BEGW C52

Chapter 52

The clear, languid, slightly low voice rode the wind to Jiang Yuxun’s ears.

Perhaps because he had lived it himself, Ying Changchuan’s narration was exceptionally vivid.

At first, Jiang Yuxun felt a bit ill at ease.

But as he listened, he unconsciously became engrossed. Walking along, he kept asking questions, as if, led by Ying Changchuan’s words, he too had returned to the northern lands of years past.

The Northern Pacification Army’s camp happened to be downwind. After an afternoon of strong winds, the open ground outside the tents was heaped with gravel blown there.

Several soldiers in soft armor were carrying lambs, carefully skirting the stones to head into the camp.

Each man had five or six lambs in his arms, the little animals flailing and bleating in fear.

If soldiers were to build their bodies, beyond rations, regular meat was indispensable.

Well before the settlement of fields, the Northern Pacification Army had begun grazing and raising sheep on the surrounding grasslands to provision the troops.

Seeing the group pass by, Jiang Yuxun—now a veritable “Ten Thousand Whys”—asked offhandedly, “Your Majesty, what are they doing?”

Ying Changchuan lifted his eyes to the sky.

Though the gale had stopped, yellow sand still hung in the air.

By rights sunset was more than an hour away, but now the light was as dim as evening.

“There will be wind again tonight. The lambs must be brought into the tents to keep warm.”

Saying so, Ying Changchuan stooped and entered a military tent beside them.

Jiang Yuxun followed him in, and immediately a chorus of “baa”s rose at his ears.

This tent was originally a storeroom, its interior piled with new shoes, caps, quilts, and pillows.

In addition, there were more than a dozen lambs inside today, all bearing uniform ear tags.

Seeing the two arrive, the soldier on guard in the tent hastily saluted, “Paying respects to you two sirs—”

He only knew that Jiang Yuxun and Ying Changchuan were “officials from Zhaodu,” not their exact identities.

Ying Changchuan said casually, “No need for ceremony.”

“Yes, sir.”

Only when the soldier had settled back did Jiang Yuxun notice he held a flat little porcelain pot.

The rough porcelain pot was filled with hot milk, and the lambs had been clustering around it, bleating incessantly.

This was an ancient milk bottle!science+2

Jiang Yuxun had seen one in a museum before, but at the time it had been behind glass—look, don’t touch.

Now, seeing it again in a soldier’s hands, his eyes lit up at once.

By force of habit, he very much wanted to touch that little porcelain pot at this moment.

…Could he try using it?

He pressed his lips together, about to speak, then hurriedly talked himself down.

Absolutely not!

He was a Great Zhou Director—how could he do something that didn’t fit his station?

He coughed lightly by reflex and shifted his gaze, feigning solemnity.

But just then he heard Ying Changchuan say softly, “You may go down first.”

“Yes, sir!”

The soldier obeyed at once, set the porcelain pot on a side table, and withdrew, pulling down the tent flap as he left.

The interior dimmed.

…Had Ying Changchuan seen what he wanted to do?

Perhaps he had made a fool of himself too often.

Before the emperor, little Lord Jiang no longer had any burdens.

Seeing the Son of Heaven dismiss the man, Jiang Yuxun couldn’t help biting his lip lightly and sneaking a glance at the one beside him.

Tentatively, he asked, “Your Majesty, may this minister try it?”

His tone held a touch of nervousness, his eyes full of earnest anticipation.

Ying Changchuan smiled slightly: “Naturally.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty!” Jiang Yuxun did not stand on ceremony.

He carefully picked up the porcelain pot on the table, crouched, and chose a scrawny little lamb.

The moment it caught the scent of milk, the lamb opened its mouth expectantly.

The others bleated too and crowded toward him.

Yet before its mouth could reach the spout, the scrawny lamb was shoved aside by a sturdier companion.

“Hey! Away, away—” Jiang Yuxun drew the pot back at once, reaching out to shoo the larger lambs.

But they seemed not at all afraid, unmoved by his actions.

Seeing the small one pushed into a corner, he was about to rise to grab it when Ying Changchuan, brows knit, seized it by a hind leg and lifted it up.

“Baa—”

Suspended in midair, the lamb bleated in alarm.

?!

Damn—Ying Changchuan had made a move!

By reflex, Jiang Yuxun glanced toward the tent flap.

Only when he confirmed that it was properly closed did he relax.

…Good thing—no one had seen that scene.

