Han Fei ultimately did not go to pay respects to the King of Qin. He sat in the study in silence—not reading, just staring blankly at a potted plant on the table.

Zhu Xiang had never made a public show of the spices he cultivated. He simply planted them in the courtyard or in pots. If any friends or relatives showed interest, he would give them some as gifts.

What this era lacked most was food. Zhu Xiang was worried that if he promoted spices—crops enjoyed mainly by nobles—it might lead, given some aristocrats’ temperaments, to burdensome policies like Zhao state’s wintertime push for potatoes, which only ended up increasing peasants’ hardship.

Even though Qin’s laws were strict enough to prevent such exploitation, the same couldn’t be said for the other six states.

After the King of Qin learned of Zhu Xiang’s concerns, he said nothing and pretended not to know. Anyway, Zhu Xiang would always notify him first if he discovered something good. If the other nobles couldn’t enjoy it, what did that have to do with him?

The plant in front of Han Fei was a sesame bush. He appeared lost in thought, but in truth, his mind was repeatedly echoing Zhu Xiang’s words:

“If other states learn about these crops that can drastically improve the taste of food, it’ll spell disaster for the farmers. Though the six states have nominally implemented a system of self-tilling farmers, many nobles still treat them like serfs.”

“…Even a bit of ‘feudalism’ wouldn’t be so bad.”

Han Fei had always wanted to ask what he meant by feudalism, but Zhu Xiang only smiled without answering, tapping his shoulder in a sage-like manner.

He understood then—this was yet another piece of knowledge unique to Zhu Xiang, something he couldn’t pass on to a student.

Xunzi, while reading, watched Han Fei out of the corner of his eye. He remembered Zhu Xiang once said that when Han Fei felt wronged, he looked like a little puppy caught in the rain. Zheng’er had mimicked him and said, “Uncle, those baby-talk words are gross.”

Although Zhu Xiang’s metaphors were often strange, this one wasn’t wrong.

While Han Fei sat brooding in the study, Zhu Xiang was also talking about him elsewhere.

Although he was an agricultural professor and not a mechanical expert, he knew a bit about the simple machines used in rural areas. Even if he didn’t fully understand the structures, as long as he could describe the general effect and principles, the combined efforts of the Mohist and Agrarian Schools could turn the concept into real tools.

He had already developed the curved-beam plow and wide-blade hoe in Zhao state, though unfortunately they weren’t widely adopted.

With the seven states vying for control of the Central Plains, even though ironworking was highly advanced during the Warring States period, six of the seven countries (excluding Qin) prioritized forging weapons from iron over making agricultural tools.

Iron farming tools from the Six States had been unearthed in modern times, but from Zhu Xiang’s observations while in Zhao, only powerful nobles could afford to use them on their private lands—and only if they were both empathetic to the people and had foresight.

This was due not only to the rulers’ general neglect of agricultural advancement, but also to the fact that unlike Qin, the monarchs of the Six States had weaker control over their countries. Most large iron mines were in private hands, which was a major contributing factor.

Qin, on the other hand, had nationalized most of its iron mines, issuing decrees to develop farming tools. Anyone who came up with technology that could boost crop yields could earn a noble title. As a result, iron farm tools were more common in Qin.

Furthermore, the Qin government raised draft oxen and rented them out to farmers, making ox-plowing widespread. The combination of oxen and iron tools was one reason knowledgeable people in the Six States feared Qin’s rise.

Even though these people understood the importance, it was hard to convince their own monarchs to act. If a ruler in the Six States decided to divert iron ore from weapons to farm tools for the good of the people, he’d likely be overthrown by his own brothers, who still wanted more weapons.

Succession in the Six States was rarely peaceful.

Only in Qin, which had already begun to establish centralized autocracy, could the farming tools developed by Zhu Xiang in collaboration with the Mohists and Agrarians be promoted on a national scale.

This year, the King of Qin had already rolled out the curved-beam plow and wide-blade hoe in the areas surrounding Xianyang, with plans to expand them throughout Qin next year.

