Chapter 153: A Trickle, Though Meager, May Swell into a River; a Torch-Flame, Though Tiny, May in Time Set the Wilds Ablaze

The sky was just beginning to brighten.

In a residence inside Xuanwu Gate, Sun Chuanting was crouched before a vegetable patch, his brows slightly furrowed.

He was tall and powerfully built, with thick brows and large eyes, looking more like a military officer than a civil official.

Yet at this moment, this Senior Fifth-Rank Bureau Director of the Ministry of Personnel, skilled in both archery and horsemanship, was stumped by a few tender green spinach seedlings before him.

The seeds he had scattered a few days ago had now broken through the soil, only…

Why did something feel off?

They were far too dense.

Clump after clump, cluster after cluster, nearly squeezed into a single mass, the tender green leaves pressing against one another, looking exceptionally charming.

But the spinach fields he had seen in the past did not seem to grow like this…

The Sun family could not be counted among the great clans of Daizhou, but they were still minor local powers in their own right.

A hereditary guard-station Centurion position had allowed him to devote himself fully to studying archery, horsemanship, and the classics.

As for farming, he had indeed only ever watched it done, never done it himself.

"Master, why are you fiddling with these sprouts again?" His page had risen early and bought a bucket of sweet water, which he was now carrying back on his shoulder. "Leave rough work like this to this humble one. You are a Star of Letters from the heavens — wielding brush and ink is your proper business."

Sun Chuanting shook his head, rose to his feet, and dusted the loose soil from his hands, but his gaze never left that vegetable patch.

"I am going to the office first," he said in a deep voice. "Later, go find an experienced old farmer to take a look and ask whether there is something wrong with these spinach seedlings."

"Very well. This humble one will attend to your washing at once — we mustn't be late for roll call again." Seeing that persuasion was useless, the page said no more, merely washed his own hands before helping Sun Chuanting wash up.

After washing, Sun Chuanting changed into that brand-new crimson official robe.

The moment the court attire was on him, the authority befitting an appointed official of the dynasty returned to his bearing as naturally as ever.

He straightened his robes and cap, then strode toward the main gate.

Beyond the courtyard gate lay an entirely different world.

The early-winter chill struck his face, but the street was a scene of bustling, fiery activity.

Xuanwu Gate Avenue, this vital thoroughfare of the capital, was at this moment occupied by throngs of craftsmen and laborers working in organized groups.

The capital's demolition of illegal structures had accelerated sharply after the silk shop of Wang Tiqian, Director of the Eastern Depot, had half its building forcibly torn down as well.

Now the road-paving work had already been underway for several days.

Sun Chuanting's steps slowed involuntarily.

He saw hundreds upon thousands of people organized in orderly fashion.

Sturdy young men shouted vigorous work chants, their hot breath steaming into white mist above their heads, as they joined forces to carry heavy stone slabs.

Some elderly folk and women took on lighter tasks like sprinkling water and hauling earth.

There were even half-grown children off to the side, picking up loose stones and passing tools.

Among the crowd, one could clearly make out some sallow, gaunt figures with somewhat listless expressions.

Sun Chuanting understood at once — these were the famine refugees who had fled from the vicinity of the capital.

Each person wore a crude wooden tally around their neck.

A few days ago, when leaving the office, he had asked about them out of curiosity and learned that these tallies served as work records.

Every day, points were tallied by tally; once ten points were accumulated, they could be exchanged for two sheng of grain.

Most amusingly, during the first few days when grain was distributed, officials leaving the office always happened to pass by.

A crowd of civil officials in variously colored rank badges would press in close, forming a circle to watch the spectacle, pointing and gesturing, buzzing with commentary, until the petty clerk in charge of distributing grain was drenched in cold sweat on his forehead, his face frozen stiff.

—After all, Wang Zhaodui, the newly appointed Judge of Shuntian Prefecture, had purged a full thirty percent of the subofficial clerks in the entire Shuntian prefectural administration.

And these men had been sent directly to the Eastern Depot for interrogation. The Ministry of Justice's protest memorials had all been rejected; His Majesty had replied to them all with a single line: this shall not be taken as a precedent.

Subofficial clerks — what virtue or ability did they possess to be worthy of entering the Eastern Depot?

In his heart, Sun Chuanting did not approve of this method either, but for now, it did appear to be effective.

Yet… what would they do once they left the capital? Could they truly rely on the Eastern Depot to rule the realm by fiat?

