The Qin guards noticed that their commander, General Meng Wu, had suddenly joined the camp of Lord Zhu Xiang and Prince Zichu, eating heartily alongside them around Zhu Xiang’s cooking pot.

In the past, although General Meng would occasionally mooch a meal, he always sat off to the side with his own bowl, eating alone.

Lin Zhi threw an arm around Meng Wu’s shoulders and said, “Welcome to the team.”

Meng Wu buried his head in his food, not wanting to respond. Zichu couldn’t help but laugh and joined Lin Zhi in teasing him.

When they had first left Xianyang, Zichu had tried to build rapport with Meng Wu. But Meng Wu had maintained a strictly professional attitude—respectful, yes, but never warm or close.

As merely the grandson of the King of Qin, Zichu couldn’t afford to be seen trying to win over a Qin general. So, he had kept a respectful distance from Meng Wu as well.

Who would have thought Meng Wu would eventually “give in”?

But without someone like Lin Zhi—shameless and sharp-tongued—none of them could’ve gotten close to Meng Wu with just a few casual words.

Zhu Xiang, however, had a different take on the matter. “Isn’t it possible that General Meng always wanted to get close to us, but just hadn’t found the right opportunity? If he truly didn’t want to be friendly, Lin Zhi’s joke about ‘boarding a pirate ship’ wouldn’t have swayed him. After all, he’s loyal only to the King of Qin. Anything we say could be reported back to the king, and he wouldn’t care.”

Zichu hadn’t believed it at first—but just a few days later, Meng Wu began pestering Zhu Xiang for stories. That convinced him.

Zichu joked to Lin Zhi, “General Meng is always hanging around Zhu Xiang like a butterfly flitting around a flower. Is Zhu Xiang really that fragrant?”

Lin Zhi laughed. “Looks like General Meng has a real soft spot for interesting tales. And Zhu Xiang just happens to have a head full of strange stories. If I didn’t know everyone Zhu Xiang knows, I’d suspect he’d made friends with a novelist again.”

Zichu laughed as well. “Probably soon. Didn’t Zhu Xiang promise to write down all his stories for General Meng and publish them as a book?”

Meng Wu not only loved gossip and stories—true to his nature as a military man, he was equally obsessed with food.

Back when they weren’t close, Zhu Xiang had little power to boss him around. But now that they were friends, neither of them held back. Meng Wu would catch wild rabbits in the mountains, fish in the rivers, and barter with villagers for chickens and ducks—bringing Zhu Xiang fresh ingredients every day.

As Zhu Xiang plucked feathers from a chicken, he wondered: Am I traveling? Or just on a never-ending picnic?

Meng Wu kept circling around him, clearly growing impatient waiting for food.

Zichu and Lin Zhi stood to the side, pointing and chatting about Meng Wu until Zhu Xiang shot them a glare.

“So free, are you? Why not help me?” Zhu Xiang said. “Boil water, rinse rice, pick vegetables—get moving!”

Zichu and Lin Zhi had no choice but to roll up their sleeves and join in.

Among the Qin guards was a designated cook. He stood nearby, hesitant, clearly torn about whether he should speak up and ask Lord Changping for permission to reclaim his job.

In the end, he lost the chance to curry favor with the nobles through his cooking—and was left making meals only for his fellow soldiers.

When they once again left the borders of Zhao and were about to reenter Qin territory, Zhu Xiang had Meng Wu buy some wine. He faced east and made an offering.

He told Lord Lin that he likely wouldn’t return to Zhao again—not until the Qin kingdom had fully conquered it.

After the rites, Zhu Xiang looked at the spilled wine on the ground and felt it was too much of a waste—this was grain wine, after all. So, he dug up the wine-soaked mud and decided to make Beggar’s Chicken.

The lotus flowers in the ponds were in bloom. Zhu Xiang picked lotus leaves, flowers, and seed pods. He took the farm-bought chicken, rubbed it with salt, stuffed it with lotus petals and seeds, wrapped it in lotus leaves, then sealed it all in wine mud before roasting it over a fire.

He also asked Meng Wu to crush some of their tough dried meat, then boil it together with dry rations and fresh wild greens into a porridge-like mash.

When they finished the porridge and filled their stomachs, the simplified version of Beggar’s Chicken was also done roasting.

