Chapter 6: Yizhou, This Is Called the Republic

People say seeing a mountain makes you run till you drop, but the town you spot from afar always turns out much farther than you expected when you actually walk there.

Back in my hometown of Hailing, it was mostly flatland, with only one lone hill, barely fifty meters high.

Chu Tianshu had never truly felt the grind of mountain paths until he came here.

His stomach had already been stirred up by his martial practice, leaving him ravenous; now, walking this whole way, his belly kept rumbling intermittently.

As soon as he entered the town, the aromas of all kinds of food swirled into his nose.

The clothing of the people around him looked vaguely like the Republic era—most wore patched trousers and shirts, with hair cut to an awkward, medium length.

A cart pulled by a donkey stood by the roadside; the driver rolled up his sleeves, devouring a large baked bun with a happy face, a gourd resting beside him.

Street vendors shouted their wares: figs, bee pupae, and malt sugar.

One stall had a cast-iron wok heating sand to roast peanuts and sunflower seeds—their scent the strongest of all.

Patrons on the second floor of the tavern couldn’t resist leaning halfway out, a young man with short hair and a Western suit, calling down for a packet of freshly roasted and sifted peanuts, tossing down a few copper coins.

The vendor eagerly agreed, handed the packet to a half-grown boy beside him, who dashed off to deliver it in a flash.

“Roasted eggplant with chili paste, chicken stewed with wood ginger—coming through! Watch your step!”

The waiter had just carried out two dishes when he saw the boy sprint past; he quickly stepped aside, shouting, “Slow down, don’t bump into anyone!”

The boy had already reached the stairs and slowed his pace.

The waiter placed the dishes on the table, and the guest added, “My fish-slice porridge—make sure the fish is even more tender next time.”

“Hah, Master Meng’s said it eight times already—I told the head chef long ago, rest easy.”

The waiter, familiar with the guest, exchanged a few more words, wiped sweat from his shoulder with a towel, then spotted a young man entering the door.

His attire looked Western, yet different from any Western clothes he’d seen before.

But the fabric looked truly fine—clearly expensive.

“Brother, come sit.”

The waiter stepped forward, smiling, “Here to eat? We also offer lodging.”

Fortunately, though their accents were thick, he could still grasp the general meaning.

Chu Tianshu sat at the table, possessing not a single coin of this land’s currency, yet showing no sign of it; he scanned the other tables and said calmly, “Bring two plates of roast chicken, one of eggplant.”

“Right away.”

The waiter called to the kitchen, then added, “Would you like tea? Or a dish of stir-fried mushrooms?”

The waiter boasted, “You look new here—probably never heard of it. Our head chef’s stir-fried mushrooms are legendary; fame spreads for miles around. No customer has ever gotten sick, and the flavor is always fresh.”

“City folks come all the way here just to taste this one dish with peace of mind.”

Chu Tianshu nodded: “Then bring it.”

The dishes arrived quickly—the eggplant and chicken clearly prepared early; the tea came fast too, but the mushrooms hadn’t yet been served.

Chu Tianshu didn’t wait—he sipped tea to moisten his throat, then picked up a piece of chicken.

He’d eaten dishes like shredded chicken with wood ginger before, but this roast chicken tasted utterly different.

It wasn’t just the cooking method—it was because this chicken… had no MSG; his tongue felt something missing.

The shredded chicken he bought back home advertised “natural wood ginger flavor, no added MSG”—now, comparing them side by side, he knew exactly how much MSG and oil those vendors had soaked it in.

But this roast chicken? Its aroma was rich, and the meat itself was of excellent quality.

Chu Tianshu’s mind still had room to savor, but his mouth never stopped.

The churning, growling stomach, as chicken kept going in, finally quieted down.

After eating through more than half of both plates of chicken, Chu Tianshu finally picked up a piece of eggplant and poured himself another cup of hot tea.

The first bite of eggplant made his eyebrows twitch—he quickly drank tea.

Now holding the teacup, observing the others around him, he had more mental space.

Most guests weren’t alone—they ate while chatting, talking about family matters, local business, or gossip about widows.

Chu Tianshu listened for a while, heard nothing of value, then turned his gaze to the old shopkeeper behind the counter and studied him longer.

The old man wore a skullcap, but his hair was short; he held a large sheet of paper, muttering softly to himself as he read.

His demeanor felt familiar.

After Grandpa Chu grew old, he’d sometimes sit outside on a small stool, basking in the sun, flipping through old newspapers—this old man’s expression was nearly identical.

Chu Tianshu poured himself tea, strolled over slowly, and smiled: “What’re you reading? A newspaper?”

The old shopkeeper looked up—he was short, thin-armed, with a round face, bushy eyebrows, large eyes, and a slightly red nose; his complexion was decent.

“Yes.”

The old man smiled, speaking in the slow, scholarly tone of a Confucian scholar: “Without stepping out the door, one knows the affairs of the world—back in ancient times, that was Zhuge Liang’s talent.”

“But nowadays, our Yizhou Daily’s quality varies wildly—everyone says their own thing; there’s more humor, but it doesn’t feel as solid as it did two years ago.”

