ITIEQ C33

Chapter 33 – The 666 Work System

Before the imperial rescript from the palace even arrived, the massive cylindrical structure on the plains had already begun operation.

Wooden stairs were set up on both sides—on one side men dumped charcoal, on the other iron ore. The five Qingbei students gathered at the site, directing whether more iron or more charcoal was needed, from time to time adding lime and slag. Those laboring at the furnace each tipped their baskets of materials into the great chamber.

Last time, the villagers had witnessed earth kilns yielding charcoal. Now, facing this towering furnace, they brimmed with anticipation—what sort of treasure might it spit out?

Although the Emperor’s edict had not yet come, Shen Qinghe and Yao Guang had reassured everyone repeatedly, promising that His Majesty would surely support them. And even if problems arose, Shen declared, he alone would shoulder all blame.

Yao Guang sat lazily on a pile of straw, a wheat stalk between his lips. Inwardly, though, he thought: So this is what he tries now? He used to be a court attendant, not a state metallurgist from the Ministry of Works. Does he really expect success merely by building higher furnaces? Great speeches he certainly makes—but when the ashes go cold, who will have to console him? Of course, me.

“Learning from paper is shallow,” Shen had taught the students, “though ancient texts describe smelting, each locality varies in materials and ratios. If we find optimal methods adapted here, it will benefit posterity forever.”

On this point, they all agreed fervently.

Lang Xinyue, possessing excellent memory, was given the recording task. His charcoal-pencil flew as he accurately logged every sequence of fuel and ore additions.

Smelting iron! Had they not come to Qiuquan, they would never have seen this sight with their very eyes—one only read of it in books. Now, to personally witness this unforgettable scene was a lifelong fortune.

And besides, their teacher had mentioned launching a publication for Qingbei Academy. You Luo had already prepared an article topic. How shameful if they lagged behind! As the first cohort of academy students, they must vie for honor!

Thus they stayed at the furnace a full day and night, awaiting first-hand data.

“Hey, hey! It’s coming out!”

“This—is this gold?!”

“A few stones—and they burn into gold bars!”

The villagers roared their astonishment, falling to their knees, bowing before the towering furnace.

Though the smelting process made little sound, the wide spout now poured forth molten liquid in red-hot brilliance, with crackling splashes. The thick glowing stream carried half-melted chunks within.

The students had no time to explain. They rushed forward to assess the molten iron’s state, muttering analysis:

“It doesn’t quite match the perfect condition described in the books.”

“The heat isn’t quite high enough—if the ore were more finely crushed, the smelt would fare better.”

“Quick, quench in water! If we delay, this batch will turn worthless!”

Yao Guang, though once familiar with steelworks in military furnaces, found this sight strange and foreign. Yet he saw these youths boldly transferring molten iron toward the river, sweating in urgency—and his heart turned complicated.

They… truly smelted it?

He glanced again at the furnace, then at the smoking charcoal kilns in the distance. At last, he admitted to himself—the Emperor’s praise of Shen Qinghe in his letter, calling him “overflowing with talent,” might actually be true…

—

The first iron hoe of Qiuquan Commandery was produced at last. The young governor toyed with it lovingly, unable to put it down. Though the craft remained rough, once standardized molds were made, mass production would not be difficult. In the rugged northwest soils, such tools would surely double farming efficiency.

This hoe would be treasured, Shen thought. One day in a local development museum, it could hang on display—the very cannon-blast opening Qiuquan’s industrial age!

After admiring it thoroughly, Shen Qinghe laid the hoe aside.

Upon his desk lay two great sheets of yellow paper.

On the left: “Reconstruction Plan for Qingbei Academy.” The writing was still sparse and messy—mere notes and circles, without framework.

Building a grand academy required funding, teachers, pupils… Shen listed each item in turn. Yet, as none were presently available, he sighed and set it aside.

His eyes moved to the other paper, densely cramped with words until one went dizzy reading.

Title: “Qiuquan Commandery Administrative Work Regulations (Draft)”.

Picking it up, he flicked the header with his fingertip. The boy-governor let slip a sly smile.

If the academy cannot yet be raised, at least I can stamp out bureaucratic laziness. And this… this is my special expertise.

—

This was the second grand meeting of Qiuquan officials since Shen’s arrival. As some among them were elderly, Shen magnanimously provided each a meditation cushion. Crowded together, they looked far more orderly than before.

“Greetings, all. In case anyone still does not know me, allow me to once more introduce myself. I am Shen Qinghe, the new governor of Qiuquan.”

The youth atop the dais spoke brightly, smile warm. None looking at him would imagine that it was he—this gentle voice—who had dismissed multiple officials in one sweep, who even scolded the elder Xu without mercy. The crowd sat tense, fearful their turn at purging was next.

Seeing none dared reply, Shen continued:

“Having been here some days, I find myself thoroughly dissatisfied with the work of our commandery!”

