On the second day in Hanchuan, the skies still had not cleared.
The snowstorm had stopped for half the night, only to begin falling again at dawn. It was not heavy, but it was dense, drifting down in fine, endless flakes from the gray-white heavens. They settled on rooftops, flagpoles, city walls, and the shoulders of every person waiting in line for porridge, only to melt into damp stains from body heat moments later.
Three new notices had appeared in front of the prefectural office.
The first listed the results of the granary inventory.
The second contained the grain registration records from every district in the city.
The third announced the new rationing regulations.
At first, the people of Hanchuan did not dare approach too closely. They had been hungry for too long, frightened for too long. They were accustomed to official notices being either tax demands or prohibitions. But this time was different. Several literate veteran soldiers stood before the notices, reading them aloud word by word to those who could not read.
“The elderly, children, the sick, and pregnant women have priority in receiving porridge.”
“Every district must re-register households according to official records and actual population. False claims and concealment of deaths or injuries are prohibited.”
“Those who conceal grain and fail to report it will have ninety percent confiscated into the public granary, leaving ten percent for their families’ survival. Those who voluntarily report their grain may retain twenty percent in addition to receiving rations.”
Someone finally could not hold back and asked, “You really let us keep twenty percent?”
The old soldier glanced at him.
“It says so on the notice.”
A low murmur rippled through the crowd.
For years, the people of Hanchuan had been exploited layer upon layer by transport commissioners, city officials, grain merchants, and wealthy clans. Long ago, they had stopped believing in the government’s promises of “fairness.” Yet after Prince Su entered the city yesterday, he sealed the granaries, inspected spoiled grain, and punished the wealthy households hoarding supplies. His actions were swift as a blade leaving its sheath.
That blade had fallen upon the greedy.
And in doing so, it had cut through the thick numbness in the hearts of the common people.
At least this time, the blade had not fallen on them.
Steam rose from the large cauldrons at the porridge stations.
The “nutritional powder” and “dried vegetable soup mix” added to the porridge the previous night were proving effective. The porridge remained thin, but after drinking it, people no longer felt the hollow emptiness that returned after mere warmth. Many elderly people finally managed to sleep after eating. Several children stopped crying over their bowls.
Chi Banyue stood beside the porridge station, holding a thin bamboo stick.
Not for beating people.
For tapping bowls.
Whenever someone, driven by hunger, tried to gulp everything down at once, she would lightly tap the rim of the bowl.
“Drink slowly. Doctor Su said that after starving for too long, you can’t rush.”
She repeated the sentence more than twenty times that morning. Eventually, even the soldiers helping distribute porridge learned it. Whenever they saw someone drinking too quickly, they immediately reminded them, “Slow down. Doctor Su said you can’t rush after starving too long.”
Chi Banyue almost laughed.
Suddenly, she felt that although Su Muchen was in another world, he was somehow managing the entire Hanchuan porridge station through his endless instructions.
The man was truly terrifying.
But in a way that made people feel safe.
After the hour of Si, the first group of merchants registering hidden grain were brought before the prefectural office. The wealthy households that had been caned yesterday still stood beside the notices as public examples, pale-faced and no longer daring to complain.
Far more people came forward voluntarily today.
Though many had shifty eyes, and the amounts they reported were probably not entirely truthful, Xia Lanshi did not immediately resort to harsh interrogations.
Seated in a side chamber of the prefectural office with a hand warmer in his hands, he studied a map of Hanchuan’s districts spread before him.
Different colors marked merchants, wealthy families, military households, grain shops, breweries, feed warehouses, and temples.
The map was incomplete, hastily pieced together by local clerks from old records and filled with errors.
Yet after only half an hour of study, Xia Lanshi had already spotted several inconsistencies.
“These three grain shops in the eastern district are close together. If they truly have only three dan of grain remaining as reported, then where did yesterday’s black-market grain come from?”
His brush tapped one point before moving elsewhere.
“And this Wanfu Temple. There are only forty monks, yet it possesses two granaries. After last year’s harvest, did any commoners store grain there?”
Qin Feng stood nearby, his expression dark.
“Yes. The people trust Wanfu Temple. In previous years, poor families often stored part of their grain there, believing it would earn the Buddha’s protection for the coming year. But since winter began, the temple has claimed its grain reserves were nearly exhausted and had already been distributed to disaster victims.”
Chi Banyue snorted.
“If the Buddha knew he was taking the blame for such a massive scheme, he’d probably want to renounce Buddhism himself.”
Qin Feng froze, clearly not expecting her to joke at a time like this.
Originally, he had heard Chi Banyue was Xiao Yuan’s favored concubine.
But after observing her for two days, he felt she was merely a cover used by Prince Su.
In reality, she was highly capable.
And Prince Su himself was nothing like the terrible reputation he carried in the capital. He was reasonable, capable, and genuinely concerned for the people.
The Crown Prince might seek power without regard for the suffering of the common folk.
Prince Su also sought power.
But at least he would not abandon the people.
Xia Lanshi, however, was already accustomed to her remarks.
He marked the temple on the map.
“Don’t touch the temple yet. Send two unfamiliar faces to line up for porridge and listen to what the people are saying. If grain is truly hidden there, someone will move it tonight.”
Qin Feng immediately understood.
“I’ll make the arrangements.”
Xia Lanshi nodded.
After Qin Feng left, Chi Banyue placed a pouch of nutrient solution before him.
“Drink.”
Xia Lanshi looked at the familiar yet strange item and fell silent.
“I just took my medicine.”
“Medicine is medicine. Nutrient solution is nutrient solution.”
She flipped open Su Muchen’s handbook and pointed to a page.
“Doctor Su wrote that nutritional supplements shouldn’t be skipped just because you’re taking medicine.”
