BEGW C70

Chapter 70

The air of early autumn in Chunhao Mountain carried a chill, damp with mist.

Moisture clung to the red leaves, wrapping itself in gray fog as it descended from the horizon.

An autumn breeze brushed past his ears, and in that fleeting instant, the mountains shimmered in layers of green and gold.

Yi River gradually fell silent.

The thunderous roar faded away, and the trembling earth slowly returned to peace.

Ying Changchuan wrapped Jiang Yuxun’s wound with another piece of silk handkerchief, speaking softly, “Do not let it get wet. Once we return to Xianyou Palace, have the imperial physician take a look. And on the way back—don’t touch the wound again.”

A faint trace of crimson spread through the milky-white silk.

Ying Changchuan’s fingers paused slightly, and his movements grew even gentler.

Jiang Yuxun’s fingers twitched, and he nodded earnestly. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Then, obediently following Ying Changchuan’s instruction, he extended his right hand as well.

Jiang Yuxun had arrived at Chunhao Mountain before dawn.

Though his ornate robes looked fine, they were far from warm; his hands had already turned red with cold without him even noticing.

But now, not only was the wound in his palm carefully bandaged, even the chill in his skin was slowly being drawn out, warmth seeping back into his body bit by bit.

Another peal of the bell echoed in his ears, and his heart began to beat harder, pumping blood through his veins—he could even feel the pulse in his wrist faintly throb.

Instinctively, he lifted his gaze, wanting to see whether Ying Changchuan had noticed his subtle reaction to the pain.

Unexpectedly, in the next instant, their eyes met midair.

Within the smoky-gray depths of Ying Changchuan’s eyes, Jiang Yuxun saw his own reflection—

the pale blue of his robe brightening the emperor’s gaze.

He couldn’t help but blink lightly.

Like a falling leaf landing on water, disturbing the still spring below.

…

“Success!” cried Yin Songquan, chief architect of the project, his face lighting up in wild delight. “Heavens above—it worked!”

He hadn’t slept for several nights; dark shadows ringed his eyes, and the man who usually carried himself with scholarly grace now appeared nearly mad with joy.

Yin Songquan leapt from his seat in excitement and began searching frantically for Jiang Yuxun.

“Lord Jiang! Where is Lord Jiang?!”

His voice cut through the resonant tolling of the bells, piercing Jiang Yuxun’s ears.

Startled, Jiang Yuxun sat upright, hurriedly withdrawing his now-bandaged hand from Ying Changchuan’s palm.

“…Cough, cough.” Jiang Yuxun turned stiffly, raising his hand toward Yin Songquan. “Master Yin, I’m here—”

Only then did he realize that his voice had turned hoarse without him knowing.

Yin Songquan’s eyes brightened. “Good, good! Lord Jiang is safe—that’s what matters!”

Jiang Yuxun assumed Yin Songquan had something urgent to discuss.

But instead, the man merely bowed deeply from afar before turning away, laughing exuberantly as he went to share his joy with others.

The entire viewing terrace had dissolved into chaos.

The gathered civil and military officials even forgot that the emperor himself was still present.

The crowd cheered in ecstatic triumph, leaving only Jiang Yuxun standing awkwardly to the side, utterly puzzled.

Seeing this, Ying Changchuan couldn’t help but shake his head and laugh softly.

At that moment, the entire mountain had succumbed to madness.

The cries of joy overwhelmed the river’s roar, slicing through the air like blades toward those upon the Lingtian Terrace.

The shaman who had leapt to his feet moments earlier sank heavily back to the ground.

Shang You, meanwhile, clutched his teacup tightly and slowly closed his eyes, his knuckles whitening with strain.

The translucent porcelain cup cut into his skin, leaving a bright red mark across his fingers—just a little more pressure, and it would shatter.

“It’s over…” the shaman muttered blankly, staring at the Yi River. “Everything is over.”

He feared not only that the people, having witnessed such a miracle, might cease to believe in his divine authority—

but also the terrifying truth that the imperial court had managed to summon lightning to break the dam, something only Xuantian himself should have been capable of.

