Chapter 981

Pan Yun and Xue Shao exchanged a glance, unable to suppress a smile, and bowed in unison as if they didn’t know each other.

Xi Jin stood beside them, eyes darting, but remained silent.

Chunwang ran out to report Pan Yun’s background.

The old man was very hospitable, quickly accepting another guest into his home, squatting aside to wash his hands and feet with the water used for rinsing vegetables.

Both Xue Shao and Xi Jin were caked in mud on their hands and feet; the old man beckoned them over to wash up.

Only then did Pan Yun learn that Xue Shao and the others had arrived in the afternoon, chatting with the old man’s family by the fields, then casually kicked off their shoes and joined in harvesting rice—working until this very moment.

So the old man greatly liked Xue Shao.

A scholar, respectful of elders, skilled at cutting rice, unafraid of dirt or fatigue—the old man looked at Xue Shao’s eyes as if they sparkled with stars.

Pan Yun sat beside them, chin propped on her hand, listening, and soon grasped their situation.

Xue Shao was most likely here to conduct a land survey.

Recalling the conversation of the group she had been following, she realized: their opponent was Xue Shao.

The old man’s son and daughter-in-law, carrying sacks of rice, lagged behind and returned half a watch later.

The daylight had fully vanished; Chunlian brought out a torch, sticking it into a mud wall to illuminate this patch of earth.

By the light, Pan Yun saw six bundles of rice stalks on the ground.

They weren’t yet fully yellow; some leaves still held a green tint. She stepped forward, pressed a grain, found it plump, and sighed in relief.

The old man noticed her action and chuckled: “Little miss, you’re worried the grains aren’t full, aren’t you?”

Pan Yun smiled: “I was indeed concerned—time is short—but now I see, though the leaves aren’t golden, the grains are plump.”

The old man’s face wrinkled with laughter: “I’ve already peeled a few. If they weren’t ripe, I wouldn’t have harvested them, no matter how anxious I was.”

Harvesting rice is a skilled task—it must not be too late, nor too early.

Too late, and the grains ripen fully; a slight shake makes them fall, and after binding and hauling, they’re hard to recover.

Too early, and the sap hasn’t fully matured—the grains aren’t plump; after drying, their weight plummets, and after hulling, some grains turn to paste, making the cooked rice tasteless.

The old man squatted beside her, peeling open a grain to show her: “See? Already full. But if you wait a few more days, the flavor improves.”

“If so, why rush to harvest?”

The old man pointed to the sky: “Double Ninth is coming. We must prepare the land for winter wheat sowing. After Double Ninth, it turns cold, and wheat seedlings need time to emerge. Harvest too late, and the soil won’t rest—it’ll hurt next year’s yield.”

He frowned and sighed: “This land is like a person—work it nonstop, and it loses strength fast, ages fast.”

Pan Yun asked: “How many mu do you have? Can’t you rotate crops?”

The old man replied: “Rotating crops? That’s for big landowners. Poor families like ours only have these few mu. Two harvests a year barely feed us—let alone rotation.”

Their family had five mu of land, three and a half mu of dry fields.

One mu of paddy and two mu of dry land were newly reclaimed these past years.

The old man spoke of it with pride: “That patch was once a swamp, stinking to high heaven—nobody wanted to go near it. But I saw the soil beneath the water was dark gray—I knew it was fertile, so I decided right away to reclaim it for farming.”

Pan Yun gasped: “Old man, you’re bold—weren’t you afraid of swamp gas?”

“What gas?”

Pan Yun: “A stench from decaying plants. Inhale too much, and it poisons you—chokes you to death.”

The old man froze, silent for a long while.

His son straightened up, turned to look at his father, paused, then asked: “Father, so your earlier discomfort was from poisoning?”

The old man muttered: “I didn’t eat or drink anything strange—how could I be poisoned?”

Pan Yun raised an eyebrow, studied him, then asked: “Did you suffer headaches, dizziness, nausea, weakness?”

“Yes, yes, yes!” the son replied at once. “He even vomited!”

The old man warned sharply: “Daquan!”

Daquan ignored him, eyes fixed on Pan Yun: “Little miss, is my father still poisoned? Can you cure him?”

“Mild poisoning. Resting in an open area usually eases it. Still, let me check.” Pan Yun took his wrist and felt his pulse.

Father and son stared at her: “Little miss, you can diagnose?”

Pan Yun smiled: “I am a wandering physician.”

Their eyes brightened further: “So you’re a doctor!”

Pan Yun examined the old man—he was in decent health—but she kept hold of his wrist, feeling his pulse as she explained: “Swamp gas doesn’t just poison and kill—it’s especially dangerous near fire. Even a tiny spark can ignite a roaring blaze—or an explosion.”

Daquan nodded vigorously: “Exactly! That’s why my father set fire to that swamp—the flames shot into the air, terrifying!”

After a long pause, Pan Yun said: “You’re terrifying too.”

Xue Shao stood nearby, arms folded, smiling: “I’ve been there. That swamp formed recently—only about a palm’s depth. Water drained downward but couldn’t escape, so it turned to mud. Coincidentally, the area was thick with vegetation, and nearby lay a large dry field on one side and a big pond on the other.”

