BEGW C77

Chapter 77

Ying Changchuan clasped Jiang Yuxun’s hand tightly, leaving him no room to retreat.

The distance between the two was impossibly close; even their breaths seemed to intertwine.

Jiang Yuxun’s fingers curled subconsciously.

The tension that ran through his fingertips passed directly into the Emperor’s palm.

The quickening of his heartbeat and the sudden irregularity of his breathing seemed to remind Jiang Yuxun—that he had deliberately skipped over Ying Changchuan’s name just now.

Before he could think further, Jiang Yuxun opened his mouth involuntarily.

“Your subject…” His voice trembled like a droplet quivering at the edge of the eaves—fragile yet resonant, so faint it could barely be heard, but still every word reached the Emperor’s ears clearly.

“Your subject cannot rest easy for Your Majesty.”

In that instant, all dust settled.

Once the words left his lips, Jiang Yuxun’s eyes widened in disbelief.

Until this very moment, even he himself had not realized that Ying Changchuan—the Emperor of all under heaven—was, in this era, the only person he could not set his heart at ease about.

Across from him, the man slowly smiled. His slightly hoarse voice carried softly,

“Why?”

Within those smoky-grey eyes lay emotions that Jiang Yuxun could not decipher.

…Yes, why was he uneasy about Ying Changchuan?

Was it because he feared the man would tread down the same old path of history and repeat its tragedies?

That thought barely surfaced before Jiang Yuxun immediately dismissed it.

Ever since the Yi River had safely endured the summer floods, Great Zhou had already diverged from its former course of history.

And Ying Changchuan’s temperament, too, was no longer as extreme as the records once described.

A raindrop fell from the eaves, making a soft pat sound.

Ying Changchuan gave Jiang Yuxun’s hand a light squeeze, as if to remind him not to drift away in thought.

Before him sat a man who commanded mountains and rivers, yet in this moment, all Jiang Yuxun could see reflected in those grey eyes—was himself.

The words loneliness suddenly arose in his heart.

He realized that, beyond his unease, there was something else—an unwillingness.

It was like making a promise to travel together, only to abandon the other halfway—an ache of guilt and reluctant tenderness.

…Something like that, yet somehow not quite the same.

For a fleeting moment, Jiang Yuxun’s heart tangled into chaos.

He shook his head in confusion, gazing deeply into Ying Changchuan’s eyes.

“I don’t know. Even I… cannot make sense of it.”

As he spoke, Jiang Yuxun unconsciously tightened his grip on the Emperor’s hand.

It was as though he hoped to find the answer within the man before him.

His long hair slipped down his shoulders, trailing faintly to his waist.

Within those dark eyes shone confusion and helplessness; he had no idea that his emotions were written so openly across his face.

After a moment of silence, he seemed to want to add something more.

“Your subject—”

But the next second, Ying Changchuan suddenly shook his head, interrupting the unfinished words.

“Does your head still ache?”

Though he was the one asking, the Emperor’s tone carried no urgency at all.

Jiang Yuxun, born and raised in Lanze Prefecture, didn’t even know which direction the “Shuile Tower” opened toward.

He could not afford to frighten the man away now.

Jiang Yuxun blinked, then answered truthfully, “A little.”

“Then rest a while longer,” Ying Changchuan said softly.

He released Jiang Yuxun’s hand and gently pulled the quilt over his arm and shoulder.

“Yes…”

Outside, the snow made the sky ever dimmer.

The brazier in the room burned lower and lower.

When Jiang Yuxun finally gave up on thinking, the dull ache at the back of his head returned, crashing over him like a tide.

Weary, he closed his eyes and began to sink into slumber. Having lain on his side the entire day, he instinctively rolled onto his back.

“Don’t move,” Ying Changchuan’s voice reached his ear, “You’ll press against the wound. If it’s uncomfortable, lie on your stomach instead.”

His tone was lazy and calm as always.