The mists above the Yi River had already dispersed. Across the plains, countless commoners left their homes, heading for the riverbanks to witness the sight up close once more.

Shang You slowly opened his eyes and ordered the other shaman beside him, “Help him up.”

The man, still dazed, did not respond. Shang You’s voice dropped, forcing each word through clenched teeth—“Stand up.”

At that moment, he looked utterly humiliated, as though struck across the face before a crowd.

Rage surged through his chest, threatening to consume the last of his reason.

His palm tightened suddenly—

and with a sharp crack, the porcelain teacup shattered to dust.

“Y-yes, Master Sib—” The shaman snapped out of his stupor, bowing hastily as he reached out trembling hands to help his companion rise.

The autumn wind swept across Chunhao Mountain, as though waking the shaman from a long, delusional dream.

A chill ran down his spine.

…

“Bring the wine!”

“Such strong liquor—don’t you all want a taste?”

“Get your bowls ready! Don’t rush, there’s enough for everyone—”

At the foot of Chunhao Mountain, imperial soldiers carried out massive wine jars and set them before the crowd.

One of them slashed open the clay seal with a knife, letting the fragrance spill into the air.

The craftsmen who had built the riverbank rushed over in disbelief, their eyes widening. “T-this… this wine is for us?”

“It’s free?”

“My lord, where did this wine come from?”

These laborers, once refugees from all corners of the land, now spoke a patchwork of dialects barely woven into the official tongue.

The soldier laughed, scooping a ladleful of liquor to fill a wooden cup for the man beside him.

“Would I lie to you?” he said with a grin. “All five jars are yours—no one else gets a drop.”

“As for where it came from…” The soldier raised his head toward the mountain. “Naturally, it’s a reward from His Majesty and Lord Jiang.”

Soon, other soldiers began organizing the craftsmen into long lines.

Dust still lingered around the mountain’s base; seeing their hands still soiled, the soldiers first washed them with well water before pouring the liquor.

The translucent alcohol filled rough porcelain bowls.

The freshly distilled spirit was sharp and burning, but no one cared—indeed, the stronger it was, the better.

“To His Majesty!”

“To Lord Jiang!”

Their voices rose in unison from the mountain’s foot, carrying straight up to the viewing platform above.

Eunuch Sang bowed with a smile as he presented a cup of wine before retreating.

Just as he turned to leave, Jiang Yuxun spoke. “It was His Majesty who insisted on paying in full. He mustn’t go back on that promise later.”

Originally, Jiang Yuxun had planned to buy the wine himself as a reward for the workers after the dam-breaking.

But upon hearing of it, Ying Changchuan had insisted on paying instead—

and when Jiang Yuxun suggested a discount, the emperor flatly refused.

Ying Changchuan took a sip of wine, pausing briefly before teasing, “When has the lonely one ever owed his beloved minister a debt? If you doubt it, perhaps we should fetch an abacus and calculate carefully?”

“N-no, Your Majesty, that’s not necessary at all…” Jiang Yuxun shook his head so fast he nearly looked like a rattled drum.

Heavens forbid—he couldn’t bear to hear the word abacus again!

Jiang Yuxun had little interest in alcohol.

Though it hadn’t rained that morning, autumn’s chill had already seeped into the air.

Instead of joining the others in drinking and celebration, he poured himself a cup of hot tea, letting its warmth ease the tightness in his chest.

Seeing this, Eunuch Sang—who had just been about to leave—stopped in his tracks.

When had the emperor ever joked and chatted so casually with anyone?

Having long accepted the “special relationship” between the two, Eunuch Sang couldn’t suppress a knowing smile.

—Clearly, there was something more than loyalty here.

Meanwhile, Jiang Yuxun—already flustered—was desperately seeking a way to change the subject.

Noticing the eunuch’s strange chuckle, he asked casually while raising his teacup to his lips, “What is it, Eunuch Sang?”

“Heh heh,” the old man grinned slyly, glancing left and right before leaning closer and lowering his voice. “Surely, my lord, between you and His Majesty, there’s no need to be so particular about debts.”

