BEGW C64

Chapter 64

The egret flapped its wings, flying toward the great lake in the distance.

With a faint creak, the main gates of the Xuan Seal Supervisors’ compound were slowly pushed open.

The Son of Heaven gave no comment, instead lowering his gaze toward Jiang Yuxun.

…You can’t be serious?

Instinctively, Jiang Yuxun stepped half a pace back.

Did I really guess correctly?

From the mountain stream came the chirping of birds; Jiang Yuxun’s heartbeat stumbled half a beat in response.

The Emperor gave no direct answer, but instead returned with a casual question: “Beloved minister is unwilling?”

His clear, languid tone brushed by like the wind at one’s ear.

From the corner of his eye, Jiang Yuxun noticed several Xuan Seal Supervisors on early duty walking out just then.

For no reason, his heart was seized by sudden nervousness.

In martial study, nothing is worse than secluded practice.

When first learning swordplay, the Supervisors around him always went easy, unwilling to truly spar.

In truth, the only one near him both highly skilled and unafraid of sparring honestly, regardless of status or appearance, was Ying Changchuan.

A free sparring partner—how could he not want it?

“Your servant…” He had just spoken, before realizing it sounded wrong.

To directly say “I want it”—would that not sound terribly suggestive?

Trying to rephrase, it was too late.

His sharp canine tooth bit the tip of his tongue; he hissed softly, and the word fell slurred: “…willing.”

At once, his cheeks flushed faintly red.

…Thank heavens Ying Changchuan, being of ancient times, did not know the modern connotation.

Jiang Yuxun’s heart drummed with guilt.

Ying Changchuan meanwhile turned slightly, looking at Eunuch Sang.

At once, Sang understood: “From now on, should Lord Jiang require sword practice, inform me—we shall immediately report to His Majesty.”

Yuxun forced a smile. “Far too much trouble.”

The emperor replied, “It is no matter.”

Seeing a smile play faintly on the Son of Heaven’s lips, Sang finally relaxed in relief.

Good. Good indeed.

As daylight brightened, the hour grew late.

Having gained a free sparring partner, Jiang Yuxun gave a stiff bow and retreated as though nothing had occurred.

The emperor nodded slowly, watching him leave.

Counting the turmoil of the former dynasty, the land had endured wars nearly a century.

Yet now Great Zhou lay at peace; some armies even fed themselves from their own grain.

Before summer taxes were levied, the emperor decreed farmland dues cut from 1 in 8 to 1 in 15.¹

Thus peasants instantly retained far more food.

And with this year’s fine harvest, their burdens halved in an instant.

At summer harvest’s end, one might expect rare idle season.

But the plains bustled busier than ever.

Most villages, after filling granaries, hurriedly expanded storage.

In addition to the usual lofted granaries, some who had worked at Ningping Granary returned home and modeled small underground storehouses—simple to build, convenient to use.²

Together, both methods secured the season’s bounty.

…

The sun scorched stones to blister.

Heat waves rolled along the official road.

Though not yet noon, the people of Zhaodu had already crowded into shops away from sun’s blaze.

On the eve of his restday, Jiang Yuxun had returned to his manor by carriage.

At dawn today he brought Zhuang Youli and Gu Yejiu together into Zhaodu’s Grain Market Street.

The air filled with sellers’ cries:

“Wheat for sale, wheat for sale—!”

“Millet cheap!”

“Millet, thirty coins a dan!”³

Jiang Yuxun wore a jade-white robe embroidered with silver-water patterns, fan flicking idly, appearing the picture of moonlit grace.

At sight of him, the grain-shop owner brightened. “Young master, buying grain or selling?”

Without reply, Yuxun cast his gaze inside—

Rows of jars filled to the mouth, sacks piled unopened.

Not only the usual millet and wheat, but—rice!

His eyes lit instantly.

Several shops had he passed—this, the first to sell rice.

Sweeping his robe, he stepped inside and asked, “Rice—its price?”

“Ah…” the owner hesitated, watching his face. “Two hundred coins a stone—does that please you, young master?”⁴

Zhuang Youli gaped. “So dear? The millet elsewhere is but fifty!”

The boss explained hurriedly. “Rice comes only from the south. The grain itself is not costly; what drives the price is transport.”

With earnest tone, he scooped a handful forward.