"Heave—ho—! Heave—ho—!"

A burst of even louder work chants rang out, pulling his thoughts back.

Not far away, a group of laborers was working together to slowly raise a massive stone stele upright.

As the stele settled firmly into its base, a wave of exclamations and cheers erupted from the surrounding crowd.

Stirred by curiosity, Sun Chuanting followed the flow of people and walked over.

"Seventh year of Tianqi, ninth month. Capital New Policies, Phase One. Xuanwu Gate Road Section Merit Stele."

A scholar in a Confucian robe was reciting the inscription aloud with an affected, swaying cadence:

"The thoroughfare at Xuanwu Gate in the capital: its old road was damaged and in disrepair, and travelers suffered from it."

"His Majesty, deeply concerned for the hardships of the people, initiated the New Policies, and first undertook the repair of this main thoroughfare."

"The road was originally ten zhang wide, with drainage ditches of one zhang on either side, and a central pavement of stone slabs eight zhang wide, for a total length of two hundred and sixteen zhang."

"All funds required were contributed voluntarily by nobles, officials, and gentry, moved by gratitude for His Majesty's grace."

"Now this stone is inscribed to record the event and commend this multitude of virtuous acts."

The scholar had just finished when a merchant from out of town nearby began reading it aloud himself:

"Now this is strange. Since ancient times, haven't merit steles always been erected only after a project is complete? How is it that this road has barely begun, and the stele is already set up?"

The capital's residents, ever thoroughly versed in court and political affairs, all jeered at him: "This road stele is hardly inscribed for the road — it is clearly inscribed for the nobles and officials. You, an outsider, truly understand nothing at all. Most laughable."

The merchant flushed red with embarrassment, muttering something under his breath about "the decline of public morals" and "men's hearts no longer being what they were in ancient times," then squeezed through the crowd and vanished from sight.

Further down the inscription came a long, densely packed list of donors' names.

The name at the very top was actually carved in cinnabar, with the two extra characters "First Place" carved beside it, making it exceptionally conspicuous.

"His Excellency Li Mingcheng, Grand Master for Glorious Happiness, Senior Guardian, Marquis of Wuqing — twenty thousand taels of fine silver!"

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.

"Heavens above — the Marquis of Wuqing truly does things on a grand scale!" someone exclaimed in wonder.

Someone beside him immediately chimed in: "Just look at how many shops the Marquis of Wuqing owns in the capital, and how much fine farmland and manors he has outside the city. This bit of silver is no more than a single hair from nine oxen to him!"

"Grand Tutor to the Heir Apparent, Minister of Works, His Excellency Xue Fengxiang: five thousand taels of sycee silver."

The buzz of discussion rose again at once.

"This Minister Xue — a civil official — how can he be so rich too? Could it be that…" The words trailed off unfinished, but the implication was plain without being spoken.

Sun Chuanting's gaze continued sweeping downward.

Civil officials, ennobled merit lords, palace eunuchs — name after name, some familiar and some unfamiliar, were arrayed upon it, the donation sums ranging from several thousand taels down to a few hundred.

His eyes came to a halt at the very end of the list.

Gao Shiming, seal-holding eunuch of the Directorate of Ceremonial: a donation of one hundred taels of silver?

Was this genuine or a sham?

Sun Chuanting remained silent, pushing his way out of the clamorous crowd, yet his mind was a tangled mess, as though it too had become a construction site bustling with feverish activity.

Fame is the bridle, profit the tether; all the world's hurrying multitudes are bound by these.

The questions His Majesty had posed during his summons for an interview now seemed to have found their answers — and yet not entirely.

His thoughts drifted, unbidden, back to that interview in Qianqing Palace several days before.

The young emperor had shown scant interest in his past service record in the Ministry of Personnel, but had instead questioned him in exhaustive detail about the local customs and conditions he had observed, and the administrative strategies he had employed, during his postings in Yongcheng and Shangqiu counties in Henan.

After hearing his account, the Emperor had merely sighed lightly and remarked: "Minister Sun, your achievements in governance are indeed of the highest order. However, the methods you employed are not ones that every man can use."

Yes — not every man can use them.

Sun Chuanting smiled bitterly to himself.

In Yongcheng, standing behind the local magnate Ding clan was his own tongnian jinshi, Ding Qirui; a single letter dispatched, and every matter proceeded smoothly.