Jiang Yuxun, who had just taken a sip of tea, nearly spat it out.

He swallowed with difficulty, coughing violently. “Cough—cough—”

“My lord! What’s the matter?” Eunuch Sang jumped in alarm, quickly handing him a handkerchief and taking the teacup from his hands.

“N-nothing…” Jiang Yuxun waved weakly, forcing a smile. “I just—burned my tongue a little, that’s all.”

Nonsense!

He struggled to catch his breath, screaming internally—

What kind of relationship doesn’t need to be so particular?!

The cold wind on Chunhao Mountain swept over them, and the sting of that mouthful of tea made his realization all too clear.

—The Great Zhou was notorious for its acceptance of male concubinage.

Half the noblemen in the capital kept male favorites in secret.

Eunuch Sang, unaware of the emperor’s rumored asexuality, must have assumed that he and Ying Changchuan were one of those entanglements!

Jiang Yuxun bit his tongue in panic, his once-pale face flushing scarlet.

…Strange.

Eunuch Sang stared at him curiously.

Could a mere sip of hot tea really redden someone’s entire face?

Lord Jiang was truly… clumsy.

That day, half the population of Zhaodu had gathered along the Yi River.

Not only the nobles and officials, but also the newly arrived craftsmen and scholars were present to witness this historic moment.

As the ceremony ended and the crowd began to disperse, Jiang Yuxun sought out Guan Shiming—the carpenter who had earlier improved upon the jacquard loom—for a detailed conversation.

In Jiang Yuxun’s view, the Great Zhou was still in a period of recovery.

With the palace itself left unrepaired due to financial strain, there was no reason to promote something as intricate and costly as the jacquard loom, which served only the wealthy.

Time passed, and the once half-finished machine was now complete.

Guan Shiming, meanwhile, had turned his focus toward improving the simpler loom design.

Compared to the complex jacquard machine, the loom was far easier to refine.

What surprised Jiang Yuxun even more was that Guan Shiming’s younger sister, skilled in weaving, also had unique insights into the matter.

After learning about their progress, Jiang Yuxun began to form new plans.

At present, most people still wore coarse hemp clothing. Cotton was a luxury—often more expensive than silk.

Yet, in truth, cotton was far easier to cultivate than silkworms.

The real obstacle was its lack of widespread adoption.

Now that more and more citizens were joining the government’s land reclamation efforts, it would not be long before the Great Zhou overcame its shortage of farmland.

Once that happened, some lands could be set aside specifically for cotton, vegetables, and fruit.

After parting with Guan Shiming, Jiang Yuxun joined the others heading toward Xianyou Palace.

Before leaving, however, he had requested that Guan craft one small item for him.

※

In the Great Zhou, the south was regarded as the direction of honor.

The capital itself was built facing south.

And in its southernmost quarter stood the Zi Yi Gate—the “Gate of Purple Radiance and Phoenix Arrival”—the most magnificent gate in the empire.

Though the imperial court had temporarily relocated from Yuyang Palace to Xianyou Palace in the west, important ceremonies were still held in Zhaodu.

Several days ago, newly pressed tea bricks had been transported from Shuolin County to the capital.

Envoys from Kehan, preparing to depart before the weather turned frigid, were soon to be sent off by the emperor himself.

…

Carriages laden with tea, liquor, medicine, and silk rumbled slowly down the streets of Zhaodu.

Citizens lined both sides of the road, cheering and waving as they bid the envoys farewell.

The autumn wind swept down the boulevard, lifting Ci Jia’s long hair behind him.

As the Zi Yi Gate loomed ahead, he turned to look back.

Over the past few days, guided by Zhou officials, he had toured the capital, learned its customs, and seen with his own eyes the might and prosperity of the Great Zhou.

Now that it was time to leave, an unexpected pang of reluctance stirred in his chest.

“Envoy Ci Jia of Kehan, requesting audience—”

The herald’s voice echoed from the high walls. Ci Jia immediately dismounted and walked toward the city gate.