After speaking, he even supported Jiang Yuxun and carefully turned him over—as though unaware that his words and actions had crossed any line.

Jiang Yuxun: “…!”

Ying Changchuan’s gesture had overstepped the bounds.

Moments ago, Jiang Yuxun had been half-asleep; now, he was fully awake.

He stiffened, burying his face into the pillow, drawing in a deep breath.

Thump, thump—

He could clearly hear his own heartbeat. His fingers clenched tightly around the bedding.

Ying Changchuan, born into nobility, had always known how to grasp propriety.

If he willed it, he could draw lines between himself and anyone.

Jiang Yuxun did not believe for a second that Ying Changchuan was unaware of how improper his behavior was—how easily it might provoke misunderstanding.

…Then why was he doing this?

Thump, thump, thump—

His heartbeat grew thunderous.

A wild thought leapt unbidden into his mind—

Could it be that Ying Changchuan truly wished to cross the boundary between ruler and subject?

Could it be… that he harbored feelings for me?

Jiang Yuxun’s breath hitched; his heart pounded so fiercely it felt ready to burst from his chest.

Buried beneath the quilt, his entire body began to heat uncontrollably.

After several breaths, he could only whisper the word absurd under his breath and cough as he turned his face away.

The Emperor, seated at the bedside, gave a faint smile, picking up a memorial as though he had noticed nothing unusual in Jiang Yuxun’s behavior.

Yet after a long while, he had still not turned a single page.

Outside the county office of Lengping, a long line stretched down the street.

Soldiers in winter uniforms stood before the tent, calling names aloud.

“Luo Mian, Zhai Yingqi, Du Zhaofeng—”

Another soldier stooped and handed out cotton-padded coats.

“Here, sir!” The three young men at the front of the line waved excitedly and bowed in thanks before receiving their garments with delight.

They quickly stepped aside, shaking open the coats and draping them eagerly around their shoulders.

“This coat feels different from the one my parents got!” said Luo Mian as he rubbed his hands together for warmth.

“What’s different?” asked his companion curiously.

“My parents’ coats were made of sheepskin—they get hot after wearing them for a bit,” Luo Mian replied, tugging at his sleeve. “But mine feels like it’s made of coarse wool.”

One of the others said while adjusting his oversized sleeve, “They divided them by age. We’re young, so ours don’t need to be as thick.”

“That’s called a maopi coat!” came a voice from behind. A former soldier from Zefang County turned toward them, saying, “Maopi is what northern garrisons wear in late autumn. It’s not as good as fur, but it keeps out the cold just fine. You’ll be warm enough!”

The coarse wool coat blocked the biting wind instantly.

Within moments, the villagers who had been shivering now felt warmth seeping back into their limbs.

“It’s really warm!”

“Once I stretch my legs a bit, I can go shovel ice!”

“I’ll check the orchard later too—”

Laughter and chatter filled the space outside the county office.

Having received their coats, the people did not disperse, but stayed, discussing what they would do next.

Someone sighed in wonder, “If these maopi coats are so warm, how must cotton-padded ones feel?”

“Has anyone ever touched cotton before?”

A woman spoke up slowly, “My nephew’s not even half a year old—he got a cotton-padded coat from the officials. Not long after putting it on, his face stopped turning purple from the cold, and he stopped crying too.”

“That’s wonderful…”

The young men in their new coats sighed longingly, “Winters in Taoyan are always damp and bitter. We could survive before without cotton, sure—but to wear such a coat even once in my life, I’d die happy!”

Laughter rippled through the crowd.

“Us? Wearing something like that?”

“Ha! Maybe in the next life.”

The once desolate street had come alive again.

In their excitement, the people forgot to lower their voices, and their words carried through the thin walls of the county office to the officials inside.

The charcoal brazier glowed brightly.

A small stove boiled on top, letting off a gentle burbling and filling the room with comforting warmth.

