Chapter Twelve: Dr. Qilu

Recently, beneath Mount Shangyan, a new kind of food had become popular—a large flatbread, as big as a wooden basin used for washing clothes. A person of average appetite could eat one for four or five days.

In a family of four, one flatbread could serve as two meals.

Fusu noticed that ever since he had created this bread, it had become the servants’ favorite food.

If they could eat their fill, it was a way to ensure the safety of his household’s assets. After all, every individual was a valuable productive force.

In recent days, Fusu occasionally inquired about the farming techniques of the old people from Qin.

With the autumn rains passed, and both the summer and autumn harvests completed, there were once again idle people in Guanzhong.

Particularly around Mount Shangyan, there were more idle individuals than elsewhere, all hoping to find some work—helping transport soil, digging a canal.

As winter approached, every household worried about having enough grain to last through, and sought extra work to trade for more food since not everyone’s stores were sufficient.

Zhang Han required only a small number of workers. He wanted strong men who consumed little grain, and he demanded verification from the county officials before paying them grain after the work was done.

Zhang Han personally selected the workers; he examined their physiques and even their teeth, watching them so closely it made people uncomfortable.

His method of choosing men resembled selecting livestock.

Fusu turned his head away, refusing to look at him, and instead held a brush to record notes on bamboo slips, all about agriculture, food, climate, and soil.

Fusu thought he might also write a book like Jia Sixie, whose work *Essential Techniques for the Common People* was remarkably rare.

Perhaps now he too could compose a volume.

After all, it would be useful, and people’s meals should be richer and more abundant.

He kept writing without pause.

Tian An was an elderly man with strong practical skills—not only in making furniture and daily necessities but also in cooking.

He quickly mastered dough kneading techniques; likely because he was originally from Qi in his youth, he was familiar with rice and wheat foods, so after slight adjustments to his methods, he grasped it swiftly.

At this moment, Tian An was teaching several elderly women how to knead dough and scolded anyone who made mistakes.

Though an old palace attendant, Tian An was tall and imposing; just by standing there, he commanded respect.

In the palace, Tian An organized the servants of Gaoquan Palace, so when facing these household staff, he carried an aura of authority that they obeyed without question.

On the third day after returning home, Li You came back again—not alone this time.

Two middle-aged men accompanied him, one stout and one slender.

Li You introduced them: “Young master, these two gentlemen are Confucian scholars summoned to court by His Majesty’s decree.”

“I am Shusun Tong. I have long heard of your worthy reputation, young master, and have come to pay my respects.”

Fusu bowed in return.

The other also bowed, saying, “I am Fuxing. By the order of the First Emperor, I entered Qin. Hearing of your deeds, young master, I have come to pay my respects.”

Since there was no residence here, Fusu could only host a banquet beside the newly dug canal.

However, the household staff showed little warmth toward the guests. It was one thing if they were laborers—they wouldn’t eat grain without working—but guests were different. They ate and left, only to return again.

Among the servants was a little girl named Linu’er, a name given by Tian An. She was about nine years old.

Tian An was very fond of her and had taken her in as a granddaughter.

“Linu” means kitten, and the girl was as agile and clever as a little cat.

Tian An called her simply “Nu’er.”

Even in the palace, few earned Tian An’s favor.

Now, Nu’er placed a bowl of noodles and a bowl of pickled radish before the guests, then stood nearby with a small wooden basin, looking quite displeased.

Each time the three guests ate an extra mouthful of grain, Nu’er pursed her lips, growing more uncomfortable.

Li You ate heartily, chewing on pickled radish, and said, “I don’t know why, but ever since returning, I’ve constantly thought about your meals, young master.”

With that, the flatbread and dishes on the table were all gone, even the large bowl of noodles.

The two scholars were no different. One looked quite elderly, with white temples and many white hairs in his beard.

“At my age, I can’t eat much,” he bowed and said, “I am Fuxing. It was Chunyu Yue who persuaded this old man to come pay respects to you, young master, and through the prime minister’s son, I have come to trouble you.”

Shusun Tong was the stouter, slightly shorter man.

