Chapter 334: One Year

The eighteenth year of Hongwu, the fifth day of the first month.

Tie Mu Er Prefecture, Samaerhan City.

Just as dawn was breaking, Zhu Yong awoke.

Outside the window the sky was still dark, and a faint rooster crow came from afar.

He lay on the bed, gazing at the dust on the ceiling, a slight smile curling his lips.

The familiar voice in his mind sounded right on time.

"Ding... Sign‑in for the eighteenth year of Hongwu is now open, would you like to claim the reward?"

"Claim..."

"Congratulations, host, you have obtained: Thunder‑Mercury Ignition Device + rear‑loaded breech‑loading cannon Blueprint (including the full manufacturing process and ammunition formula)."

Zhu Yong closed his eyes, letting the information flood into his mind.

Thunder‑Mercury Ignition Device, rear‑loaded breech‑loading cannon, bursting shell, standard ammunition…

Page after page of Blueprint, line after line of text, ran through his mind.

After a while, he opened his eyes, the smile at the corner of his mouth deepening.

This thing arrived at just the right time.

A few years ago, the Ministry of Works had already produced Flintlock Guns and cannons, but they were all muzzle‑loaded smoothbore, with short range, poor accuracy, and slow loading.

With rear‑loaded breech‑loading cannons, range, accuracy, and rate of fire can all double.

Equipped with bursting shells, a single shot would overturn people and horses within dozens of steps.

"Prince, awake?" a voice from outside came, belonging to Guanyin Nu.

Zhu Yong answered, rolling over to sit up.

Guanyin Nu entered, wearing an outer coat, holding a cup of hot tea.

"It's the big New Year, aren't you sleeping a bit more?"

Zhu Yong took the tea, took a sip, and laughed, "Can't sleep; I have business today."

Guanyin Nu sat beside him, softly asking, "What business..."

Zhu Yong pointed outside and said, "The immigrants outside the city will be allocated land on the sixth day; today I must double‑check, lest any mishap occurs."

Guanyin Nu nodded, and asked no further.

Having been married to him for so many years, she had long become accustomed.

What occupies the Prince's mind are these very concrete matters.

……

At Chen Hour, Zhu Yong had finished breakfast and left the city with Zhang Wuhe and Chen Heng.

Outside the city lay a continuous stretch of immigrant camps.

A little over a year ago, this was still a barren Gobi desert.

Now, rows of tidy wooden houses have sprung up, with curling kitchen smoke and the sounds of chickens and dogs.

At the camp's center, a newly built mosque's spire rose into the clouds, its crescent moon atop glittering in the morning light.

Beside it stood a newly erected Guandi Temple, with red walls and blue tiles, incense spiraling.

Zhu Yong stood outside the camp, watching it all, and felt an indescribable sense of satisfaction.

This is a place he built single‑handed.

From nothing to something, from desolation to prosperity.

"Prince, the immigrant representatives have arrived," Zhang Wu whispered beside him.

Zhu Yong turned and saw a group of people hurrying forward.

At the front was an old farmer in his fifties, dark‑skinned, face full of wrinkles, but his eyes shone brightly.

Behind him followed several long‑robe merchants, a few tool‑carrying craftsmen, and some locals dressed as Persians and Turks.

Those people walked up to Zhu Yong and knelt together.

"Commoner pays respects to Prince Wu!"

Zhu Yong waved his hand and said, "Rise! It's the New Year, no need to keep kneeling."

The crowd stood, smiles on their faces.

The old farmer stepped forward, bowed, and said, "Prince, I am a commoner who arrived in the sixteenth year of Hongwu as part of the first batch, coming from Fengxiang Prefecture of Shaanxi, surname Zhao, given name 'Gen'."

"Today, as a representative of us immigrants, I have come to wish you a late‑year salute, Prince."

Zhu Yong looked at him and laughed, "Zhao Gen, good name—means taking root. Have you taken root here?"

Zhao Gen grinned, "Yes, yes. Last year we reclaimed thirty mu, planting wheat and corn; the harvest was decent. This year we plan another twenty mu."

Zhu Yong nodded and looked toward the people behind.

A plump merchant squeezed forward, laughing, "Prince, I am a youngster from Yingtian Prefecture, surname Qian, given name 'Tong', dealing in silk trade."

"Last year I made two trips to Samaerhan and one to Dabulishi, earning more than three years' profit in Yingtian Prefecture."

Zhu Yong smiled.

Qian Tong, what a good name.

"Can the silk be sold?"

Qian Tong nodded repeatedly, "Yes, yes, yes... the locals covet our silk; a premium cloud brocade can be exchanged for ten Arabian horses, then shipped back to Great Ming for severalfold profit."