Full and gleaming, the fresh early rice of last month shone translucent beneath the sun.

Yuxun lifted grains, studying closely.

While Youli fretted over price, the shopkeeper added, “Once Yi River opens to barges, prices will fall!”

“…True.” Youli, who had seen the south, nodded, whispering, “Shall we settle here?”

The Jiang manor had itself a bumper harvest, with surplus enough… but Yuxun still needed rice for brewing wine.

The owner overheard in part, eager: “How much rice, young master? If much, I’ll send straight to your home!”

“No need,” spoke Gu Yejiu from behind, “we have an ox-cart.”

Only now did the boss notice him—startled by his imposing bearing.

Yuxun asked calmly, “How much rice total, then?”

“One hundred dan.”

“One hundred?” Youli whispered to Yuxun, “Enough?”

In modern parlance, his gaze might be described as “pure stupidity.”

The shopkeeper chuckled at their ignorance. “Ordinary peasants eat not near one hundred dan in a year, sir!”

Glancing at their robes, he added chattily: “In truth, I took one hundred and fifty—half already sold. Nobles scorn rice; yet, since word spread Lord Jiang favors it, now all Zhaodu craves it. You’d best hurry.”

Unwittingly, Yuxun’s tastes had set fashion.

He’d feared common folk resistant to flour—clearly needless worry.

Youli coughed awkwardly.

But Yuxun steadied himself, and said, “Then I’ll take the rest.”

“All?” The shopkeeper startled. “Does young master know how much that is?”

“Of course,” Yuxun smiled. “Unless you regret selling?”

“Regret? No, no!” and at once he called servants to weigh and pack it.

…

At last, the ox-cart brimmed. Prices were low this year—besides rice, he bought great stores of millet.

Fully laden, they returned.

But he did not rest. Soon, back into Zhaodu again.

For in winter past, Xing Zhi, through Yuxun’s work, had rented a shop on the grand boulevard—now refurbished and ready to open as a tavern.

Since protocol forbade Yuxun’s name, Xing Zhi had claimed the recipe as hereditary—that he “purchased” it from Yuxun through family ties.

Word spread, envying wastrel sons alike.

“Lord Jiang, come see!” Xing Zhi brimmed with energy, touring him inside.

Furnishings dazzled; the two-story tavern drew every eye of the capital.

“Space is limited; no meals. Only side-dishes—candied fruit, spiced meats,” he beamed.

At once, waiters spread the fare.

“Taste!” He urged. “Though useless at proper work, none in Zhaodu can rival me in food and drink.”

Hungry, Yuxun obliged—lifting chopsticks to a slice of marinated goose.

Rich savory flavor melted across his tongue, startling and refreshing.

His eyes brightened. “Delicious!”

In these times, ingredients were poor; seasonings crude. He’d expected little—yet this spiced fare rivaled his modern memories.

“Indeed!” Xing Zhi grinned. “I bought the recipe dearly.”

“Where from? I’d never heard of such,” Yuxun questioned, sampling marinated egg.

“Lord Jiang knows the saying, ‘Medicine and food are from the same source’?”⁵

Yuxun nodded.

The Chinese long prized shi bu (food therapy). Medicinal herbs were used as spices, merging health and flavor.

“Yes,” whispered Xing, “the recipe was a doctor’s heirloom secret. None beyond kin and neighbors knew it, until I learned by chance.”

Yuxun was struck—this man’s nose for business and cuisine was wasted in antiquity!

“Truly worthy of praise,” Yuxun said warmly.

Blushing, Xing Zhi admitted, “None ever valued me before. You are the first, Lord Jiang.”

Eyes shining, he asked, “Can you guess the spices?”

Yuxun declined, curious.

So Xing ticked them off: “Star anise, cardamom, cinnamon, licorice, Sichuan peppercorn, and orange peel. All herbs—but who knew they’d serve cooking too!”

Everywhere, wine jars loomed. Mostly grain liquor, but some fruity batches as well.

Waiters brought fruit wine.

Though warning himself not to overindulge, Yuxun found himself sharing cups until tipsy.

Finishing, he sighed earnestly, “Xing Gongzi, your father will yet be proud.”

Xing only sighed, “Perhaps not yet. Though looser of late, he finds me still disgraceful.”

