Meng Qi slowly realized that Pingzhou’s Zhushan County was a rather interesting place.
It wasn’t just that its people liked to chat with the gods at the temples, but rather that its poverty seemed to be maintained at a strangely balanced level.
It was truly poor; every household had little to spare, unable to afford fine clothes, and requiring constant labour just to get by.
Yet few were emaciated from hunger, skin and bones—there were even quite a few elderly surviving in the outlying villages.
—At first glance, it seemed ordinary, but it actually revealed quite a bit.
First, there were no overbearing landlords or bullies squeezing tenants. Second, no one was regularly going hungry.
The former was understandable: this was a remote clump of countryside near the border, outside of the prefecture’s regular jurisdiction, but with a highly capable county magistrate, which might explain that.
But the latter—that could not be brushed off. This wasn’t Jiangnan; the climate here was harsh, even the best varieties of crops struggled to survive, and you couldn’t double-crop within a year. Except for potatoes, most other yields per acre were unimpressive.
To be sure, this was a land rich in spiritual energy—because of the dragon vein coiled beneath it, there grew lush plants, and the mountains were full of birds and beasts.
Hunters could make a living catching animals, selling them in the villages or the town, and other folk could occasionally snare some meat and eat a bit better; it looked like simple living off the mountains and waters, so no one starved, and lives seemed fairly decent.
But spiritual energy’s blessings could also be a curse—see Feihe Mountain as an example.
There, the fishing villages survived off streams and lakes, but were miserably poor; a good meal of grain was always out of reach, and they could only fish.
Tilling mountain land was tough, and farming was unreliable. While crops absorbed spiritual energy, their growth could not keep up with wild grasses—let alone the clever, grain-loving mountain sparrows, who watched people sow seeds, then immediately dug them up to eat. Seedlings that sprouted would be ravaged by insects, and by the time seeds ripened, wild animals came to destroy and trample, leaving so little for a family’s hard work that even day-and-night vigilance produced little harvest at all.
Qimao Mountain, short on spiritual energy compared to Feihe, saw some of the same issues. Its location near the northern border meant fewer pests, but the difficulties remained.
Zhushan was the county most deeply marked by the dragon vein’s energy. Local records said the place had been poor since ancient times, full of mountain weirdness, wild beasts, and taboos about venturing too deep lest one perish. Anyone could fish by Feihe Mountain, but not everyone could hunt in Qimao Mountain—get caught by the wolves and tigers, and you’d die for nothing.
Thus, it was always the most remote and impoverished corner for miles around, while neighbouring Ma County had it far easier.
“…It’s only in the last twenty years or so that times have improved.”
Meng Qi murmured to himself, finding the place ever more fascinating.
He was not a man who liked to dig too deeply, but if a question stumbled in front of him and piqued his interest, how could he ignore it?
“You had better be careful, or Magistrate Xue will suspect you,” Mo Li half-teased, half-reproached.
For a stranger to come poking around about the past, asking after grain prices, and annual harvests—it was just like an agent from the prefecture trying to reinstate taxes, or a borderland grain smuggler.
A pretty face could help get people talking before they realized what they’d shared, but as soon as they thought it over, they’d run straight to report to Constable Qin and Steward Li.
The town was small, but its people were wary—no surprise, given how many prefects Pingzhou had gone through, each one eyeing Ma and Zhushan Counties as “untouched meat.”
Each year, the tiny handover of grain and silver to the capital was just as in former times. If they enforced the imperial head taxes here, all the newly grown households would be added in, and that rich “meat” would not go unnoticed.
“It might be that Magistrate Xue has been shielding the county from the prefecture’s taxes so everyone gets some breathing room…”
Mo Li stopped mid-sentence.