At his Shangqiu posting, Hou Xun, the former Censor now living in retirement, had given him his full-throated support; whether drilling the local militia or undertaking water conservancy works, everything had moved as effortlessly as an arm directing a finger.

But the Emperor's next questions had left him drenched in sweat.

"The local powerful families — how much land do they hold? How much is concealed? When the population grows, what is the final outcome? If a full cadastral survey were carried out, under the dynasty's tax rate of one-thirtieth, how much additional revenue could be raised?"

He had been unable to answer a single one.

The powerful families had aided him with all their strength — how could he then have had the gall to go and ask about such things?

"If a county magistrate of juren background — with no tongnian to assist him, no backing from serving officials, and no hope of promotion through the evaluation process — were to attempt to suppress the county's powerful families, carry out a cadastral survey, and implement new policies, how should he go about it?"

He had still been unable to answer.

In the end, the Emperor had simply told him to spend some time first in the newly established Secretariat, saying that the realm he had seen was not yet large enough, and the work he had done not yet meticulous enough.

"You may observe this capital New Deal closely; perhaps you will gain something from it."

"Of course, this is only the first phase. There will be a second, a third, a fourth to follow… I myself do not know how many phases it will take to truly achieve great order in the capital."

"If governing the capital can succeed, there is still the Northern Metropolitan Region, and this vast realm to govern — and even the various tributary states to govern."

"Minister Sun, study well. The affairs of the realm are both manifold and difficult."

"I intend to plow the realm anew, and in the end I will need your help."

Plow the realm anew?

If the sovereign takes up the plow, his ministers must of course serve as the oxen and horses.

And yet…

And yet, what was to become of his own family in the Zhenwu Guard?

From the time they inherited the Centurion rank down to the present, what military-farmland was left? Most of it had long since become nothing more than the private land of his Sun clan.

His Majesty… did he know of this?

Even if he did not, with his acumen, could he fail to imagine it?

And how would he handle it?

When that time came, what path should he himself take?

"Worthy Brother Sun… Boya, my worthy brother! Sun Chuanting!"

A call jolted Sun Chuanting from his tangled thoughts.

He looked around blankly and realized that he had unwittingly turned onto West Chang'an Avenue and had nearly walked all the way to the Six Ministries.

The one calling him was none other than Bi Ziyan, the former Minister of Revenue of Nanjing, who had been recalled to office at the same time as himself.

Now, like him, Bi held a supernumerary post.

A supernumerary appointment meant adding one extra man beyond the established quota of a given office, but actual authority depended entirely on the Emperor's commission.

"Many thanks for the reminder, Your Excellency Bi. This humble officer nearly took the wrong road." A flush of embarrassment crossed Sun Chuanting's face as he cupped his hands in salute.

The new men of their Secretariat were all now working from the study cottages beside the Hall of Earnest Reflection in the Western Park.

The Emperor had specially granted them waist-tallies allowing entry and exit via the Xi'an Gate, so they no longer needed to make the detour around the Chengtian Gate.

His thoughts having drifted so far afield, he had indeed taken the wrong road.

"It's nothing — the hour is still early." Bi Ziyan waved a hand dismissively and smiled. "Come, let's not be late for the roll call."

Though their ages differed by more than ten years, the two men conversed with remarkable rapport.

Sun Chuanting gradually set aside those groundless anxieties.

After all, the New Deal would first have to be tested in the capital and the Northern Metropolitan Region; who knew when it would reach Shanxi?

The two men walked together, their talk ranging from the customs and conditions of Shanxi to the military situation in Liaodong — the topics roamed far and wide, yet the atmosphere remained congenial throughout.

In the end, the conversation somehow veered onto the finer points of growing spinach in winter.

Sun Chuanting described the perplexing problem in his own vegetable patch, and after hearing him out, Bi Ziyan stroked his beard and laughed:

"My worthy brother Boya, you have simply sown the seeds too densely. Discard the weak to let the strong flourish — this is the natural principle of things. If you cannot bear to pull up a few now, then before long the whole bed will be choked with weeds."

Sun Chuanting felt a violent jolt in his heart. He could not shake the feeling that Bi Ziyan's words carried some hidden meaning.

Had His Majesty spoken with him about the same things he had discussed with himself?

Had they really gone so far as to talk about surveying and clearing farmland, and sweeping away the powerful magnates?

Sun Chuanting looked thoughtful. He pondered in silence for a moment before replying, "What the Minister says is absolutely right. Yet the land under Heaven is not confined to a single corner. Tearing it up too violently, I fear, may also wound the root."