Using a cloth to protect his hands, Jiang Yuxun carefully poured hot water into cups.

Tender green tea leaves swirled and unfurled, releasing a delicate fragrance.

“Lord Tong, please,” he said, holding the cup with both hands and offering it to Tong Hailin, who sat across from him.

“Lord Jiang, should you not rest a little longer?” Tong Hailin—his arm still bound in splints—took the cup with his good hand. Having idled away half his life in court, he lowered his voice and said, “His Majesty is here; you could stay abed a few more days without issue.”

Jiang Yuxun’s injury was at the back of his head, his dark hair loosely tied behind him. His complexion, always fair, looked almost translucent against it.

He smiled and shook his head. “No need. My wounds are mostly on my shoulder and head. After resting, I can walk and sit, as long as I avoid my back. Sitting or lying makes little difference.”

“True!” Tong Hailin took a sip of tea. “Lying down all day is dull anyway.”

The remark carried weight, given his own arm in splints.

As Governor of Taoyan Prefecture, Tong Hailin had spent the last several days following the Emperor from place to place inspecting disaster relief.

Though only a few days had passed since Jiang Yuxun last saw him, the man already looked thinner.

“Lord Tong, shouldn’t you rest instead?”

Tong Hailin waved a hand. “Ah, the temperature’s rising lately, and with Taoyan’s day-night extremes, we must keep watch—pipes freezing, roofs cracking…” He trailed off, then brightened, pulling out a rolled map from his sleeve and spreading it proudly on the table. “Look what I’ve been working on these years!”

“…This is,” Jiang Yuxun immediately recognized it at a glance, “Taoyan Prefecture’s canal network map!”

Tong Hailin coughed a few times before taking another sip of tea. “As expected, Lord Jiang knows his field.”

Jiang Yuxun lifted the map toward the light streaming from the window.

During the southern tour, Tong Hailin had worked on these maps for days without rest.

Jiang Yuxun had assumed the initial excitement would fade—but to his surprise, the map before him was now densely marked with lines, forming a complete irrigation system.

—It was orderly and magnificent.

Not only had Tong Hailin designed the waterways, he had even used red ink to mark the farmlands already drained and the newly dug channels.

Seeing the light brighten in Jiang Yuxun’s eyes, Tong Hailin stroked his beard proudly. “Taoyan is remote and uneventful before winter set in. With little else to do, I rode about surveying and sketching, and before I knew it—voilà!”

He tapped at several points on the map. “At the junctions of these rivers, I left open spaces, just as you suggested, for future towns to be built.”

Jiang Yuxun nodded. “As Taoyan’s population grows, the people will be able to expand and cultivate following this plan.”

“Indeed… though that may be decades, even a century away.”

Then Jiang Yuxun noticed that certain lands had been deliberately left blank.

“Lord Tong, what are these areas reserved for?”

The man lowered his gaze, then smiled. “For the future generations. You once said Taoyan’s silkworm farming and aquaculture have great potential. We may not be there yet—but the land should be ready for them.”

Over the years, they had exchanged letters, and Jiang Yuxun had written often about his hopes for Taoyan.

He had never thought Tong Hailin would remember every word—much less set aside land for it.

As prefect, Tong Hailin cared more deeply for his land than Jiang Yuxun had ever realized—

not just its present, but its future.

“Lord Tong, you are truly thoughtful,” Jiang Yuxun said sincerely.

“Ahem… a trifling effort!”

Seeing him cough again, Jiang Yuxun quickly refilled his cup.

After downing the tea in one go, Tong Hailin finally caught his breath. “Ahem… to tell the truth, I came today for another matter.”

Pouring another cup, Jiang Yuxun asked, “What is it?”

“Taoyan lies in the south, yet winters are still harsh. I’ve heard cotton can be cultivated even here. Do you think Taoyan could support large-scale planting?” He pointed at several locations on the map. “Perhaps these areas could be tested?”