Many from the Mohist and Agrarian Schools were awarded titles, their hearts filled with passion and pride. Even though Zhu Xiang hadn’t become their official leader, they had already begun to regard him as an honorary head.

Fueled by this momentum, they managed to build a cotton gin that used centrifugal force, based solely on Zhu Xiang’s descriptions—even though they’d never seen actual cotton before.

Now that the cotton harvest had come in, they were beginning to test the machine, anxiously awaiting the results.

Even without the gin, cotton could still be processed by hand—separating fibers, impurities, and seeds from the cotton boll—but the efficiency would be drastically lower, yielding only half a kilogram per day.

With the cotton gin, however, it could produce at least 20 kilograms a day. Before the Industrial Revolution arrived, this was already the peak of productivity.

Zhu Xiang had once considered whether he should initiate an Industrial Revolution in this world. But in the end, he gave up on the idea.

The Industrial Revolution was the result of technological accumulation. At most, he could introduce a few scientific theories for future generations to verify step by step. If he forcibly built steam engines or internal combustion engines, they would be like “wonders” buried in human history—resembling aid from some alien civilization. Such miracles would be short-lived and might even bring catastrophe to China.

Technologies that the present world could not understand should not be used—it would be like trying to force crops to grow by pulling them up. What he focused on were mechanical tools like the cotton gin, which didn’t require steam or internal combustion engines.

The King of Qin, curious, went over to play with the process of hand-separating cotton. He then peeked at the cotton gin being tested, took little Ying Zheng from Crown Prince Zhu’s hand, and went off to find Zhu Xiang and Lin Zhi, who were in the kitchen cooking.

The two of them had dodged the latest round of socializing by claiming they needed to help prepare the meal.

When the King of Qin arrived at the kitchen, Zhu Xiang—who had planned to half-heartedly get through the meal—was in the middle of wrapping dumplings.

He turned to Lin Zhi, who was rolling out the dough skins, and said, “I thought Han Fei would take this opportunity to request an audience with the king.”

Lin Zhi smiled. “He overthinks everything.”

The King of Qin walked into the kitchen and asked, “Is that Han Fei really talented?”

His “talent radar” had been triggered.

He knew Han Fei was royalty from Han and loyal to his homeland. But if Han Fei truly was someone Zhu Xiang recognized as a talent, a little scheme might be all it took to keep him in Qin.

As long as Han Fei had nowhere else to go.

Even if he refused to enter Qin’s government service, it would still be good to have him teach at the Xianyang Academy. At the very least, Han should not be allowed to make full use of him.

Ying Zheng bit his lower lip, trying not to laugh.

Now that Great-Grandfather not only had Lord Fan but also Lord Cai, both highly capable, he really wanted to see whether Han Fei—if he caught Great-Grandfather’s eye—could escape his fate.

“He has great potential,” Zhu Xiang said. “But he still lacks experience. Han Fei needs to fully absorb Xunzi’s teachings, then travel across the Seven States. Only after he’s broadened his horizons can he become a true sage.”

The King of Qin immediately lost interest. “You didn’t travel the Seven States and you’re already a sage.”

Zhu Xiang laughed. “Your Majesty, that’s different. Although Han Fei is not favored by the King of Han, he’s still a prince of the Han royal family. He’s never really suffered. I may not have traveled the Seven States, but I’ve been through my fair share of turmoil.”

He waved to Ying Zheng, who unceremoniously let go of Great-Grandfather’s hand and ran to his side.

“That’s also why Zheng’er is wiser than many already-of-age adults,” Zhu Xiang said. “Go wash your hands and help wrap dumplings.”

“Okay!” Ying Zheng happily ran off to wash his hands.

The King of Qin walked over with his hands behind his back. “He can wrap dumplings too?”

Zhu Xiang replied proudly, “As long as Zheng’er wants to learn, there’s nothing he can’t do.”

The King grinned teasingly. “Then who’s more impressive—your Zheng’er or Han Fei?”

Ying Zheng’s ears perked up.

Zhu Xiang was speechless. “Are you seriously comparing Han Fei to a five- or six-year-old child? Isn’t that a bit insulting to Han Fei?”

