HCT – Chapter 87 Deep-Fried Pumpkin Cakes

A single meal of steamed pumpkin had won over the taste buds of all three people.

The sweet and fragrant aroma even lured over farmers working near the fields, who lingered curiously around the group eating pumpkin.

Zhu Xiang picked a few ripe, mature pumpkins and invited them to join in steaming more.

Soon, word spread about the pumpkin’s deliciousness—its soft, glutinous texture paired with a natural sweetness was irresistible, especially in this era lacking sweeteners.

Li Mu asked, “How long can pumpkins be stored?” He was thinking of using them as a type of preserved ration.

Zhu Xiang replied, “Choose fully ripe pumpkins with hardened shells, cut them off with the stem attached, and store them in a dry, ventilated cellar—they can last up to a year. But pumpkins are easily damaged during transport, and exposure to dampness or light makes them rot quickly. Once damaged, or kept in a humid, bright place, they’ll spoil within a few days to a couple of months. So they’re hard to use as military rations or for taxation.”

Currently, taxes were paid in grain, cloth, and other physical goods. This wasn’t because the taxation system was underdeveloped—it was simply the most practical system for the times.

Apart from the state’s greater need for grain than for money, the main reason was that farmers found it difficult to pay taxes in currency.

They had no stable channels to sell their grain, and during a good harvest, prices would plummet. In an economy where commodities were scarce, taxing in silver would ruin all the farmers. In-kind taxation was the least harmful method for them.

Only when the commodity economy develops significantly could farmers consider paying taxes in currency. But due to grain price instability, monetary taxes actually further exploited farmers and sped up land annexation.

Switching from in-kind to monetary tax in the feudal era benefited state revenues and strengthened dynasties—but it didn’t reduce the burden on farmers.

Only when the state is capable of regulating the market—buying grain at a fixed high price regardless of the harvest—can monetary taxation avoid being a burden to farmers.

That level of capability was far beyond even feudal eras, let alone the Warring States period. It required strong grassroots execution, efficient logistics, and reliable grain storage on a national scale.

Right now, Qin was similar to later feudal states: no matter what farmers grew, it was all converted into grain and cloth for tax. Even if Zhu Xiang promoted pumpkins and potatoes, they couldn’t be used for tax due to poor storage and transport conditions.

So farmers only planted small amounts of them on scattered land to stave off hunger during hard times. For daily farming, they still focused on grains like millet, wheat, and rice.

However, due to years of famine, legumes were now also accepted as tax. This meant the tax burden wasn’t too heavy—though compared to millet, wheat, and rice, farmers had to submit more legumes for the same tax value.

After Zhu Xiang explained the limitations of storing pumpkins, both Li Bing and Li Mu sighed.

From a farmer’s perspective, carefully storing undamaged pumpkins in a cellar for a year was enough. But the state wouldn’t allow large-scale pumpkin farming, since it couldn’t be used for tax.

The same applied to potatoes.

Besides taste and dietary habits, tax policies were a major factor in what crops farmers chose to grow.

“At least they can stave off hunger,” Zhu Xiang consoled them. “Vegetable patches in front of and behind the house aren’t counted as taxable land. As long as farmers grow some pumpkins and potatoes there, they won’t starve.”

Li Bing agreed, “That’s true. Pumpkins and potatoes are great.”

Zhu Xiang added, “Same goes for the soldiers. Grow more varieties on garrison farms—it ensures food supply and also diversifies their meals.”

Li Mu said helplessly, “You’re really worrying about whether the soldiers have enough variety in their meals? If you led troops, would you want them all eating meat too?”

Zhu Xiang grinned. “Didn’t you slaughter cattle every month so the soldiers could eat meat to boost morale? That was you, not me.”

Li Mu rubbed his nose. It was true—but somehow, when Zhu Xiang said it, it made him feel a little self-conscious.

Just then, Ying Zheng tugged at Zhu Xiang’s sleeve, looked up, and asked expectantly, “Can pumpkins only be steamed? Are there any other tasty dishes?”