“Irrigation came from the pond; this side was all wasteland. They tossed the weeds they pulled right there. Over time, the plants rotted, poisoning the original vegetation in the lowland, turning it into a stinking toxic mud pit.”

Because of the stench, only trash was dumped there—no one but the old man ever thought of farming beside that toxic swamp.

The old man: “Before I reclaimed it, they laughed at me. After I did, they grew jealous. These past two years, all the better wastelands around have been taken by villagers—everyone cleared a bit, and now it’s balanced.”

Xue Shao asked: “Have you registered these fields and obtained land deeds?”

“Register with the government office, and we pay taxes—that’s out of the question,” the old man said bluntly. “We know where our land is—that’s enough.”

Xue Shao: “What if disputes arise without deeds?”

“We have clan elders and village heads. The village elders are fair. What isn’t theirs, they won’t seize. What isn’t ours, we won’t take.”

Pan Yun glanced at Xue Shao and said: “When I left Quanzhou City, I heard the court is conducting a land survey. When they come here and find unregistered land, won’t you have to register anyway?”

The old man shrugged: “We’ve got Master Gu—he’ll protect us.”

Pan Yun asked curiously: “Is Master Gu that powerful?”

“Powerful!” the old man said proudly. “Master Gu is a high official—he’s my sister-in-law’s cousin. My land is registered under his household thanks to my sister-in-law.”

Pan Yun nodded slightly: “That’s convenient. How much rent does Master Gu take?”

“Just ten percent.”

Pan Yun exclaimed: “Then Master Gu is a good man.”

The old man nodded firmly: “Master Gu is a good man, a great benefactor. The village road and the bridge east of the village? All paid for by the Gu family. Thanks to their protection, we pay half the usual miscellaneous taxes and military levies. Those villagers surnamed Gu, especially those close to Master Gu, pay nothing at all.”

The old man turned to his son: “Daquan, remember Master Gu’s kindness. When this late rice is harvested and dried, send him and Master Gu’s son a small sack—let them taste how it differs from ordinary rice.”

Daquan agreed at once.

As the old man spoke of the Gu family, he went on endlessly—questions Xue Shao hadn’t yet asked, Pan Yun merely hinted at, and he spilled everything, his eagerness to share growing stronger.

He didn’t stop during dinner. He didn’t stop after dinner.

Only when Chunlian laid out their bedding and urged the grandfather to bathe and sleep did he reluctantly rise.

He stood, reluctant to leave, turning back to Xue Shao and Pan Yun: “Master Gu’s son is about your age, and just as capable—he’s already passed the provincial exam. Word is he’ll go to the capital next year to take the metropolitan exam. If tax officials come to survey my land, I’ll ask my sister-in-law again to register that one mu of paddy and two mu of dry land under Master Gu’s son’s name…”

He said: “Master Gu is good. Master Gu’s son is kind.”

Pan Yun and Xue Shao said nothing, watching as the old man mumbled happily, heading off to bathe.

Are Master Gu and Master Gu’s son good men?

To their hometown and kin, yes—but beyond this land, to farmers forced to pay more because of their tax exemptions, they are not.

Xue Shao said: “Before I came, I checked the records. Dehua County has 64,800 mu of registered land. This year, Quanzhou assigned Dehua a land tax quota of 31,350 shi. That’s fixed. So if this area evades taxes, others in Dehua must pay more.”

Pan Yun sat on a small stool, prodding the fire with a stick, murmuring: “According to the founding emperor’s tax rates, Ming’s levies aren’t heavy. But over seventy years, actual population and land have grown—yet official records show no increase. Have past emperors and ministers ever wondered why?”

Xue Shao lowered his gaze, voice low: “Because corvée labor is too heavy, and the extra miscellaneous taxes are too numerous, too burdensome.”

“To increase state revenue, the Ming must fix these,” Pan Yun said. “Otherwise, even if industry begins, it’ll collapse under the weight. And industry needs labor—but these people aren’t registered. They’re black households. How can they work and drive industry forward?”

Xue Shao tilted his head, gazing at the cloud-choked sky—the moon hidden, only a few stars blinking faintly.

A wind had risen. The clouds rolled away, slowly revealing half the moon; more stars appeared on the other side of the sky, shining brighter.

Xue Shao murmured: “If officials and gentry paid grain taxes like commoners, there’d be no need for this ‘registered name’ trick.”

Pan Yun’s eyes flickered. She asked softly: “What of the heavy corvée labor?”

Xue Shao turned to her, eyes gleaming in the dark. He stared at her, voice quiet: “What do you think?”

“I think—if grain taxes are equalized for officials and gentry, so too must corvée labor. Either abolish it entirely, or incorporate it into land taxes, collected uniformly. No distinction, no hidden land, no hidden people.”

Xue Shao turned in place, silent for a long while. Then: “To accomplish this won’t be easy. If you truly do it, you and I may die—even you, with your deep cultivation, may not survive.”

Pan Yun smiled lightly: “If we’ve begun, how could we turn back?”