BEGW C71

Chapter 71

The view through the lens was faintly blurred.

Silver light flickered before Jiang Yuxun’s eyes; instinctively, he adjusted the telescope, and in that instant, the withered yellow willows and small boats moored by the shore came sharply into view.

A few red leaves floated upon the sapphire-blue water, the scene carrying an unmistakable air of quiet desolation.

The early autumn at Yanxian Lake had long since lost its springtime grace.

Jiang Yuxun slowly shifted the telescope again; all he could see now were rippling waves upon the lake’s surface—no sign whatsoever of streams or pear blossoms.

…He knew it.

That was no island at the heart of the lake—it was merely the lake’s edge!

“Your Majesty—!”

Lowering the telescope, Jiang Yuxun turned, ready to confront Ying Changchuan.

But in his haste to expose the emperor’s harmless deceit, he forgot that the man still stood directly behind him.

As he moved, his shoulder brushed lightly against Ying Changchuan’s chest.

The warmth of solid muscle seeped through the layers of their garments.

Realizing who stood before him, Jiang Yuxun’s eyes widened; instinctively, he stepped back, attempting to put some distance between them.

But he had forgotten—the wall of the Zi Yi Gate was right behind him.

His sky-blue robes rubbed against the battlement, gathering a faint layer of dust.

Almost the moment he stepped back, Ying Changchuan frowned, raised his hand, and caught the fabric at Jiang Yuxun’s shoulder, pulling him forward with a gentle but firm tug. “It’s dangerous behind you.”

Their bodies drew close—closer than they had ever been before.

Jiang Yuxun wanted to explain that leaning against the parapet posed no risk, but the warmth radiating through their clothes scattered every word before it could leave his lips.

The autumn wind swept across the Yi River plain, rippling the waters of Yanxian Lake.

Though the telescope had been set aside, Jiang Yuxun felt as though his head swayed gently with the lake’s waves, overcome by a strange, unfamiliar dizziness.

In that moment, he forgot how to speak—forgot even how to move.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally lifted his hand, pressing his fingertips lightly against Ying Changchuan’s shoulder.

Then, in a whisper, he said, “Your Majesty… there’s still half a foot of space behind me.”

At last, Ying Changchuan released him, his gaze slowly shifting away.

Jiang Yuxun coughed softly twice, lowering his head to look at the telescope in his hands, absently nudging a loose pebble on the wall with the tip of his boot.

…Perhaps it was time to leave?

He hesitated for a moment, then gathered his courage and looked toward the emperor—

only to find Ying Changchuan lowering his eyes at the very same instant to meet his gaze.

Their eyes brushed for the briefest heartbeat before darting away again.

A gust of wind carried red leaves across the wall, rustling softly—

a sound that brushed against the heart like a faint itch.

※

Craftsmen gathered in Zhaodu were experimenting with quartz and limestone, striving to create glass of greater clarity.

The sturdy stallions from Kehan had begun breeding at the military stables.

Since the founding of the Great Zhou, the realm had never known such peace.

New agricultural tools and the “seeds of literacy” spread together across the land.

The barren fields along both banks of the Yi River were gradually transformed into farmland.

The seasons were harmonious, the harvests bountiful.

Even the soldiers of the Fulin Army and the farmers who had first planted wheat were astonished—its yield truly was as high as Jiang Yuxun had promised!

The practice of planting and grinding wheat spread swiftly throughout the Yi River plain, and delicacies such as hubing and tangbing became fashionable in Zhaodu.

Watermills scattered through the hills and streams were now put to full use.

Within the capital, everyone was talking about “wheat” and “flour.”

Meanwhile, the Haifeng rice had taken root in the southern fields, maturing rapidly.

Time, in the flurry of industry, passed in the blink of an eye.

By the time Jiang Yuxun finally thought to rest, it was already the following winter.

…

Zhaodu—silver frost blanketed the earth.

The Xianyou Palace, built halfway up the mountain, lay half-hidden behind drifting snow mist, nearly invisible to the eye.