“You little foodie.” Zhu Xiang poked his forehead. “Watch your uncle show off some real skills.”

Li Bing laughed, “Looks like we’re in for another treat today. Li Mu, let’s go pick some pumpkins.”

Li Mu turned to Ying Zheng, “Zheng’er, want to pick your own pumpkin?”

Ying Zheng nodded enthusiastically.

Li Mu held his hand, Li Bing walked ahead, and Zhu Xiang strolled at the back with his hands behind his back, smiling. The group wandered around the pumpkin patch, carefully picking the best-looking ones for today’s feast.

Ying Zheng picked a very round, brightly colored pumpkin. Ignoring the muddy ground, he grabbed it and tried to pull it off the vine.

Even though he was strong for his age, pulling off a large pumpkin still proved a challenge.

Zhu Xiang said, “Zheng’er, you can cut it off.”

Since iron tools now existed, agricultural and gardening shears were also available.

But Ying Zheng, face flushed with effort, refused to give up. “I can do it!”

Zhu Xiang said gently, “I’m not saying you can’t—but using shears…”

“Hei!” Ying Zheng gave a mighty tug and yanked the pumpkin backward with all his strength.

Zhu Xiang quickly reached out to catch him.

Sure enough, the vine snapped, and Ying Zheng fell backward, nearly landing hard on his rear.

Still, he proudly lifted the pumpkin. “I picked it—ah!”

The pumpkin slipped from his hands and smashed on the ground, splitting into several pieces.

Given Ying Zheng’s size and strength, lifting a pumpkin was still too hard.

Silence fell. Ying Zheng’s face darkened.

Zhu Xiang sighed, “Zheng’er…”

Ying Zheng pointed at the pumpkin and declared, “I sentence you to death! Exterminate your entire family!”

Zhu Xiang burst into laughter.

Li Mu’s shoulders trembled as he tried desperately not to laugh and anger the boy further.

Li Bing, however, twitched at the corner of his mouth. As expected of a Qin prince—ordinary children didn’t joke about massacres.

Zhu Xiang chuckled, “Alright, let’s exterminate the pumpkin clan. We’ll harvest them all over the next few days!”

He called someone to bring a basket and gently placed the pumpkin Ying Zheng had worked so hard to pick—but accidentally dropped—into it.

“We’d cut the pumpkin up for cooking anyway. Even cracked, it’s still edible,” Zhu Xiang smiled. “Zheng’er, since you worked so hard to pick this big one, Uncle will turn it into delicious, fragrant pumpkin cakes, how’s that?”

Ying Zheng frowned. “You can still eat it after it breaks?”

“It’s just cracked, not smashed. Don’t worry—watch me cook later, and I’ll use this pumpkin to make the cakes.”

Only then did Ying Zheng calm down.

He huffed, forgiving the pumpkin clan that had dared ruin his pride.

“Uncle, I want that one now. Give me the shears!” He rolled up his sleeves, eager to redeem himself.

Zhu Xiang smiled, “Alright. Be careful not to cut your hand.”

Ying Zheng gripped the scissors tightly with both hands, staring at the pumpkin vines like a predator. He didn’t look like he was picking pumpkins—more like he was out for blood.

Zhu Xiang tried so hard to hold back his laughter that his stomach started to ache.

Li Mu continued picking pumpkins as usual, but behind him, Li Bing broke out in a cold sweat.

He was a little confused. Had neither Zhu Xiang nor Li Mu noticed the violent streak hidden in young Ying Zheng’s heart? Were they not afraid at all?

Clearly, his own courage still wasn’t enough. If he wanted to stay friends with Zhu Xiang and call Young Master Zheng “Zheng’er” like the others, he’d have to toughen up more.

Ying Zheng always took things very seriously—so seriously it became a kind of stubborn pride.

He picked exactly ten large pumpkins and refused any help, wobbling as he carried each one to the cart by himself.

