Chapter 82: This Lord Is Truly Extraordinary

"Why not just call it the Marquis of Chu Paper!"

"No need. The Marquis of Cai became a eunuch, gained his title for that, and became renowned throughout the world. I am neither a noble nor a eunuch; were I to vie for such empty fame, would I not be the subject of ridicule?"

Chu Feng waved his hand, utterly unconcerned.

Lu Su and Liu Ye felt a deep sense of shame—such perspective, such vision! Other lords feared their virtues were not widely known and sent men everywhere to boast of them. Yet their own lord disdained such things!

His breadth of mind and loftiness of ambition were truly unmatched.

"In that case, let it be called Xuan Paper of Shouchun, named for the land, so that all under heaven may know this paper is made in my realm," Chu Feng added.

"Master, brilliant as always!" the two replied in unison.

"Oh, and gather all historical texts and classics that can be traced, find someone to verify their authenticity, and I will have them printed in thousands—let ancient civilization not be lost to time!" Chu Feng declared with conviction.

There were so few bamboo slips surviving from the past, and everything depended on laborious hand-copying. The noble houses monopolized most of the texts, and seeking even a glimpse of the classics meant borrowing a little here and a little there—it was most vexing.

"But, Master, the ancient texts are so numerous we could fill carts with them. Even copying them once would take ages, let alone thousands of times. Wouldn’t that be a waste of time?" Lu Su quickly objected.

"Copying is indeed slow and arduous, but if it were printed, it would be a hundred times faster!" Chu Feng replied, unconcerned. Indeed, when he first brought papermaking, he had already considered printing.

Of the four great inventions, printing required the least technical skill. A single moment of inspiration, and even the Han dynasty had something akin to it—the Imperial Seal was a form of printing, after all.

It was just that, given the poor quality of paper in the Han and the absence of anyone envisioning the printing of Chinese characters, the art of printing would not emerge until the flourishing Tang dynasty.

Blame the chaos of the intervening dynasties!

"Printing?" The two men narrowed their eyes in thought. Both were men of great talent and insight, no fools. The term itself stirred ideas, for they were familiar with official seals.

"Come, let me show you. I wonder if it’s ready yet!" Before leaving, Chu Feng had Li Bo reward the craftsmen and gave further instructions, then he headed to the artisans' camp.

Liu Ye and Lu Su, like country youths who had never seen the world, followed their lord wide-eyed. To be honest, the innovations here truly broadened their horizons.

It did not take long before they reached a corner of the camp.

Because movable type printing was not urgently required, Chu Feng had not pressed many to work overtime. About thirty men worked in this courtyard.

All of them bowed over their work, carving Chinese characters into blocks.

Seeing the rows of character blocks, Liu Ye and Lu Su narrowed their eyes thoughtfully. It was as if a notion had dawned on them, yet remained just beyond their grasp. They looked eagerly to Chu Feng.

The craftsman in charge, an elder, grew nervous at Chu Feng’s sudden arrival and hurriedly stood up. "My lord, forgive your humble servant’s slowness. The characters are not yet all carved!"

"I just came to have a look. How many have you finished?" Chu Feng lifted his hand.

"My lord, only two or three of the craftsmen are literate. Most can carve less than twenty characters a day, and some make mistakes, so progress is slow," the old man lamented.

"So how many do you have now?" Chu Feng walked over, picking up a small wooden block and inspecting it.

"In half a month, about seven thousand, all over there," the old man replied, a bit ashamed—the work was slow, but they were still inexperienced.

Chu Feng looked over at the densely packed blocks. He examined one; the carving was careful and fine. "Have you tried printing with them yet?"

"Not yet," the old man answered.

"Zijing, Ziyang, this is movable type printing. Arrange these blocks into a plate and you can print a text. In this way, the ancient books of all the dynasties can be preserved far better.

"Then, countless books can be printed and distributed or sold across the world, ensuring that history will not fade and that the civilization of every age is preserved," Chu Feng said solemnly.

The historical records of Han were already well preserved, but so many books were lost—it was heartbreaking. In Chu Feng's eyes, movable type printing brought little profit, but it was a matter of vision.

The two men were awestruck. Their lord’s gaze stretched across the ages, leaving them ashamed of their own limitations. Moreover, this innovation, which would change history, came from his hand alone.

The more they saw of Chu Feng, the more mysterious he became. To serve under such a leader was a blessing of a lifetime.

"Come, both of you, join me in recording this historic moment," Chu Feng laughed.

Liu Ye and Lu Su straightened up, eager to comply. This moment, destined for the annals of history, and they would be its witnesses.

"My lord, with so many characters, what shall we print? Or should we just arrange them randomly to test it out?" Lu Su asked, for with so many blocks, finding the right ones for a text would take forever.

"Of course not at random!"

Chu Feng shook his head. He knew that the true power of movable type printing depended on a key innovation: sorting by initial sound, so the right characters could be found swiftly and efficiently.

"But my lord, searching for a few dozen characters among thousands—how much manpower would that take?" Lu Su frowned; the flaw was all too obvious.

"Categorize the characters," Chu Feng replied. "Call all literate men in the camp to me—we’ll sort them together."

He then drew twenty-six circles on the ground, writing beside each the corresponding initial and number. Pinyin was, after all, a vital tool for literacy.

"My lord, what is this…?" Lu Su and Liu Ye were perplexed. They had never heard of such a thing—how could characters be sorted this way? Though they fancied themselves clever, beside Chu Feng they felt almost foolish.

Scholarship was of little use; they could not keep pace with Chu Feng’s mind. Faced with these strange and marvelous ideas, they would never have come up with any of them.

"Sort them first, then we’ll talk."

"You go fetch the characters and tell me their names, then place them as I direct. Quickly now, and make no mistakes," Chu Feng ordered gravely.

Liu Ye and Lu Su, along with four others, all stood at the ready.

"All right, begin!"

And so they read out the characters one by one, placing them according to Chu Feng’s instructions. The process was tedious and dull; Chu Feng’s voice even grew hoarse.

After more than an hour, the thousands of characters were finally sorted by pinyin. Chu Feng sipped warm water to soothe his throat, but Liu Ye and Lu Su were still bewildered.

"My lord, is that all?" Lu Su asked, seeing how confident Chu Feng was.

"Of course. Once sorted, finding the needed characters will take no more than the time it takes to drink a cup of tea," Chu Feng answered with confidence. Pinyin was truly remarkable.

"A cup of tea?"

Liu Ye and Lu Su’s eyes lit up.

To find the needed characters among seven thousand in such a short time—astonishing!

"My lord, why not print the Book of Songs?"

"No need. Since this is an historic moment, why copy another’s work? I shall compose a poem myself," Chu Feng said, falling into thought.

Liu Ye and Lu Su were dumbfounded. "Compose a poem on the spot? Master, you can do that as well?"

Even to call Chu Feng erudite and versatile was an understatement.

"I know a little," Chu Feng replied, clearing his throat and thinking wryly: with the Eight Great Prose Masters of the Tang and Song, the Four Talents of Early Tang, the many Li’s and Du’s—though he couldn’t recall all their poems, copying one at random wouldn’t be hard.

But since this was a demonstration, it ought to be a work of vision.

After a long moment’s reflection, a classic poem came to Chu Feng's mind, and his expression grew solemn as he intoned:

"In spring, one sows a single grain of millet; in autumn, one reaps ten thousand seeds.
There is not an idle field beneath the heavens, yet still the people starve."