The Great Zhou placed great importance on the Winter Solstice; every year, court and common folk alike observed five days of rest to celebrate the Festival of Winter.

But this year’s weather was peculiar—early winter had come without chill, and just as Jiang Yuxun thought a warm winter was upon them, several blizzards swept in succession, plunging the world into cold.

Now, the roads were buried under snow.

Many officials had chosen to remain at Xianyou Palace rather than return to Zhaodu.

But Jiang Yuxun, ever worried about his distillery and livestock, had long since taken a carriage back to his estate.

Fortunately, he had spent lavishly before winter to install heated walls in every room.

Though the world outside was frozen solid, the rooms—dry but warm—remained comfortable.

Before dawn, the Jiang estate was already astir.

The servants assumed their master would sleep in, but barely after the fifth watch, he had already bundled himself up and headed to the distillery.

The snow still fell in thick, feathery flakes, but thanks to the servants’ overnight effort in clearing the paths, he didn’t lose his way on his own estate.

The north wind howled, freezing every drop of water into ice.

Wrapped in a thickly padded robe stuffed with cotton and a heavy fur cloak, Jiang Yuxun managed to endure the bitter wind outside.

Only once he stepped into the distillery did he finally shed the heavy cloak.

Though clad in thick robes, his figure remained lean—like bamboo under snow, slender yet upright.

The Jiang family’s distillery had been completely rebuilt, divided into several sections: filling, blending, brewing, fermentation, and distillation.

He was now in the fermentation hall.

Seeing him enter, one of the workers stirring the malted mash called out, “Master Jiang, mind the chill—”

“Master Jiang’s back!” another shouted cheerfully while carrying a shoulder pole of jars.

“You’re always so busy, sir. Why not rest a bit longer?”

“No need,” Jiang Yuxun replied with a smile. “I just wanted to check the temperature in the hall and the fermentation pits.” Saying so, he walked further in.

The worker laughed. “No worries, sir! The men stoking the fire outside haven’t stopped for a moment!”

Fermentation was the key stage of brewing; maintaining the right warmth was vital.

When the distillery was first built, craftsmen had designed fire-heated walls, with the fermentation pits insulated in layers of wood and other materials to maintain a steady twenty-five or twenty-six degrees.

The workers inside wore only thin summer garments, some with a sheen of sweat upon their brows.

After the summer harvest, all the wheat straw had been set aside—waiting for this very season.

“Indeed,” said the steward accompanying him, smiling, “Master Jiang, look there—the orchids are thriving beautifully!”

Though ancient craftsmen lacked thermometers, they had discovered through labor that orchids flourished best at twenty-five to twenty-eight degrees—the same temperature ideal for fermentation.

Following his gaze, Jiang Yuxun saw a small pot of orchids blooming beside the fermentation pit, vibrant and lively, utterly unaware that the world outside lay buried in snow.

“That’s good,” Jiang Yuxun breathed in relief. “You’ve all worked hard.”

The new “strong liquor” had by now become wildly popular throughout the Great Zhou.

The wine trade was booming, and supply could never falter.

“Nonsense!” laughed a worker carrying a yoke past him. “These are our busiest—and most profitable—days!”

Laughter rippled through the hall.

The steward handed Jiang Yuxun a cup of warm wine. “Master, please, have a sip to warm yourself.”

“Thank you,” Jiang Yuxun replied, smiling as he accepted it.

He had made a handsome fortune selling liquor and reinvested it all into the estate.

In addition to monthly wages of several hundred jia coins, his workers received various bonuses and allowances.

Today, with the heavy snowfall, each laborer would earn an extra thirty coins.

Taking a sip of hot wine, Jiang Yuxun glanced at the buckets by the door. “What’s in those?”

“Oh, that’s the leftover mash from brewing,” a worker explained, scooping some up with a wooden ladle to show him. “Perfect feed for livestock—fattens them far quicker than grass ever could!”