A faint smile appeared on Xia Lanshi’s face.
“Miss Banyue is becoming Doctor Su’s foremost disciple.”
She smiled brightly.
“That sounds pretty good. At least this disciple has real authority.”
Xia Lanshi: “…”
In the end, he accepted the pouch and slowly drank a few mouthfuls.
The taste was still strange.
But compared to the first time he tried it, he could tolerate it now.
Perhaps Hanchuan was simply too cold.
Or perhaps he knew these strange supplies represented more than medicine and planning.
They represented a sleepless night spent calculating a path to survival in another world.
…
Later, Chi Banyue suddenly asked,
“What kind of person do you think Doctor Su is?”
Xia Lanshi paused.
He had never actually met Su Muchen.
Everything he knew came from Xiao Yuan’s brief descriptions, detailed notes written in less-than-neat handwriting, the medicines that had saved his life, and the meticulous recovery plans that left no room for neglect.
After a moment, he answered softly,
“He’s probably someone with a very soft heart.”
Chi Banyue raised an eyebrow.
“I think he probably has a terrible temper.”
Xia Lanshi smiled.
“A soft heart and a bad temper aren’t mutually exclusive.”
After thinking about it, Chi Banyue found herself agreeing.
Then she lowered her voice.
“What about Owl?”
Xia Lanshi’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the nutrient pouch.
…
Meanwhile, back at Gui Chen Studio, Su Muchen had hung up a sign for the first time:
Temporarily Closed — Inventory Check
Technically, he really was taking inventory.
Just not of antiques.
The warehouse was piled high with compressed food rations, nutrition powder, dehydrated vegetables, oral rehydration salts, heat packs, first-aid kits, and a newly delivered batch of agricultural sample packages.
Owl stood at the warehouse entrance and looked at the mountain of supplies.
“Muchen, this place looks more like a disaster relief warehouse than an antique shop now.”
Without looking up, Su Muchen continued unpacking cold-resistant crop samples.
“Got a problem with that?”
“No.”
Owl casually stripped modern labels from packages.
“I just think your ancestors might haunt you if they knew their antique shop descendants turned the place into a grain depot and clinic.”
“Then tell them to explain the Gate while they’re at it.”
Owl wisely stopped talking.
The two continued working.
Food could be disguised as imported goods.
Seeds were another matter.
Especially potatoes.
If successfully cultivated, they could completely change the Northern Border’s dependence on imperial grain supplies.
More important than food.
Far more dangerous.
Su Muchen entered Hanchuan’s data into an agricultural AI model.
Cold climate.
Long winters.
Likely sandy soil.
Seasonal water freezing.
Limited farmland, but usable slopes near valleys and military settlements.
The model quickly produced recommendations:
Short-term greenhouse seedling cultivation.
Spring planting of cold-resistant potatoes, oats, and buckwheat.
Autumn root-cellar storage.
Winter cultivation of leafy vegetables using simple solar beds and manure insulation.
Establish decentralized grain storage sites to prevent sabotage or isolation of a single granary.
Looking at the recommendations, Su Muchen finally felt confident.
Saving Hanchuan could not be limited to five days.
The Northern Border had to survive next year as well.
He rewrote everything into terms people of the ancient world could understand.
“Foreign root crop. Cold-resistant. Spring planting, autumn harvest. Suitable for military settlement trials.”
“Oats. Suitable for cold regions. Useful as horse feed and grain.”
“Buckwheat. Short growing cycle. Effective famine crop.”
“Cabbage, radish, mustard greens. Can be stored in cellars for winter vegetables.”
“Grain storage must not be centralized. Establish separate storage sites in military settlements, villages, temples, and valleys.”
Then he added one final line.
“Control of grain must not rest entirely in the hands of civilian transport officials.”
Owl glanced at it and laughed.
“That sounds less like a farming manual and more like a rebellion handbook.”
“I am merely making an objective summary.”
“Objective enough that the Crown Prince would want you dead.”
…
That night, when Xiao Yuan returned through the Gate, he brought good news.
“Today, Hanchuan recorded no new deaths from cold or starvation.”
Su Muchen froze.
“Really?”
“Really.”
For a moment, the exhaustion in his eyes seemed to lift.
He looked down at the record sheet.
Hanchuan, Day One: No new deaths from cold or starvation.
Before, it had merely been a line of data.
Hearing Xiao Yuan confirm it made it real.
Then Xiao Yuan placed something on the table.
A rough wooden token from the porridge station.
The character “粥”—porridge—was carved into it.
“A child asked me to bring this to you,” Xiao Yuan said. “He asked whether Doctor Su was an immortal. I said no. So he asked me to thank Doctor Su for him.”
Su Muchen stared at the token for a long time.
He was not an immortal.
He was not even a licensed doctor yet.
Just an ordinary man running a shabby shop, buried in debt, and being watched by a powerful corporation.
Yet somewhere in another world, a child had survived one more night because of an extra bowl of porridge.
He picked up the token.
The wood was rough against his palm.
Yet it felt heavier than any award certificate.
“I’ll keep it.”
Xiao Yuan looked at him deeply.
“Muchen.”
“Hmm?”
“Hanchuan will remember you.”
Su Muchen’s fingers tightened around the token.
After a moment, he calmly put it into a drawer.
“As long as they remember my bill.”
Xiao Yuan laughed softly.
So did Owl.
The light inside Gui Chen Studio seemed warmer then, as if even the night outside no longer felt quite so cold.
But everyone knew the peace would not last.
Hanchuan still had three days left.
The Crown Prince was still watching.
The Sheng Corporation had not truly withdrawn.
And the tiny seeds on the table had yet to touch the soil of the Northern Border.
The five-day path to survival had only taken its first step.
The road to truly saving the Northern Border would be long—and difficult.