The candlelight illuminated the lines on his weathered face. He had long since become accustomed to thinking of Taoyan in all things.

His words aligned perfectly with Jiang Yuxun’s own ideas.

“Of course! To be honest, I’ve already been considering it on my way here.”

Tong Hailin leaned forward eagerly. “Tell me more.”

At this, Jiang Yuxun’s eyes brightened. “You must have heard of the new wheat being planted near Zhaodu?”

“Of course.”

In the past, Taoyan’s fields would rest fallow for part of the year.

But with new seedling methods, fertilizing and weeding rice fields had become easier; farmers now grew rice continuously.*

Still, Jiang Yuxun saw greater potential in Taoyan’s land.

“In my view, the higher fields can try rice-wheat rotation, or even co-cultivation.”

“Rice and wheat…” Tong Hailin repeated thoughtfully.

Despite the dull pain in his back, Jiang Yuxun spoke with animated conviction, “Yes! The timing of early rice and winter wheat doesn’t overlap—they can share the same land through rotation.”

Tong Hailin counted on his fingers. “You’re right!”

“And wheat’s growing requirements are similar to cotton’s,” Jiang Yuxun continued. “If wheat can grow there, cotton can too.”

History would later prove it true—whether “two cottons, one rice” or “rice-wheat rotation,” all suited Taoyan’s soil perfectly.

Other methods—grain-legume, grain-vegetable, or rice-sugarcane—could also be explored.

“Wait here!” Tong Hailin rose, excited. “I must write this down.” He turned toward the shelves.

But before he could take a step, a violent cough wracked his body.

“Cough—cough—!”

He doubled over, collapsing slowly to his knees, his injured arm trembling from the strain.

Startled, Jiang Yuxun rushed to him, offering a handkerchief. “Lord Tong! Are you all right? Wait here—I’ll fetch the physician.”

“No, no need!” Tong Hailin waved him off, forcing himself upright. “No need to make a fuss.”

As he moved, Jiang Yuxun caught sight of a smear of red at the corner of his mouth. His heart sank.

“…You’re bleeding?”

The man before him looked older than ever, frailer too.

“An old ailment,” Tong Hailin rasped. “The physicians have seen it—found nothing conclusive. Perhaps it’s just age. The snow hasn’t stopped; best I keep quiet for now.”

He tucked the bloodied handkerchief discreetly into his sleeve.

“Now then, Lord Jiang,” he said, patting his shoulder, “Since you’re here, I’ll not let you go until we’ve discussed Taoyan thoroughly. Who knows when we’ll meet again…”

At his age, such words should have been expected—but seeing the older man so worn and splinted, Jiang Yuxun still felt his nose sting.

He lowered his head and took a sip of tea to hide his expression.

Tong Hailin stroked his beard, murmuring, “…I wonder when we’ll wear cotton coats of our own in Taoyan?”

Farm tools had long since spread through the land; the people had moved on from the primitive days of slash-and-burn.

Watchtowers now guarded the roads. More children attended schools, learning the official tongue and even literacy.

The irrigation network of Taoyan was taking form. Families from across Great Zhou were beginning to migrate there.

The waterlands of the future were slowly unveiling their beauty.

Jiang Yuxun tightened his grip on his teacup.

…Yet to one lifetime, such transformation was still achingly slow.

The relief goods had traveled from north to south—an operation unprecedented in both scale and distance.

With limited communication, it was, for the empire, a battle without smoke or fire.

Ying Changchuan and the Taoyan officials had been kept exceedingly busy.

Tong Hailin, too, had been living in the county office these past few days.

After supper with Jiang Yuxun, he returned to his quarters, supported by aides.

Moments after he left, the imperial physician arrived.

“Lord Jiang’s condition has improved today. The wound can now be treated with ointment. Make sure to place several braziers in the room, seal the windows tight, and keep him warm.”

“Yes, sir!”