The King turned to Ying Zheng. “Zheng’er, your uncle says you’re not as good as Han Fei.”

Ying Zheng: “Hmph!”

Lin Zhi laughed so hard his hand slipped, tearing one of the dumpling skins he was rolling.

Ying Zheng, puffing with indignation, climbed up on a stool and began fiercely pinching dumpling skins as a way to vent.

Although his chubby little hands had short fingers, the dumplings he made were surprisingly neat.

While Zhu Xiang would just pinch once and toss the dumpling into the basket, Ying Zheng insisted on carefully pleating every fold before sealing it shut.

The King, finding it amusing, washed his hands and rolled up his sleeves to join in wrapping dumplings.

Zhu Xiang quickly said, “Your Majesty, I’ll get you a small bowl to set aside the ones you made—we’ll cook them just for you.”

Who would dare eat dumplings made by the King of Qin?

Lin Zhi offered a mischievous suggestion: “Didn’t you say you could wrap something strange inside a dumpling, and whoever ate it would be blessed with good luck? What could be more fitting for a lucky dumpling than one made by the King himself?”

Though the King often said Lin Zhi was nothing like the historical Lin Xiangru, the two got along surprisingly well. As soon as Lin Zhi pitched his idea, the King ignored Zhu Xiang’s protests and insisted on making a batch of “lucky dumplings.”

He even wasted a whole stack of dumpling skins trying to imitate Zhu Xiang’s wrapping technique.

Maybe smart people learn things quickly—after wasting a dozen or so wrappers, the King could already make fairly decent-looking dumplings.

Initially, the King wanted to wrap gold inside them. Zhu Xiang was so startled he almost crushed the dumpling in his hand.

He knew most of the Qin nobility had seen battle and ate in a rough, unrestrained manner. If someone swallowed a “lucky dumpling” made by the King whole—wouldn’t they be swallowing gold and killing themselves?

Zhu Xiang brought over a jar of preserved sour plums and picked out a few small ones for the King to use as stuffing instead.

The King looked disappointed. He still thought gold was the better choice.

Ying Zheng touched his face, now unknowingly dusted with flour, trying hard not to laugh.

Great-Grandfather was really letting himself go these days. And Uncle was growing safer and safer in Qin.

Zhu Xiang said that Han Fei still needed time to mature, and with that, the King of Qin lost interest—thus sparing Han Fei from the miserable fate of being exiled by the state of Han.

By the time the dumplings went into the pot, the nobles who had come to observe the cotton harvest were finally exhausted. They trailed behind Crown Prince Zhu, trudging toward the meal.

Crown Prince Zhu really wanted to support his aching back with a cane. He was a bit on the heavy side, and standing for long periods was truly tiring.

“I wonder what Zhu Xiang’s going to make for us,” Meng Wu muttered to himself.

Crown Prince Zhu whispered, “Zhu Xiang said, today we’re having dumplings.”

Meng Wu whispered back, “Huh? That’s it? So perfunctory?”

Crown Prince Zhu replied in a hushed voice, “It’s perfunctory for us, not for them.”

Meng Wu nodded, “Fair enough.”

Standing nearby and eavesdropping, Meng Ao: “…”

Crown Prince Zhu was one thing, but what was wrong with his son? Was it time to give the boy a beating? Why did it seem like the older his son got, the more backward he became?

Meng Ao was very curious—just how could a meal be both “perfunctory” and “not perfunctory” at the same time?

The answer: lots of dumplings.

Zhu Xiang brought out dumplings in soup, steamed dumplings, pan-fried dumplings, and dry-tossed dumplings. The fillings included lotus root and pork, chive and pork, mushroom and pork, and even mixed fish. Some of them he had seasoned in advance, while others were left for the guests to flavor themselves.

Zhu Xiang introduced, “These are called jiaozi, also known as bian shi. The wrappers are made from wheat flour.”

“Wheat flour?” Meng Ao asked, puzzled. “Wheat flour can be this white?”

Zhu Xiang replied, “It’s wheat I brought back from Zhao. The texture is better.”