Seeing the Son of Heaven’s expression full of distaste, and remembering rumors of his possible fastidiousness, Jiang Yuxun hurried forward to take the lamb into his arms.

He then carefully raised the porcelain pot to the little one’s mouth.

The creature blinked, then smacked eagerly at the spout.

The other lambs were still bumping against him, following the scent, but when Ying Changchuan turned, they suddenly fell quiet, as if cowed by the aura of killing upon him.

For a while, only the sound of a little mouth smacking at the spout could be heard in the tent.

Perhaps the lamb in his arms was too warm; perhaps the tent was too quiet.

Suddenly, Jiang Yuxun felt… something odd in the air around him, something indescribable.

Perhaps he ought to say something.

Holding the lamb, he cast his gaze around the tent.

At once he saw that the largest lambs were tied together with a rope.

It did not seem to be the hemp rope most common in the Great Zhou.

“Your Majesty…” he began cautiously.

Ying Changchuan lowered his eyes toward him: “What is it?”

Dusk deepened; sunlight filtered through sand and felt took on a particularly dusky cast.

The wind had mussed Jiang Yuxun’s hair a little, and a dusting of grit had fallen on his hem.

He pressed his lips, a bit ill at ease, and asked, “Those ropes don’t seem to be hemp?”

“Mm,” Ying Changchuan glanced over and said softly, “they’re horsehair rope and camel-hair rope.”

Jiang Yuxun nodded, listening seriously as he continued.

“Rope twisted from hair is tougher and more durable than hemp,” Ying Changchuan said, recalling his garrison days in Zefang, “In the Northern Pacification Army’s camp, besides cattle and sheep, we raise camels as well. Each spring, soldiers shear camel hair to make rope, while camel wool is made into winter garments.”

Camel hair’s warmth slightly surpasses cashmere’s, and it is even more durable; since ancient times it has been called “soft gold.”

In the former dynasty, Zefang annually paid tribute in high-grade camel wool to the palace.

Ying Changchuan had never skimped on his soldiers in such matters.

Now, even in the north, the troops could rely on it against the winter cold.

The well-fed little lamb wriggled free of his arms and hopped down.

“I see…” Jiang Yuxun murmured, then analyzed coolly, “Your Majesty truly does know Zefang Commandery.”

Though a noble by birth, Ying Changchuan was not one of those pampered idle men who never lifted a hand or knew grain from chaff.

As he spoke, he lowered his eyes and set the porcelain pot back upon the table.

The day’s last ray of sunlight fell through the felt onto Ying Changchuan, lighting the slight lift of his lips.

The Son of Heaven seemed in particularly good spirits today.

The Great Zhou was at the tail end of a little ice age.

Over the past century, Zefang’s climate had grown notably colder and drier; nearby grasslands had degraded into gobi, and vast tracts of land lay bare.

The wind and sand remained as fierce as ever.

As the day of departure for Zherou approached, Jiang Yuxun and the other envoys ceased roaming and stayed quietly in the tents poring over books on Zherou.

“…When will this sandstorm ever end?”

After days without seeing the sky, the envoy who had come to Zefang with Jiang Yuxun couldn’t help growing dispirited.

He heaved a heavy sigh when he finished speaking.

A soldier brewing tea glanced outside and answered earnestly, “In answer to you sirs, once the grass turns green in early summer, the sands will stop.”

Tang Yimeng, no stranger to the area, put down his brush and said with some worry, “This happens to be the crucial stage when wheat is jointing and growing; sandstorms this fierce may damage the root systems.”*

Jiang Yuxun nodded lightly as well: “If it doesn’t get sun, it won’t grow well either.”

Wheat relies on photosynthesis for growth; if the sun never reaches it, it not only struggles to develop but is also extremely susceptible to pests and disease.

When he finished, he couldn’t help murmuring, “This year we can make do, but we can’t make do like this every year.”

“What does Lord Jiang mean?” Tang Yimeng turned to him.

“We must find a way to fix the sand.” Jiang Yuxun’s tone was firm.

At that, the soldier said, a bit embarrassed, “To speak plainly, we thought of that when we first arrived in Zefang, and even tried planting trees. Unfortunately, the trees did not survive, so we haven’t tried for the last few years…”

Jiang Yuxun pressed his lips together.

Though dry, Zefang Commandery was crossed by a great river; in fact, its irrigation conditions were not bad.

By his estimation, at least half the commandery’s land was suitable for cultivation.