Bi Ziyan shot him a puzzled look, finding the remark rather baffling and out of place.

But he was mild-tempered by nature. He let out a hearty laugh, did not pursue the topic, and casually steered the conversation elsewhere.

The two men walked and talked, and soon passed through Xi'an Gate, turning toward the Western Park.

As they passed Rabbit Hill, they saw that at the foot of the hill more than ten mu of new fields had been opened. A dozen or so old farmers were leveling the soil and sprinkling something over it.

The two men exchanged a glance and, without a word, both stepped closer.

"May I ask, venerable sir, what you are all doing here?" Bi Ziyan inquired gently.

A farmer at work raised his head, his face bearing an honest, simple smile, and answered, "Replying to the gentlemen: His Majesty instructed us to open a few more mu of land and prepare them separately as low-grade, medium-grade, and high-grade soil. He said that when spring comes next year, he wants to try planting some new grain varieties, so he can make a proper comparison then."

Having spoken, he added cautiously, "As for the details, several other gentlemen ahead of you have already asked."

Sun Chuanting and Bi Ziyan nodded and asked no further.

The opening of these dozen or so mu of land, it seemed, was meant to promote agricultural affairs.

This was indeed a matter that followed naturally. After all, to resolve the conflict between people and land, increasing field yields was an inescapable topic.

The two men walked the rest of the way in silence. The row of refined chambers beside the main hall soon came into view.

Just before entering, Bi Ziyan suddenly stopped, turned to Sun Chuanting, and said with earnest gravity, "Brother Sun, you have come at a good time."

Sun Chuanting halted solemnly and bowed deeply to Bi Ziyan. "Minister Bi, Jiang Taigong met King Wen at seventy. Even now, it is not yet too late."

Bi Ziyan was taken aback for a moment, then burst into a hearty laugh.

"Ha! Good! I only hope this old man lives to see that day!"

"Come, let us go in, go in, and see how many fine essays we can unearth today to savor!"

No one was late today.

The nine men of the Secretariat were each at their appointed place.

At first, the Emperor had set a rule: anyone who arrived late must spend an hour after duty turning the soil in the Western Park fields.

Yet for some unknown reason, these nine officials, who ordinarily prided themselves on their diligence, had all, one after another, "inadvertently" been late a few times.

The Emperor sensed something amiss and changed the rule: latecomers would be fined one qian of silver.

From that point on, no one was ever late again.

The rotating Secretary-General on duty today was Ni Yuanlu.

With two dark, heavy circles under his eyes, he swept his gaze around the room, his voice thick with exhaustion.

"Gentlemen, the new statecraft memorials that came in yesterday have increased yet again."

He paused, and in the end could not suppress a long sigh.

"The count: one hundred and seventy-three."

Silence filled the room. Everyone's expression was numb; the morning's cheer had already flown away.

Ni Yuanlu gestured listlessly at the mountain of memorials piled high on the desks.

"Come, nineteen per person. The remainder are mine."

The men rose silently and filed forward, each drawing his allotted share from that mountain of memorials, then returned to his seat.

Sun Chuanting picked up the large vat of strong tea a young eunuch had long since brewed for him and took a fierce gulp. The bitter tea made him furrow his brow, but it also cleared his tangled thoughts.

He first read through the titles of the memorials one by one.

"On the Conflict Between People and Land: The Necessity of Thunderous Measures to Suppress Engrossment Throughout the Realm"; "An Examination of Population Growth and Field Increase and Decrease in Xiangfu County, Kaifeng Prefecture, Henan"; "In Central Guizhou, Where Land Is Scarce and People Many, Replacing Native Chieftains with Regular Officials May Offer a Solution"...

Judging these memorials composed around the "conflict between people and land" that the Emperor had raised—from their titles alone, one could not really tell good from bad.

Any piece with a goal that was vague, grandiose, and sensationalist was, in all likelihood, a waste of time.

But if a title was extremely detailed and specific, that did not necessarily mean it was a fine essay either.

Many people, knowing only that statecraft memorials favored empirical evidence and data, would simply pile in unverified hearsay and figures in one great heap.

For instance, someone had even cited the pit-planting method from the "Book of Fan Shengzhi" to argue that a yield of a hundred shi per mu was achievable.

If it could be promoted and implemented, what could three hundred million souls not achieve!