Then, wiping the sweat from his forehead—only to smear mud all over his face—he looked extremely proud.

I have defeated the Pumpkin Clan!

Zhu Xiang laughed as he picked up the exhausted boy whose hands were trembling from fatigue. He wiped the dirt from Ying Zheng’s little face and praised him warmly, “Zheng’er, you’re amazing!”

Ying Zheng yawned smugly, curled up in his uncle’s arms, and quickly fell asleep.

Li Mu said, “So you’ve been slacking off this whole time just to get the chance to carry Zheng’er?”

Zhu Xiang chuckled, “Of course. You know how solid our Zheng’er is. If I didn’t rest up, how could I carry him back?”

He kissed his nephew’s smug, sleepy face.

Li Bing thought to himself: Zhu Xiang really spoils his nephew like he’s his own son.

No—he had a son himself, and even he didn’t spoil him this much.

Thinking of his own son gave Li Bing another headache.

Li Erlang had already arrived in Chengdu, and immediately stirred up trouble—while wandering the city with his sword, he saw injustice on the street and jumped in, getting into a fight with several local powerful clansmen.

As the Prefect, Li Bing was quickly approached by those clans, who forced their sons to come along and apologize. Still, Li Bing’s temples were throbbing with anger.

Bashu was a region known for being insular and hard to govern. The relationships with local gentry were delicate—they couldn’t be too close, but they couldn’t afford enmity either. And now Li Erlang had made everything more difficult.

Li Bing had originally wanted to drag Erlang along to apologize as well, but the boy refused to admit any wrongdoing. Even after being beaten, forced to kneel before the ancestral tablets, and locked in a dark room, he wouldn’t back down.

Li Bing had once been reluctant to send his son to the military camp, but now he was seriously considering handing him over to Li Mu for some tough love.

Well, he’d think about it after eating. Li Bing decided to put the issue off a little longer.

Back at the garrison courtyard, Zhu Xiang handed the sleeping Ying Zheng to the servants for safekeeping, freshened up a bit, changed clothes, and headed into the kitchen.

This time, he had come fully prepared—he brought all his cooking tools: wok, stew pot, frying pan, and a full set of spices and condiments.

Pumpkin purée mixed with flour was shaped into cakes and deep-fried in soybean oil until golden—no sugar needed, and already naturally sweet and delicious.

Pumpkin and potatoes were chopped and laid at the bottom of a bowl. Marinated pork belly, coated in a rice flour mix seasoned with salt, pepper, and Sichuan peppercorn, was placed on top—thus, a savory fenzheng rou dish was ready.

Smaller pumpkins were julienned and stir-fried with lard for a refreshing, lightly oily pumpkin sliver dish.

Pumpkin, soybeans, and pork ribs were stewed together in a clay pot. Just a few slices of ginger, garlic, scallions, and a pinch of salt were enough. The soup was rich and savory. The ribs, dipped in sauce, also catered to heavier palates…

After making several homestyle pumpkin dishes, Zhu Xiang boiled rice in a pot with plenty of water. After two minutes at full boil, he poured the contents into a bamboo sieve to drain the rice grains.

Then, he placed sliced mature pumpkin into the bottom of an earthenware pot, poured the strained rice on top, and simmered on low heat until dry. This was the rustic “kong pumpkin rice.”

“Uncle…” Ying Zheng walked into the kitchen rubbing his eyes and yawning, “I’m hungry.”

“Have some rice broth first,” Zhu Xiang poured him a bowl. “After that, take the pumpkin cakes outside. Uncle will allow you to eat as you walk.”

Ying Zheng gulped down the warm broth, wiped his mouth, and said, “I won’t eat while walking.”

He then ate two pumpkin cakes before carrying the tray out.

Zhu Xiang nearly burst out laughing.

Not eating while walking—so he eats before walking? How could his little Zheng’er be this adorable?

Li Mu also came in to help carry dishes. On the way, he casually snagged a pumpkin cake from Ying Zheng. Once he reached the kitchen, he also stole a bite of the fenzheng rou and a rib from the stew.