Owing to the former dynasty’s policy of “sealing and forbidding the empty border” and the ravages of war, Zefang was now full of untilled wasteland.

Before long, commoners would be moving there.

If they were to settle, living and farming conditions had to be improved to the greatest extent.

He pursed his lips lightly.

The little ice age was about to end; the Great Zhou would soon enter a long, warm period.

By then, Zefang’s climate would surely be warmer and moister than at present.

Northern settlement and development were already in harmony with the course of history.

And beyond adapting and waiting, there was also pushing…

“How did you plant trees back then?” Jiang Yuxun asked suddenly.

Setting the teapot on the brazier, the soldier recalled carefully as he spoke: “We selected suitable species and planted them along the riverbanks or on low hills.”

Jiang Yuxun nodded; the sites they had chosen were not wrong.

Only now, in a period of climatic transition, Zefang did not yet have the conditions for trees to take hold naturally.

…But the settlement of fields had already begun, and migration was imminent.

If nothing were done now, by the time they reacted, perhaps a generation’s youth would have been wasted in the yellow sands.

If external measures could be used to aid tree growth, there was a very good chance living conditions on the frontier could be improved ahead of time.

“Lord Jiang? Lord Jiang?”

Seeing him sitting and staring off, Tang Yimeng—now familiar with him—smiled and waved a hand before his eyes: “Might you know of a method?”

After the southern tour, Jiang Yuxun had left the court with an impression of “vast knowledge and broad memory.”

As he spoke, hope grew in Tang Yimeng’s eyes as well.

Jiang Yuxun carefully lifted his teacup.

The army physician had lanced his palm blister the day before; now a thin layer of bandage covered his palm.

Heat from the cup seeped through the bandage to his hand.

The words “grass-grid” formed in his mind.epaper.chinadaily+2

He did not nod directly, but said softly, “There are some leads, but I must think more.”

“No rush, no rush!” Tang Yimeng’s eyes lit up. “Right now the priority is the mission to Zherou; we can think about the rest when we return!”

“Mm.” Jiang Yuxun smiled gently and nodded to him.

※

War does not pick its time.

Soldiers must, of course, possess the ability to fight in harsh environments.

But that did not mean tormenting them as much as possible.

With the sandstorms so fierce these days, the troops stayed in the tents and did not go to the drill ground.

Jiang Yuxun and Tang Yimeng were in the tent making a final inventory of the gifts for the princess.

At that moment, the sounds from the next tent drifted to their ears.

The centurion speaking had a heavy accent; after listening for a long while, Jiang Yuxun caught only a few words.

He couldn’t help asking a soldier who had come to help, “What are they saying in the next tent?”

“Oh, that,” the soldier said, counting the herbs, “for the past few days, the troops have been studying the methods of battle formations. The centurion is telling them how to arrange the formations; once the sandstorms stop, they will proceed to practical drills.”

He added, “All this is by the emperor’s will. He said to make ‘battle formation exercises’ a regular training item in the army, to be mastered by everyone.”*

Once in the army, Ying Changchuan was even busier than he had been in Zhaodu.

In just a few days, he had made many arrangements.

Another soldier added, “There’s also coordination between the various arms.”

In the past, the Great Zhou’s forces had been mainly infantry.

Now, the forces led by the Northern Pacification Army were gradually transitioning into mixed infantry-cavalry.

This was absolutely not something that could be achieved in a short time.

Jiang Yuxun nodded slowly, committing all this to memory.

In the Great Zhou army, the laws were strict and rewards and punishments trustworthy.

As a result, the troops’ obedience was extraordinarily high; in this, they were entirely different from the Zherou.

Historically, after the Yi River burst its dikes, the Zherou seized the moment to surge south, leaving Ying Changchuan no time to train troops.

But now… Jiang Yuxun suddenly found himself looking forward—what might this already disciplined army grow into?

He couldn’t help glancing outside.

After a moment’s pause, he returned to his work.

At dusk, in the tent.

Jiang Yuxun, dressed in light-gray short battle robes, stood with a soldier, each holding a sword.

“Draw—”

As soon as the words fell, a flash of silver streaked across before him.

“Yes, my lord!” The soldier drew at once, raising his blade to parry.

In the next instant, the two swords crashed together with a sharp clang.

The force left Jiang Yuxun’s hand tingling, but he merely frowned and did not drop his weapon.

After a few seconds’ adjustment, he again raised his sword and chopped at the opponent’s neck.

The soldier stiffened in surprise, lifting his blade by reflex to block.

