BEGW C63

Chapter 63

This year, the banks of the Yi River enjoyed favorable winds and timely rains. Though early summer brought several heavy downpours, all were diverted by the flood channels repaired in advance, preventing disaster from flooding.

The only drawback was that the summer sun blazed no less mercilessly than the year before.

Agriculture was the very foundation of the feudal dynasty.

With summer came the ripening of millet and wheat, and the court became busier than ever.

One only regrets not enough vacation once work presses—Jiang Yuxun, who had questioned back on Swallow-Carrying Isle why Ying Changchuan was not working, now only regretted he hadn’t taken more days of leisure at that time.

…

The time of Grain in Ear (Mangzhong).¹ The garrison of the Fulin Army.

The sun blazed directly overhead, so hot a man could scarcely open his eyes.

But the fields were filled with laborers harvesting wheat, sickles in hand, working as though they felt no heat.

This was the crucial moment of new grain harvest—if rain or other extremes interrupted cutting, threshing, or storing, the wheat would lodge, mildew, and ruin half the year’s toil.

Without weather forecasts, ancients had only one choice: reap faster.

“…With frogs croaking and swallows flying low these few days, I fear rain is near,” said Fulin Army Vice-Commander Xue Kejin, raising his head to glance at the sky before turning to Jiang Yuxun. “Fortunately, by this afternoon this field will be cleared.”

Though sunlight burned bright overhead, ominous clouds massed above Mount Yueqiao, drawing nearer.

Jiang Yuxun peered forward with doubt. “Are you sure, General Xue, they won’t miss the farming season?”

“Pfft—” Xue Kejin suddenly laughed, then quickly cleared his throat, muttering low, “Truth be told, we never expected them to harvest at all.”

…Quite right.

Casting his eyes back to the field, Jiang Yuxun saw—no conscripted peasants.

Only familiar faces.

—Led by Zhuang Youli, more than ten young court gentlemen, all stripped to short robes, laboring under the sun.

Those who attained positions as court lang officials were all sons of illustrious families.²

None had ever endured such hardship; a short while in the field left them flushed and sodden, looking ready at any moment to collapse.

Hoping for them to finish this harvest would take until autumn.

As colleagues, seeing their misery, Jiang Yuxun could not help offering, “Can you really manage? Perhaps I should help as well?”

Though the field’s grain was not truly expectant on them, seeing their sweat and exhaustion left him uneasy just to stand idle.

—Like in school, when everyone else was punished to copy out lines, but not oneself. It just felt wrong.

“We… cough, we’ll never finish today,” panted Zhuang Youli, clutching a clay jar and gulping deep, gazing despairingly out over the endless golden field.

The hot summer breeze rustled the waves of grain.

They had labored half a day already, yet the field looked untouched.

“Harvesting wheat is too hard…” he muttered.

Days ago in Flowing Clouds Hall, the emperor had inquired on agriculture, only to find not one official knew a thing.

It was Jiang Yuxun who saved them, answering instead.

Then the emperor had only smiled, remarking lightly, “It is no surprise that sons of noble households do not know farming,” and let the matter pass.

Yet a few days later, the Xuan Seal Supervisors hauled all those present that day into the Fulin Army’s garrison fields—to learn farm labor.

Worse still, a field was allotted them to reap alongside peasants.

Zhuang Youli remembered his father’s warning of Jiang Yuxun’s past ill health, torn between relief and worry. “…A-Xun, is your body up for it?”

“I am quite well—”

But before he finished, another young gentleman dropped his sickle, pounding his aching back, and cried toward him, “Absolutely not, Lord Jiang! If His Majesty found out, we’d be ruined!”

With exaggerated tones, he darted a glance toward the Xuan Seal Supervisors watching the fields—only relaxing when those men showed no reaction.

Madness! Already punished this heavily—if Jiang Yuxun joined, would it not become a permanent expectation?

Others immediately chorused anxiously:

“Yes indeed!”

“Lord Jiang already interceded for us that day; how could we trouble you again?”