Although winter wheat could survive the cold, it could also be planted outside of winter. After arriving in Xianyang, Zhu Xiang planted what little wheat seed he had.

When the cotton was harvested this year, the wheat was ready too. He kept half of it as seed and ground the other half into flour to entertain the guests.

Only if the nobility accepted the taste of this new flour would they voluntarily spread the use of improved wheat seeds, saving Qin the administrative cost of promoting them.

Because the seed stock was limited, only the royal manor would grow the new wheat next year. Even if the nobles craved the new flour, they wouldn’t be able to get it—classic scarcity marketing. By the following year, when the improved seeds were officially released, there would be no need for a royal decree. The nobles and wealthy merchants would scramble to get their hands on them.

After Zhu Xiang proposed this plan, the King of Qin immediately prepared a royal edict a year in advance.

Besides rewarding meritorious officials, the King planned to collect “donations” in exchange for granting the improved wheat—effectively making the nobles and merchants pay up, which would then fund more irrigation canals, waterwheels, stone mills, iron farm tools, and draft animals across the Guandong plains.

If this policy were enacted in another country, it would be condemned as corrupt, like selling offices and titles—a hallmark of tyrants. But the King of Qin was known for his profit-driven mindset. When he came up with this plan, the other six states couldn’t even be bothered to criticize him.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t issued outrageous decrees before.

After introducing the dumplings, Zhu Xiang added, “Today, His Majesty personally wrapped ten dumplings with preserved plum inside. Since the wheat seed is limited, whoever gets one of His Majesty’s dumplings will receive enough seed to plant one mu of land for trial cultivation this year.”

The nobles all sat up straighter.

Outrageous!

How can His Majesty cook for us personally?!

Lord Changping, why didn’t you stop him?!

“Begin the meal,” the King of Qin said coldly.

Those who had been about to protest or advise caution immediately lowered their heads and started eating dumplings.

Zhu Xiang always wanted to laugh whenever he saw this.

The old King of Qin wasn’t just the terror of the Six States—he was also, without a doubt, the big boss among his own ministers.

“Preserved plum!” Ying Zheng was the first to lift his head and spit out a plum pit.

Zhu Xiang’s smile nearly reached his ears.

As expected of his nephew—the future First Emperor’s luck was something else.

The King of Qin was also delighted. He took the jade pendant from his waist and stuffed it into Ying Zheng’s hand. “First one to get the lucky dumpling—deserves a reward.”

Crown Prince Zhu was caught between happiness that Ying Zheng got the lucky dumpling first and deep frustration.

His own father didn’t play fair—he hadn’t marked the dumplings at all and still expected everyone to ladle them out themselves. If he didn’t get a lucky one, wouldn’t that be humiliating?

“Hm?” Zhu Xiang said, spitting out a plum pit of his own.

Ying Zheng was so happy his eyes curved into little crescent moons. As expected of my uncle!

This time, the King of Qin didn’t give any additional rewards. He just laughed heartily a few times, then shot Crown Prince Zhu a sharp glare.

Cold sweat beaded on Zhu Xiang’s forehead.

Thank goodness the Crown Prince was broad-minded. If it had been anyone else, just that one glare would’ve earned them a lifelong grudge.

In fact, Zhu Xiang had asked the King beforehand whether he wanted to quietly ensure the Crown Prince or someone he favored got a lucky dumpling.

But the King of Qin was incredibly stubborn and flatly refused.

Zhu Xiang could only sympathize with Crown Prince Zhu and silently pray he’d get one of the lucky dumplings soon.

“Hm?” The old King of Qin spat out a plum pit himself.

He laughed heartily again. “Seems I’m lucky too!”

Crown Prince Zhu’s mouth drooped as he kept eating dumplings in silence. Not this one. Not this one either. Only seven left!

Why did His Majesty have to join in himself?!

To make things worse, Zheng’er got another lucky dumpling—and then His Majesty got yet another one.

The King of Qin was laughing so hard that the wrinkles on his face were deeper than the folds on the dumpling wrappers Ying Zheng had made.

