Chapter Eleven: My Heart Mirrors Yours (Part Two) Second Update

It was early spring, and vitality was awakening everywhere.

The fields still bore a desolate hue, yet amidst the barrenness, tender shoots of green had begun to emerge, bringing with them a renewed sense of life. In some places, traces of winter snow lingered, but already peasants were busying themselves among the ridges.

Zheng Yanqing knew well that it was not yet time for sowing.

After the Waking of Insects, when the earth’s energy surged forth, that would be the best season for plowing. Still, seeing the farmers moving through the fields, measuring here and there, pausing at intervals to scoop up handfuls of soil and sniff them at their noses, he wondered what they were up to.

“Grandfather, what are they doing?” he asked.

Zheng Shian glanced out of the carriage and replied softly, “They are dividing the fields.”

“Dividing the fields?”

Zheng Shian explained, “Every year before farming begins, the land must be apportioned. According to the richness of the earth’s energy, the plowing is scheduled after the Waking of Insects. Land with poor earth’s energy isn’t suitable for planting—it must be left fallow to recover. Only when the earth’s energy is replenished the following year will it be sown. This is done every year; a portion of the fields is always left to rest.”

“Oh!” Zheng Yanqing nodded thoughtfully.

In his previous life, he had dabbled in agriculture and forestry, so he understood something of these matters.

Yet in his former era, people had none of this ancient wisdom about nurturing the land. What his grandfather called earth’s energy would, in modern terms, be soil fertility. The practice of letting poor land rest and farming only the fertile plots had existed for ages. But later, under the so-called scientific approach to farming, people had driven their fields to yield harvest after harvest, month after month, never giving them a chance to recover.

He remembered once, during a rural investigation, an old farmer had said something deeply insightful.

“Spring is for plowing, summer for growing, autumn for harvesting, and winter for storing away—these are the rhythms decreed by heaven itself. But now, people squeeze in several plantings and harvests a year, forcing the crops with chemical fertilizers. It looks like plenty, but in truth, the land grows ever more barren. The ancestors preserved these good fields for us over thousands of years—at this rate, they’ll be spent in no time.”

Scientific farming?

Watching those farmers testing the vitality of the soil, Zheng Yanqing suddenly found himself wondering who, in the end, was truly unscientific.

He shook his head and leaned back into the carriage, closing his eyes for a rest.

Having stayed up late the night before for New Year's Eve, both Zheng Shian and himself had not slept well. With the gentle jostling of the carriage, drowsiness soon overtook him. He did not know when he drifted off, but when he woke, the bright moon was already high in the sky.

Outside, the noise and bustle piqued his curiosity, so he climbed out and saw that camp had already been set up. More than a dozen large carts had been arranged in a circle to form an encampment. Several bonfires blazed, and people sat in small groups around the flames, some singing in loud voices, others playing dice games, making for a lively scene.

Zheng Shian sat beside one of the fires, speaking quietly with a warrior.

The warrior’s name was Zheng Weishan, and though he was not from the main Zheng branch, he belonged to the second branch of the Zhengs of Xingyang, and was of illegitimate birth. His status was not high, and though he was past thirty, his seniority was a generation below Zheng Renji. Since childhood, he had trained in martial arts, reaching a high level of skill. Recruited by Great Master Zheng, he served in the Anyuan Hall.

Despite his given name—Weishan, meaning “do good”—he was known for his ruthless methods.

Many matters unsuitable for Great Master Zheng to handle openly were entrusted to Zheng Weishan, who always completed them with finesse. Thus, Great Master Zheng placed great trust in him. For Zheng Renji’s appointment to Luoyang, the master had sent both Zheng Shian and Zheng Weishan, a clear sign of the importance he attached to the matter. After all, Luoyang was no Xingzhou; it was a gathering place of noble families from Guanzhong and Longxi. Without strong and reliable support, Zheng Renji would struggle to gain a foothold there.

Zheng Shian, having served the Zhengs for five generations, was loyal and astute.

Zheng Weishan, with his martial prowess and cold-blooded, steady nature, complemented him well. The civil and the martial—together, they were more than sufficient to help Zheng Renji.

Furthermore, Zheng Renji had recruited a number of aides in Chang’an, so establishing himself in Luoyang would likely not be a problem.

Zheng Yanqing quietly went over and sat beside his grandfather.

“Awake now?”

“Yes,” Yanqing answered softly. “Grandfather, where are we?”

