Chapter 385: There's a Problem

The morning in Katakurgan County came later than in Yingtian Prefecture.

The sun crawled up from behind the barren ridge to the east, sluggish as an old ox pulling a broken cart.

The dawn first stained the mountain top a dark red, then descended inch by inch, finally reaching the mottled brick gaps of the city wall.

Zhu Yong stood in the inn courtyard, stretching his limbs.

He hadn't slept soundly last night; the plank bed was too hard, the pillow too high, and Zhu Qiong Jiong's snoring from the next room could be heard through the wall.

But he doesn't complain; back then he endured sleeping on sand in the Gobi wrapped in a blanket, so this is good.

He did a few stretches, and the old wound on his shoulder throbbed faintly.

It was a scar from wars years ago, not serious, but it flares up on overcast days.

He'll later ask the Sixth Prince to make some medicated ointment to apply.

"Second Uncle, you're up so early?" Zhu Xiongying emerged from the house, hair uncombed, still half‑asleep.

Zhu Yong gave him a glance.

The fifteen‑year‑old boy was growing quickly, almost catching up to his father in height.

He wore a half‑worn blue shirt, a short knife still sheathed at his waist, which he hadn't taken off even while sleeping last night.

"Couldn't sleep? You didn't get more rest either?"

"Qiong Jiong snores; you can hear it from the next room," Zhu Xiongying said, rubbing his ears.

Zhu Yong's mouth twitched slightly.

That kid resembled him in everything except snoring.

He doesn't snore; Zhu Qiong Jiong's habit follows whoever, and no one can say why.

Smoke was already rising from the inn's kitchen.

The owner was a Turk in his early forties, his Mandarin halting, but his cooking skill was decent.

The roasted buns from last night were his work; the lamb filling had cumin and pepper, baked crisp outside and tender inside, and a few children scrambled for them.

Zhu Huanhuan came in from the back yard, cradling a basin of hot water.

"Father, the eldest uncle told you to go, said to set out early; we still have to travel today,"

Zhu Yong nodded, took the basin, and splashed his face haphazardly.

The water was a bit cool, but it refreshed him.

Breakfast was laid out on the stone table in the courtyard.

Steamed buns, milk tea, several plates of pickles, and a large platter of hand‑pulled lamb.

Zhu Gaochi was already seated at the table, a small notebook he never left open before him, jotting something down pen by pen.

Zhu Yong sat beside him and glanced at the notebook.

The pages were densely filled with characters, the handwriting neat enough not to belong to a nine‑year‑old.

"Gaochi, what are you recording?"

"Second Uncle, I'm tallying the expenses of the past few days. Since we left Samarkhan, up to now—lodging, meals, supplies—we've spent twelve taels of silver," Zhu Gaochi lifted his head, his voice even.

Zhu Yong gave him a look.

Twelve taels of silver for five people, plus guards, over two days' travel.

The accounting was crystal clear.

"Did your father know you were so good at bookkeeping?"

Zhu Gaochi thought for a moment, then said earnestly, "Father knows; he says I'm better than him."

Zhu Yong couldn't help but laugh at the words.

Zhu Di, that boy, was adept at warfare but truly poor at accounting.

Back then, calculating military rations in the Western Regions took him three days without a clear result; in the end he was the one who helped sort it out.

"Record carefully; it will be useful later."

Zhu Gaochi replied with a nod and kept his head down, writing.

Zhu Biao emerged from the house, dressed in a moon‑white everyday robe, his hair meticulously combed.

His gait was neither hurried nor slow, steps steady, completely unlike Zhu Yong's swaggering stride.

"Second Brother, what's today's arrangement?" He sat opposite Zhu Yong, picking up a steamed bun.

Zhu Yong thought for a moment then said, "Today we'll head west another 120 li; there's a county town over there, larger than Katakurgan, called Jizake.

It was established last year; the magistrate is surnamed Zhao, a jinshi of the sixteenth year of Hongwu, transferred from Yingtian Prefecture."

Zhu Biao nodded, broke off a piece of the bun, and chewed slowly.

Zhu Xiongying and Zhu Qiong Jiong ran out of the house, both having changed into clean clothes.

Zhu Qiong Jiong wasn't carrying his Wolf Fang Club today; he swapped it for a short knife at his waist, still moving with a breeze.

"Father, are we still riding today?" Zhu Qiong Jiong plopped onto a stone stool and grabbed a piece of lamb to gnaw.

"If we don't ride, you want to take a carriage?"

"Ride, ride; taking a carriage feels uneasy."

Zhu Huanhuan was the last to emerge, wearing a light‑blue jacket‑skirt, her hair braided into a single plait hanging behind.

She walked so lightly that her footsteps were barely audible.

"Father, can we rest earlier today? I want to wash my hair," she sat where her mother usually sat, voice soft.

Zhu Yong glanced at his daughter. She was a seventeen‑year‑old young lady, her brows and eyes like Guanyin Nu, temperament likewise—calm and restrained, never talkative.

This time she came along, tending to several younger brothers along the way—washing clothes, cooking, packing luggage—and never complained.