That mention of pigs reminded Jiang Yuxun of something. “The snow’s been heavy these past few days—have any of the animals frozen to death?”

The Jiang estate had been thoroughly renovated, every corner gleaming with wealth.

But no matter how freely Jiang Yuxun spent, he would never go so far as to install heated walls in a pigsty or chicken coop.

The worker’s expression turned serious. “…The weather’s been strange this year, but don’t worry, sir. We reinforced all pens before winter, hung thick curtains everywhere, and placed charcoal braziers in every corner. Oh, and we spread straw for insulation—the animals are doing fine so far.”

Jiang Yuxun nodded, setting down his cup. “Good—”

But before he could finish, his steward Liu Run burst into the hall, breathless.

Scanning the room, he hurried to Jiang Yuxun’s side and whispered, “Master, men from the court are here!”

Though they hadn’t heard his words, the workers noticed Liu Run’s alarm and fell silent at once, bowing before stepping aside.

“The court?” Jiang Yuxun’s expression tightened as he rose. “Did they say why?”

Donning his fox-fur cloak, he followed Liu Run out of the hall.

The moment he stepped outside, the shock of cold made him shiver violently.

Despite the cleared paths, snow in the courtyard still reached his knees.

…He had never seen snow like this—not in either of his lives.

He tilted his head back to the sky.

Thick flakes filled the air, and though it was midday, the sun was nowhere to be found.

Ordinarily, for urgent matters during rest days, Ying Changchuan would send word via carrier pigeon from the Bureau of Seals.

But with snow like this, even birds could not fly—only humans still moved through the world.

As they made their way toward the main hall, Liu Run spoke uncertainly, “It seems… something about Taoyan County?”

At those words, Jiang Yuxun’s heart sank.

He nodded heavily. “…I understand.”

Every governor in the Great Zhou submitted reports to the court twice a month.

Ten days ago, Tong Hailin, the governor of Taoyan, had written that snow had fallen there—a phenomenon unheard of in those parts.

The snowfall had been light, lasting only one night, and the people had gone out in delight to admire it.

But in Zhaodu, blizzards had already begun. Uneasy, Jiang Yuxun had shown the report directly to Ying Changchuan, who immediately sent officials south to investigate.

By now, their findings should have arrived.

Before he even reached the hall, a familiar voice carried through the storm—Qi Pingsha, commander of the Bureau of Seals.

“Lord Jiang—this way!”

Qi strode toward him and bowed.

Returning the gesture, Jiang Yuxun asked directly, “Commander Qi, you seem in haste. Has something happened in Taoyan County?”

“Yes,” Qi replied grimly. “The situation there is… dire.”

“What do you mean?”

Liu Run discreetly withdrew, leaving them to speak.

Qi exhaled deeply. “The day after that report was sent, it snowed again. This time, the snow has continued for over ten days—and hasn’t stopped since.”

Tong Hailin, born near Zhaodu, had long been accustomed to heavy snow and thought little of it at first.

But when it continued day after day, he panicked and dispatched messengers to the capital.

They met midway with the envoys Ying Changchuan had sent.

Jiang Yuxun’s face paled. “And the state of the county itself?”

Qi shook his head, striding forward. “I don’t know the full details, my lord. His Majesty ordered me to fetch you immediately—that’s all I was told.”

The wind howled across the plains of the Yi River as they walked. Ahead, a carriage stood waiting.

“…This is?” Jiang Yuxun asked.

Qi turned and bowed once more.

“Please, my lord, prepare winter garments and thick furs. We may be going on a long journey today.”

Jiang Yuxun nodded faintly, clenching his fist. “I understand…”

He would soon be departing for Taoyan.

※

The situation in Taoyan was worse than he had feared.

By the time he returned to Xianyou Palace, the eastbound carriages were already waiting.

He packed his things overnight and departed with the emperor and other ministers toward the Chen River, followed by countless soldiers of the Fulin Army and wagons loaded with supplies.

