Chapter 8: A Very Important Person

“Where is there a solution that satisfies both sides?”

Li Pan chuckled bitterly: “A strong army risks repeating the mistake of military rule; a weak army must rely on sheer numbers—but too few troops are useless, and too many mean higher recruitment costs.”

This was true: the greatest of the Song’s ‘Three Excesses’ was indeed ‘excess troops.’

The Song’s fiscal revenue combined in-kind and monetary taxes; during Emperor Renzong’s reign, annual revenue amounted to roughly 57 to 70 million copper cash.

Eighty percent of this went to sustaining over a million standing troops; another eight percent supported scholar-officials; only twelve percent remained for all other expenses.

Thus, the Song was rich—and yet desperately short of money.

Without sufficient funds, the standing army—so full of unstable elements—could not be maintained; not only would the borders collapse, but Song society as a whole would descend into chaos.

Whether the Qingli Reforms of the past or the Xining Reforms of the future, their purpose, in plain terms, was two words: raise money!

Lu Beigu pointed to the scroll on the table titled ‘Strategies for Defending Against Xia.’

“If we follow the plan laid out in my ‘Strategies for Defending Against Xia’—recruiting large numbers of local archers to garrison the fortresses and withdrawing underperforming Imperial and Garrison troops—we could save at least two million cash annually along the northwestern frontier.”

“The court will never permit the large-scale recruitment of local archers.”

Li Pan frowned slightly, growing impatient.

If Lu Beigu had only these ideas, there was no point continuing this conversation.

But then Lu Beigu said seriously: “Recruiting only half as many local archers might still be feasible.”

“It might be feasible—but half would only save one million cash, not enough to train a cavalry force.”

Li Pan picked up his teacup, then set it down again, sighing helplessly.

“You don’t know the market price of horses: a Tibetan horse costs fifty to seventy cash; a Tangut horse costs over a hundred. And feeding them costs more too—one million cash won’t sustain even ten thousand cavalry; a few thousand won’t change anything.”

Yet at that moment, Lu Beigu suddenly spoke.

“I do have a way to bridge the one-million-cash gap—but I’m not sure whether I should speak it.”

“Say it freely.”

“Have you ever considered that salt, grain, and money are not separate? All things are interconnected.”

Li Pan’s brow tightened further; he seemed thoughtful, yet still didn’t grasp it.

Until Lu Beigu leaned close to Li Pan’s ear and whispered a few words; after listening, Li Pan froze, then cut him off.

“So this is the concrete method behind your ‘severing the economic sinews’ strategy mentioned in your essay?”

“Yes.”

“How did you come up with such a… far-fetched idea?”

Lu Beigu replied honestly: “Inspired by Ding Wei’s story.”

For the first time, Li Pan showed signs of agitation; he rose and paced the room.

As a pragmatist, he knew this plan was far more detailed—and thus genuinely viable—than the general outline of the ‘Strategies for Defending Against Xia.’

—This was the true unfolding of the essay’s most critical economic policy.

Precisely because it was so viable, Li Pan, for an instant, entertained the thought of claiming it as his own.

The thought was immoral—but Li Pan was no moralist; he had always known that to realize his ambitions, he needed power commensurate with them.

And the best way to gain higher power was to win the favor of his superiors.

In Sichuan right now, there was a high-ranking official about to be promoted—one who would surely appreciate Lu Beigu’s proposal; Li Pan was certain.

But the moment the thought of claiming it arose, Li Pan crushed it.

Not out of morality—only out of calculation.

After a few breaths of thought, Li Pan looked at Lu Beigu, seated upright before him, and made his decision.

“This plan—once you leave this room, you tell no one!”

Li Pan said seriously: “If this works, it will be of immense consequence. I must report it to my superior. I’ll write a letter to Chengdu Prefecture now. When I return after the Cold Food Festival, I’ll take you to meet someone—and you’ll explain it all to him.”

Lu Beigu’s heart skipped: “Who?”

Li Pan said solemnly: “A very important person.”

“If you impress him, your future is boundless!”

Lu Beigu fell silent.

Things seemed to have set off a chain reaction.

But for him, it seemed all benefit and no risk—his lowly status meant no one would truly hold him accountable if he said something foolish.

After all, he was just a young student from the county school; it was normal to lack foresight or experience.

Conversely, if he spoke well, the rewards would be immense.

As for who this “very important person” was, Lu Beigu could not guess.

But he was certain the person’s rank exceeded that of a Department Magistrate.

For one, if it were merely his immediate superior like a Department Magistrate, Li Pan wouldn’t be so grave; for another, Li Pan was sending the letter to Chengdu, not Luzhou—that alone spoke volumes.

Lu Beigu nodded in agreement; the two spoke a while longer, and when the tea was finished, Li Pan let him go.

“During the Cold Food Festival, organize your thoughts clearly—don’t make any mistakes when the time comes.”

“I understand.”

After Lu Beigu left, Li Pan wrote a secret letter, then summoned two trusted attendants and gave them precise orders.