Crown Prince Zhu felt bitter inside. Only five left…

“I got one,” Fan Ju quietly announced, spitting out a plum pit.

Crown Prince Zhu: Four left.

Lin Zhi: “Hm? I have this kind of luck too?”

Crown Prince Zhu: Three left.

What the hell?! How come everyone who gets one is connected to Zhu Xiang? Did he really not cheat?!

Meng Ao: “I got a lucky dumpling!”

Crown Prince Zhu: Only… only… ah!

Crown Prince Zhu finally spat out a plum pit, eyes brimming with tears. I finally got one! I won’t be scolded by Father!

The King of Qin gave him a satisfied glance. This kid’s luck isn’t bad. Even if he’s not that bright, at least he won’t recklessly waste the resources of Qin.

There was still one lucky dumpling left, and suddenly the whole room grew tense.

But strangely, even after all the dumplings had been eaten, no one found the last lucky dumpling.

The King of Qin frowned. “Zhu Xiang, wasn’t there one more?”

Zhu Xiang was puzzled too. “I’m sure I cooked them all. You saw it too, Your Majesty. There should be one more.”

At that moment, a young man who had tagged along with his father whispered nervously, “It might… might be me.”

The King of Qin was even more confused. “You? Why didn’t you say anything?”

Sima Jin looked miserable. “I swallowed it whole. I only noticed the sour plum taste afterward and realized it was probably a lucky dumpling—but by then I’d already swallowed it.”

The King of Qin: “…”

So Zhu Xiang was right. If they’d stuffed gold in there instead, there really would be some fool who’d swallow it and die.

Sima Jin asked carefully, “Your Majesty… does it still count?”

The King of Qin replied slowly, “Although I believe you wouldn’t lie to your king… without proof, it doesn’t count.”

Sima Jin was nearly frozen by the cold glance his father gave him.

Wuwuwu—he only ate a little too quickly! How was he supposed to know this would happen?

It was one of the soup dumplings. He bit into it, swallowed reflexively, and the whole thing slid right down. It felt so satisfying he couldn’t stop himself.

The King of Qin saw Sima Jin’s pathetic face and felt that today was simply too delightful.

Not only was the cotton harvest a success, ensuring fewer people in Qin would freeze to death in winter—but this dumpling feast had also been wonderfully entertaining.

The nobles were helpless. Part of them started to wonder if there really was some kind of fate at work.

They had all seen Zhu Xiang bring out the huge bowl of dumplings himself and let everyone choose freely. While the order of choosing might slightly affect the odds, it wasn’t surprising that the King of Qin (with some subtle cheating) got two lucky dumplings.

But Zhu Xiang, as the host, took his last. Ying Zheng had insisted he was too young, so he took his turn after the senior ministers.

Yet Zhu Xiang still got a lucky dumpling—and Ying Zheng got two. This…

Oh right, Crown Prince Zhu also got one. Were these lucky dumplings even more accurate than fortune-telling?

“Were they marked somehow?”

“Definitely not. Lord Changping picked last.”

“I meant Prince Zheng’s…”

“No idea. But even if they were, doesn’t it just prove he has the strongest luck?”

“True. Must’ve been His Majesty’s will.”

“Isn’t Prince Zheng a bit too young though? He’s the King’s great-grandson.”

“Exactly! Which makes it perfect—His Majesty has picked three generations of rulers in one go. Qin won’t have chaos for at least three reigns!”

The tale of Zhu Xiang’s lucky dumplings quickly spread among every noble family in Xianyang.

By the time Qin celebrated the New Year in the tenth month, even common scholars were discussing it.

Everyone was saying the King of Qin had already chosen the next three generations of rulers. Prince Zheng, Lord Changping’s nephew, had already been designated heir.

Ying Zheng was anxious. He knew that even if a monarch had a favored successor in mind, they usually didn’t like hearing others say so publicly.

But Zhu Xiang was calm.

“Zheng’er, what are you afraid of? With how tightly His Majesty controls Xianyang, do you think rumors he dislikes could spread here?” Zhu Xiang saw the cold sore forming from Ying Zheng’s worry—and smiled as he made another note in his diary.