In earlier years, it hadn’t struck him as odd; he’d been born and raised in Qimao Mountain and Zhushan County, and had never seen the outside world. Books painted pictures of peace and prosperity elsewhere, but he doubted the people were much better off here—at best, no one starved to death. The yamen had work for anyone who could do it; even beggars were pressed into service and fed. For orphans like Tang Xiaotang, some families would give him a little food and just manage to raise him.
But once he’d travelled, Mo Li realized not only how good things were at home, but also noticed problems he’d never seen before.
Meng Qi was right; the spiritual energy here made farming no easy feat.
But in fact, ever since Magistrate Xue’s arrival, the lives of Zhushan’s people had improved year by year—no one starved anymore.
Xue Ting could be clever at local governance, instruction, and management, but what use was holding off the taxman without actual extra grain and money? Even their “symbolic” tribute had been their total output in Chu times—yet the population had grown, and life improved, meaning yields must have increased.
“But in these twenty-odd years, little new land has been opened for farming here.”
Meng Qi observed, and Mo Li glanced at him—did he sneak into the yamen to check secret ledgers at night?
Magistrate Xue was lenient to the people but strict in business, while Steward Li kept the accounts meticulously. Anyone flipping through the ledgers would know, unless the records themselves were fakes.
“Magistrate Xue values agriculture—maybe he’s improved tools or water-wheels, so the yields have risen.”
Mo Li said it without great conviction; the Chu dynasty had done some useful things, and even remote counties wouldn’t lag too far behind. Yet, from what Mo Li had seen on his travels, spiritual-energy-rich places like Feihe were not easy for farming.
Meng Qi didn’t argue, only pondered: “Perhaps you’re right—maybe Magistrate Xue’s real genius is neither in office nor in jianghu, but in agriculture?”
Mo Li glared, then, after a while, asked: “How many people did you ask about this?”
“Not many.” Meng Qi smiled. He wouldn’t actually question everyone like investigating a crime—not only would that be obvious, it’d bring trouble.
Seeing Mo Li’s disbelief, he leaned in and whispered, “It was all from eavesdropping in secret. The people here are fascinating—when they pray at the temples, old ones reminisce about Chen times, young ones gossip about everything. Lying in the rafters for three days, what can’t you overhear?”
Mo Li: “…”
You were a gerbil sunning yourself at the temple, weren’t you!
The sturdiest, tallest, sunniest, best-ventilated buildings in town were the yamen and the City God’s temple.
That’s what boredom in winter did; no wonder so much incense was burned these days.
“So you puzzled this out from villagers chatting at the temple?” Mo Li asked in surprise.
Meng Qi looked a bit sheepish. All the fault of a too quick mind—for he’d only wanted to lie in the sun, but the words drifted into his ears and churned up his brain, and interest was piqued. Next thing he knew, he was sneaking into the yamen to peep at the ledgers and then scurrying back to Mo Li to share his findings.
“A-Li, just think— is there anything unusual here about agriculture?”
Seeing Meng Qi suddenly take it so seriously, Mo Li thought deeply, then slumped.
He’d once thought that reading ten thousand books, martial mastery, and medical skill were enough to travel the world.
Yet a single circuit outside, and he couldn’t see through his own home’s affairs. There was so much left to learn in the world, outside the scope of all books. How did Meng Qi notice what he himself overlooked?
“Why not just wait until spring planting—you might spot the answer then? A-Li, you live in this mountain and so can’t see its face… that’s why you missed it.” Meng Qi consoled.
Of course—“within the mountain itself, you can’t see its true shape;” his own body was the mountain, how could he see clearly?
Mo Li, receiving the hint, half-annoyed, thought to just go and ask Old Master Qin.
“I’ll ask Teacher.”
Why wait for spring? If he didn’t find an answer by then, would they have to crouch in the fields, wait for the seedlings, and then again for harvest?
Up all night, squatting in the paddies, was that proper? If a fat gerbil ran into the fields, it would be a miracle if someone didn’t hit it!