The chicken was tender and juicy. Though only seasoned with salt, the fragrance of lotus flowers, lotus leaves, seed pods, and wine blended together to stimulate the senses. The aroma heightened their taste buds, creating the illusion that the chicken had layers of flavor—it seemed far more delicious than it actually was.

“I can’t believe I’ve never eaten this dish before!” Lin Zhi protested loudly. “We have wine and lotus flowers at home, and you’ve never made this for me!”

Zichu nodded in agreement. Zhu Xiang really was too stingy.

Zhu Xiang replied, “Wine is precious, and mixing it with mud is wasteful. You two aren’t exactly lacking in good food, so don’t be so extravagant.”

Lin Zhi’s eyes lit up with mischief. “So you mean… you know even more extravagant ways to eat?”

Zhu Xiang nodded. “Of course. Like using broth made from dozens of chickens to blanch vegetables—then throwing away the chicken and the broth, and only eating the greens.”

Lin Zhi blinked. “…Does that even taste good?”

Zhu Xiang shrugged. “Just like vegetables cooked in regular chicken soup.”

Lin Zhi looked even more confused. “Then what’s the point of wasting all that?”

Zhu Xiang spread his hands. “To show off your wealth.”

Lin Zhi clapped Zichu on the shoulder. “When you become King of Qin, you have to try that.”

Zichu immediately lifted a foot to kick him. Are you trying to turn me into a tyrant?!

Still, he couldn’t help being curious—just how wasteful could a meal get?

Zhu Xiang went on to describe extravagant “performance dishes” like stuffing sprouts into meat, making silky chicken tofu, or “boiled water cabbage.” He even described baffling creations like seafood broth turned into gelatin flowers, which were then melted back into hot water to “recreate” the flavor of seafood soup…

Lin Zhi was stunned, repeatedly slapping Zichu on the back, urging him to try them all once he ascended the throne.

Zichu rolled his eyes so hard they hurt.

He started to suspect that Lin Zhi had joined them in Qin not to help him or Zhu Xiang, but to become a corrupt minister and destroy Qin from the inside.

“Lavish cuisine,” Zhu Xiang rambled, “is basically taking a bunch of expensive ingredients and finding roundabout ways to torment them. Taste doesn’t matter—what matters is how troublesome it is to make. Like, I could roll out a noodle sheet and slice it finer than hair, then deep-fry it and drizzle it with honey—that instantly becomes a ‘noble’s dish,’ much fancier than just frying the sheet.”

Meng Wu finally couldn’t hold back and muttered, “Listening to Lord Changping talk like this, I feel like these nobles are just a bunch of self-deluded fools.”

“I agree,” Lin Zhi chimed in. Then he turned to Zhu Xiang and said, “But Meng Wu, you’ve known Zhu Xiang for so long and still won’t just call him ‘Zhu Xiang’? He’s heartbroken.”

He turned back to Zhu Xiang. “Quick, sob a little.”

Although Zhu Xiang thought Lin Zhi had to be a little crazy, he still gave a few cooperative sobs.

Meng Wu’s face twisted with discomfort. Zichu turned his head away, clearly revolted by the two of them.

Zichu complained, “Instead of putting on this nauseating act, why don’t you just threaten him? Tell him if he keeps being so formal, he won’t get to eat any more of Zhu Xiang’s cooking!”

Lin Zhi replied, “There’s no fun in one-sided domination. A good battle should be evenly matched.”

Zichu objected, “Crushing your opponent is the most fun—best if you can win without even fighting.”

Meng Wu let out a breath of relief. Good, their attention was no longer on him.

But as he watched Lin Zhi and Zichu bicker, he felt a twinge of envy.

The King of Qin was strict, and nobles rarely hosted one another. Meng Wu’s father had come from Qi to Qin, and was all the more cautious about being a “solitary minister.” Meng Wu had no close friends he could joke and roughhouse with.

“General Meng, how about catching some fish and roasting them tomorrow?” Zhu Xiang asked, crunching on some chicken cartilage, ignoring his two squabbling friends.

Meng Wu replied, “Ah—sure.”

While Meng Wu was still being teased by Lin Zhi and debating whether to start calling Zhu Xiang by name, their group finally returned to Qin.

Zhu Xiang took out some paper and a charcoal pencil and began recording observations about the soil, water sources, and vegetation along the way. If he came across problematic farmland, he would approach the farmers and personally teach them how to fix the issues.