Only Li Bing remained well-behaved, too embarrassed to sneak food, waiting properly for the meal to start.

Watching the oil on both Ying Zheng’s and Li Mu’s mouths, he sighed, “Li Mu, are you seriously teaching Zheng’er to sneak food?”

Ying Zheng defended himself, “I didn’t sneak any. Uncle said I could eat first.”

Li Mu said, “I did sneak some. But I didn’t teach Zheng’er. Isn’t it Zhu Xiang who’s been teaching him?”

Zhu Xiang retorted, “How is a cook tasting his dishes considered sneaking food?”

Li Bing: “…”

Clearly, he wasn’t carefree enough—still not fully attuned to his friends’ chaotic dynamic.

“Come taste some,” Zhu Xiang smiled. “If you like it, I’ll write down the recipes for you.”

Li Bing replied, “Then I won’t be shy.”

At first, he had been nervous about eating Zhu Xiang’s food. Now, he had gotten used to it.

They all dug in with gusto and soon were full to bursting.

Shu Commandery was rich in bamboo. Zhu Xiang had people make bamboo chairs, which were now found in both Li Mu’s and Li Bing’s residences. The trend had even spread to other households in the region.

Shu had damp, sweltering summers and chilly, damp winters—sitting on the ground was miserable. The chairs quickly became a hit, now nearly a household essential. Street vendors even hawked bamboo furniture along the roads.

With animal pelts laid across the wide chairs, the group lounged while digesting and watching the moon.

Ying Zheng curled up against Zhu Xiang like a cushion.

“The moon is so round,” Li Mu remarked.

Zhu Xiang rolled his eyes. “With such a lovely moon, shouldn’t you be composing a poem? And all you can say is ‘the moon is round’? That’s the best you’ve got?”

Li Mu replied, “If you’re so great, why don’t you do it?”

Immediately, Zhu Xiang bellowed out a verse from the later-to-be-famous “Prelude to Water Melody.” Li Mu and Li Bing promptly burst out laughing.

At this time in history, of course, the poem didn’t match any known rhythm structures, and the concept of ci poetry formats didn’t exist yet. To Li Mu and Li Bing, Zhu Xiang’s “masterpiece” didn’t even measure up to a folk song.

Naturally, that version of Prelude to Water Melody didn’t survive into later generations.

Still, despite their mockery, Zhu Xiang was having a great time and even sang his “poem” to a tune—though he had entirely forgotten what melody it was supposed to be.

To shut him up, Li Bing clapped a rhythm and sang verses from the Book of Songs and some folk tunes about the moon.

In this era, the Book of Songs wasn’t the only form of verse—more structured poetry was beginning to emerge, and Han-era Yuefu poetry was already taking shape.

Li Mu cheered him on and had someone bring a zither to accompany Li Bing’s singing.

Although Li Mu was a general, in this era, generals and scholars were not separate roles. He was also well-versed in the Six Arts.

Li Mu played the zither, Li Bing composed poetry and sang, and Zhu Xiang hummed along at random as accompaniment.

Ying Zheng yawned and started slapping his uncle’s arm as if it were a drum. Zhu Xiang was speechless. Your great-grandfather beat on clay pots, so you think you can just beat on your uncle’s arm? Such bad habits at such a young age—no wonder you’re fated to carry the blame for seven generations.

Zhu Xiang said, “Zheng’er, shouldn’t you start learning to play an instrument?”

Ying Zheng replied, “I don’t want to. What’s the point? I’ll have plenty of people to play music for me.”

Zhu Xiang said, “Others playing music for you doesn’t conflict with you learning to play yourself. Learning an instrument can cultivate your temperament and also help you vent emotions. For example, when you’re in a bad mood, you can pluck the strings chaotically—let the people you dislike but can’t punish listen to it.”

Li Mu strummed too hard, and a string snapped.