“His Majesty must never learn you labored with us!”

Finally, Zhuang Youli came to his senses too.

“Exactly! A-Xun, better you rest or even return to the palace.”

“But…”

Jiang Yuxun had only come to inspect gunnery experiments and afterward drifted to this field.

Clearly the Immortal Sojourn Palace was far better for his constitution than the blistering sun.

“No worry, Lord Jiang,” Xue Kejin smiled between sips of water. “The honored gentlemen are at their prime; this is nothing.”

“Exactly, right!”

They all nodded while lifting tools again—yet their wobbly postures hardly looked prime.

“Late enough already,” Xue Kejin clapped Yuxun’s shoulder, guiding him to shade, calling out toward the laborers, “Gentlemen, take lunch now!”

The wheat rustled beneath burning sun. Heat pressed, leaving breath itself stifling.

They had to rest.

Men dropped sickles to return to camp for food.

“…Yes, best we go eat.”

“After food, continue.”

Xue Kejin, sweat-soaked, beckoned, “Come, Lord Jiang.”

“…Very well.”

He followed.

But weather turned fast.

Black clouds spread across the sky within half an hour.

“Report!” A soldier knelt before Xue Kejin. “General, the rains approach.”

Unhurried, Xue ordered, “Fetch the push-sickle.”³

The tent held only he and Yuxun; no need for secrecy.

“Yes, General!”

Hearing the term, Yuxun rose. “I’ll go see as well.”

“I will accompany you,” Xue said, standing too.

By the time they returned, troops had wheeled in a wooden device—already set to reap.

Rain had not yet fallen. Yuxun stepped into the field, umbrella cast aside, curious to watch.

The push-sickle was a wooden tool: a long handled fork, with blades set into the prongs, bound by a crossbar, and mounted on little wheels.

“Lord Jiang!”

“Carry on,” Yuxun urged them.

The soldier saluted him quickly, then pushed forth.

The blades swept clean, golden stalks falling in perfect rows behind.

Yuxun marveled.

Indeed—just as ancient texts described—a true early harvester!

Xue Kejin descended into the field too. “How neat! Far faster than our officials’ clumsy toil.”

They both admired the speed.

Yuxun lifted a straw stem, then said sincerely: “This owes entirely to General Xue and the arsenal laborers.”

For in modern times, the device was long lost, existing only in fragmentary records. Lacking any proper model, Yuxun hadn’t commissioned his own craftsmen but had sent sketches to Xue.

To his surprise, the Ordnance Corps had succeeded in reconstructing it before the summer harvest!

Through repeated trials, they refined it—highly efficient, usable even on slopes just as described: “better than wheels on hills, easier to collect.”³

“Come now,” Xue laughed, shaking his head, “without your drawings, how could I?”

“I only recalled vague outlines; the true credit belongs to predecessors.”

But Xue praised his memory anyway.

Soon several soldiers pushed in concert, quickly laying one field bare.

From golden expanse to neat stubble, the transformation was astonishing.

Clearly, though the emperor intended officials to suffer, he had no wish to imperil food.

Storm winds broke; clouds surged above.

Gentlemen returned, dumbfounded.

“Did we come to the wrong field?”

“…It was filled with wheat before!”

Now cut clean.

They quickly realized—they were never meant to truly finish harvest. Relief washed over them.

Zhuang Youli collapsed in thanks. “Heavens, we’d never report otherwise…”

Still pale, lips trembling.

Yuxun sat by him, comforting. “No worry—the emperor isn’t so harsh. Look at me—I’ve spoken out of turn, even been jailed, and live still, don’t I?”

But Youli shook his head fiercely. “No! He truly is terrifying.”

Leaning close, he whispered that last year’s captured Zherou warriors had been confined in the “Round Prisons.”⁴ There, they were interrogated one by one with the same questions.

When each answered, supervisors only replied with, “But your comrade said otherwise.”

Whether lying or not, fear broke their will.

Hearing this, a chill spread over Yuxun despite the humid heat.