"Watch the road conditions; if the path is smooth, rest earlier."

Zhu Huanhuan nodded, lowered her head and sipped the milk tea.

After breakfast, the party set out.

After leaving Katakurgan County, the official road began to turn uneven and riddled with pits.

The concrete road only extended ten li beyond the city; further west was the old road, paved with gravel and pocked by wagon wheels.

Zhu Yong rode at the front, Zhu Biao walked beside him, and Zhu Di brought up the rear.

A few children trailed in the middle, Xiong Ying and Zhu Qiong Jiong walked side by side, chattering about something, punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter.

After about two hours of travel, large swaths of wheat fields began to appear along the road.

The wheat had already headed, a fresh green, and when the wind blew it rippled like waves.

In the fields, farmers were at work, some hoeing weeds, others watering.

Zhu Biao looked at the wheat fields and suddenly said, "Second brother, the wheat here grows better than in Yingtian Prefecture."

"This land is fertile and the water sources ample; the Zhalafu Shang River flows down from the east, irrigating the whole plain. When the Ottoman were here, they built many canals, but over time they fell into disrepair and were half blocked.

After we arrived we cleared them again and dug a few new ones; now the irrigated area is thirty percent larger than before," Zhu Yong said, pointing to a faintly visible canal in the distance.

Zhu Biao nodded and asked again, "How is tax collected here?"

"Thirty-to-one, the same as Great Ming: the first three years are tax‑free, then collection starts. The locals didn't believe it at first, but after seeing the officials truly not levy tax, they dared to plant with peace of mind," Zhu Yong halted his horse and let a pit pass.

Zhu Biao fell silent for a moment.

Thirty-to-one; that rate is already low in Great Ming, and Tie Mu Er Prefecture here is the same.

"Second brother, aren't you afraid of loss?"

Zhu Yong glanced at him and said, "Elder brother, this place was just taken; the people are uneasy. If you levy tax, they will flee, the land will lie fallow—what would you collect!"

"First let them settle, then after a harvest and better living, collect tax; they will pay willingly."

Zhu Biao gave no reply, but thought his second brother was right.

After about an hour's walk, a village appeared ahead.

The village was small, a few dozen households; the houses were built of yellow earth, aged, their plaster peeled off, exposing the earthen bricks inside.

At the village entrance stood an old locust tree, under which several elders sat, some smoking, some chatting.

Seeing the party approach, they all stood, watching nervously.

Zhu Yong halted his horse, dismounted, and walked over.

"Elder, what is this village called?"

The elders looked at each other, none daring to speak. After a while, a white‑bearded old man finally whispered, "If you ask Prince Hui, this village is called… Xiahe Village."

Zhu Yong nodded and asked, "How are the villagers doing?"

The old man hesitated, then glanced at the soldiers behind Zhu Yong, and swallowed, "They're… okay."

Zhu Yong gave him a look and asked no more.

He knew the peasants feared him not because he was a prince, but because they had been bullied into fear.

When Tie Mu Er was here, soldiers looting was commonplace.

Now that Great Ming's men have taken over, they no longer loot, but the awe remains.

He turned back to the horses, untied a cloth sack from his mount, and handed it to the old man.

"These are tea leaves brought from Samarchan, for everyone to taste,"

The old man took the sack, his hands trembling.

Zhu Biao watched the scene from beside, silent.

The party kept moving forward. After leaving the village, Zhu Qiong Jiong spurred his horse to catch up, came up to Zhu Yong and said, "Father, that old man said 'okay,' but it doesn't look that way."

Zhu Yong glanced at his son and asked, "Did you notice that?"

"Hmm, their houses are broken, their clothes ragged, the wheat in the fields is sparse; surely there's no harvest," Zhu Qiong Jiong said seriously.

A faint smile curled at Zhu Yong's corner of his mouth.

The boy's observation is sharp.

"Then why do you think they have no harvest?"

Zhu Qiong Jiong thought for a moment and said, "Either the soil is poor, or water is lacking, or they've been bullied."

Zhu Yong nodded, asking no further.

At noon, the party stopped by a creek to rest.

The stream was clear enough to see the pebbles on the bottom.

A few children slipped off their shoes and stuck their feet in the water, shivering with a grimace.

Zhu Huanhuan untied a bundle from the horse, spread a cloth, and laid out the Dry Rations and fruit.

There were flatbreads, roasted meat, grapes, melons, and a pot of milk tea.

Zhu Gaochi sat at the far edge, still clutching the small notebook, jotting something down line by line.

Zhu Yong walked over and sat beside him.

"Gaochi, what are you recording now?"

"Second uncle, I'm calculating today's mileage; from leaving Katakurgan to now, we've covered about fifty li," Zhu Gaochi closed the notebook.

Zhu Yong nodded.

The child has a good memory, writing everything in his notebook.

In the future, he'll be capable of great deeds.

After resting for about half an hour, the party continued westward.

After another hour's march, a city appeared ahead.

The city walls weren't high but seemed sturdy; at the gate people came and went, merchants hurrying with wagons, travelers leading camels.