhao, the king could reallocate grain and relocate people. The northern defenses could coordinate; if one place fell, others could reinforce it.

“Unifying the world is the only way to save the common people from chaos. Once Zheng’er enters Qin, I will definitely follow.”

Li Mu stopped walking and looked up toward the west.

Before meeting Zhu Xiang, he had simply been a general loyal to Zhao. All he thought about was how to serve his king, not disgrace his family name, and earn military merit.

Now, his burdens had grown.

He not only had to fight, but also consider how to protect the people, protect the state… Would he eventually reach Zhu Xiang’s state of mind, one that shouldered the fate of the world?

Li Mu lowered his gaze and resumed walking forward.

Whatever the future holds, he’d think about it then. For now, the priority was protecting the people of Zhao behind him from the hands of the Xiongnu.

Lian Po also received the scouts’ report.

His thoughts were the same as Li Mu’s. Perhaps many in Zhao wanted to take Zhu Xiang back, but he didn’t want Zhu Xiang to return.

Let him go to Qin. Though the King of Qin was brutal, he was the only one who could protect Zhu Xiang.

Speaking of brutality, wasn’t he the truly brutal one now?

Images of the old, weak, women, and children who died tragically beneath his horse’s hooves surfaced in his mind. He could still hear the weeping curses of the Yan people, and he remembered the final scolding letter from the Empress of Yan.

Lian Po took a large swig of wine, trying to drown out those memories and voices with intoxication.

“Master, the King of Zhao has conferred a noble title upon you—‘Lord of Peace and Resolution’,” the servant reported. But even with such a major announcement, his voice lacked excitement.

“Hah! I must go to Lin Xiangru’s tomb and mock him—I’ve been granted a title, and he hasn’t!” Lian Po burst out laughing, only to choke on his wine and start coughing violently. “Has that brat Le Cheng run off yet?”

The servant replied, “General Le has already entered Wei.”

Lian Po coughed and laughed. “Now tell the King of Zhao that Le Cheng has left. Let’s see if he takes my title back—hahaha—cough, cough.”

He wiped away the tears brought on by the coughing and continued drinking.

The servant clenched his fists, wanting to say something, but ultimately swallowed his words and silently withdrew.

Le Cheng was a relative of Le Yi, Lian Po’s deputy general, and had always been deeply loyal to Zhao. He had fought fiercely in the war against Yan.

But this time, he defected from Zhao and fled to Wei.

Le Yi’s descendants and family, who had initially planned to flee to Zhao after predicting Yan’s defeat, instead went to Wei, Han, or even Chu. They refused to go to Zhao as originally intended.

They rejected the fiefdom the King of Zhao had granted to Le Yi, choosing instead to start over in foreign lands.

And that was only natural.

Generals might defect for the sake of their own safety and future, but Zhao had bathed their homeland in blood, massacred their fellow countrymen, and turned their ancestral land into a wasteland. That was nothing like a conventional war.

“Go on, go on, all of you leave.”

“I, this old wreck, will stay in Zhao, and die in Zhao.”

Lian Po drank while muttering to himself.

Perhaps in the past, he too would have left Zhao in disappointment. But not anymore. Now, he had nowhere else to go.