The method explained how so many turned to Great Zhou’s side.

Thunder cracked then—rain imminent.

Officials rushed for shelter.

As Zhuang climbed to his carriage, he said, “Strange you never hear such things, A-Xun. Perhaps His Majesty spares you?”

The first drops fell. Yuxun joined him in the carriage.

Casual words, but to Yuxun, lingering.

Would Ying Changchuan shield him from such shadows?

The notion struck absurd—this emperor hardly cared for anyone’s judgment.

…

As for the common folk—already they had harvested earlier, storing every grain. Only picking leftovers now, or stacking straw for fuel.

The sudden storm drenched them, but did not erase their smiles.

They laughed, hand to brow, sprinting toward home.

—The Ningping Granaries lay ready; only awaited their grain.

With this harvest, the shadow of last year’s flood was washed away.

…

Morning at the Immortal Sojourn Palace.

Though heat soared below, the mountain refuge held crisp chill.

Most still slept—but Jiang Yuxun already trained upon the open ground of the Xuan Seal Supervisors’ compound.

Blades flashed cold in the fog, elegant and practiced after near a year of sword study.

He struck deep at the neck of the wooden man. Another scar mark scored its wood.

Breathing out, he drew again—when a sudden cold gleam intercepted his strike, flicking his sword aside.

He turned. “Your Majesty?”

Ying Changchuan, in crimson robe, sword at ease, had come unnoticed.

With one hand, he toyed his blade, effortlessly deflecting Yuxun’s forms.

Power surged through each parry, numbing Yuxun’s wrist.

“Continue.”

“Yes, Your Majesty—” Gritting teeth, Yuxun braced and lunged.

But again, the emperor sidestepped, flicking casually—sending Yuxun’s sword clattering to the stone path.

All without moving from his stance.

In disbelief, Yuxun swallowed frustration… felled in one move! Not even by formal technique!

Awkwardly, he picked up the sword and bowed, “Forgive me for showing poor skill.”

But Ying Changchuan only shook his head, saying steadily, “Fundamentals matter, but the key in martial skill is adaptability. On battlefields no foe will fight by your sword manual.”

Yuxun nodded, face solemn. True, his swordplay remained childish.

The emperor slid his sword back into the scabbard. “If you wish progress, you must spar with flesh, not wood. Otherwise, stagnation and dead ends await.”

Eunuch Sang trembled aside—willing Yuxun to ask His Majesty directly. Surely this was why the emperor was here—to spar!

As light gilded the scene, Han grey eyes fixed with expectation.

But Yuxun only murmured, “I understand…”

The emperor’s smile lingered faint, awaiting further words.

Yet Yuxun said no more.

Silence fell.

Impatience gnawed at Eunuch Sang. He cannot force the emperor himself to volunteer!

Finally, Ying Changchuan pressed, “What is it you understand, beloved minister?”

Blinking, Yuxun looked up grudgingly.

So he truly wants me to say it…

Clutching his blade, Yuxun drew breath, solemn: “Your Majesty means to imply—my swordsmanship is poor, stagnant.”

So blunt!

Wind tousled his hair. The emperor’s smile waned.

Then Yuxun, speculative, muttered, “But… surely a ruler so busy would not mean— to replace the wooden dummy himself, sparring with me?”

——

Author’s Note:

Eunuch Sang: His Majesty’s pride is too great, what do we do? Urgent urgent urgent!

Footnotes

1. Mangzhong (芒種, Grain in Ear) — The 9th solar term in the traditional Chinese agricultural calendar, usually early June, marking key harvest time.

2. Lang officials (郎官) — Junior officials, drawn from prestigious aristocratic families, often with more pedigree than practical ability.

3. Push-sickle (推鐮) — An ancient Chinese harvesting tool described in agricultural texts. A wheeled frame mounting sickle blades, pushed to cut large swaths—considered history’s earliest “reaping machine.”

4. Round Prison (圆牢, yuan lao) — A feared type of confinement said to psychologically break prisoners by hopeless conditions, mentioned in various records/traditions.