Fuxing was taller and thinner.

Both were renowned figures in the Confucian scholarly circles; otherwise, Li You would not place such importance on them.

If Li You valued them, it meant their influence was also respected by their teachers.

Behind these two stood a large group of prominent figures and students from Qi and Lu.

Fuxing stroked his beard and asked, “I have long heard that you are fond of learning and enjoy reading.”

Now that Qin had unified the six states, the entire realm belonged to Qin, and the First Emperor had achieved an extraordinary feat.

What had not been accomplished in five hundred years since the Spring and Autumn and Warring States periods was completed by Qin.

Therefore, the Great Qin now held the greatest influence over the world, and the eldest son of the First Emperor—Fusu himself—naturally attracted much attention.

Including what books he liked to read.

Discussing the Qin prince had become common gossip among the former aristocrats of the six states—only those who once occupied the highest ranks cared about such matters.

From his love for Han Fei’s works to studying under Prime Minister Li Si, and his activities over the past six months, Fusu’s reputation might have long since spread.

Wang Wan, who left Xianyang, had traveled everywhere, lamenting or celebrating his survival.

How Li Si fared, how young master Fusu fared, all had reached many ears through Wang Wan.

Fusu refocused, poured a bowl of hot tea, and said, “I usually read some books, having dabbled in the works of various philosophers.”

In this monotonous and joyless Qin lifestyle, reading was a rare pastime; after all, the palace in Xianyang had an endless supply of books.

Fuxing’s gaze shifted to a bamboo slip scroll beside the table—the same one Fusu held when first greeting them.

As a Confucian luminary from Qi and Lu, Fuxing still remained cautious before a Qin prince, not speaking too freely. Facing the First Emperor in Xianyang, he held back; not many of the Hundred Schools of Thought had survived the turmoil.

Only a few heirs of the philosophers remained active across the land, wary that the First Emperor might eradicate more families.

Fuxing asked, “May this old man look at your scroll, young master?”

Fusu handed over the bamboo slips, saying, “These are notes I write daily.”

Tian An smiled as he remarked, “Young master takes notes every time he reads.”

Fuxing studied the contents, his expression fluctuating between confusion and clarity.

Shusun Tong was eager to see what notes a Qin prince would write, but seated side by side with Li You between them, they couldn’t get a good view.

Fuxing examined the scroll carefully and slowly; one could hear the faint rustle as the bamboo slips were unfolded.

Then, the elder carefully rolled the scroll back up and bowed, “Young master, may this old servant take this book back to my residence in Xianyang and return it to you tomorrow?”

Fusu stood and said, “No problem.”

Fuxing bowed and turned to leave.

Having eaten just a few bites and spoken little, Fuxing was already ready to depart. Shusun Tong said, “Ah, I just remembered I have relatives in Xianyang to visit.”

Fusu understood and nodded, “Old gentlemen may come again whenever you wish.”

Shusun Tong appraised the Qin prince carefully, nodded slowly, and followed Fuxing’s footsteps.

Once they were gone, Li You said, “Young master, why not take these two gentlemen as guest scholars?”

Fusu replied, “These two elders clearly are remarkable figures.”

Lowering his voice, Li You leaned close and said, “Young master, Fuxing is a descendant of Confucius’s disciples and holds great prestige in Qi and Lu. Shusun Tong is a disciple of Kong Fu.”

Fusu had heard of Kong Fu—he was the eighth-generation descendant of Confucius himself, still alive.

Just over five hundred years after the Spring and Autumn and Warring States, Confucius’s living descendants still remained.

Li You sighed, “It turns out my father wanted to invite Kong Fu to Qin, but he declined, so his disciple Shusun Tong came instead.”

Fusu had heard of four scholars from the six states who came to Qin: Chunyu Yue, Zhou Qingchen, Fuxing, and Shusun Tong.

Fusu asked, “Won’t you escort these two scholars back to Xianyang?”

Li You grinned, “Another person is coming today.”

“Who?”

Before the words finished, the sound of galloping hooves approached. A man clad in Qin military armor reined in his horse nearby.