At this, many trembled.

“In my review, I see officials insufficiently entering reality, lacking comprehensive understanding of Qiuquan’s development and trends; effort in assigned duties is weak, expectations remain at ‘merely not committing errors.’ In practice, difficulties are met with discouragement. Moreover, work supervision lacks rigor, discipline, and seriousness.”

Though his words never once addressed their deliberate obstructing and delays, his phrasing was swift, complex, filled with strange terms. The crowd, bewildered, dared not let their minds wander, leaning intently to catch all lest they miss matters tied to themselves.

“Therefore, I put forward the ‘Five-Year Development Plan for Qiuquan.’ This requires local strategic planning, optimization of administrative staffing, and higher work efficiency. Does anyone object?” Shen scanned them with a smile.

At this, many officials secretly exhaled. Surely the governor would not dismiss them all—without staff, who would handle affairs? Clearly his earlier harshness was but “killing the chicken to warn the monkeys.” The new governor, barely of age himself, could certainly be pacified if they buttered him now.

They responded in chorus, more sincerely this time:

“Astounding! That one so young could show such vision—Governor, truly you inspire us!”

Shen nodded solemnly.

“Since there are no objections, we shall begin implementing the new work system this very day. Allow me to explain.”

“All registered officials of the commandery, regardless of grade, will now follow a six-to-six, six-day workweek system: report at dawn (Mao-hour, about 6 a.m.) and leave at dusk (You-hour, about 6 p.m.), with one rest day per week. I will assign clerks at each bureau to record attendance.”

(It had been Shen’s original aim to instill a “996” system [9 a.m. to 9 p.m., six days a week]. But since fueling lamps was expensive, he modified it to “666”—and besides, the number was auspicious.)

The officials paused. Yet none dared complain: better longer hours than losing the post completely. After all, most had perfected their idle “water-mill” skills after years in Qiuquan.

But Shen knew their procrastination well. With poise, he added:

“Still, your work is under-filled, your passion lacking. Thus, the new system also includes last-place elimination: every month we will tally results. Those ranking bottom for three consecutive months demonstrate unfitness, and will be dismissed—do not blame me for ruthlessness then. At the same time, top performers each quarter will naturally be rewarded. I do not favor some over others; I only hope we all work together for Qiuquan.”

“Each bureau will receive a copy in writing. All superiors and subordinates shall carefully study it. Fail in diligence, and you will join those sent away. Recall also: anyone dismissed for mistakes forfeits salary and must buy land privately—though recall there may not even be land to buy.”

The youth’s smile masked a sharp dagger. The officials shivered—realizing his hidden cruelty.

That night, returning to their offices, each was stunned to find new blackboards hanging above their doors. Covered in chalk lines were schedules—ranging from notorious bandit suppression to the tiniest livelihood tasks—each impossible to delay lightly.

Those long accustomed to sloth first strolled in casually. But then memory struck: last-place elimination, farming fields, and they whipped around, scrambling to double-check the lists—perhaps find easy tasks to seize before rivals outpaced them?

Too late. Already crowds pressed the blackboards, elbow to elbow. Not a word could be clearly seen. Betraying early alliances of “let us resist together,” each man now snarled, neck strained, to squeeze in.

So much for solidarity! All racing to fawn now are we? At least leave me a gap, so I can look too!

—

With the new work system enacted, Shen Qinghe finally breathed relief. No longer must he sift the chaos to pick essentials, nor fret over deliberate omissions.

Each morning, officials signed in, then convened mid-court for morning assembly. Shen assigned daily to-do’s. At week-starts and month-starts, meetings ran longer—setting weekly strategies, appraising each bureau, praising or critiquing. Staff who long feasted idly now had no excuse, forced into vigor by the boy-governor’s sharp eyes.

Afterward, bureaus splintered to their tasks. Bundles of long-neglected affairs now fell upon them like mountains. Clerical chores once casually rubber-stamped were rerouted through proper bureaus, checked rigorously, bounced back upon first error. Under such peer scrutiny, officials stopped currying favor or dodging blame. Even the oldest, gray hairs sprouting, seemed to regain vision and hearing—sniffing out every small flaw to pin on others, lest they themselves suffer punishment.

Every evening before dismissal, Shen appeared randomly at “evening review,” hearing reports. Excel, and he praised aloud; fail, and marks were noted against the whole bureau. Now officials trembled each night, fearing their colleague’s slackness could damn their entire group, sparking resentment.

Thus, bureaus fought external foes, then internally clawed each other—a frenzy unseen in Qiuquan’s history. The offices, once dead halls, now thrummed with papers flipped and pens scribbling from dawn to dusk.

No fools existed, only lazy men. Now eyes glittered with earnest fire, fighting spirit lit anew. Truly gratifying!