To borrow His Majesty's words, such memorials were nothing but a sheet of waste paper wrapped in gold over silver.

"Gold wrapped over silver"—that is to say, brilliant on the outside but utterly hollow within.

According to the rules, these memorials were to undergo cross-review by three people. Only those that received three "O"s could proceed to the next round of collective deliberation.

So what appeared to be a workload of nineteen memorials was in truth a workload of over sixty!

And in the end, only the "top-top selections"—those that earned five "O"s—would be submitted to Huang Liji and the others in the Grand Secretariat.

Sun Chuanting's luck was poor today. Right from the start, he flipped open several gold-over-silver memorials in a row.

Sun Chuanting frowned and marked seven or eight "X"s in succession. The irritation in his heart could not help but surge up again.

He set down his brush, rubbed his brow, and picked up another.

"Memorial of Examination and Disputation on Maritime Transport."

Ah, this was the seventh maritime transport memorial submitted in the past few days...

Please, let it not be another gold-over-silver memorial that advocates abolishing the Grand Canal in favor of sea transport, yet cannot even get the ship specifications straight.

A few days earlier, a similar memorial had slipped through the layers of screening and been submitted.

In the end, His Majesty had flung it straight back, telling them to properly study the matter of seagoing vessels and not to make themselves look worse than an emperor in this regard.

There was no help for it—among the nine men of the Secretariat and the six men like Grand Secretary Huang, there truly was not a single one who understood seagoing ships.

Sun Chuanting opened the memorial and began to read it carefully.

The opening was a classic, bold declaration breaking through the topic.

"Your subject has heard that the profit of sea transport is ten times that of canal transport. If the canal were abandoned for the sea, the expense of a million canal soldiers could be saved, and that strength could be turned to the northwest, to ease the crisis in Qin and Jin…"

The idea of using canal transport for the northwest was somewhat interesting, but whether it would work still depended on the details.

Sun Chuanting's face was expressionless, like a cold butcher, as he continued reading.

Oh? Something good has turned up!

The author of this memorial had actually set out in detail comparison after comparison between sea transport and canal transport in cost, efficiency, and capacity — the data was full and solid, the argument tight and rigorous, clearly the fruit of painstaking effort.

Sun Chuanting read with utter absorption; at a particularly brilliant passage, he could not help but nod slightly.

Having read it through once, he did not hesitate to draw a solemn "〇" on the cover.

This was the first circle he had given out today.

He turned the cover over to look.

— Bureau Secretary of the Ministry of Revenue, Liu Kongjing.

Another name he had never heard before; these past few days he had seen this situation far too many times.

Those with reputations known far and wide, who formed cliques and societies, who recited poetry and drank together — what they submitted was mostly gold wrapped in silver.

Yet it was precisely these utterly obscure men who, all of a sudden, could produce several solid, authentic, and excellent pieces.

Sun Chuanting set down his brush and stretched long and slow, only then realizing that, without his noticing, that great vat of strong tea had already reached its dregs.

He raised his head and looked around.

His colleagues were still at their seats, heads buried in intense reading, their expressions focused and weary.

The morning light, quietly slanting in through the window lattices.

The beams passed through the fine dust floating in the air, forming track after track, clear and visible.

Within the quiet chamber, no one spoke; only the "shush-shush" of fingertips turning pages rose and fell, one after another, merging into a single sound.

Sun Chuanting sighed with satisfaction. The hesitation and anxiety that had followed him all the way here at dawn seemed to have settled, and a feeling of fullness rose up again.

What was the point of thinking so much?

It was just as His Majesty had said: a trickle may be scant, yet it soaks through to form a river; a torch-flame may be faint, yet in the end it can burn across the wilds.

In all matters, proceed according to reason; simply do it with earnest care.

If one day the land survey truly reached Shanxi, what of it if he went home in person to divide up the fields?

Could he possibly prove inferior to that Director of the Eastern Depot, Wang Tiqian?!

Sun Chuanting rubbed his somewhat stinging eyes, picked up a new memorial, and immersed himself once more.

After a long while more, a clear, resonant bell rang out, breaking the silence that filled the room.

The men looked up, dazed.

A young eunuch poked his head in and said in a respectful voice, "Honored sirs, the hour has come. It is time to go to the Hall of Earnest Reflection for the assembly."

(Chapter 153: Who Knew That Drawing a Blade for a Moment's Vengeance Would Send His Benefactor Down to the Nether Springs!)