But just as the light sword was about to touch his neck, Jiang Yuxun altered course and thrust toward the soldier’s abdomen.

His high-tied ponytail swayed with his movement.

The black-bright eyes were lit in an instant by the silver gleam.

His brows and bearing seemed, in that moment, to gain a sharper, more mature edge.

Though not strong, his application of deft force was precise.

Before the other could dodge, the unsharpened edge of the silver blade had already rested against the soldier’s belly.

On the battlefield, the man would likely have been disemboweled.

Startled, the soldier unconsciously backed up two steps, and his sword clattered to the ground.

Clearly, he had not expected that gentility on the surface would hide such skill!

He blinked, then couldn’t help exclaiming, “Fine swordplay, Lord Jiang!”

“Huff…”

Jiang Yuxun let out a long breath, braced his hands on his knees, and struggled to steady his breathing.

A few seconds later, he finally smiled, set aside the long sword, and bowed to the soldier who had sparred with him: “Concession accepted.”

…

This winter and spring, Jiang Yuxun broke his old habit of three days fishing, two days drying nets.

Almost every morning he carved out at least an hour to practice swordsmanship seriously.

Under the occasional knock on the head from “strict master” Ying Changchuan,

He gradually found a sword style that suited him.

His constitution was not robust, his strength not great, but he had quick reactions and agile movement.

Realizing this, after mastering the basics he sought out several manuals that would let him amplify strengths and avoid weaknesses.

Seeing a soldier sparring in the tent just now, curious how his level really measured up, he finally couldn’t resist and challenged someone.

A member of the Xuan Yin Directorate who had accompanied Ying Changchuan north handed him a water flask.

After downing most of it in one breath, he finally smiled and turned toward the other side of the tent.

“Your Majesty, did this minister’s swordwork just now have any problems?”

Though he asked thus, there was a faint delight in his eyes.

The brazier lit his brows and gaze.

He did not realize—at this moment, he was entirely in the posture of someone waiting to be praised.

The soldier earlier had already served in the army for more than a year.

At the outset, Jiang Yuxun had not imagined he could best him.

…Now it seemed his level might be rather acceptable?

“Indeed not bad,” Ying Changchuan set down his tea cup and walked over slowly, “your intercepts and lifts were standard, and your reactions very timely.”

Jiang Yuxun’s lips raised of their own accord.

He was about to thank the Son of Heaven when the other’s words shifted: “Were those the only things my beloved minister wished to ask me?”

“Mm?”

His chest was still rising and falling of its own accord.

Somehow, the stray hairs at his brow had stuck to his face.

A few seconds later, realizing what he meant to say, Jiang Yuxun’s ears uncharacteristically reddened.

Unconsciously, he tightened his palm.

He averted his gaze and, with a bashful cough, said in a low voice, “…This minister wanted to ask Your Majesty—was this minister not as poor as you had thought? Was his performance, perhaps, not bad? If Your Majesty might say a few words of praise and give this minister some face, it would be even better.”

Jiang Yuxun—one really mustn’t get too carried away…

How could he be fishing for compliments before the emperor?

Was this any way to talk!

Poor? At the word, the Son of Heaven couldn’t help chuckling.

Turning the jade ring at his finger, he asked, “How should I praise you?”

At some point the Xuan Yin Directorate had withdrawn from the tent; only Jiang Yuxun and Ying Changchuan remained.

The Son of Heaven’s voice was clear, languid, a touch husky; falling at Jiang Yuxun’s ear, it made them itch without his willing it.

By reflex he looked aside and said without thinking, “For example, you might praise this minister as rather gifted?”

Before he had finished, he was already feeling sheepish.

Ying Changchuan: “…”

The tent grew stiller.

Before he could speak, Jiang Yuxun murmured to himself, “…This minister truly doesn’t know his own weight.”

The next morning at dawn, the Great Zhou’s envoys were fully prepared.

At last, the sands in Zefang stopped that morning; the sky was a clear, unbroken blue.

A light breeze played across distant green wheat shoots, raising a soft rustling; from far away they rolled like waves upon the sea.

Though the youngest among this group of envoys, Jiang Yuxun bore the greatest responsibility.

At the mao hour, as the sky just brightened, rosy light shone from the horizon.

It dyed the white manes of the chargers and the tents scattered like stars upon the ground.

By the time Jiang Yuxun stepped out, the others had already boarded their carriages.