Li Bing also went off-key in his singing.

The two of them looked at Zhu Xiang in unison. “Don’t teach Zheng’er bad things!”

They absolutely didn’t want the future King of Qin to make his officials suffer by listening to him messily strumming a zither in a fit of rage!

Zhu Xiang said, “I think it sounds like a great idea.”

The two replied in unison, “No, it doesn’t!”

Ying Zheng thought it over and surprisingly found Zhu Xiang’s reasoning very sound. “Alright, I’ll learn. Uncle, will you teach me?”

Zhu Xiang happily said, “Sure, I’ll teach you to play the huqin!”

Li Mu quickly stopped him. “Better let me teach Zheng’er the zither.”

Zhu Xiang said, “You look down on the huqin, don’t you? Right now, I’m the only one in the world who knows how to play it! I want to pass this one-of-a-kind instrument down to Zheng’er!”

He just wanted to see Qin Shi Huang playing the erhu, what’s the problem with that?

Ying Zheng nodded earnestly. “Alright, I’ll learn the huqin.”

Li Mu tried to persuade him: “Zheng’er, do you know what your uncle says about the huqin? When it sounds, it’s always for weddings or funerals. You should learn a more ordinary instrument.”

Ying Zheng replied, “But the huqin is one of a kind.”

Li Mu was left speechless.

Li Bing had never heard Zhu Xiang play the huqin and asked curiously, “What is the huqin?”

Li Mu rolled his eyes. “Zhu Xiang says it’s an instrument brought into Zhao from the Hu people. You don’t pluck it with your fingers—you rub horsehair across the strings to produce a wailing sound. But I’ve fought the Hu barbarians for many years and never seen this instrument. I think the huqin is something Zhu Xiang invented himself and blamed on the Hu to make it sound exotic.”

Zhu Xiang said, “You make a good point. I’ve decided—it’ll be called the Qin-qin from now on.”

Li Mu said, “Might as well call it the Changping-qin. You’re Lord Changping, and ‘Changping’ has a good meaning.”

Zhu Xiang replied, “That sounds pretty good.”

Ying Zheng slapped Zhu Xiang’s arm again. “I want to learn.”

“Alright,” Zhu Xiang ruffled his hair with a mischievous smile.

He was absolutely going to draw a picture of Zheng’er playing the erhu and bury it in his tomb, to be passed down through generations. From then on, the world would be full of portraits of Qin Shi Huang playing the erhu. Hahahahaha!

Zhu Xiang imagined the stunned faces of Qin Shi Huang’s future fanboys and fangirls upon seeing him play the erhu and nearly burst into maniacal laughter.

Ying Zheng, unaware of his uncle’s wicked plot to ruin his heroic image, yawned again and buried his face in Zhu Xiang’s chest. “Sleepy.”

“Go ahead and sleep,” Zhu Xiang said, wrapping him in a blanket. Holding the sleeping Ying Zheng, he continued chatting softly with his friends.

They talked about the moon, the harvest, Shu Prefecture, and the fate of the world.

After the pumpkin harvest, Li Mu replaced the army’s stored millet with pumpkins, giving the old or moldy millet to Li Bing so he could use it to help more refugees.

In winter, even Shu Prefecture—with its relatively mild climate—saw plants wither and food become scarce. Refugees desperate to avoid starvation would attack towns and become bandits.

Due to two consecutive years of flooding and the need to support Qin’s military efforts, there wasn’t much grain in the official Shu granaries—only the army stores were still full.

Pumpkin tasted good but was hard to store or transport, so Li Mu used it as the army’s winter rations, freeing up the old millet. Even if this was technically unauthorized handling of military supplies, it didn’t violate the law outright.

With this grain, and following Zhu Xiang’s suggestion, Li Bing implemented a work-for-relief program—having refugees dig canals and do other preliminary irrigation work in exchange for food.

Having work helped reduce banditry. But in reality, heavy labor for just enough food to barely survive meant many weak or sickly refugees didn’t make it through the winter.

