ITIEQ C30

Chapter 30 – We’re Going to Prosper

The feast finally dispersed.

The officials of Qiuquan Commandery staggered out of the hall, dizzy and dazed, as if they had drunk a whole jin of wine.

Who would have thought—the distant Emperor himself had laid his eyes on their tiny, impoverished Qiuquan, sending one of his close attendants to lead reforms and sweep away the old ways!

To these veteran clerks, who had served for decades convinced they had no hope of promotion, this was nothing less than like golden pastries falling straight from the heavens!

Back in their quarters, one agitated official could not contain his excitement. He hurried to knock on the door of Changshi Xue, who had not attended the gathering earlier. He could not let him miss such good news!

Inside, Xue Bufan sat slumped over the wooden desk, clutching a wine bowl, looking for all the world as though drunk beyond measure. But as soon as he heard the visitor breathlessly relate the evening, he raised his head from the jar.

“The governor said that?”

“Yes! He said so at the little banquet just now. You’ve always been the sharpest mind among us, your skill in government outstripping the rest. If promotions truly become possible, surely you’ll have a share!”

Xue Bufan cracked open a weary eyelid. “How old is he?”

The official froze, then realized he meant their new governor. He answered: “Looks under his twenties. I’ve made inquiries—he’s not of any aristocratic clan. Yet at such a young age he was already serving at the Emperor’s side, so he must be particularly trusted. But…why do you ask?”

Xue Bufan only refilled his cup. He leaned sideways, barely bothering to open his eyes, and downed another draught before thumping the bowl back on the desk.

“He is just a banished sinner, carrying disgrace. How could he possibly have such ability, to make the Emperor single out our little Qiuquan?”

The official paled. “A disgraced offender?!”

Xue Bufan sneered. “We have served together in this backwater for years—surely you’ve learned something of people. Even if we lack fiery eyes of discernment, we should at least be able to tell truth from fog. Yet a boy not even twenty says a few words, and you swallow it whole as if bewitched! Strange indeed.”

Compared with the air-dropped youth, the official naturally trusted Xue Bufan more. After all, the Xue family was itself an established clan, with relatives still serving in the capital. Picking up news posed no difficulty for him. Since he spoke so resolutely, there must be truth in it.

The official’s face twisted, torn between expressions, but finally hardened on resentment. This Qiuquan—barren, poor, plagued by harsh climates—had long been a place no one wished to linger. They had all dreamed of escaping someday, yet dared not resign their officialdom. Now they thought promotion had finally appeared—only to learn the cake was an illusion. Ice water doused from above, leaving them bitter.

“So that’s why he scolded us so harshly at first, and then immediately spoke smooth words. First a lash with the stick, then a date in the mouth—it’s all calculated manipulation! Just like dangling a carrot before a donkey to make it chase forever, knowing it can never eat. Such venom! If not for you waking me, we would all be squeezed dry, made fools of, thinking him genuine. I’ll quickly tell the others, so we all see through his false show of imperial backing!”

Seeing the man storm out in fury, Xue Bufan leaned back against the table. He wanted more wine, but the moonlight glowed pure through the window. He simply took the whole jar out into the courtyard.

Facing the bright moon, he tipped it long and solemnly. The moonlight fell straight into the small jar mouth.

—

Shen Qinghe, meanwhile, sat with a bowl before him, gazing at the round moon drifting in the broth. He stirred it with a spoon. The silver radiance rippled outward, vanishing in circles, while hot steam rose in waves.

Lifting the bowl, he gulped heavily. He set it down, content, patting his belly and sticking up a thumb.

“Even if someone offered me a thousand gold coins for this winter bamboo shoot soup, I would never trade it!”

Tears sprang to his eyes in excitement. For days he had done nothing but eat powdery cornmeal mush or coarse steaming cakes. Qiuquan Commandery was truly impoverished. Even tonight’s feast was little more than boiled vegetables, some salt, and pale meat. His stomach had nearly rebelled in sourness. At last, finally, he could eat the food of proper humans tonight!

“The kitchen simmered it for half an hour, only sprinkled on a little salt to draw out flavor, and it still makes you want to bite off your own tongue—it’s that delicious. If I hadn’t reserved a small bowl on my way out of the kitchen, my lord wouldn’t even taste it now.”

Lǜsong chuckled proudly at his contributions. “Only thing is, most of the winter shoots in these mountains are already foraged clear. On the market their price shoots sky-high. To taste again this year, no chance. One must wait till next spring.”