Along the official roads, sentries cleared the snow every few hours, allowing their convoy to move despite the depth.

But when they reached the Chen River, trouble arose.

Sitting alone in his carriage, Jiang Yuxun lifted the curtain and called out to the soldiers ahead, “Why have we stopped?”

To reach Taoyan quickly, they had traveled without rest, changing horses at every station.

The wooden wheels of these carriages made for a rough ride; after several days, his bones felt shaken loose.

And with the thin walls offering little shelter from the wind, even wrapped in furs, he was frozen through.

A soldier on horseback trotted to his window, shouting over the gale, “My lord, the road ahead is impassable!”

The man’s horse—one of the hardy Kehan breeds—snorted clouds of white vapor, its hooves wrapped in cloth for grip against the ice.

“Impassable?” Jiang Yuxun set aside his book and stepped down from the carriage.

Sure enough, he saw the reason: the road was sheathed in ice.

He sighed softly. “The surface has frozen over, hasn’t it?”

“Yes,” the soldier confirmed grimly.

Though the Chen River lay farther south than Zhaodu, the snow here melted into slush that froze into glassy sheets.

Cautiously, Jiang Yuxun walked along the edge.

Half the soldiers were already scraping ice from the road.

Not far ahead, Ying Changchuan stood by the riverbank. Hearing footsteps, he turned and nodded slightly. “Come here, my dear minister.”

The snow had not stopped falling.

Though the scene blurred before his eyes, Jiang Yuxun could faintly hear the river’s roaring current breaking through the storm.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

He quickened his pace, joining the emperor to walk along the Chen River.

It took half a day to clear just ten li.

Together, they trudged on, inspecting the region.

Though still far from Taoyan, the situation already looked grim—roads slick with ice, travel perilous. Two or three in ten villagers had already fallen, some merely bruised, others breaking bones.

Ying Changchuan dispatched army physicians to the nearby settlements, ordering splints of bamboo and wood for the injured.

Thankfully, the Chen River itself still flowed freely, unfrozen.

Before nightfall, supplies were loaded onto large wooden ships, and the expedition continued south by water.

…

Fires could not be safely lit aboard the wooden vessels.

Though wrapped in thick robes, Jiang Yuxun couldn’t suppress a violent sneeze.

“Ah-choo—!”

He rubbed his nose, quickly pouring himself a cup of ginger tea to cradle between his palms.

Then, frowning, he glanced down at the back of his right hand.

Pale skin now mottled with redness; his fingers—especially the knuckles—were swollen and tinged purple.

Even in the carriage, he had continued his work.

Though cautious, the cold had given him frostbite—the first of his life.

He drained the tea in one gulp, feeling warmth return to his limbs.

The itch from the frostbite was maddening.

He lifted his left hand, tempted to scratch, then forced himself to stop.

—Absolutely not.

Rubbing would only worsen the injury, deepening the damage.

Still, the itch was unbearable.

At last, unable to continue writing, he set aside the unfinished report and curled beneath the quilt, hoping to distract himself.

The ship swayed gently with the current—a giant cradle rocking upon the river.

Yet he could not sleep.

It was simply too cold.

The Great Zhou’s beds were low, almost flush with the floor.

He had thought himself long accustomed to them—until now.

Though the river had not frozen, its damp chill seeped up through the hull, keeping the bedding stubbornly cold.

His exposed ears throbbed with pain.

He sneezed again, finally ducking his head completely under the covers.

The quilt was new this year, thick with cotton, but barely enough to preserve his life.

“Haa…”

If only he’d agreed to share a bed with Zhuang Youli!

He groaned inwardly at the thought.

The climate of Taoyan was notoriously harsh; most of the officials accompanying the emperor were young.

Zhuang Youli and several other junior officials were on this same ship.

At supper, Zhuang—shivering as much as he—had invited Jiang Yuxun to share their crowded bedding, but the ever-proper Jiang Yuxun had declined…

Now, though the air under the blanket was warm, it soon grew suffocating.