Chu Tianshu feigned curiosity: “I haven’t read any newspapers from here yet—mind if I take a look?”

“Of course.”

The old man readily set down the paper, crouched behind the counter, “I’ve got plenty of old issues lying around—might as well dig them out and browse again.”

The newspaper used traditional characters, which Chu Tianshu could read.

He skimmed the new paper at a glance, leaned against the counter, chatted with the old man, and naturally began reading the old issues too.

Eight years ago, the former dynasty’s government launched the “Dian Nan Chao Bao,” the first newspaper in all of Yizhou, printed on local rough paper with lead-type vertical columns, four-page size, one issue daily, sold mainly at prefectural, district, and county offices for a mere five copper coins per copy.

After the former dynasty fell and regional powers carved out autonomy, Yizhou established the Great Han Military Government, followed by the “Great Han Yizhou Daily” and the “Yizhou Government Gazette.”

Content included imperial edicts, editorial summaries, local news, capital updates, and international news.

Reading these old papers revealed the broader historical context and the current state of the region.

The era of this world was unmistakably familiar—it could truly be called the Republic.

But some details didn’t quite match Chu Tianshu’s mental image of “the Republic.”

In the late Qing, the people hung by a thread, chaos reigned, foreign powers lurked, and patriots had long resented the court.

An elder named Sun had failed repeatedly, yet persisted, eventually igniting a great movement, raising the banner of rebellion; righteous men across the land rose in response.

Dozens of former Qing-appointed regional commanders also switched flags and joined this surging tide.

Forces from all sides pressured the capital; Elder Sun entered first.

The palace was in chaos—no one knew where the fire started; soldiers ran wild, eunuchs and palace maids fled, nobles’ carriages dashed in panic.

After entering the palace, Elder Sun ordered the fire put out, fished the imperial seal from a well, took the young emperor by the hand, and led him onto the Golden Throne, demonstrating mercy.

The emperor then abdicated; the realm agreed on a president—Elder Sun took the position without hesitation.

Yet despite his towering reputation, Elder Sun’s personal military strength remained limited.

He sat uneasily on the presidency, and not long after, died suddenly during a trip.

Rumors whispered he’d been secretly poisoned by Qing loyalists—poor hero, not slain on the battlefield, but by treachery.

Yuan, the former Qing commander of the north, now holds the presidency, with generals like Cao Bo Kun under him—mighty warriors abound, his power the greatest.

Regional powers nominally submit to the president, yet retain their own ambitions—never to be underestimated.

For example, after Elder Sun’s death, his widow and two sons seized his faction, now entrenched in the southeast; his legacy remains unbroken, with great potential.

In Bashu, there’s a Governor Liu, once among the famed Eight Steeds of the former dynasty, deeply trusted, deeply rooted, formidable in strength.

The Great Han Military Government of Yizhou once had the air of a regional kingdom.

But the former Military Governor of Yizhou was a scholar-general, originally a farmer in the southern clouds; though he mastered both Eastern and Western arts, and studied military strategy, he still felt the people’s suffering—toppling the Qing was hard enough; training troops and farming would take time, so he refused to start wars lightly.

Thus, he accepted the president’s new appointment, resigned as Military Governor, and departed for the capital.

After the transition of power, intrigue simmered within the military government; Yizhou’s strength is no longer as stable as before.

Bandits and outlaws once crushed by local forces are showing signs of revival.

Even moderately prosperous towns must maintain their own militia—training nonstop, patrolling endlessly.

That’s still not enough; many wealthy families spend heavily, hiring large numbers of strong young guards from martial schools and escort agencies.

The place Chu Tianshu now stands in is precisely such a typical, prosperous small town within Yizhou.

“Damn, Yuan, Cao, Sun, Liu—my home’s Republic had Yuan, Sun, Liu, but was there a Cao…?”

Chu Tianshu recalled his historical knowledge, then gave up.

No need to overthink it.

The moment he saw the full name of this President Yuan, he knew this wasn’t the same man from his home’s history—maybe just a parallel world variant.

The grand picture is too distant—he doesn’t need to consider it now; thinking won’t help.

The urgent task now? … Get money!

Physicians speak of observation, auscultation, inquiry, and palpation—often, merely observing appearance reveals a person’s ailments.

When Chu Tianshu first entered this tavern, he’d already set his target: a man called Master Meng.

He had short hair, narrow eyes, a broad, fat frame, sat alone at a table, wore a black silk robe embroidered with silver thread over his long gown, ordered a full meal—he was clearly a glutton.

But he ate slowly, his forehead flushed, face slightly yellow, pausing often to catch his breath, glancing around before resuming.

Chu Tianshu approached as he was picking fish slices from his porridge.

“Brother, I heard fish-slice porridge tastes best when piping hot—may I ask, does Yizhou have some secret method for serving it cooled?”

Master Meng, impressed by Chu Tianshu’s appearance, smiled: “Others may not know, but I personally prefer it cool.”

Chu Tianshu deliberately sized him up: “You strike me as a fellow connoisseur of fine food, but I know some medicine—eating too many cold dishes either causes diarrhea or indigestion, and then you won’t be able to enjoy any more delicacies.”