This was the fatal flaw of work-for-relief in a feudal era: without sufficient oil and salt in the food, it was essentially a death sentence.

However, in this era, with the Qin army strong and banditry nearly suicidal, work-for-relief was still the lesser evil. So Li Bing’s version was actually very successful.

Zhu Xiang had originally wanted to improve the refugees’ meals, but after some investigation, he gave up on the idea with a heavy heart.

Given the current level of productivity, he had no way to provide enough food for all the refugees. Even if he could, it might spark bigger unrest. Because in this era, even ordinary scholars often didn’t get enough to eat. If the refugees were fed while others went hungry, it might trigger riots and lead to even greater bloodshed.

With no better solution for work-for-relief, Zhu Xiang turned all his energy toward planting winter rice and wheat. In ancient times, southern regions typically had two harvests a year—usually rice-wheat or rice-bean rotations. It wasn’t until the Southern Song that double-cropping of rice became common.

Although Lin Zhi was quite unlucky—his four-star reward was just rice seeds—at least the seeds could be chosen for their planting season. Even if they weren’t perfect, that was still something.

Li Bing’s seeds, by contrast, were for summer rice, which wouldn’t be planted until the next year.

The seeds didn’t indicate their specific varieties, so Zhu Xiang had to rely on his own knowledge to guess. But the seeds he got from the system showed very little degeneration after replanting, suggesting they were optimized somehow. While yields were slightly lower, the traits were stable—unlike modern hybrid seeds that degenerate massively by the second year.

Zhu Xiang also taught simple seed cultivation methods to local farmers and the Mohist community—having them hand-pollinate each year to produce stable, high-quality new seeds.

The Agriculturalists and Mohists had once flourished. Many Confucian disciples had even joined them.

The Agriculturalists represented farmers’ interests; the Mohists represented small craftsmen. Both spoke for the lowest rungs of society and resonated most with the masses.

Unfortunately, like many schools, they had lofty political ideals but no step-by-step strategies to achieve them.

To give an example: the Confucians’ ideal was “Great Unity” (Da Tong), but they had intermediate concepts like “unification” and “righteous war” that suited current times. Their ideas on rituals and scholarship were also useful to the aristocracy. Not so for the Agriculturalists and Mohists.

The Agriculturalists hoped for no taxes on farmers, equality between high and low, universal farming, and bans on free trade to protect farmers from exploitation. The Mohists promoted universal love, opposed aggression, and wanted total equality for all.

These ideals were impossible to realize in their era—and even in later eras, still far too utopian to align with real-world development.

Ideals are just slogans—however lofty or unrealistic, that’s fine. Even the Confucian and Legalist ideals that later emperors adopted were similarly hollow. But the Agriculturalists and Mohists had only slogans, no viable roadmaps for the present day that could allow them to remain political forces.

The Agriculturalists eventually gave up their ideology and bowed to reality. The Mohists split into three factions:

• Qin Mohists focused on technology,
• Chu Mohists became wandering swordsmen,
• Qi Mohists debated endlessly.

The factions attacked each other, fell into internal strife, and their central leadership (the Juzi) could no longer command all Mohists.

They had already begun to decline in this era—their schools gradually fading—not only after Confucianism became the sole respected doctrine.

The agriculturalists and Mohists, representing farmers and small artisans, were the lowest strata of commoners, with the weakest ability to withstand risk. Instinctively, they leaned toward any state that could bring an end to war. So in the end, they all turned to Qin.

However, the Qin state was ideologically authoritarian and lacked the soil in which tight-knit small groups could thrive.

A small group like the Mohists, who revered the Juzi and could even confront state armies, would never be allowed to exist under Qin rule.

By the time Zhu Xiang left, Xiang He had already lost most of the Juzi’s original authority just to allow Mohists to continue holding office in Qin. After that, the Mohists only accepted direct orders from the King of Qin and no longer obeyed the Juzi’s commands.