The horse’s belly was still covered with hardened mud, showing signs of a hurried journey.

The man was none other than Wang Ben, the former Minister of the Palace who had left Xianyang with Li You and now returned.

Dismounting, Wang Ben slapped Li You heavily on the back.

Li You let out a painful cry.

Now thin and frail, Li You wailed upon the blow and then coughed, leaning against a nearby tree.

Wang Ben frowned, “How did you get into such a state?”

Li You stepped back and said, “You smell of blood.”

Wang Ben raised his arm and sniffed carefully, then said, “I brought some wine from Nanjun as a gift for the young master.”

Wine was precious in these times; economic transactions were simple, and a jar of wine could be exchanged for much grain.

Fusu gladly had Tian An and others unload the wine jars from the cart and store them in the warehouse.

Wealth accumulates little by little; grain and population were parts of that wealth.

Wang Ben poured wine into a bowl and gulped a large mouthful. “At last, the affairs of Nanjun have been settled.”

After three large bowls, Li You was somewhat drunk. He whispered, “Young master, I did no saving in Shangjun—I don’t know how to save lives or heal the sick. Like Wang Ben, I am no better than anyone else.”

The wine’s warmth brought a painful look to Li You’s face, as if recalling his past experiences in Shangjun. He murmured, “Wang Ben kills, I bury; we do the dirty and exhausting work.”

Soon, Wang Ben, drunk, returned to Xianyang.

Fusu watched the now unconscious Li You as night fell and the cold wind howled outside. He had no choice but to stay and care for him.

“Young master, this is the lamb soup cooked by Grandpa Tian,” said Nu’er as she placed a steaming bowl before him.

Fusu asked, “Nu’er, do you have a dream?”

Nu’er frowned, “What is a dream?”

“It’s what you want.”

She smiled, eyes narrowed, “My parents often say it would be great to have endless grain and a very, very big family. When the young master came, we could eat our fill. I want…”

Her voice faltered, then she added, “I want the young master to never die.”

Fusu laughed softly, “Go home and rest early.”

The girl left humming a tune.

This small room was no mansion, barely fitting a bookshelf, a desk, and a stove. Shelter from wind and rain was enough.

Li You’s snores rose and fell.

Fusu thought of Nu’er’s words—at her age, she must have witnessed much death, believing those who die never return.

He took a bamboo slip scroll from the shelf and sat by the oil lamp to continue writing his notes.

These notes were akin to a report investigating the livelihood of Guanzhong’s people.

Most households in Guanzhong farmed, each with one or two able-bodied men serving in the army.

The family structures were simple: one or two people in small families, up to more than ten in larger ones, observed since the spring plowing season.

They farmed in family units, each cultivating five to more than ten acres.

For example, a family with three brothers, each with wives and children, might easily number over ten people.

Fusu had become accustomed to such detailed, patient observation.

He studied whether the Qin people lived according to the rhythms of autumn harvest and winter storage or their daily routines.

Even if the results were meager, Fusu believed such grounded work would yield the most precious rewards.

Since the Zhengguo Canal’s construction, fertile fields stretched hundreds of miles along the northwest; Guanzhong’s population was not sparse, but cultivated land still fell short.

At dawn, Fusu realized he had spent the entire night unwittingly.

Tian An, despite his age, had remained standing indoors, likely accustomed to sleeping on his feet, leaning lightly against the wall.

Fusu rose and took a few steps, awakening Tian An, who looked around and said, “It’s dawn, young master. You should wash up.”

Fusu replied, “I’ll tidy up and then return to the palace.”

Half an hour later, Tian An had prepared the carriage for their return. Fusu noticed Li You was gone from the room.

Tian An said, “When Inspector Li left, he also took several of your scrolls, saying he’d return them tomorrow.”

Fusu checked carefully. Those scrolls contained unconfirmed ideas—concepts like governing for the people, prioritizing their welfare and unity.

Not to mention Li You’s borrowed scrolls, Fuxing’s notes on the livelihood survey had yet to be returned despite waiting most of the day.

Even esteemed scholars and great philosophers could break promises; Fusu resolved not to lend books out again.