Indeed—they never imagined it. In the capital, golden leaves could be spent without thought. Yet here, in Qiuquan, the very world had been overturned. It wasn’t that they lacked money, but the commandery’s currency system was all but collapsed. Even clothes and food were hard to obtain. Wealth meant little—for if you wanted to actually spend coin, you had to trek dozens of li to richer neighboring counties. For common folk, exchanging currency wasn’t worth the trouble—it couldn’t keep you alive.

This, too, was just as Xu Lesheng had previously pointed out: without circulating currency, with mere bartering and self-sufficiency, they cut themselves off from the outside world. And since northward loomed the Hu lands, should an invasion come, Qiuquan’s resistance would snap like a branch overhanging a cliff—toppled at the first gust.

Shen Qinghe lapsed deep into contemplation.

Lǜsong thought he had said something wrong. Anxiously, he asked: “…My lord?”

The youth blinked back, curving his lips into a smile.

“Your master is only admiring the moon. Tell me—doesn’t this moon look bigger, fuller, than usual?”

Lǜsong was delighted. “It does! How does it look even larger than when we saw it from the capital?”

Shen Qinghe spoke lazily, sipping soup: “Because Qiuquan lies at lower latitude.”

“What’s ‘latitude’?”

“Then you’ll have to read more books.” He waved it off. “But latitude or not—it’s unimportant. Only when you look straight at it, directly and upright, does the moon shine full and round.”

Lǜsong chuckled foolishly. “I don’t understand, but whatever my lord says is always right.”

Shen Qinghe only laughed, shaking his head.

“Sigh. I wonder whether any old friends, somewhere else beneath the same sky, might be gazing on this same bright moon tonight.”

—

When the system came out forth, Shen Qinghe was much relieved. In his spare moments, when not burdened by public affairs, he could simply listen to students give progress reports on their projects.

Acting both as advisor and sponsor, he provided research funding for the students to draw upon. Their decision: purchase two plots of land.

Qiuquan’s soil was limited; not every family could possess fertile fields. So deliberately, the students acquired one already-tilled fertile field and another barren patch nearby, to serve as comparison in their experiments.

At first, no farmers were willing to sell. Land was their lifeblood. But the bad harvests drove most families already to abandon field and flee famine. With so much at risk, they agonized: better to sell their ancestral earth and at least gain some coin to travel on, than to leave it weed-grown and worthless. So with hearts torn, they finally let go.

Students tucked the deeds tightly against their chests and began considering their project implementation. Northwest winters struck harshly. Carefully cultivated seeds would freeze quickly in frosted soil. If they could not sprout, all effort would be wasted.

You Luo was first to recall passages in books of *“hothouse planting.”*¹ Recorded as: “Cover with roofing, keep fire day and night, wait till warmth gives birth.” This meant building enclosed “greenhouses,” filling them with braziers, tricking seeds into believing spring had come, so they sprouted even against the seasons. With such method, one might even eat fresh vegetables and fruit in the depths of winter!

Marvelling, he eager to attempt it. But Xu Lesheng immediately shook his head: “If you need constant high heat, then you need constant fuel. Qiuquan lacks resources. To burn charcoal every day—only households with great wealth can afford that. When even humans are freezing, who would spare fire to warm vegetables? This only suits the richest of nobles!”

He calculated quickly. With no coal mines nearby, every piece of charcoal must be shipped painstakingly from outside. When he reported the total costs, the others fell silent.

“Books also mention diverting warm springs… but all the rivers and creeks here are iced stiff. How do you find hot water?” Xu Lesheng proposed, only to dismiss his own idea.

All pondered desperately until Shan Bowen brightened. “I recall our professor once mentioned ‘manure heating.’ By composting cow, horse dung, and straw blend, one makes ‘warm-beds!’ Northward lies pastureland of the Hu tribes—where cattle and horses are in droves. Though Qiuquan no longer trades officially with Hu, we might still negotiate purchase of their manure! Surely more viable than charcoal.”

They agreed, and quickly reported to the “system.”

Draped in a heavy hooded robe, covering half his boyish face, the golden-haired childlike projection padded barefoot in the ridges.

“Professor, it is deep winter! Bare feet invite cold and damp to invade, draining bodily yang. Liver qi stagnates!” exclaimed Gao Rong, aghast at his pale toes.