Master Meng nodded in agreement, putting down his chopsticks: “You’re right—I’ve lost my appetite these past two years. I consulted famous physicians—they said I have fire-damp consumption, told me to eat more raw water chestnuts and water caltrops to clear heat and reduce fire.”

“Heh, that suits me fine, but eating them hasn’t helped at all.”

Chu Tianshu sat down beside him: “Mind if I take your pulse?”

Master Meng extended his hand without hesitation: “Go ahead.”

Chu Tianshu had already suspected as much; taking his pulse was merely to confirm it.

Indeed, this man did not suffer from fire-induced consumption—he had worms in his belly.

Eating raw fish, shrimp, meat, or poorly washed fruits and vegetables could easily lead to swallowing roundworm eggs.

Though tiny, these eggs could hatch into adults that grew remarkably long inside the human body, primarily parasitizing the intestines, stealing nutrients, causing bloating and indigestion, insomnia and fever, or even triggering bronchitis or lung inflammation.

That senior physician must have diagnosed him with bronchitis and assumed it was a case of “fire-induced consumption,” advising him to eat more foods to clear heat and reduce fire—only worsening his condition.

Ancient medical practice was pragmatic and rooted in truth, evolving continuously; as early as the Northern Song Dynasty, the *Kai Bao Ben Cao* recorded that people had discovered a herb called “Shi Jun Zi,” highly effective at eliminating accumulations and killing worms.

In later generations, this was the most widely used remedy among all deworming formulas.

Chu Tianshu’s hometown shared so many parallels with this world’s development; surely local herbs and prescriptions of similar nature existed here too.

Most likely, due to the limitations of the age, some medical texts had not spread widely—even this renowned physician, despite his fame, had never learned of these remedies.

Chu Tianshu said, “Brother, your illness is indeed severe, but I have a method that will produce immediate results.”

Meng Dashao blinked, sizing him up: “What do you mean by ‘immediate results’? You look like someone who’s studied abroad—don’t tell me you plan to cut open my belly like those foreign doctors?”

Chu Tianshu shook his head: “Of course not. Your condition is nowhere near that point. Anyone suggesting to cut you open is a quack who’d kill you.”

Meng Dashao frowned suspiciously: “Then you’re trying to sell medicine?”

Normally, this condition could be treated with proper medication—but Chu Tianshu didn’t know the quality of herbs in this world, nor could he gauge the correct dosage.

Besides, slow medication wouldn’t showcase Chu Tianshu’s skill, nor would it secure his fee the fastest way possible.

“No medicine needed—only alcohol.”

Chu Tianshu, confident and composed, turned to the waiter: “Please bring me the strongest liquor this shop has—a whole pot.”

The waiter moved swiftly, turning to the liquor cabinet beside the counter, returning in a few steps with a pot placed on the table, then resuming his other duties.

Chu Tianshu sniffed the pot’s mouth—yes, it was strong liquor. He poured half a cup, dipped a chopstick into it, and told Meng Dashao to spread his palms open.

“Hmm!”

Chu Tianshu pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, emitting a low hum from his nasal cavity, his eyes glowing faintly.

The chopstick, dipped in alcohol, swept lightly across the skin—like a cold wind sweeping in—lingering on Meng Dashao’s palms, tracing characters with fluid precision.

A talisman appeared on his left palm in an instant; he dipped the chopstick again, and another talisman formed on his right palm.

Though focused, Chu Tianshu’s movements appeared casual, quiet, and unobtrusive.

No one in the tavern’s main hall noticed them—only the old shopkeeper, having just looked up from his newspaper, glanced over twice, then rubbed his reddened nose with his fingers.

“That’s it?”

Meng Dashao stared at the alcohol on his hands, about to ask again—when he noticed something strange.

The tiny amount of alcohol left by the chopstick should have evaporated quickly.

Especially since it was strong liquor.

Normally, by the time Chu Tianshu finished drawing on the other hand, the first mark would have already faded.

Yet now, both talismans on Meng Dashao’s palms remained intact, clearly visible.

Great calligraphers were said to write so powerfully that their brushstrokes pierced through paper, sank three inches into wood.

The alcohol talismans, infused with mental force, had seeped into the skin—becoming natural patterns on the palms, subtly different from the surrounding complexion.

Chu Tianshu said nothing, only asked: “Do you know where the latrine is nearby?”

Meng Dashao replied at once: “There’s a latrine right behind this tavern.”

Chu Tianshu nodded: “Good.”

He dipped his chopstick again, adding the final stroke to the talismans on Meng Dashao’s palms.

Meng Dashao glanced down, his face changing instantly—he pressed his forearms against his belly.

“Oh no, this—”

Having always suffered from indigestion, Meng Dashao now felt movement in his belly—surprised yet delighted. He stood up, wanting to clutch his stomach, yet afraid of smudging the marks on his hands.

Chu Tianshu said promptly: “The alcohol marks will vanish only after you’re done. Until then, they won’t wipe off—don’t worry.”

Meng Dashao didn’t wait to hear the rest—he shoved aside his chair and hurried awkwardly toward the back courtyard.

(End of Chapter)