Chapter 789: Blue‑Shirted on the Ridge Tests Reality, Red‑Lacquered Stakes Frighten Ghostly Shadows

The next morning at dawn, a pallid sun rose from behind the eastern ridge, casting a harsh glare off the thin layer of lingering early‑spring snow.

At the third quarter of the hour of the Dragon, the western gate of Tongwan City silently opened a narrow slit just wide enough for two people side by side, and the two figures slipped in like two droplets merging into a stream, naturally blending into the muddy crowd of farmers and traveling merchants outside the gate.

Chen Yan wore a faded blue cloth headwrap, his long blue robe made of fine Songjiang cotton, cut to fit without ostentation; a plain blue silk belt cinched his waist, from which hung an unremarkable White Jade Pendant.

He looked exactly like a well‑to‑do young master out on a study‑tour.

Hongye walked half a step behind him, her narrow‑sleeved moon‑white ruqun tightly covering her long, strong legs; she wore a simple low bun with a cheap wooden hairpin.

The Jianfeng Xuehou steel short sword was tucked against the inner side of his forearm, deep inside the right sleeve; the cuff was drawn tight, revealing no sign of it.

The two walked south along the Xiazhou Guandao for about fifteen li, the soil beneath their feet gradually softening and dampening, and the air began to carry the distinctive muddy scent of thawed earth mingled with the fresh aroma of sprouting grass.

They reached the borders of Rangping County.

The scene on the field ridge made Chen Yan's steps slow.

On the thousands of mu of newly thawed black fertile soil, countless bent figures toiled; some were Xiazhou farmers in coarse short brown hemp, others were Qi State Liuren clad in patched yet clean, intact cotton garments.

The two groups mingled, linking hands to carry rich soil into the fields, chatting and laughing, with no sense of the uneasy divide reported to the authorities.

Chen Yan's gaze was drawn to several brand‑new farming tools in the middle of the field.

Three glossy‑haired yellow oxen, each bearing a lightweight plow of a design utterly foreign to this era, were turning the soil deep.

The plow's beam was not a straight rod but featured an exquisitely curved arc, allowing the plowshare's angle to be adjusted at any time with a movable wooden wedge.

Curved‑beam plow.

In Chen Yan's past‑life memories, this epoch‑making tool first appeared in the Tang Dynasty; he drafted the plans himself, and the Weapon Workshop rushed out the first batch of prototypes, which were distributed to the counties only seven or eight days ago.

An old farmer supporting a curved‑beam plow stopped at the far end of the ridge, wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, turned back to glance at the deep, straight furrow behind him, and grinned to the ears.

"My heavens, this iron lump works better than our donkey; before we needed a whole day to plow three mu and it would break our old bones, but this thing pulls a round trip without even making the ox pant."

A young man squatting on the ridge beside him gulped glug glug two mouthfuls of cool water from his water bag and wiped his mouth.

"Zhang Shu, you should be content. When we were in Qi State, we never even earned a glance at such good fields; they were all private estates of aristocratic lords, and we were only fit to scrape food from the cracks between stones."

The old farmer tightened the grass rope wound around the plow handle with a snap and nodded repeatedly.

"Exactly, Chen Zhuguo is like a bodhisattva incarnate—he gives us land, tax exemption, and even this divine plow. I've lived over fifty years and this is the first time I feel I'm not just a beast."

Chen Yan sat down on the edge of the ridge, mimicking the resting farmers by squatting on a stone, uncapped his water bag at his waist and took a sip, then smiled at the old farmer and said.

"Old man, I am a traveling merchant from the north. I heard Qinghe County distributes land well, so I came to see if there's business to be had. How's the harvest here, are you getting by?"

The old farmer sized him up, seeing a kindly‑faced young Gongzi accompanied by a pretty maid, and lowered his guard.

"Traveling merchant's Gongzi, you've come to the right place."

The old farmer sat on the stone and opened the floodgates of conversation.

"Since Chen Zhuguo's new policies took effect in Rangping County, it's as if the world has changed. Back when we fled from Qi State, we slept with one eye open, fearing we'd be driven out in the night."

He gestured with his rough, large hands.

"Now the fields are in our hands, the Land Deed bears the government's Red Seal, taxes are waived for three years, even the seeds come from the official granary. Tell me, what else could this be but a living bodhisattva?"

A few other resting farmers gathered nearby, echoing each other's remarks.

"My wife even offered a Longevity Tablet to Chen Zhuguo at the stove yesterday, burning three incense sticks daily."

"Not just yours—through these ten li and eight villages, whose household altar doesn't have a tablet for Zhuguo?"

"My boy is six this year; I gave him a new name, Chen En, sharing Zhuguo's surname, so he'll remember all his life who feeds our family."

Chen Yan's hand holding the water bag paused briefly.

He gave no reply; the curve of his mouth lifted half a notch, and the ever‑raging fury in his eyes unusually subsided, replaced by a deep satisfaction akin to a chess master seeing the whole board under his control.

These lowest‑tier peasants are the foundation of Chen Yan's conquest.

As long as the hearts of these hundreds of thousands are firmly fixed on him, even ten times as many Shadow Corps Suicide Warriors sent by Gao Ying would be no more than grasshoppers hopping on a steel plate.

He was about to rise and take his leave when his peripheral glance unintentionally swept over the edge of the land beside the distant irrigation canal.

His steps halted.

On the side near the main irrigation canal lay about forty‑to‑fifty mu of premium irrigated land, superbly situated less than twenty steps from the water source, flat and oil‑black in color—a clear sign it was one of Qinghe County's most fertile plots.

According to the new allocation rules, this plot should have been given first to the Liuren who had just fled from Qi State.

Yet the ground was abruptly dotted with a dozen or so wooden stakes painted red lacquer, each bearing crooked ink characters.

Chen Yan squinted, vaguely recognizing a character: "Liu."

He turned his head and, in a casual tone, asked the old farmer.

"Old man, why are there boundary stakes on that plot beside the canal, and what name is written on them?"

The air froze in that instant.

The few old farmers who had just been trading remarks all shut their mouths at once.

The first farmer to speak had his smile wiped clean, his face so pale the lips lost any color; he lowered his head, avoiding Chen Yan's gaze.

"This… this, uh…"

The farmer's Adam's apple bobbed twice, his eyes flicked rapidly side to side, and after confirming no suspicious onlookers, his voice dropped to a mosquito‑thin whisper.

"Gongzi, this matter… please don't ask; this old man dares not speak, truly dares not speak."

The nearby farmers reacted as if they'd seen a ghost, each hoisting a hoe and sprinting into the field; after ten or so steps they glanced back, their feet feeling as if they'd stepped on hot coals.

Chen Yan didn't press further; he remained seated on the stone, watching the frantic retreat of the old farmers, his fingers tapping the knee twice at a measured pace.

Hongye stood behind him, the cuff of her right sleeve tightening slightly.

Chen Yan rose, brushed the mud from his blue shirt, his gaze passing over the ridge toward the limp flag drooping in the spring wind atop Qinghe County's city‑gate tower.

He set off toward the county seat, the curve of his mouth vanishing completely.

In its place, something made Hongye's right hand instinctively clamp the sword hilt hidden in her sleeve.