Knowing he had Jiang Yuxun’s backing, his father begrudgingly relented. But “true recognition” was yet distant.

So Xing Zhi raised his glass, declaring, “When my tavern thrives, even spreads to Zherou, we’ll gain secrets of the foe—and aid Zhou’s soldiers! Then my father will cling to me in pride.”

He used the phrase “cling to one’s thigh,” which Yuxun had taught him, now fluent.

“Well said!” Yuxun laughed. “Your family will glory in you.”

Told with warmth, he truly disdained the ancient obsession with “officialdom above all,” hoping change for the Zhou.

Xing blushed again, lifting cups.

They drank on, until Yuxun left laden with dishes for home and comrades.

That night, his servant Liu Run insisted he carry some spiced fare to the palace as well.

As the cart jostled through night’s cool, savory scent wafted.

Fingers brushing the parcel, Yuxun wondered…

…So often Ying Changchuan has secretly favored me. Should I offer return?

※

By afternoon next day, Xing Zhi arrived at Immortal Palace again—bearing updated price charts per Yuxun’s advice.

They sat in a garden pavilion by mountain stream when footsteps approached—Ying Changchuan in crimson robe, attendants behind.

Eyes met; the Emperor raised a brow faintly.

Before he spoke, Eunuch Sang exclaimed with pleased surprise, “What luck, Lord Jiang is here too!”

…Luck? Did the emperor actually stroll, when he never did?

Wary, Yuxun bowed. “Your servant greets His Majesty—”

“Y-your Majesty!” Xing Zhi scrambled to prostrate, stammering “Ten thousand years’ life!” trembling with nerves.

The emperor only smiled thinly. “No need for formality. Continue, pay me no mind.”

Dragon musk drifted in faintly with wind.

Though tongue amused, his tone carried chill.

Xing Zhi sat ghostlike, head blank, still placed the abacus before Yuxun as planned.

For to reprice wine by year required calculation.

Here no concept of “functions”—only crude reckonings.

“Very well, give me a moment,” Yuxun nodded, lifting hand above chart.

And there—the emperor’s gaze upon him.

Softly, Ying Changchuan smiled. “Abacus?”

…!

At once, memory jolted—of drunken days, dropping beads disastrously.

Was this reminder deliberate?

No… surely not.

Holding breath, Yuxun struck the abacus soberly.

Yet Ying Changchuan murmured lightly, “Do not overcount, beloved minister.”

As if mocking his infamous miscalculation of seven hundred silver taels.

Yuxun’s ears burned.

Sunlight shimmering over black hair, pale fingers trembling as they pinched at beads—tugged red at his knuckles.

And suddenly, memory rose—crashing beads, incense of dragon musk, his own collapse under drunken shame…

The beads beneath now felt scalding, his fingers twitching.

In panic, he slid the wrong bead—the ten-thousand place.

Jiang Yuxun: ?!

What the hell—!

He lunged to correct it, but too late—the emperor watched every motion.

Then, slowly, Ying Changchuan paced forward, leaning down behind him…

Hand reaching past his nape toward the abacus—enveloping presence like an embrace.

His breath filled Yuxun’s nose, his red brocade sleeve sliding across his temple.

Though no touch met, heat radiated against his back.

“Beloved minister has mistaken the place value.” The low timbre whispered like private murmur.

Long slender fingers brushed forward—correcting the bead.

Wind from the stream rustled leaves.

Then the solitary clack as bead returned.

The emperor straightened again, sleeve glancing by Yuxun’s cheek.

“…Yes,” Yuxun’s breath caught unsteady.

And with a sudden thought—

Did Ying Changchuan just… flirt with me?

Footnotes

1. Tax rates — “Eight taxed one” (八稅一) means one unit tax per eight units field yield; reduced to “fifteen taxed one” (十五稅一), a major cut.

2. Ningping Granary model — Famous state warehouse; peasants copying its structure at smaller scale. Refers to advanced ventilation/storage preventing spoilage.

3. Dan (石, shí) — An ancient unit of grain measure, varying with dynasties, approx. 100–120 liters.

4. 200 qian (二百錢) — Currency; one qian = a small coin of copper alloy.

5. “Medicine and food share one source” (藥食同源) — Traditional Chinese belief that many herbs could also be eaten, merging medical and dietary use.