Chapter Twelve: Making Refined Salt

Pang Juan’s heart trembled violently. He had believed his meticulously crafted trap to be flawless, yet it had been seen through? And twice in a row, it had backfired on the State of Qin. Now, the only person who truly understood his methods was in the distant State of Qi. And judging by that man’s temperament, he would never stoop to wading into the murky affairs of Qin. Could it be... that an extraordinary talent had emerged in Qin?

Pang Juan pondered this deeply, when an urgent summons interrupted his thoughts: “General! The king demands your presence immediately!”

“Hm?”

His heart leapt—what he had been waiting for had finally arrived. Yet he showed no sign on his face, his voice icy enough to cut through stone: “What news from Gongshu Cuo?”

More than the King of Wei, he cared about the fate of his old rival. Gongshu Cuo was his mentor; both by duty and affection, he could not neglect to visit, lest he invite reproach. He had prepared himself to face old grudges, but Gongshu Cuo had instead taken full responsibility for the crushing defeat at Shaoliang upon himself. He did not blame Pang Zi’ang, but rather patted his shoulder, affirming that he had done right. The two men had laid their hearts bare, old animosities vanishing like mist.

“I see.”

A faint, almost imperceptible curve flickered at the corner of Pang Juan’s mouth, though his eyes remained cold and unreadable. With a turn, he strode forward, declaring, “Let us go meet the king.”

With that, Pang Juan led the way out, and Pang Zi’ang hurried after him.

At the palace in Daliang, King Hui of Wei sat high upon his throne, his face ashen and grim, eyes blazing with barely restrained fury. The moment Pang Juan stepped through the palace gates, a thunderous roar exploded through the hall:

“Pang Juan, look at what you have done! What a disgraceful mess!”

Pang Juan hastened to reply, “Your Majesty, our defeat this time is not absolute.”

“Oh? All commerce from our great Wei State—whether wealth carried personally or goods purchased in Qin—has been seized.”

“You call that not a failure? Then tell me, what is failure?”

King Hui’s countenance darkened to something terrifying. Pang Juan had deeply disappointed him. This episode was a costly blunder: like the legendary strategist Zhou Yu’s plan backfiring, the Wei State had lost both men and materiel, and sent a large sum of money straight into Qin’s coffers.

Pang Juan inhaled deeply and calmly said, “Though we lost money, we now have a pretext to attack Qin.”

“We can lead our armies to punish Qin, to cleanse this shame, and reclaim what was lost on their land.”

At these words, King Hui’s expression softened somewhat, but his tone remained cold: “How certain are you?”

“Ninety percent sure.”

Pang Juan spoke with unwavering resolve. This time, he dared not promise perfection as before—it had been a fluke. But he did not believe another misfortune awaited: with Qin in its current weakened state, what could possibly stand against the unbeatable Wei soldiers?

King Hui fell silent, his fingers pounding the table heavily. After a long pause, he said, “Very well. You have my approval. Do not disappoint me.”

Pang Juan bowed and vowed, “Juan will not disgrace Your Majesty’s trust.”

Meanwhile, at the Zhao government office, Gan Long watched with some pain as his household servants carried in box after box of supplies. Originally, he thought Gan Long had only purchased some furniture, but instead, he had bought a strange assortment of items: salt, coarse hemp cloth, fine hemp cloth, bronze cauldrons, bamboo strips, charcoal, and four large ceramic jars.

Why would a Left Assistant Minister concern himself with such mundane goods?

Though curious, Gan Long kept his distance and observed quietly. Zhao Zheng filled the ceramic jars with water and poured salt into them.

“Sir, what are you doing with these?” Gan Long dared not ask, but Meng Yun was not so hesitant. Curious, he watched as Zhao Zheng busied himself.

You’re already a Left Assistant Minister—why bother with items common folk would handle?

Zhao Zheng clapped his hands mysteriously, “You’ll understand when you return.”

The process of refining salt was beyond what these ancient people could grasp; it was better to show them the finished product later.

Next, Zhao Zheng fashioned racks from bamboo strips, stacking three ceramic jars atop one another. The top layer held coarse hemp cloth and coarse sand; the middle contained fine hemp cloth and fine sand; the bottom was lined with charcoal.

This was a rudimentary brine filtration apparatus. He planned to improve it gradually with better materials in the future.

The subsequent filtering and boiling to purify the brine had to remain secret. Zhao Zheng dismissed everyone, including Meng Yun.

Once alone, he closed the door, ensuring no one remained, and poured the brine into the filter. After passing through, the liquid emerged clear and bright.

He then transferred the brine to a bronze cauldron and simmered it gently. Steam wafted upward as crystals began to form at the bottom.

Zhao Zheng dipped his fingertip to taste: the harsh bitterness of coarse salt was gone, replaced only by a pure salty flavor.

Of course, it was still far inferior to the finest refined salt.

He quickly fetched a pottery jar to store the refined salt and put the leftover residue into another jar.

He intended to send one jar of the refined salt to Ying Quliang, and the other jar of residue to his good neighbor Gan Long.

Carrying the two jars, Zhao Zheng stepped outside his home—and by coincidence, a horse-drawn carriage was parked right before his door.

Zhao Zheng studied the carriage, feeling as if he had seen it somewhere before, familiar somehow.

The curtain lifted, revealing a lithe young woman with alluring curves stepping down.

Could it be... Ying Quliang’s sister, Ying Shu?

They had met briefly once before at the city gates of Liyang, and even that fleeting encounter had left a strong impression on Zhao Zheng.

“Princess, what brings you here?” Zhao Zheng, holding the jars, found it inconvenient to bow and thus asked directly.

Ying Shu appraised Zhao Zheng up and down before explaining, “My brother is busy with state affairs and cannot come himself, so I am here to deliver some supplies to you on his behalf.”

“Sir, what are these...” Ying Shu’s gaze fell on the two ceramic jars Zhao Zheng held, curiosity evident.

“Please, Your Highness, try this,” Zhao Zheng said, quick as a flash, offering her the jar containing the fine salt.

Ying Shu looked puzzled. She had expected some exotic delicacy, but upon opening the jar, saw no food—only a snowy-white crystalline substance unlike anything she had ever seen.

Instinctively, she dipped her finger into the fine, snow-like crystals and tasted a small pinch.

The next moment, Ying Shu froze in place. Her beautiful almond-shaped eyes widened in shock, pupils contracting slightly in disbelief.

She tasted pure saltiness—no bitterness of rough salt, no unpleasant earthy or gritty notes.

“This is... salt?”

Her voice trembled.

Such pure salt—none among the feudal lords of the land, nor even the Son of Heaven in Zhou, had likely ever tasted its like.

This man... had truly managed to produce it?

Zhao Zheng smiled and nodded, “Indeed. If Your Highness likes it, this jar is yours.”

As expected, even the highest nobles and princes found pure refined salt irresistibly appealing.

As for the salt of this age... well, even dogs would shake their heads at it.