The bruising on Jiang Yuxun’s back was severe; recovery required blood circulation and treatment—not waiting idly.

The physician turned and bowed. “Please make your preparations, my lord. We shall bring the medicine shortly.”

Servants placed glowing braziers in the corners and checked for drafts.

When the room had warmed, the physician departed.

Since the

injury was on his back, “preparation” meant changing into light clothes for treatment.

Though no one had tended to him so directly since his transmigration, Jiang Yuxun, having once received modern therapy for neck strain, felt no discomfort about it.

He even wondered idly—which would be better, ancient physicians or modern doctors?

The thought made him almost look forward to it.

When the room was finally warm enough, he removed his outer robe, wearing only an inner shirt as he moved about.

There was still some time before the physician returned. Loosening his sash, he stood before the bronze mirror to inspect his wounds.

As his collar slipped loosely down his shoulders, his dark hair swayed aside, revealing pale skin along his shoulder blades—so fair from never seeing sunlight that it almost glowed.

“Hiss…” The brush of fabric against his skin made his body tremble from pain.

The bruises across his upper back were deep and dark, mottling his shoulder blades in purplish hues—ghastly to behold.

Even Jiang Yuxun flinched at the sight.

He poked at it gingerly.

A jolt of pain shot through him. The earlier curiosity about medical techniques instantly evaporated into regret.

If it hurt this much just to touch—how much worse would the ointment feel?

…Perhaps he should wait a few more days?

He sighed, pushing his hair back behind him.

Just as he debated fetching the physician later, a knock came at the door—apparently earlier than expected.

“One moment!” he called, tugging his collar up and hurrying toward the door.

As he opened it, he began, “My wound still hurts a bit—perhaps we should wait—”

The door opened a crack, and through it he glimpsed the visitor.

His words died instantly.

A familiar figure in dark robes stood before him—smiling, a lacquered tray in hand.

…Wasn’t the physician supposed to come?

Even injured, Jiang Yuxun knew how busy the Emperor had been these days.

He never expected Ying Changchuan to appear now of all times.

His heart stuttered violently again. That strange, dangerous thought from before surged back with renewed force.

“Your Majesty? Why… why is it you?” He gripped the doorframe, his voice faltering.

Ying Changchuan showed no displeasure.

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “The ointment contains numbing herbs for pain relief, my dear minister—there is no need to worry.”

His tone was calm, perfectly normal.

And yet, in those words, Jiang Yuxun felt an undercurrent of pressure.

The sky outside dimmed to twilight; the small chamber grew shadowed and close.

Ying Changchuan approached, step by deliberate step, while Jiang Yuxun found himself backing away unconsciously.

When his back nearly met the bronze mirror, Ying Changchuan finally set the tray aside.

His gaze fell upon Jiang Yuxun’s bare shoulder and back.

The light of the brazier lent warmth to skin that was almost too pale.

Black hair cascaded over his shoulders, accentuating the fragile thinness of his frame.

Ying Changchuan’s eyes shifted away; then, with a faint smile, he asked,

“Other than that, does my beloved minister still have concerns?”

It was merely the act of applying medicine.

Yet when the physician became the Emperor, Jiang Yuxun found that his composure—his so-called calm—had utterly vanished.

…He felt as though he were a thief caught red-handed.

Footnotes

1. Shuile Tower (水樂樓) – a place name, likely referring to an establishment or building in the imperial complex.

2. Yi River (怡河) – a significant geographical landmark marking political or environmental reform.

3. Taoyan Prefecture (桃延郡) – a southern administrative region within Great Zhou known for its agricultural development.

4. Maopi (毛褐) – a coarse woolen coat commonly worn by northern garrisons in autumn.

5. Zhaodu (昭都) – the capital or central city of Great Zhou, often the site of agricultural innovation.

6. Rice-wheat rotation (稻麥複種) – a historical double-cropping method maximizing land productivity.