There, he bowed deeply toward the emperor standing above and placed his right hand over his heart, saying solemnly,

“After traveling along the banks of the Yi River, I am convinced—Kehan and the Great Zhou are destined to be allies, not enemies. Upon my return, I shall report all that I have witnessed here to my king. Should the opportunity arise, Kehan is willing to enter an official alliance with the Great Zhou and share in its grand future.”

With that, Ci Jia raised his hand in the Zhou fashion, saluting once more before offering a golden-bound scroll.

Even before his departure, the King of Kehan had already entertained thoughts of alliance.

After all, the Great Zhou had taken the initiative to send envoys first—a gesture of goodwill that Kehan deeply respected.

And more than anything, the tea that could “dispel fishiness and cool the heat” was an irresistible treasure.

Having now witnessed Zhou’s splendor and strength firsthand, Ci Jia finally presented the alliance proposal.

Ying Changchuan opened the golden scroll, took a white jade seal, and pressed it gently upon the page before handing it back with both hands.

—The ambitions of Kehan and Zhou, at last, converged.

Though not yet a formal alliance, the exchange of national letters would ensure closer ties between the two nations.

At noon, the emperor and his ministers stood atop Zi Yi Gate to see their new allies off.

When the ceremony ended, Zhaodu’s streets once again filled with noise and life.

Officials departed one by one, their carriages heading toward Xianyou Palace—

leaving only Ying Changchuan and Jiang Yuxun upon the gate, gazing into the distance.

“So high…” Jiang Yuxun murmured, stamping his foot lightly, feeling the vibration through the bricks.

The Zi Yi Gate was made of rammed earth and faced with brick, rising more than thirty meters high—like a ten-story tower—

the tallest city gate in the history of Huaxia.

In his previous life, Jiang Yuxun had seen only its crumbling earthen remains, regretting that he had never witnessed its full glory.

And yet now—he stood upon it himself, overlooking the vast plains of the Yi River.

Seeing his expression, Ying Changchuan asked softly, “What is it?”

Time itself seemed to take form in that instant.

Jiang Yuxun compared the grand wall before him with the dust of his memory, and a pang of sorrow and fear welled within him.

“…I can hardly imagine,” he said slowly, “what kind of wind and sun could ever reduce such majesty to mere earth.”

After a pause, he bowed and stepped closer to the parapet.

From atop the gate, the people and carriages below looked like tiny black dots.

The imperial road stretched like a fine thread across the plain, fading into the horizon.

The world beyond Zhaodu bustled with motion—

The last of Kehan’s envoys rode northward, their horses kicking up yellow dust, their figures soon swallowed by the haze.

Farther east, settlers bound for Taoyan County were boarding boats, guided by soldiers toward their new homes.

The road was alive with purpose; everyone had somewhere to go.

After watching for a while, Jiang Yuxun reached into his sleeve and pulled out a small round wooden cylinder.

Curious, Ying Changchuan turned to him. “And what is that in your hand, my beloved minister?”

Instead of answering, Jiang Yuxun raised the cylinder to his eye and stepped up to the battlement.

The wind atop the wall was fierce, sweeping cold air into his sleeves.

He began to lower the instrument to adjust his robe, but before he could, Ying Changchuan stepped forward and blocked the wind with his body.

Jiang Yuxun froze for a heartbeat, then lifted the cylinder again.

Through it, his vision sharpened—distant carriages swelling as if drawn close before his eyes.

He smiled. “Your Majesty, this device is called a telescope. I learned the idea from travelers from the Western Regions.”

He opened his palm, revealing the object fully.

This was the item he had asked Guan Shiming to make for him.

His journey through Zherou had reminded him—on future campaigns across the deserts, the army would not only need a compass for direction, but also a telescope to scout enemy movements.

The principle was simple: one convex and one concave lens could bring distant things into view.

He had done this very experiment back in middle school.

The true challenge lay in the lenses.

Though the Great Zhou already had “glass,” it was cloudy, fragile, and far from clear—good enough for cups, not for optics.