Startled, the system could not explain he was no carbon-based creature, not subject to illness. So, under their stern gazes, he sheepishly slipped back into shoes, earning warm praise.

He suddenly realized. Wait—just who’s supposed to be teacher here!?

Hearing their plan of manure heating, the system tilted his head, data flashing in milliseconds, before nodding. “Feasible, but heed two points. Of all dung, only sheep and horse dung ferment hot, useful for warm-beds. Other types actually backfire. Second, dung with too much water cannot ferment properly. Only dry manure works.”

They nodded furiously. You Luo, most excitable, dashed off crying: “Buy manure to the rescue!” Shocking passing villagers into pitying sighs: So young, and already mad…

Regardless, the group, fueled by zeal against the icy northern wind, dove into their first experiment. If successful, their largest wish was for bountiful harvest—that even in barren northwest, granary and household alike overflowed.

For as the saying goes: The people regard food as heaven. With full stomachs, they can think of learning and service to nation. Empty and starving, one has no mind but to claw wild earth for bitter roots.

They first softened the frozen soil, clearing stones, burning away roots and weeds that would steal nutrients.

Then they hired idle villagers as labor. Even Second Brother Ma, who once clamored to “donate his land,” Shen Qinghe now enlisted—paying fair wages, providing two hot meals daily. Attracted by the taste of steam buns and better food than famine’s misery, many wavering villagers chose to stay.

Some even received sesame cakes as bonus meals! Many had not tasted them in months—some, not in years. Holding the oily, fragrant cake, they thought it moldy! But mold or not, they would eat—it was richness itself.

Savoring that rare sesame taste, the farmers bent back to labor with renewed fervor. None wished to seem idle before such generous employers.

—

Meanwhile, Shen Qinghe wrestled daily with headaches. Back in the capital, in the Secretariat, his colleagues, though lazy gossipers, at least knew enough to stay out of each other’s way.

But here—Qiuquan was endless struggle. Every direction had someone delaying or contradicting him. Though in Great Yong, local governors had autonomy to enact ordinances, every document down the line was rebutted by elders, hidden barbs calling him an ignorant youth who must consult widely, make trial meetings, rely on collective “public opinion.”

Public opinion, my ass.

Again another directive, returned with smiling defiance. Shen Qinghe inhaled deeply. Officials had certainly changed their stance since his dramatic speech. Clearly, someone was stirring dissent. He admitted that yes, the “cake” he painted was round indeed, too round to bite at once. Yet for them all to unite against him—there had to be instigation.

Now, governors enjoyed at least the right of dismissal. Though he couldn’t shift imperial appointments like Changshi or Assistant Administrator, advisors and clerical staff were his to hire. Did these troublemakers think themselves untouchable, like un-fireable lifetime employees of some state enterprise? Not working, fine. But disrupting governance? Then he would cast them out—deny rank, deny retirement pensions!

His eyes hardened.

He rifled through documents. His Master of Records had been useless, feeding him trivialities like peasant quarrels over fields. Qinghe recalled when working as grunt in a local street office, drowning in absurd petitions. The same chills crept up his spine.

Skimming through fast, furious, suddenly he halted.

It was yet another minor note. A farmer complained his crops never grew properly; digging deeper, he discovered his soil beneath was full of hard black stones, breaking his plough. What had seemed red-earth like fertile fields was barren each year. He asked allocated instead some ordinary ground.

Red earth above…black stone below…

Qinghe’s heart thundered in his chest. He leapt upright, chair toppling. “Could it be…!”

Donning over-robe, he summoned the inspector clerk who filed this note. When the clerk arrived, nervous but tidied and eager, Shen Qinghe wasted no time, dragging him out in haste. “Where does this farmer live?”

Bewildered why his superior took such petty detail so seriously, the clerk nevertheless led on. It was far. They mounted an ox-cart westward, until cresting the edge of Qiuquan Commandery.

There before them spread soil of dusky red hue, black stones jutting amid, a snapped wooden plough still stuck crooked. Shen Qinghe threw himself onto the ground without regard for dirt, clutching the black rock in his hands.

The clerk panicked, trying to help, but Shen Qinghe grabbed his wrist firmly.

“Red above… iron below! The report was true!”

The boy-governor’s bright brows gleamed with hot tears. His voice quivered thunderous:

“We’re going to prosper!!”

Iron!

