WSMTATMC C51

Chapter 51

Málàtàng (“spicy-hot soup”) was to be both numbing and hot—but in this era there was yet no chili pepper. Wang Ying, however, discovered that peasants used a different spice in its place: Zhuyu (茱萸, Chinese peppercorn berries).

Zhuyu had varieties: Wu Zhuyu, Shan Zhuyu, and Shi Zhuyu. The last, Shi Zhuyu, bore strong pungence—its sharp taste akin to heat.

Stronger even than modern chilies, once Wang bought some and touched his skin accidentally: his face flushed, tears and snot poured endlessly. Tonight, he would put it to true use making málàtàng.

He modeled it after the stalls outside his old school in the Northeast: besides common vegetables, he made fish and lamb meatballs by hand.

The fish were Liang’s catch. Of late, the old man had taken to fishing every afternoon after lunch, lingering by the brook, returning with small fish. Too scrawny for meat, Ying minced, seasoned, and rolled them into savory balls.

As for staple, he deep‑fried strands of noodles to harden, so when boiled in broth, they softened with springy chew—much like instant ramen of his former world.

That night, they sat to dine. The old scholar devoured two great bowls, sighed still unsated: “Exquisite! This málàtàng is unmatched flavor!”

Ying seized his bowl. “No more! Tomorrow again. Too much in one night will only bloat your belly.”

The old man’s eyes clung to the pot, dabbing his beard. “Remember then—tomorrow!”

Wang Ying laughed helplessly. Who would guess the “South’s First Genius” was, at heart, a glutton?

After supper, the master and his three pupils strolled the courtyard. May’s night air was cool, yet thanks to the sulphur of the nearby spring, mosquitoes never came. Only crickets chirped loudly in chorus.

“Did you all read the letter from Shanzhou?” Liang asked.

Together they answered, “Yes.”

“And what remedies do you propose?”

They blinked, surprised. Liang explained: “Your uncle Zhenghe (Chen Jing’s courtesy name) suffers turmoil. Idle minds are wasted—better you suggest and ease his burden.”

Qinghuai spoke first: “The priority must be pacifying outlaws. In late dynasty wars, many rebels fled and now hide in Shanzhou, Lanzhou, Lingzhou. Alongside Hu and Di tribes who resist our rule, unrest festers. Banditry must be crushed.”

Liang neither praised nor blamed—he turned to the others. “And you?”

Qingsong said: “My cousin speaks well. Yet perhaps first attempt amnesty. Should they refuse, then the sword.”

Lastly Qingyan, thoughtful, countered: “Brothers’ words are earnest, but the records show: as far back as Sui, Shanzhou was called Pingliang, largely Han. Yes, it borders tribes—but most who fall into banditry are our own, driven only by hunger.

“Drought there is cruel, farming near impossible. When folk cannot eat, they rob to live. Amnesty or suppression may work for a time—but only by solving their food and livelihood can lasting peace settle.”

Liang stroked his beard, brightening. “Well struck. And how would you feed them?”

Qingyan sank his head. “This student is too dull…no answer yet.”

At that moment Wang Ying, quiet until now, suddenly spoke: “In fact, not difficult.”

Liang did not scorn him for being a “gē’er”. Instead his eyes lit. “Do tell.”

Ying, schooled of his former world, knew well: that land was what in modern day was Qinghai—cold, arid, plagued by frost and hail. Yearly disasters devastated crops. No wonder poor folk turned outlaw.

“So,” Wang Ying explained, “why force crops on barren soil? Better to convert to pasture economy. Sheep thrive in those meadows. From sheep comes wool—woven finer and warmer than cotton. Mutton, hides, even tallow—all wealth.

“Meanwhile, grain trade lies nearby—Qingzhou the empire’s largest granary sits next. They can trade wool for food.”

Liang bowed his head in wonder. Was this truly spoken by a mere household husband? “The shame is—such brilliance in a gē’er, untapped. Yet your thoughts surpass even your brothers’.”

Ying laughed shyly. He knew—he merely borrowed hindsight of modern history.