Now, after several peaceful snowy days, Qin Lu, having written prescriptions for town elders with rheumatism and checked Tang Xiaotang’s teeth—finding new roots sprouting and sending the child out to play in the sun—he found, not much later, that his senior disciple had come with Meng Qi in tow, both looking much too serious.
Qin Lu: “…”
Sudden headache.
Taking his time making tea, Old Mr. Qin’s expression changed subtly as he heard them out, caught up in thought.
Mo Li didn’t interrupt. Only when the water was boiling did Qin Lu finally look up and ask, “You mean—where the dragon vein rests, plants and beasts thrive so as to become a nuisance, making farming hard? Yet Zhushan County is spared these troubles; you want to know why?”
“Exactly so.”
Mo Li’s eyes shone; from Qin Lu’s expression, he had never thought of it before, and had only now been struck by realization.
“The answer does indeed lie with Magistrate Xue,” Qin Lu mused, stroking his beard with amusement.
Both his clever apprentice and the even sharper Master Meng were stumped by this, tiptoeing around to ask him.
“So is Magistrate Xue a true master of agricultural science?” Mo Li asked, now understanding why this mattered so much to Meng Qi.
If one family’s field could feed ten, the other nine could be freed from the grind, to trade, craft, or work elsewhere and buy food with the money. From another angle, when the land’s value dropped and profits from grain fell, the power of landlords and gentry to seize land would slow. Of course, other problems would arise, and people’s woes would not be solved at a stroke. But even a small improvement could bring great hope.
Pingzhou was poor ground for farming—if this land could feed its people, what yields could they achieve in the south?
“Uh… a master of agriculture…” Qin Lu paused, then chuckled. “No, that’s not his talent. And if it were, he’d not hide it—why not ask him yourself?”
***
Xue Ting looked baffled as the excited Meng Qi came to see him.
The state preceptor of a former dynasty came to ask about his special skill?
“I mixed up a bit of medicine—to kill insects and repel beasts,” Xue Ting explained, then couldn’t resist venting his frustration, “Don’t know why, but here in Zhushan, whatever you plant grows, only to be ruined by pests—so I poison them. Brew it up, give every family a share, water it in once a fortnight, and change the formula each season—it’s all herbal extracts, and the wind and rain wash it away after half a month. Farming is just too hard. In the early years, I squatted in the fields every day, and even had to get your teacher to help. Eventually, we made up a recipe with herbs that repelled bugs, mice, ants, and beasts; scatter it in the fields and it saves trouble. As for birds, a little sedative works just fine—they pass out in the field and add to people’s dinner. There haven’t been rabbits or badgers messing up the crops for years.”
Mo Li: “…”
He really hadn’t thought of that.
Meng Qi sat for a while in silence, then asked, “Has the harvest really improved year by year? Are the seeds plump and strong? Has anyone tried planting those seeds elsewhere? How do they fare in places with fewer pests?”
Xue Ting paused, but Mo Li had understood.
Nourished by Qimao Mountain’s spiritual energy for over twenty harvests, were these seeds “ordinary”?
Even if so, using Xue Ting’s medicines and formulas, wouldn’t planting them in a place where the spiritual energy had already been spent produce good seeds too? Maybe Qimao’s seeds only suited the north, but surely they could try Shangyun, Silang, or Feihe Mountains?
It might take many generations to breed the best seeds, but—what did a dragon vein care about time?
Author’s note:
Meng Qi: You can breed high-yield grain?
Xue Ting: No, just… researched some natural, nontoxic pesticide?
Meng Qi & Mo Li: Doesn’t matter. The dragon vein’s got spiritual energy, you can kill insects—let’s give it a try.
—Searching far and wide for good seed, only to find the treasure was at home all along.
Alone, none of them would have thought of it; by pooling their abilities, suddenly the way becomes clear.
Without Poison Master Xue Ting, without Divine Doctor Qin Lu, and without Qimao Mountain’s humble spiritual energy [Hey!], it really wouldn’t have come together so neatly.