“Don’t take the riverboat upstream—ride fast horses along the relay roads. Each of you gets two horses; spare no effort, push hard, aim to arrive in five days.”

“When you reach Chengdu, deliver this letter personally to Zhang Fangping’s residence, then wait there for word. Only when you receive Zhang Fangping’s direct order may you return—charter a boat, hire several boatmen to take turns rowing, don’t delay on the journey, return to Hejiang County as quickly as possible—understood?”

“Yes!”

Watching the two attendants hurry toward the stables, Li Pan’s brow finally relaxed; he gazed at the copied scroll of ‘Strategies for Defending Against Xia’ and murmured:

“Many could conceive of border defense and espionage—but this economic strategy? Such an idea is truly rare.”

Meanwhile, Lu Beigu, outside the county school, knew nothing of Li Pan’s thoughts; he only felt hesitant.

Whether it was the high-ranking figure Li Pan would introduce him to after the week’s break, or the county examination two months away—both lay in the future.

But right now, where should he go?

Logically, he should return home.

The Song Dynasty was perhaps the most vacation-rich era in Chinese history, with a quarter of the year officially off.

The Cold Food Festival, alongside New Year and Winter Solstice, was one of the three major holidays, lasting seven full days; combined with Qingming, students received eight days off.

With such a long break, no one stayed at the county school—everyone returned home to observe the festival and honor ancestors.

Having inherited the former body’s memories, Lu Beigu had also inherited the emotions tied to them.

After all, a person is made of memories.

Though his soul came from the modern world, he still felt an unbreakable bond with this era’s family.

“If I’ve decided to live well in this age, avoidance won’t help—ugly daughters-in-law must meet their in-laws. Face it head-on.”

Lu Beigu packed his belongings, slung his book satchel over his shoulder, and walked to the ferry dock near the county school.

At the dock, several black-canopied boats rested quietly along the shore, their prows anchored on stone slabs, their sterns dipped in emerald water.

Boatmen squatted in groups on the bank; seeing a passenger, they rose to call out.

Then, from one of the black-canopied boats, someone called his name.

Lu Beigu looked closely—it was one of the two classmates who had shouted to rescue him when he fell into the water.

His name was Lu Guangyu.

“Brother Lu? Where are you headed?”

“My home is in Erlangtan Village, Gulin Town.”

Lu Beigu paused—so they lived in the same town; Lu Beigu in the town proper, Lu Guangyu in the nearby village.

Clearly, the former owner had been poor at socializing—he hadn’t even known a fellow townsman traveling the same way.

After thanking Lu Guangyu again for saving his life, Lu Beigu asked curiously:

“I saw you leave the county school earlier—why aren’t you already on your way?”

“Ah, the boatman waits until everyone’s aboard before setting off.”

“Of course.”

Lu Beigu nodded. “Let’s go home together—good company.”

He stepped onto the gangplank; the boat swayed slightly, startling several waterbirds perched along the rail.

Inside the black canopy, he sat on a bamboo chair lashed to the cabin floor; from here, the Anle Creek water was clear to the bottom, fish and pebbles visible without obstruction.

“Set sail!”

After a while, once the boat was full, the boatman at the prow raised his pole and shouted; the pole pushed against the emerald waves, and the black-canopied boat drifted slowly from shore.

The city of Hejiang receded; its gray walls faded in and out of spring mist, like a brushstroke ink painting.

As the boat glided along the creek, green mountains rose on either bank like dark ink.

Mid-spring: azaleas blazed crimson among the evergreens; white egrets skimmed the water, their wings brushing ripples that vanished instantly into the reeds.

Between Hejiang County and Gulin Town, the Anle Creek was wide, slow-flowing, and nearly free of rocky shallows—no towing needed.

Oh, by the way: Anle Creek is the modern Chishui River.

In Qin and Han times, the river flowed through the Nanyi Weibei tribe, so it was called ‘Weibei Water’; during Han, Wei, and Jin, it was known as ‘Dashex Water’; in Sui and Tang, its red waters and venomous snakes earned it the name ‘Chi Hui River.’

In today’s Song, because its banks teemed with ancient trees, vines, cypresses, bamboos, birds, and flowers—pleasing in every season—it was renamed ‘Anle Creek.’ The change to ‘Chishui River’ came in the Ming Dynasty.

Travel by cart, horse, or boat was slow; watching the scenery, Lu Beigu’s mind gradually quieted.

He chatted idly with Lu Guangyu; listening to them, the old boatman at the stern spoke up:

“Young masters, are you returning to Gulin for the Cold Food Festival?”

“Yes—we study at the county school,” Lu Guangyu replied.

“This is serious!” the old man’s eyes lit up. “Every high official in the court is a scholar! Only through study can one achieve great fortune!”

Lu Beigu heard this and merely smiled without speaking.

It’s true that every high official in the court is a scholar, and it’s true that students at the county school are scholars too—but you must still pass every exam and become a Jinshi, don’t you?

At that moment, Lu Guangyu suddenly asked.

“What are your plans, Brother Lu?”

(End of Chapter)