Before the Lantern Festival, Cui Ye forcefully overrode all objections and issued the new agricultural treatise that Meng Xi Zhao had already compiled long ago.
It was jointly placed under the responsibility of the Ministry of Agriculture, the Ministry of Revenue, and the Imperial Academy. First it was printed, then distributed to all prefectures and counties, leaving the local magistrates to figure out how to teach it to the common people.
This was something that absolutely required instruction. After all, within the people of the Great Qi, nine out of ten were illiterate.
In the traditional hierarchy of “scholars, farmers, artisans, and merchants,” agriculture was indeed ranked fairly high—but the Crown Prince did not begin by focusing on the scholar-official class. Instead, he directed his attention toward the farmers who worked the soil. This naturally left some of the literati, who prided themselves on being scholars, somewhat dissatisfied.
However, it was only dissatisfaction—it had not yet escalated into strong opposition. So they merely made a show of objection, grumbled a few times, and then let the matter drop.
In the end, the printing of the agricultural treatise was still funded by the state treasury. Moreover, for those who had passed the imperial examination to become xiucai, most of their families owned farmland. If agricultural output increased, even these landlord-gentry households would benefit.
This subtle difference in mindset is ultimately a result of class structure. The Xiongnu operated under a slave society, so the greater the gap between rich and poor, the more stable their state became. Feudal society might appear slightly better than a slave society, but in truth, it is not much better.
Those at the top still rely on oppressing those at the bottom, deriving a sense of psychological superiority from watching the hardships the lower classes endure every day.
Meng Xizhao had never thought about changing this. It was not that he did not want to—it was that he knew his own limits.
Social transformation is not something that can be achieved by mere words. Even the Emperor of Tianshou, willful as he was and acting as if the whole world would obey him, failed when he tried to depose the Empress. In the end, he still had to admit defeat in disgrace.
Society as a whole is like a massive game. As someone with high-level authority, Meng Xizhao can set certain events or roll out major “version updates” to improve people’s lives. But if he tries to tamper with the source code—that is, the fundamental structure of society—such as recklessly introducing democracy… well, even if Cui Ye protected him, it would not help. The two of them might very well end up buried alive in the same pit.
…
History develops in a spiral upward; there is no sudden leap to the peak like riding a rocket. There have always been utopian thinkers throughout the ages. Their theories were not necessarily flawed, and later generations often hold them in high regard. Yet in their own time, they were considered heretical, and once they spoke up, they would be fiercely attacked.
That said, it does not mean Meng Xizhao would do nothing, give up entirely, and lie flat. He has been acting all along—guiding those with talent and encouraging them to think independently. Everyone wants a better life, but without the necessary conditions, people can only endure hardship.
Once the right tools appear, desire to purchase them will arise. Strong consumer demand, in turn, fuels the passion of creators. What begins as small, insignificant inventions quickly develops—human learning ability is incredibly powerful. Soon, someone will summarize these developments into a system of theory, and others will build upon that theory, pushing further and deeper. Gradually, the “technology tree” begins to take shape.
Meng Xizhao can guarantee that as long as he and Cui Ye remain in power, he will continue urging Cui Ye to support the development of scholarship. But he cannot guarantee that those who come after will do the same. As always, an individual’s power is limited. He has already done all that he can; what remains is left to fate.
After all, no matter how well he plans for the present, someday in the future, a fool will emerge and plunge the world back into chaos. That fool might not appear for a hundred years, or even several hundred—but Meng Xizhao is certain of one thing: he will appear.
…
With a sigh, Meng Xizhao flipped through the samples Qingfu had purchased. Movable-type printing already existed, but due to its high cost and complexity, woodblock printing remained far more common.
This particular book was printed, with the title and authors on the cover.
There were two names—his, and Shi Dazhuang’s.
Meng Xizhao: “…”
Seeing his own name on the book made him feel deeply embarrassed.
After all, he believed he was at most an editor-in-chief. Most of the content had been compiled from others.
Ever since Cui Ye began residing permanently in Wende Hall, Meng Xizhao had also practically taken up residence in the Eastern Palace. For a while, he had been so busy his feet barely touched the ground. Later, when things finally eased up, Cui Ye refused to let him leave, claiming that his visible show of power served as a deterrent to the other officials…
At this moment, the two of them sat in the same room. Cui Ye looked up and noticed Meng Xizhao staring at the book with a complicated expression. After a moment’s thought, he asked, “Second Brother, would you like to have lunch?”
Meng Xizhao glanced at him, not letting himself be distracted. “In the future, can you leave my name off things like this?”
Cui Ye: “This is clearly your achievement. Why should your name not be on it?”
Meng Xizhao: “…I have no desire to compete for fame and profit.”
And besides, he still had his pride. As someone who knew nothing about agriculture, being placed on equal footing with Shi Dazhuang made it difficult for him to accept.
Cui Ye frowned. “But your reputation is poor, and some of the common people misunderstand you. Do you not want all under heaven to admire you?”
Meng Xizhao: “…”
Expressionless, he said, “No.”
He was not Yan Shunying—he did not have such inflated vanity.
Cui Ye studied him, as if realizing he truly did not care. After a pause, he lowered his gaze. “If you will not consider yourself, will you not consider me?”
Meng Xizhao looked at him strangely, his face practically spelling out: What does that have to do with you?
