ITIEQ C34

Chapter 34 – A Life Full of Hardships

The letter was written as you and I, stripped of all formality of emperor and subject; it felt as though addressed between sworn friends—intimate, familiar, and dear.

Shen Qinghe smiled at the thought. Never in this lifetime had he imagined he might one day share such correspondence with the Emperor himself. Truly, the letter held the value of a precious collectible.

He searched out a small wooden box, carefully placed the letter inside. After a moment’s pause, he also fished out from his chest pocket the red envelope of New Year’s money and tucked it within.

The little cloth tiger and embroidered sachet lay together—one upright, one tipped on its side. Shen Qinghe lightly tapped them with a finger, inwardly saying: Now there’s no turning back. Be it good or ill, I have accepted my path.

He was not one for pretentious sentiment, but a man who enjoyed braving the risky path. Even where there was no road, he preferred to break one open. Qiuquan Commandery was a big swampy mess… but not as hopeless as before. Primary industries had sprouted a faint beginning, the bureaucrats of the court finally cowed into compliance, and he had a loyal handful of students following wholeheartedly. Yes—everything was on the rise. It was good.

He reclined in his tall chair—purchased cheaply from the Hu market—feet propped upon the desk, rocking steadily, tilting near collapse but managing balance. Then with a sudden crash the doors burst open—several heads crammed in at once. Shen Qinghe was so startled from his dreamy reverie, he nearly toppled backwards.

At the front, Lang Xinyue steadied himself, offering a bow. Before he could speak, You Luo shoved him aside:

“Teacher! Come join us in setting off our fireworks! Look, they’re beautiful!”

Shen Qinghe did not dampen their joy. Without changing from his official robes, he let himself be hustled to a small hilltop, where a square contraption already stood set up. Yaoguang crouched before it, studying it with utmost seriousness.

You Luo struck firestone to light the fuse, then ran back. Sharp whistling split the air, followed by bursting blossoms of colors overhead—glittering sprays bright as descending stars, flames roaring splendid as an army’s fire attack.

Shen Qinghe’s face caught all the flowing radiance, stunned for a moment. “Where did you get gunpowder?”

The four looked at each other. Shan Bowen was pushed forward to answer:

“When we went to the neighboring county to buy dung from Hu traders, we encountered a group of old Daoists. It reminded us that the New Year was coming, and since books mentioned splendid fireworks before, we tried making some.”

The “system,” playing nearby with candied fruit, saw the spectacle and waddled on little legs, calling:

“Wow! Fireworks, and you didn’t invite me? Without my hints, you couldn’t even have made them—how could you leave me out…”

Before finishing, Shen Qinghe scooped him up around the waist. Seeing the sugar in his hand, clearly brought back from town by students, Shen tugged his hood close, whispering:

“Greedy little thing—still pretending to be a child, tricking sweets for yourself.”

“I didn’t trick!” the system protested, gold eyes flashing. “They gave these to me! Only me, not you.” His long lashes winked, curling into sly delight.

Shen Qinghe merely rolled eyes. If he still has spare time to play, it just means his study schedule isn’t full enough. When the holiday passes, I’ll load him with work—he’ll be too tired to run about!

In the Yong dynasty, New Year customs included “fire worship”—usually just a string of firecrackers lit before the county office. People from around crowded to see, and after one round of popping sound, the festival was over.

But here—such dazzling, such enormous fireworks, shooting into the sky, visible from miles away! At first a fright, then novelty turned to joy. Everyone laughed till hands waved wildly.

Qiuquan was a forgotten speck on the empire’s map—never had it been so lively.

When Shen Qinghe descended the hill, he saw crowds of villagers already gathered. In Qiuquan there were usually few children, yet tonight families came entire—old with cane, toddlers pulling sleeves—all staring up, eyes filled with joy, excitement, and for the first time truly alive.

He glanced back—students were setting more fuses. The system had ears covered by Gao Rong, waiting gleefully. You Luo and Xu Lesheng darted away at each ignition before standing grinning, anticipating the burst in the sky.

Further off, even the weary, over-aged government clerks, long dragged into overtime by his reforms, had sneaked out the office gates to steal glimpses, whispering awe at the night turned brighter than noon.

Everything seemed to be improving.

Yet festive respite soon passed, and work resumed with relentless pace.

The high furnaces and charcoal kilns steamed ceaselessly, workers bare-chested, now skilled enough to operate alone. Tools and farm implements flowed out in endless supply, crafted to design—early harvest of results.

On the southern banks of the Kuai River, silk-rearing houses and weaving workshops were under construction. Later, when water-powered spinning looms ran, efficiency would skyrocket. In Great Yong, where gauzes and brocades were literal currency, such production equaled owning a mint—this would be a pillar enterprise.

The most urgent problem—food—was targeted in the experimental fields. He had seen them days ago: seedlings already thigh-high, strong and vigorous, hundreds of times healthier than the sickly shoots of local households.

He knew the saying, “South of the Huai grows oranges, north of Huai are trifoliate oranges”¹. Environments changed outcomes. If these seedlings proved high-yield, their methods and seeds would be spread widely—sown in spring, harvested in autumn, ensuring future abundance for every family.

But as he thought while walking to the test field, he found a crowd already gathered, students included. Unease stirred within him.

At the fence, a gap was smashed open. Seedlings near it lay twisted, yanked out crudely. Soil gouged and ragged.

“Teacher,” the students greeted. They recounted: last night someone sneaked in, broke the barrier, and stole the sprouts.

Shen Qinghe frowned. “But nothing has grown yet—why steal sprouts?”