Xiang He had agonized over this, but no matter how troubled he was, he could only accept this helpless reality.

If not for Zhu Xiang, if not for the King of Qin permitting the agriculturalists and Mohists to aid Zhu Xiang—allowing them to continue uniting around him as a link—they might have already been completely absorbed into Qin’s massive bureaucratic system and ceased to exist.

Zhu Xiang described a preliminary version of something akin to an Academy of Engineering or Sciences to the King of Qin, hoping that even if the agriculturalists and Mohists could no longer survive as political entities, they could remain as technical organizations—a spark of knowledge preserved for future generations.

But whether it would succeed, even Zhu Xiang didn’t know.

When he left Xianyang, Xu Ming and Xiang He stayed behind to guide and promote cotton cultivation. For now, he didn’t need to worry about those two factions.

He hoped that when Zheng’er ascended the throne, he could help find a future for the schools of his two close friends.

In fact, when Zhu Xiang saw this “union of labor and agriculture,” he had the urge to take out his… ahem, but he decided to save that for when he was near death. For now, better not to ask for trouble.

The feudal era hadn’t even arrived yet—saying such things now, even as political ideals or empty slogans, was far too early.

“Sigh, without Xu Ming and Xiang He’s help, it’s really too hard for me to try planting rice on my own.” After guiding the cultivation of one mu of land, Zhu Xiang sat on the field ridge, panting heavily.

Raising seedlings and transplanting rice required fine, detailed techniques. He had to explain again and again before the farmers could understand.

But understanding didn’t mean they could do it. Often, they would forget the instructions while working, and Zhu Xiang had to start all over again.

If Xu Ming and Xiang He were here, he could first train the people they brought—those who were good at interacting with farmers—and have them teach others.

Zhu Xiang turned his thoughts to the academy students he had brought. But most of them had studied Confucianism or Legalism, with a few trained in the Huang-Lao or Daoist schools. They were all scholar-gentry. He worried they would be unwilling to work in the fields or interact with peasants.

Compared to farming, scholar-students likely preferred helping Li Bing and Li Mu.

What Zhu Xiang didn’t expect was that, even after he gave up on their help, the academy students elected representatives themselves and volunteered to assist him.

Zhu Xiang was deeply moved. They actually offered to go to the countryside to learn farming. These were good kids!

Ying Zheng, watching his uncle call these academy students—who were even older than him—“good kids,” pursed his lips, put his hands behind his back, and sighed like an old man.

Had his uncle not only gone gray but grown old at heart too?

When would his uncle’s hair turn black again? He was starting to forget what his uncle looked like with black hair.

Now, Zhu Xiang had more helpers.

To his surprise, most of them had actually farmed before.

“In times as chaotic as these, a minor noble might be an official one day, and a peasant the next. Back when Xunzi’s family was still the Zhonghang clan, they were one of the great aristocratic families of Jin. When the Three Families divided Jin, the Zhonghang clan was forced to flee, changed their name to Xun, and ended up farming like commoners. If that happened to them, how could other families fare any better?” one student said.

The Zhonghang clan had been one of the six ministerial families of Jin. After losing a power struggle with the Zhao clan, they reverted to the Xun surname and were reduced to common scholars after the tripartition of Jin.

Zhu Xiang asked with interest, “You seem to know a lot about Xunzi’s family. Are you a Confucian disciple?”

The student replied, “No, I follow Legalism. I learned about Xunzi because I wanted to debate him and uphold the honor of the Legalist school.”

Zhu Xiang: “…”

So this is what it means when they say “Your enemy knows you best”? He felt this student had too lofty ambitions.

Zhu Xiang said, “You study Legalism, but learning from Xunzi wouldn’t be a bad idea. Who knows, maybe future Legalist leaders will all be Xunzi’s students.”

The student was baffled. He couldn’t understand why Lord Zhu would say such a thing.

Zhu Xiang just smiled mysteriously. “Just trust me.”

The student said, “Xunzi is the academy rector. I’m already his student.”