Liang declared: “Then—what you three gave, I shall compile and draft in letter back to Chen Zhenghe. We shall see if he applies it.”

Later that night, when in bed, Qingyan still pondered deeply. “Brother—if we build this economy—how implement? What of bandits? Unless crushed, they’ll strangle trade.”

Ying, drowsy against his shoulder, murmured: “Strike down the worst—kill chiefs, set example. Then amnesty others, lure them to stay farm. Once they taste peace, they’ll not return to hills.”

“And if not?”

“Then…I’m sleeping.”

Qingyan rolled atop him, rubbing: “Tell me more, brother…”

He grinned, shed robes without shame, tugging them together. “Then reward systems—exempt taxes for families who raise ten sheep; more sheep, less levy. Purchase wool at good prices. Build roads, inn travel, open trade. Prosperity shall quench blades.”

Their whispers soon dissolved into sighs and soft groans.

May arrives—the busy season. Night winds stir from the south, wheat turns gold upon the ridges.

Harvest time neared. But though drought had stunted many fields, leaving heads shriveled—their extraordinary test plot stood lush: stalks hut‑high, heavy bearded.

At dawn, many gathered. Ying arrived to find farmers crowding.

“Why so many?” he asked.

Steward Chen Xi answered: “Word spread—today you reap the test plot. All come to see its yield.”

“Good,” Ying smiled. “Who has strength? Help me cut.”

Seven, eight men volunteered, sickles flashing. Within one hour, the mu of land lay stacked in golden sheaves.

Elders at once calculated yield. “This acre must be five shi grains!”

“Nonsense—six at least!”

(A shi ≈ 100 Chinese jin ≈ 60 kg. Five shi = 300 kg. Ordinary fields yielded 200 kg best, sometimes half.)

So plentiful, drought‑proof!

Though not yet equal to modern hybrid yields, for this age it was nothing short of miracle: two hundred years’ leap in productivity.

Ying declared: “After drying, each household shall take thirty jin seed. Next year, sow only this strain.”

The villagers cheered wildly, waving stalks in jubilation. “With this seed, none shall starve!”

By the brook, Liang lifted his head from fishing. “What celebration?”

Qingyan explained. “Brother Ying is harvesting trial grain.”

“Show me!”

They approached. Wang Ying greeted formal: “This is drought‑resistant seed I bred. Yields six shi per mu.”

Eyebrows rose high. Liang grew grave. “Truly?!”

“I dare not lie. Sown last autumn, yielded thrice more than neighboring fields.”

“And seed came from where?”

“I crossbred varieties myself—selected, re‑planted.” Ying spoke truth—though in different life it had been his university graduation project.

Liang’s brow furrowed, beard gripped.

Nervous, Ying asked softly: “Is there…wrong?”

Liang demanded: “Write the full process!”

“Yes.” Ying smiled—weaving now his old research into rustic script.

“Also give me ten jin seed.”

“As you wish.”

He did not yet realize—by doubling yields, he had shaken the empire.

For Liang’s old schoolmate now served in Court of Agriculture (大司农). Once had chatted of a subordinate—raised from commoner to Sixth Grade Farming Officer because he improved millet yield.

If this young Wang truly had revolutionized wheat—his worth might overturn even Qingyan’s ruined exam fate.

That night, Ying filled ten pages of rough scrolls, omitting modern science but preserving practical steps: hybridization, selection methods. Even so, it astonished with novelty.

Next morning, Liang read seriously. Though no farmer, even he felt the ingenious logic. “Where did you learn this?”

“I…no one taught me. I only studied by trial.”

“Hmph. Your hand is ugly. Qingyan—copy this fairly, and send. And set aside grain.”

Within days, the thick letter, bound with ten jin of dried seed, rode swift couriers bound for the Capital.

notes

• Shi (石) – traditional unit of dry grain measure. In Ming standards, 1 shi ≈ 100 jin ≈ 60 kilograms (~132 lbs). So 6 shi ≈ 360 kg.