With iron, possibilities soared instantly. Tools, weapons, weights and measures, anchors—all iron-made. Thousands upon thousands of techniques flashed through his mind—the pillar of nearly every craft. If they controlled this, Qiuquan’s productivity would multiply overnight!

The clerk only boggled, unable to see what treasure lay in the black rock. But when Shen Qinghe promised, “You’ll be promoted—salary doubled!” then joy truly filled him. What a generous and handsome lord!

But Qinghe soon steadied himself. Plans surged. First—secure and guard the site, near the territory border, before rival claim. Second—survey capacity and quality. Third—begin hiring miners for extraction to bring ores swiftly into production.

He knew: in Great Yong, iron mainly served military use. Civilians rarely owned iron goods, except a kitchen knife or axe. Most would mistake the black masses for mere stone.

Qinghe’s blood raced. If only we find coal too! Together, iron and coal—they could build from ground up, raising wealth, carving prosperity in Qiuquan!

His dreams bloomed wildly, but he wasted no time, ordering immediate arrangements.

As for his colleagues, he trusted none. Instead he thought of using personal ties. The Northwestern Regional Censor-Guardian² seemed perfect to guard this discreetly. So he went straight back to Yao Guang.

—

Yao Guang was fuming. By imperial edict, he had been ordered to escort Shen Qinghe to Qiuquan and remain a month to see him settled. A disgrace! He was a Regional Commander, a half-rank above Shen even back when the boy was royal attendant. He, a general of arms, confined to nursemaid duty over an eighteen-year-old governor—what a laughingstock among soldiers!

Were it not His Majesty’s personal mandate, he would never have complied. Any ordinary superior’s order, he would boldly refuse. Yet here he was, sulking in his courtyard, plucking dog-tail grass to vent.

But in fairness, the boy treated him kindly—even gave him tea. No one had ever gifted him anything but arrows and insults… So perhaps he would not report complaint after all.

—

The door knocked. Startled, Yao Guang bellowed: “Who’s there!”

Silence, then the creak of wood. The door parted ajar—Shen Qinghe’s radiant youthful face peeking in, brighter than he’d ever seen.

For once, the prideful general froze. Heart oddly fluttering, he tossed away the dog-tail grass and pretended composure, dusting his sleeves like leisure stroll.

But the boy suddenly rushed in, seizing his hand!

“Lord Yao, I need your help with something urgent!”

Yao Guang jerked free immediately!

Qiuhe stiffened, then recalled—this was ancient Yong. His excited handshake was entirely inappropriate. He quickly stepped back, maintaining respectful distance.

“My apologies, I got carried away.”

His dark eyes brimmed sincerity.

Yao Guang coughed, blustering to hide his awkwardness. “W-what is it, then? Of course I’ll help, no need to panic so loud!”

“Yes, yes, Lord Yao is absolutely right. I was rash, forgive me.” Qinghe bent easily, voice as sweet as honey where advantage required. “Someone as young as you, already Regional Censor, mighty deeds resounding—your ability far surpasses me. My petty affairs here are surely trifles for you.”

At last, Yao Guang thought smugly. He finally acknowledges my greatness. Let him know who truly towers here. Aloud, he boomed: “What matter in this tiny county could ever baffle me? Speak!”

Shen Qinghe’s smile bloomed brighter, dazzling. “It is like this—we’ve discovered an iron mine in Qiuquan. But it lies right by the border of the two commanderies. First come, first served, as they say. I hope Lord Yao may lead troops to guard it tight, allowing none near. Once we succeed, I will repay you in heavy gold.”

“You found an iron mine!?” Yao Guang nearly roared.

Qinghe nodded.

“This is serious! Iron!” To a man of the army since boyhood, Yao Guang instantly grasped the stakes. Many a soldier still wielded rolled-iron weapons, for fine steel required a hundred temperings. But with iron ore, artisans, and men—why, one could raise an army overnight.

His face turned grave, the shadow of a once stern general overtaking youthful play. He lowered his voice sharply:

“To be discovered personally mining iron—this is capital crime! Shen Qinghe! Do you still want to keep your head!”

Footnotes

1. “覆以屋庑…待溫氣乃生” – Taken from ancient Chinese agronomic texts (e.g., Qi Min Yao Shu), describing early methods of greenhouse agriculture using heated shelters. 
2. Regional Censor-Guardian (巡撫使, Xunfushi) – A regional military-political officer, acting as both inspector and temporary governor-general in frontier zones.