But in his heart, he thought, I want to be your student, Lord Zhu.

They all called themselves Lord Zhu’s disciples, even though he hadn’t officially accepted a single one.

Ying Zheng happened to stroll by with his hands behind his back, pointing at the students in the fields like a little supervisor.

The student fell silent.

Fine, Lord Zhu did have one disciple—his nephew, Prince Zheng.

Everyone knew that Lord Zhu’s nephew was not only favored by the current King of Qin, but also by Crown Prince Zhu and the likely successor, Prince Zichu. As long as Prince Zheng didn’t die young, he was very likely to become King of Qin.

Maybe that was why Lord Zhu didn’t officially take disciples—because a future King couldn’t have fellow disciples.

Though they hadn’t formally apprenticed under him, and though Lord Zhu hadn’t acknowledged them as his students, his guidance was meticulous, his care for their lives beyond compare. Even a normal teacher wouldn’t do as much.

In their hearts, they already saw themselves as Lord Zhu’s students and were happy to follow and serve him.

That was why they had set aside more prestigious work to help Zhu Xiang with farming.

Their original intention was simply to lighten Zhu Xiang’s burden, but in the process of learning from him, they realized that even farming was full of knowledge.

Plants, soil, water flow, climate, even pests and weeds—there was so much to learn.

And it wasn’t just “experience,” but “knowledge that could be scientifically quantified and passed on.”

Lord Zhu taught them to conduct comparative experiments, so they could observe nature more directly. What they once thought was divine mystery, he slowly revealed one by one.

It turned out that humans could understand nature, harness it, and didn’t have to passively rely on the heavens.

In rice farming, there wasn’t just knowledge—there was philosophy too.

Like the harmonious coexistence of rice and fish, which fit perfectly with Daoist thought.

“More than that, even dealing with farmers involves a wealth of learning. If I can explain things clearly to peasants, persuading powerful officials later will be easy.”

“To understand farmers is to understand taxation—and how to create realistic national policies.”

“If we only read books and don’t know how much a mu of land can yield, we won’t know if the taxes collected are fair or exploitative.”

“Right. If we don’t know how long it takes a farmer to work the land, then conscripting labor might delay crucial farming time.”

“Lord Zhu says we must read ten thousand books and walk ten thousand miles. Knowledge and practice—one is the bones, the other the flesh—both are indispensable.”

“So much wisdom in farming—Lord Zhu is truly remarkable.” …

When the students had free time, they would gather to organize what they had learned. Later, they compiled a book for Zhu Xiang—one that would be used for millennia in civil exams and still appear on modern Chinese national exams.

If Zhu Xiang were reincarnated into this world again, he might have to take a test on his own Zhu Xiangzi Says.

Whether those Zhu Xiangzi Says were really his words, though, was another matter.

For now, he simply taught the students to farm with full dedication and occasionally shared what he considered common sense.

He didn’t know those bits of “common sense” would become great truths, interpreted in countless ways.

The seedlings were raised, the rice transplanted, and at last, winter came—Zhu Xiang could finally take a breath.

Li Bing now got busy. He wanted to take advantage of the dry season to measure water levels at various river mouths and scout locations to build diversion dikes.

Although he claimed he would build a major water project to reduce flooding in the Chengdu Plain, he only had a vague idea so far, no solid plan.

When Zhu Xiang heard about this, he was speechless.

He had thought Li Bing had a full blueprint ready and was about to build the Dujiangyan irrigation system—hence his petition to the King of Qin. Who would’ve guessed Li Bing was this reckless, having pledged success before even thinking it through?

Zhu Xiang couldn’t help but ask, “Since you haven’t worked it out yet, how did you dare write to the King of Qin? What if you can’t do it?”

Li Bing replied, “Doing something is better than doing nothing. Even digging a few canals is better than just watching.”

Zhu Xiang was speechless again. Was every one of his friends like this?

…Oh, I’m the same.

Birds of a feather! [slaps thigh]