“I am Lord Changping, Zhu Xiang. The King of Qin has ordered me to inspect the farmlands and guide you in agriculture,” Zhu Xiang said, holding up the King’s edict—treating the original excuse for leaving Qin as a genuine assignment.

Zichu reminded him, “That was just a pretext.”

Zhu Xiang shook his head. “Since His Majesty issued an order, even if I’ve done other things along the way, I should still complete the task properly.”

Zichu said, “Maybe His Majesty would rather you return to Xianyang sooner.”

Zhu Xiang kept shaking his head. “His Majesty has treated me well. That’s all the more reason to do my job properly.”

Zichu: “…” Fine, returning later isn’t so bad. Once they got back to Xianyang, they wouldn’t have this kind of freedom anymore.

Lin Zhi fully supported Zhu Xiang. Though he was prepared to become a minister of Qin, everyone from the Six States knew how stifling that life would be. If they could enjoy a little more freedom for now—why not?

Meng Wu, seeing that Zhu Xiang really did have the King’s written order and that no new edicts had arrived, had no choice but to cooperate.

He was also curious. He’d long heard that Lord Changping had remarkable skill in agriculture—almost otherworldly. But just how skilled did one have to be to earn that kind of reputation?

It didn’t take long for him to agree with the term “otherworldly.”

Zhu Xiang only needed a glance at a field to identify most of the problems and offer solutions. He spoke of soil pH, plant viruses, fungal infections, pollination techniques, and thinning to increase yield—terms that sounded like gibberish to Meng Wu. Yet somehow, he managed to convey these complex ideas to the farmers in a way they eagerly accepted and followed.

Some of Zhu Xiang’s guidance took time to show results, but other tips produced visible improvements by the very next day.

As they traveled toward Xianyang, Zhu Xiang’s reputation soared. In some villages, the elders would wait at the entrance for him, having already organized their agricultural problems and ready to present them for solutions.

Many of these issues, Zhu Xiang couldn’t actually solve. But even if he couldn’t fix them, he could at least explain what was wrong and how to avoid similar problems in the future.

Soon, even county magistrates and regional governors began to come out of their offices to greet him. When not burdened by more pressing matters, they would accompany Zhu Xiang to the fields, watching with reverence as he spoke with farmers.

Being able to farm might not seem so impressive—but understanding soil, vegetation, every type of crop, and the causes of every issue in the fields? That was miraculous.

Meng Wu didn’t understand farming, but he came to realize that Zhu Xiang might actually be capable of leading troops.

With Zhu Xiang’s grasp of geography, climate, and terrain, and his uncanny ability to win people’s trust and dependence, he had the makings of a great commander.

What Zhu Xiang showed was merely his usual agricultural knowledge. He didn’t think he understood everything about farming—his diagnoses were broad and general.

For example, he could tell that a plant had a virus, but not which virus. That couldn’t really be called “understanding,” could it?

But in this era, even such general explanations were astonishing enough to make people revere him.

Zhu Xiang wasn’t just guiding agricultural work—he was also observing the state of Qin society.

And he found it incredibly oppressive. Farmers planted their fields, then returned home. That was all they were allowed to do. In Zhao, country paths were filled with wandering swordsmen and small traders. In Qin, you’d never see such things.

Qin’s farmers had no smiles on their faces. They looked like machines built only for farming. Towns lacked vibrancy—every detail of trade was tightly regulated by Qin law, and any violation could result in corporal punishment.

This suffocating Qin… No wonder it declined so quickly after unifying the realm. Even with Qin Shi Huang still alive, waves of peasant uprisings would eventually topple this massive empire.

And yet, Zhu Xiang noticed something strange. Amid the numb expressions of Qin’s people, there was a faint sense of contentment.

After thinking about it, he understood why.

Most of Qin was governed directly by counties under the command of the central government. Even noble lords had little actual power over their fiefs. Compared to other states that used tax farming, Qin’s tax system was more stable. So long as there was no famine, peasants wouldn’t starve.

Qin was also powerful. Even if it occasionally lost battles, its core territories rarely saw war. In these chaotic times, not experiencing war was already a huge boost to people’s happiness.

And if famine did strike, and people couldn’t feed themselves, they still had the option of joining the army and earning rewards that could feed their entire family. So hunger didn’t lead to despair.

That’s why the people of Qin believed they were happy. They also believed that Qin’s ongoing wars were justified. They supported the King of Qin, thinking his wars would bring them a better life.

But in the end, once Qin unified the world, it failed to meet those expectations.