Cui Ye: “…I wish to share both hardship and joy with you. Not until thunder shakes the winter skies would I dare part from you. From now on, every day, we will come and go together, relying on one another. This is the promise you once gave me. In such a case, your reputation is my reputation. If you care so little, does it mean you never truly took that promise to heart—and are still thinking of withdrawing once your goals are achieved, leaving me behind?”
Meng Xizhao: “…………”
Before the New Year, one night after drinking too much, he had not returned home. He and Cui Ye had talked for half the night, opening their hearts to each other. Their already deep bond grew even stronger. In a moment of impulse, Meng Xizhao had made a vow. He understood Cui Ye’s feelings, and he did not wish to remain bound forever by the rigid etiquette of ruler and subject. Once everything settled, he would move into the palace and stay by Cui Ye’s side every day.
This was not a one-sided affection. He cared for Cui Ye as well. So he would no longer make him endure in silence.
That night, Cui Ye had been overjoyed. He had not even brought it up yet, and Meng Xizhao had already taken the initiative to yield. In truth, he had prepared himself for the possibility that Meng Xizhao would refuse no matter what—he might have to sleep alone for the rest of his life. Who would have thought happiness would come so suddenly?
Meng Xizhao had a flaw—after revealing his true feelings, he would feel awkward for a while. Cui Ye knew he would not break his word, so he had thoughtfully avoided bringing it up again. But today, mentioning it so abruptly had the expected result—Meng Xizhao’s expression turned unnatural.
Cui Ye showed no intention of taking back what he had said. The two of them stared at each other in silence. In the end, Meng Xizhao, feeling guilty, lowered his head. “That’s not what I meant. You’re too sensitive, you know that? …Forget it. Do whatever you want.”
Cui Ye listened, then smiled faintly.
＊
As for how effective the agricultural manual would be, that would have to wait until the autumn harvest. But Cui Ye did not wait that long to reward Shi Dazhuang.
He granted Shi Dazhuang the position of Yuanwailang. It was not a functional post, more like an honorary title. He did not need to report for duty, yet he was given land and a stipend, able to collect grain and salary regularly.
This was probably the lowest honorary official rank in the court—seventh rank—but for someone like Shi Dazhuang, who had still been toiling in the fields just two years ago, it was a meteoric rise.
Watching him weep with gratitude, Meng Xizhao swallowed back what he had been about to say. If Shi Dazhuang knew this was only an advance reward, and that after the autumn harvest, once the real results were seen, Cui Ye was planning to grant him an actual noble title of Fifth-Rank Viscount, he would probably faint from excitement on the spot.
No matter what, seeing him so happy lifted Meng Xizhao’s mood as well. And once in a good mood, he returned to the Eastern Palace and began writing furiously.
When Cui Ye came back from Wende Hall, he glanced at what Meng Xizhao was writing. At first, he moved his head away—then suddenly, he quietly leaned back in again.
Meng Xizhao was drafting an imperial self-criticism edict for the Emperor of Tianshou.
…
The storyline he arranged for the Emperor of Tianshou was this: bedridden for a month, suffering greatly, plagued by nightmares, recalling those he had wronged in the past and those he had trusted mistakenly. Now, he finally understood why he had ended up like this—it was retribution for listening only to biased voices and harming loyal ministers. Therefore, in order to recover, he would write a self-reproach edict, apologizing to General Zhan, whom he had caused to die unjustly, restoring his reputation so he might rest in peace.
It was a little out of character, but people are not exactly logical when they are ill. Besides, the Emperor of Tianshou’s goal was simply to recover sooner, not to sincerely repent, so it was not too far-fetched.
Of course, given the Emperor of Tianshou’s condition, there was no way he could write it himself. So Meng Xizhao would draft it first, then have Qin Feimang copy it, and afterward present it to the court officials.
As for how Qin Feimang would know the emperor’s intentions—when the Emperor of Tianshou could neither speak nor write, trembling all day and unable to do anything else—that was easy enough to handle.
At this very moment, a similar scene was playing out in Huaning Hall.
An elderly minister had come to visit the Emperor of Tianshou. Su Ruocun sat beside the dragon bed, holding the emperor’s hand, which twitched from time to time. At first, the old minister felt uncomfortable facing such a young consort, but that feeling quickly vanished.
Because he realized that without Su Ruocun, he could not understand the emperor at all.
After tearfully offering his well-wishes—nothing more than hoping for His Majesty’s speedy recovery—Su Ruocun listened, then turned to look at the emperor’s slightly swollen face.
She studied it for a moment. No one knew what exactly she was studying. Then she spoke with certainty: “His Majesty says, ‘Minister Kuang, your concern is noted. I feel somewhat better today. You need not cry anymore. At your age, it does not look good.’”
The old minister: “…………”
It was not pleasant to hear, but it was indeed consistent with the Emperor of Tianshou’s usual attitude.
The emperor himself, however, was nearly angered to death by Su Ruocun. His hand was clasped tightly in hers, and she was using considerable force. Despite all his effort, he could only make his little finger twitch slightly.
The old minister noticed it. So did Su Ruocun. She first glanced at the now-still hand, then looked again at the emperor’s face. Exhausted, even his half-open eyelids had stopped trembling.
Su Ruocun immediately turned back to the old minister. “Minister Kuang, His Majesty is tired. He will not keep you any longer.”
The old minister looked utterly confused and was just about to ask whether that was truly the emperor’s intention—when he saw the exhausted Emperor of Tianshou close his eyes in despair.
The old minister was stunned.
So there really was such a thing as hearts in perfect mutual understanding.