Just as he was about to poke his head out for air, someone tapped his shoulder.

Startled, he blurted, “Who’s there?!”

A pause—then a calm voice replied, “It is I.”

This journey was nothing like the southern inspection tour; every ship was packed tight with men and supplies, no space left unused.

Jiang Yuxun had been assigned to the same small outer cabin he’d once occupied before—hardly luxurious, but familiar.

“Your Majesty?” He peeked out from under the quilt.

Moonlight filtered through the window, illuminating the

cabin.

The emperor, dressed in dark robes and a black fox-fur cloak, stood before him, eyes lowered.

…Wasn’t he cold?

The sight made Jiang Yuxun blink.

If his senses were right, the temperature in the cabin was nearing—perhaps below—freezing.

He tried to rise and bow, but Ying Changchuan spoke softly, “No need for formality.” Then, after a pause, he asked, “You can’t sleep for the cold?”

Jiang Yuxun sniffed lightly, answering truthfully, “Indeed, Your Majesty.”

Pride was one thing—but survival came first.

Seeing the emperor awake as well, he hesitated, then ventured, “Might I… go to Zhuang Youli and the others?”

Realizing his disheveled state, he hastily pulled the quilt aside and sat upright, tugging his fox-fur closer.

“Zhuang Youli?” Ying Changchuan frowned faintly. “Why?”

The moonlight glowed on the snow outside, casting a soft, silvery radiance over the river.

The ship seemed almost brighter than if lit by lamps.

The emperor’s gray eyes, too, gleamed with that cold light.

As a high-ranking minister, it was embarrassing to admit he feared the cold.

Jiang Yuxun tried to think of a more dignified excuse, but none came. Finally, he muttered, “I—it’s simply too cold alone, so I thought to join them for warmth.”

Ying Changchuan turned toward the inner cabin, speaking after a moment, “There’s no space there.”

“…What?”

How did the emperor know how crowded Zhuang’s quarters were?

Though puzzled, Jiang Yuxun merely nodded.

The ship swayed gently with the current.

Standing by the partition, Ying Changchuan hesitated briefly—then turned back. “But the inner cabin still has room.”

Inner cabin?

…Surely not that inner cabin.

Jiang Yuxun’s heart thudded twice.

His gaze slipped past the emperor’s shoulder into the room beyond.

A wide bed—at least two meters across—ample space for one more.

And atop the bedding lay a layer of fur, soft and thick.

Just the sight of it made him feel warmer.

Don’t look!

He jerked his gaze away at once, as if scalded.

His hands might be frozen, but now it seemed his brain had frozen too—how could he even think of looking at the emperor’s bed?

The cabin fell silent.

The soft thrum of river water against the hull grew sharp in the stillness.

“…The bed in the inner cabin,” the emperor said casually, “is lined with copper beneath and heated by water pouches.”

In an instant, Jiang Yuxun forgot every qualm about what kind of place the “inner cabin” was.

…There was such a marvel aboard?

Water-filled sheepskin bladders that retained heat for hours—the warmth conducted through copper to the bed above, heating it in moments.

Truly imperial luxury.

Even now, the emperor found ways to keep from freezing.

Hearing this, Jiang Yuxun’s heart wavered.

Ying Changchuan stepped through the partition, lowering a fur curtain hanging from the ceiling. “Would my beloved minister prefer to remain out here tonight?”

Jiang Yuxun shook his head at once. “I would not.”

The ivory-white curtain drifted down, concealing the faint curve of a smile at the emperor’s lips.

Feigning innocence, Ying Changchuan asked, “Then where does my minister wish to go?”

“I…”

Jiang Yuxun’s mind flashed with alarm, a storm of exclamation marks bursting behind his eyes.

Realizing his own thoughts, he nearly wished to feign another bout of lost voice.

But as the saying went—you can’t dodge the fifteenth after escaping the first.

After a long pause, he could only lower his voice to a whisper, like a secret slipping from his lips.

“T-the inner cabin?”