Shen Qinghe only sighed regretfully. After all, farming was an honorable public service—so why did everyone treat “sent back to farm” like a death sentence? Three hundred and sixty trades, each can produce masters—such discrimination against farmers is unjust!

Still, seeing their frantic rivalry, he tapped the reports upon his brow, unsatisfied.

Passion was good—but endless hostile rivalry was not. An administration was one body, and bitter infighting soured its health.

Next step, cross-department cooperation must be stressed. Shared data, collective problem-solving, and perhaps even inducements like team-building events! Just today, he noted the storeroom and agriculture chiefs glaring at each other like mortal enemies—far too scary to leave unchecked.

—

A knock at the door. Yao Guang entered, carrying a cloth bundle.

“Knew you’d still be buried in paperwork.”

Shen pressed a paperweight to fresh ink, mind already straying to thoughts of new papermills. (This coarse hemp-paper rotted too easily—defective for archives!) Only once Yao Guang reached his desk did Shen rouse attention back.

The general frowned at his pale face, dark circles. What fever haunts these officials? As if one moment’s slacking meant a knife at the throat. This little backwater is busier than the capital itself—and this youth, busier still!

But Shen greeted him with that cold expression of ‘speak quickly or leave.’

Yao Guang bit down his indignance. I, a Censor-Guardian, summoned and bent like an errand-boy by this barely-grown governor… outrageous!

He tossed the cloth bundle onto Shen’s lap.

“From the palace. Take your time reading. Anyway tonight is Little New Year’s Eve—tomorrow the great festival. You keep burning candles here, beware mountain-spirits climbing to your bed in the night!”

“Tomorrow… New Year already?” Shen blinked, dazed. He clutched the parcel blankly, murmuring a teasing grin:

“Well then, if mountain-spirits do come, perhaps Lord Yao will gift me a lucky red envelope, to banish them, hm?”

“I stopped receiving red envelopes at eight!” Yao Guang glared. Then turned back with scowl softening: “Though… if you really want one—it’s not impossible. I’ve no gift prepared now, but later I’ll give.”

Shen chuckled, waving dismissively. “Not a child. Only jesting with you.”

Suddenly from outside came sharp crackling explosions. Both startled. Then Shen relaxed.

“My students again—they’ve been making fireworks these past two weeks.”

“Such loud firecrackers?!” Yao Guang’s eyes lit. He darted to the door, then called back:

“I’ll go watch!”

Shen shook his head in amusement, following his retreating figure, opening the gift bundle.

First, two envelopes—one red, one white. Beneath them, a chubby tiger-head doll, and an embroidered tiger-head sachet-purse.

Ah, next year is Year of the Tiger…

Turning the toys over in his palms, Shen broke into a smile. Surely keepsakes for babies, he thought—who was the Emperor thinking of when sending him such gifts over a thousand li?

He set the twin tigers side by side, then examined more closely.

From the red envelope he slid a card—emblazoned with a stately Fu (福, Blessing) character. Recognizing the brushwork of the Emperor’s own calligraphy, Shen’s heart warmed. Inside clinked coins. Inspired, he opened it: two thin gold leaves, two small ingots, and a handful of golden melon seeds.

Indeed—lucky money!

“Good heavens,” Shen laughed aloud, “proclaim I’m no child, and instantly lucky money rains from the heavens! The Son of Heaven’s generosity knows no end.”

Stuffing his pocket gleefully, he opened the white envelope—a proper letter, sealed firm: To Shen, our loyal minister.

The letter felt hot in his hands. Shen trimmed his candle wick, flame jumping higher. Settled, he began.

“To read this, may your features brighten.”

“The snows in the capital fall ceaselessly, paths piled deep, hard to travel—yet diligent sweeping keeps them clear. In the garden at Hanzhang Hall, the small-plum grove has blossomed. The flowers open large and gaudy, unlike the loftiness expected of snow-plum. I summoned the palace gardener. He said: this species is simply such. Why demand virtue unnatural to it? It is fine as is. Who said all plum trees must conform alike?”

“In the capital, all remains the same. I wonder whether the northwest too remains unchanged. I entrust you to see.”

“Yao Guang is son of my old comrade, as kin to me. Obstinate perhaps, but loyal and good-hearted. Trust him. Since you and he are alike in years, I hope he may keep you company.”

“Qiuquan is cold—eat more, wear more.”

At the end, only eight characters:

**“Long the parting, swift snow waits clear sky.”**³

Footnotes

1. “Greenhouse planting” text earlier referenced from agronomic writings (Qi Min Yao Shu). 
2. Censor-Guardian (巡撫使, Xunfushi) – An imperial envoy with both military and civil oversight, akin to regional inspector-general. 
3. “暌違日久，快雪時晴” – Literally, “Long apart, at the moment snow clears to sunlight.” An elegant poetic line conveying reunion-hopes: despite long separation, joy will burst through like sudden brightness after snow.