“Up ahead lies Mount Shouyang,” Zheng Weishan replied in a low voice. Though Yanqing was only Zheng Shian’s grandson, the old steward’s status in the family ensured that no one dared look down on him. Zheng Weishan was also aware that Great Master Zheng held Yanqing in high regard. Yanqing’s journey to Luoyang was for the sake of accompanying Zheng Hongyi, and in time, when Hongyi took charge of Anyuan Hall, Yanqing’s standing would be no less than Zheng Shian’s now—a person not to be slighted.

Compared to those in the Scripture Hall or Anyuan Hall, Zheng Weishan had faced a hard life.

The second branch had fallen into decline long ago and survived only through the charity of the other branches. As an illegitimate son, his status was low and he was often looked down upon. Only after joining Anyuan Hall did he finally gain some respect within the clan.

“We missed the scheduled stop at Chenggao earlier, so we’re camping here tonight,” said Zheng Weishan. “Once we pass Mount Shouyang, we’ll reach Yanshi. I was just discussing with the steward whether we should rest for a day in Yanshi before proceeding to Luoyang.”

Upon hearing this, Yanqing looked over at Zheng Shian.

Zheng Shian considered and said, “The eldest son wrote to say that he has a friend living in Yanshi—a man named Xu Gai. He’s originally from Lihu and is very wealthy. He is generous and open-hearted. The eldest son wants us to pay him a visit in Yanshi and take someone with us to Luoyang. Very well, we’ll stay half a day in Yanshi tomorrow. The caravan need not enter the city. Weishan, make a list of what’s needed and send someone to purchase it. Remind everyone that Yanshi is not far from Luoyang—they must not get into trouble.”

“Understood,” replied Zheng Weishan. “We’ll do as the steward says.”

Xu Gai?

Yanqing found the name familiar, as if he’d heard it before, but couldn’t recall where.

“Grandfather, is this Xu Gai of noble birth?”

“Oh, not at all,” said Zheng Shian. “He’s a wealthy merchant, involved in business with us. He deals in timber, but also trades in furs and some contraband goods. He’s closely connected to the eldest son.”

Contraband goods?

In these times, such businesses were many, but none more important than salt and iron.

The Zhengs had their own ironworks, so their dealings with Xu Gai were clear enough. Still, Yanqing could not remember who Xu Gai really was. Since his grandfather said no more, he didn’t press the matter. He simply picked up a steamed cake and chewed it slowly.

Just then, the sound of hoofbeats came from afar.

Zheng Weishan immediately stood and seized a long broadsword.

A sentry on a wagon called out sharply, “Who goes there? Identify yourself, or don’t blame us for being rude!”

“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” came a refined voice from the darkness. “We are merely travelers passing through and ask only for your forbearance.”

Dozens of figures emerged from the night. Leading them was a burly man, strangely striking in appearance: green eyes, a curly beard, high cheekbones, and a pale complexion.

He rode a black horse, a sword at his side.

Stopping forty or fifty paces from the caravan, he dismounted, removed his sword, and handed it to his servant.

“I am Zhang Zhongjian, from Yangzhou, a merchant passing through. If we disturb you, I beg your pardon.”

Zheng Shian started, rising to stand by Zheng Weishan. “Are you related to Zhang Jiling, the richest man in Yangzhou?”

“Ah, that is my father,” replied Zhang Zhongjian, equally taken aback. His expression grew more respectful as he bowed. “I am his third son. May I ask who I have the honor of addressing?”

“So, you are the youngest son of Zhang Jiling. I heard you left home years ago—what brings you here?”

“I returned home last year. Not long ago, the Duke of Yue ordered a batch of silk from my father, but as no one else was available, I was tasked with escorting the goods to Chang’an.”

“I see.” Zheng Shian turned to Zheng Weishan. “Let them camp on their own. If they need anything, provide it.”

Then, to Zhang Zhongjian, he said, “We are from Anyuan Hall of Xingzhou. My name is Zheng Shian, and I have had dealings with your father. You may camp here. If you require anything, just ask—we need not stand on ceremony.”

As the saying goes, harbor no ill intent toward others, but never let down your guard.

Even knowing the other party’s background, Zheng Shian could not afford to be careless.

Declaring their affiliation was meant to deter any mischief; if the other party truly needed help, it would be given, but he would not agree to combine their camps. There was no way to confirm their identity, and besides, Zhang Jiling was but a merchant—no need for undue intimacy.

Even so, Zhang Zhongjian was profusely grateful.