Thus, Jiang Yuxun had spent a fortune commissioning lenses carved from natural crystal, which Guan Shiming’s family then set into the wooden tube.

The process had taken months.

“…A telescope?” Ying Changchuan repeated thoughtfully, immediately grasping its function.

In the modern age, such

a thing was mundane—but for Jiang Yuxun, who hadn’t held one in years, the novelty still stirred excitement.

“The cost is high,” he admitted softly, “but if equipped within the army, scouting and sentry duties would become far more efficient. And crystal can eventually be replaced by other materials.”

Though Zhou’s glasswork was crude, improvement was possible.

He had no intention of leaping straight to modern perfection—but even a modest upgrade to make it usable would suffice.

Finishing his explanation, Jiang Yuxun leaned closer and handed the instrument toward the emperor. “Please, have a look, Your Majesty.”

He expected Ying Changchuan to take it.

Instead, the emperor bent down slightly, leaning beside him and peering through the lens still held in Jiang Yuxun’s hand. “Very well.”

The half of Jiang Yuxun’s body pressed close to him grew hot with discomfort.

Even the tips of his ears flushed red.

Ying Changchuan was tall; even bending, he couldn’t easily lower himself enough.

So Jiang Yuxun rose onto his toes, inching closer, almost as if leaning upon the emperor’s shoulder.

—Good grief, couldn’t His Majesty use his own hands?!

The wooden telescope, heavier than modern ones, was meant to rest on a stand.

His arm soon began to ache, trembling slightly, causing the view to sway.

Half by accident, half in mischief, he deliberately shook it more—

hoping that the dizzying blur would force the emperor to take it himself.

But he had underestimated Ying Changchuan’s shameless composure.

“Don’t move,” came the low command beside his ear.

The emperor lifted his hand—not to take the telescope, but to steady Jiang Yuxun’s trembling wrist.

Jiang Yuxun froze.

The warmth of the emperor’s fingers pressed against his cool skin, trapping his pulse within his grasp.

He flinched instinctively, but Ying Changchuan seemed not to notice, lowering his gaze to peer once more through the crystal lens.

A ripple of light shimmered before his eyes—

…the distant Yanxian Lake.

Even prepared as he was, Ying Changchuan’s heart still stirred at the sight.

The northern lands were barren and vast; such an instrument would grant the Great Zhou unmatched advantage in war.

Already, plans were forming in his mind.

But just as he was about to straighten up and return the telescope, a soft voice brushed his ear—

“What does Your Majesty see?”

Jiang Yuxun’s words were gentle, light as snowflakes landing unexpectedly upon skin.

For a moment, the emperor’s composure faltered.

“I see Yanxian Lake,” Ying Changchuan murmured, “and the palace where we once stayed—its courtyard still full of pear trees.”

His thumb brushed against the pulse beneath his fingers as he added quietly, “The leaves have begun to fall now; their spring grace has faded. If we wish to see them again, it must wait till next year… though the mist upon the stream seems even denser now.”

Jiang Yuxun disliked alcohol, but his robes—often worn in the winehouses—always carried a faint, intoxicating scent.

Light as it was, the fragrance lingered.

“How strange…” he muttered under his breath. “How can this telescope see so far?”

The emperor couldn’t help but laugh softly.

But before he could reply, Jiang Yuxun, unwilling to believe it, said, “Wait—let me see for myself.”

He moved closer, lifting the telescope abruptly.

Before Ying Changchuan could step back, the smooth fall of his dark hair brushed across the emperor’s face—its scent of soap pods and grass faint but clean.

He should have stepped away.

Yet Ying Changchuan, urged by a selfish impulse, remained still.

Beyond the city walls, the envoys from Kehan were already far gone.

Their horses galloped northward, perhaps soon to catch up with Xing Zhi’s departing troops.

Farther still, the first wave of southern settlers boarded their boats, sailing toward new lands and lives.

And there—amidst all that movement and distance—

Jiang Yuxun’s dark hair drifted lightly across the emperor’s lips.

Author’s Note:

Eunuch Sang: Wait—so they aren’t in a questionable relationship?!