He was about to find his own place when a soldier walked quickly up to salute: “Lord Jiang, this way—”

Today, Jiang Yuxun was not only “Palace Attendant” or “Director,” but the Great Zhou’s representative envoy.

He therefore wore not his everyday official robes but more ceremonious formal attire, with a beam crown upon his head to signify his station.

He seldom dressed thus; all of a sudden he seemed much more mature.

“Alright.” He nodded and followed.

The Great Zhou’s court attire came in four seasonal colors; spring garments were green.

The Northern Pacification Army’s camp was built upon wasteland; even without blowing sand, it was a wash of dull yellow.

From afar, only the envoys’ green robes showed a thread of sprouting life.

“Wait.” Before reaching the carriage, Jiang Yuxun suddenly halted.

In the next instant, the accompanying soldiers turned to him in unison.

“What is it, Lord Jiang?”

He did not rush to board, but turned instead to look toward the largest tent not far away.

—The Son of Heaven of the Great Zhou stood there with the Xuan Yin Directorate, gazing at those about to set off for Zherou.

Though Ying Changchuan’s visit this time was low-key, everyone present knew his identity.

Jiang Yuxun’s heartbeat quickened by half a beat.

Turning, he smiled to the soldier beside him, then said softly, “Let’s make this a bit more formal.”

The Zherou king had ruled without governing; the new king was barely a child with his milk teeth not yet all in.

This sort of “diplomatic activity” took place every year and was not taken seriously by either side.

But setting out as the first to represent the “Great Zhou” and leave these borders, he suddenly felt there ought to be a touch of ceremony.

The spring wind brushed past, lifting the hems of the young envoy’s green robes.

The turquoise pendants upon his chest swayed lightly in turn.

Amid the yellow sands, he alone was a splash of green.

Jiang Yuxun straightened his back and, lifting his hand to his brow, bowed to the Son of Heaven of the Great Zhou with utmost solemnity.

His movement was perfectly standard; his figure stood as straight as a green bamboo.

He knew not when the morning glow had faded; far away there remained only a red sun.

“Let’s go.”

Having made his bow, he stood straight again and turned to head for the carriage.

But just then he saw—

By the tent not far away, Ying Changchuan, in dark robes, suddenly smiled at him.

Then he actually lifted his hand and returned the salute.

Ying Changchuan’s movement was elegant and solemn.

Jiang Yuxun’s eyes widened involuntarily.

—By the old system of the former dynasty, after a minister saluted, the emperor was to return the salute in respect.

But since Ying Changchuan’s enthronement, this custom had ceased at once.

It was the first time Jiang Yuxun had seen Ying Changchuan return a minister’s salute.

His breath caught.

He blinked lightly to make sure he had not been mistaken.

The spring wind rose suddenly, lifting the horses’ manes to dance.

Someone twitched a whip, and the chargers at last neighed, drawing the carriages northward.

The Xuan Yin Directorate and soldiers guarding the tent withdrew into the camp.

Just then the general who had come with Ying Changchuan stepped forward and saluted, “Your Majesty, should we proceed to the drill ground now?”

“No hurry.” Ying Changchuan narrowed his eyes and looked ahead.

Led by the soldiers, Jiang Yuxun headed to the last carriage.

At the moment he boarded, his step paused again.

After a moment’s hesitation, he couldn’t help lifting a hand and giving a small wave toward where Ying Changchuan stood.

In the next second, he smiled at last and lifted the flap to step into the carriage.

“Let’s go.”

“Yes, Lord Jiang—”

The spring wind set the distant wheat fields to a gentle sway.

The red sun lit a sweep of blue sky.

The carriages rolled slowly toward Zherou; only when they dwindled to black dots did the Son of Heaven finally turn back into the camp.

Author’s Note:

Jiang Yuxun: Ying Changchuan is rather polite, after all.

Footnotes:

1. Porcelain feeding bottle: Small spouted ceramic vessels used historically to feed infants or baby animals with milk; residue studies on ancient examples have identified ruminant milk lipids. Modern analyses derive from European finds but illustrate vessel function.

2. Grass-grid sand fixation: A checkerboard of straw or brush laid to stabilize dune surfaces, reduce wind speed near ground, accumulate moisture, and enable tree and shrub establishment; pioneered mid-20th-century in North China and improved with mechanized laying.

3. Battle formation drills: Regular instruction and practice in formation tactics and coordinated maneuvers to enhance unit discipline and combined-arms effectiveness—a core of classical and later military training.