Zhu Yong looked at the few locals in traditional dress beside him.

A bearded Persian stepped forward, speaking halting Chinese, "Prince, I am a merchant from Dabulishi, called Ali…"

"Previously I paid thirty percent tax to Tie Mu Er, now I pay twenty percent to you, Prince, the rest is mine; last year I earned more than in the previous five years combined."

He paused, his eyes slightly reddening.

"Prince, you are a good Prince, we Persians serve you."

Zhu Yong patted his shoulder, saying nothing.

A middle-aged man dressed as a Turk also stepped forward and bowed deeply.

"Prince, I am from the Golden Tent Khanate, previously I tended sheep for the nobles there, never having enough to eat all year, last year I heard this place was recruiting immigrants, so I brought my whole family here."

"Now we have twenty mu of land, three cows, five sheep, and life is much better than before."

Zhu Yong looked at him and asked, "Is the climate here different from the Golden Tent Khanate, can you adapt?"

The Turk laughed, "Adapted, adapted. Here the winter isn't as cold as there, the summer isn't as hot, farming is easier than shepherding."

Zhu Yong nodded, and a stone in his heart fell to the ground.

The people's well‑being is his greatest affirmation.

…

Returning from the immigrant camp, it was already noon.

Zhu Yong did not return to Wang Fu, but went straight to the city market.

Samarkhan's market was more than three times larger than a year ago.

The old market was in the city center, with only a few dozen shops.

Now the new market has expanded to the east and west of the city, shops line up, and merchants gather.

There are sellers of silk, porcelain, tea, spices, medicinal herbs, livestock, and grain…

The shouts of vendors, haggling voices, and donkey and horse whinnies blended together.

Zhu Yong, in plain clothes, walked slowly through the crowd with Zhang Wuhe and Chen Heng.

An old man selling flatbreads was baking them, steam rising, and the aroma drifted far.

Zhu Yong walked over, took out a few copper coins, bought a freshly baked flatbread, and took a bite.

It's still the same taste.

He looked up and saw the old man staring at him, eyes filled with reverence and gratitude.

The old man suddenly knelt and kowtowed.

"Prince…"

Zhu Yong was startled, then quickly helped him to his feet.

"Elder, what is this for?"

"Prince, you don't know me, but I know you. Last year at this time I was still setting up a stall on this street. At that time Tie Mu Er's soldiers were still here, constantly bullying us small traders, refusing to pay, and even beating us."

"After you arrived, those soldiers left, taxes were reduced, and no one bullied us. In the past year I saved five taels of silver and married my son."

He wiped his tears and said, "Prince, you are a good person, good Prince, we all remember your kindness."

Zhu Yong looked at him, and a complex emotion suddenly rose in his heart.

The old man was just an ordinary commoner.

But his gratitude was genuine.

His tears were also genuine.

Zhu Yong patted his shoulder and softly said, "Elder, live well; things will get better in the future."

The old man nodded vigorously.

…

Leaving the market, Zhu Yong went to the craftsmen's quarter in the north of the city.

This is one of the busiest places in Tie Mu Er's residence.

Dozens of workshops stretched together: blacksmiths, steelworkers, potters, weavers, carpenters, leatherworkers… everything.

The largest workshop at the far end was the Longxiang Army's military workshop.

Inside were dozens of machine tools shipped from Great Ming, and the workers were busy manufacturing Flintlock Gun parts.

Zhu Yong entered, and an old craftsman with a full beard greeted him, cupping his fists, "Prince!"

The old craftsman, surnamed Zhou, was a master sent by the Ministry of Works, teaching the locals with dozens of apprentices.

Zhu Yong nodded and asked, "Master Zhou, how are these parts coming along?"

Master Zhou smiled, "Prince, rest assured, these barrels have already been rifled, far more precise than the previous batches. The locals are learning quickly; now a dozen or so can operate the machine tools independently."

Zhu Yong looked at the busy workers.

There were Han People, Persians, Turks, and Mongols.

They wore different clothes, spoke different languages, but the work in their hands was equally diligent.

A young Persian looked up, saw Zhu Yong, and quickly rose to salute.

Zhu Yong waved his hand, indicating he should continue working.

Leaving the workshop, Zhang Wu whispered, "Prince, you are truly capable; these people once hated us enough to kill us, but now…"

Zhu Yong glanced at him and laughed, "What about now?"

Zhang Wu said, "Now they wish to erect a living shrine for you."

Zhu Yong smiled.

"No need for a living shrine; just work hard, that's enough."