Old farmer Ma San answered with grief:

“What else? To eat, of course! In famine, even tree bark in a hundred li could be stripped clean. How could such tender shoots not be stolen? These fiends! Could they not see—these would save whole lives after growing? Now all consumed in empty bellies, wasted!” Tears nearly fell as he stared at the ruin.

Shen eyed the ruined ground. “Loss still manageable. Reseed quickly. These millet and wheat sprout early—this spring is crucial. After this, stricter watch is needed, guards at night. Another few raids, and even an empire’s fields could not stand it!” He cracked a joke to soften hearts.

Tenants, relieved they weren’t blamed, relaxed. Such a benevolent landlord was rare! Already, in just days here, they had learned skills serving them entire life. Even if unpaid, they would still gladly work!

Suddenly a strong gale struck, nearly blowing them. Shen Qinghe wrapped his collar tighter. Muttered: “What monster wind is this? Trying to carry us away?” A splash of wet cold dropped upon his cheek. He wiped—it was ice pellet.

Strange indeed. Qiuquan’s land face south with mountains shielding moisture. Rarely snowed, even whole winters. Yet in spring, snow began to fall? Impossible?

Looking up, he saw sky churn. Smoke-thick clouds spun, sun blackened, wind howled, ice grit rained harder.

His mind rang with alarm bells. He shouted: “Quick—pull the mats!”

Though confused, they obeyed—dragging straw mats from sheds, covering the shoots. Above, lightning flickered, thunder groaned east to west. Chests pounded from the pressure.

Students realized too, rushing their movements.

Ma San paused, dazed. “Thunder now? Will it rain?”

Suddenly a chunk slammed down. Ma San cried in pain, blood seeping from brow.

The clouds gave birth at last. From them plummeted hailstones—round and sharp, beans and fists alike. The earth dented at each blow—what then of fragile flesh?

Terror spread. People seized shelter in huts, peering out cracks, horrified by pounding ice smashing roofs, shaking beams, flattening fields. They cowered, whispering prayers to every deity to cease such punishment.

Shen Qinghe, seeing deathly hail and mats exhausted, acted quick—sent men to hide in a toolshed nearby. Farmers wept with despair, thinking divine wrath laid upon them.

He heard them praying: “Punishment of heaven.” Laughed briefly—not in mockery, but to himself. His fingers tapped fast on a table.

Indeed—besides smelting, charcoal, silk, weaving—one more essential remains.

Without the flame of knowledge, how can a nation stand secure?

The storm raged half an hour before halting. At first, farmers ran out with a shred of hope. What greeted them was devastation—hailstones blanketing fields, seedlings shredded in pits and mud.

They lifted sprouts in vain—one fell as another toppled. Only mats had shielded a fraction.

The rough men sat collapsed, faces pale as death.

Students surveyed silently, writing damage records. Despair lined every wordless face.

Shen Qinghe himself hadn’t foreseen such sudden hail. Circling the field, he raised brokenhearted farmers:

“Today—leave it. Go home at once. See to your families first.”

Awakening from stupor, they hurried away, worried of worse at their homes.

As Shen had long known, Qiuquan’s resilience was fragile as eggshell. A single gale or disaster could topple the county. As governor, he must soothe his people.

Arriving at clustered homes, as expected—fields were ignored, people wept. Ruin all around: hail, crushed crops, yellow-green stalks mangled, too pitiful to look upon.

Out of huts, survivors stumbled, moaning despair. They grovelled on knees, banging heads to earth in frenzy, between wails:

“What sin have we committed, Heaven, that you abandon us?!”

“My parents died, my wife gone, my baby last year too. Now my turn to die next…”

“A cursed life I am, carrying plague wherever I go…”

“Merciful God above, grant us a way to live!”

But heaven gave no reply. Only the sobbing wind.

Shen Qinghe gazed at rows kneeling faces, unique yet identical in grief. For a while, he could not speak.

Nearest him knelt a young girl, no more than seven or eight. Skin and bones, eyes bulging, hair yellow and stringy, tied by rope. She wore nothing but a tattered tunic down to her knees, no trousers.

She did not understand why adults knelt or kowtowed, nor what prayers were. Only obediently mimicked, murmuring “have mercy,” till a gleaming hailstone tempted her eye.

She toddled over, grasped one—only to drop it rolling. It stopped by Shen Qinghe’s boot.

He picked it up. She searched his face, confirmed—it was a gift. Joyful, she hobbled awkwardly—her gait uneven, one leg weaker. Cradling the hailstone carefully, she looked curiously at the lone grown man standing.

Shen fished a piece of candy from his sleeve, offering.

She did not move.

“This is sugar. Sweet.” He unwrapped the oil-paper, handed again.

This time she understood. Slowly she received it, placed on tongue. Better… even than rice!

“What’s your name?”

She shook head, then whispered, “I… Er-Niu (Second Girl).”²

“Good, Er-Niu.” Shen squatted, wiping dirt from her face with his sleeve. Gently, he asked: “Would you like to leave here—to see the world beyond?”

She blinked. “Go… where?”

Shen smiled. “Would you like to eat sweets every day?” He pointed at the candy paper.

“Yes!” she answered quickly. Then, shy, “I want to, Brother.”

“Good. Brother’s word is bond. I will make sure Er-Niu eats candy every day.”

Then, standing tall, the young governor strode forward into the weeping crowd.

Footnotes

1. “Huainan is orange, north of Huai is bush-sour orange (枳)” – A Chinese proverb meaning environment changes outcomes. Something excellent in one place may become inferior elsewhere. Shen applies this to the crops: adapting seeds to local conditions. 
2. “Er-Niu (二妞)” – A humble, rustic nickname common among peasants. Literally Second Girl, it signifies her family likely had an elder daughter before her. Such names reflected poverty and low education but also a kind of stubborn survival.