Chapter 83: New Year's Eve

“In spring, one sows a single grain of millet; in autumn, one harvests ten thousand seeds.”
“There is not an idle field in all the land, yet the common folk still starve to death.”

Liu Ye and Lu Su repeated these lines, their pupils trembling as they looked at Chu Feng, their eyes filled with a complex array of emotions. The first three lines painted a scene of abundance, yet the final line stood out with its stark reality. How biting was this poem? In such a prosperous age, the farmers who till the fields still perish from hunger—so bleak a fate, and yet so true.

Was this not a mirror of the present relationship between the people and the gentry? Calamity and war made survival hard for the commoners, and even in times of plenty, they must tighten their belts and scrape by.

Alas!

The two sighed, bowing their heads, helpless to change the reality.

“Let’s use this poem, then. Let it be named ‘Pity for the Peasants,’” Chu Feng said, his expression grave. Perhaps this was exactly what he must strive to change: the doors of the wealthy reek of leftover wine and meat, while bones of the frozen poor lie by the roadside. It should not be—should not be!

The two murmured the poem’s title under their breath, marveling at Chu Feng’s talent, yet they dared not say more. For as long as some suffer, others will feast; the harder life is for the common people, the sweeter it is for those above. These people feed on the lifeblood of the masses to strengthen their own families, and the Han Dynasty is controlled by such as them—an untouchable class, for all resources are in their grasp.

“It’s time. ‘Spring,’ search for the third instance; ‘sow,’ the twenty-sixth; ‘one,’ …” Chu Feng steadied himself. The road ahead was long, and he would have to redouble his efforts.

Liu Ye and Lu Su followed his instructions exactly, quickly finding each character at the specified positions. In no time, the entire poem had been assembled.

When they saw the collected characters, Liu Ye and Lu Su were astonished, for Chu Feng clearly knew a system of classification unknown to the world—a system both powerful and profound!

“Lord, how is this possible?” Lu Su’s curiosity was piqued; he could not help but ask eagerly, as though a scholar had stumbled upon new and uncharted knowledge.

Liu Ye, too, looked on with anticipation.

“Do you remember when I mentioned that there exists a method by which a beginner could learn to read in just half a month?” Chu Feng asked, turning to Lu Su.

“Is…is it true?” Lu Su was bewildered.

He had thought Chu Feng had been teasing him—after all, literacy was believed to be the result of years of study—yet it seemed he spoke the truth. Lu Su now gazed at Chu Feng with eyes burning with hope.

“This is the Rapid Pinyin Method. When time allows, I shall teach it to you,” Chu Feng replied, his gaze deep with reflection.

Liu Ye and Lu Su were eager, wishing Chu Feng could instruct them at once. Yet recalling all that Chu Feng had revealed today, they could only exclaim in awe.

To call him a man of boundless talent and unmatched erudition was no longer enough. Each of his abilities, taken alone, could rival those of the ancient sages.

——

Armor, repeating crossbows, papermaking, printing, poetry, and now this yet-unrevealed pinyin method—each was enough to make others ashamed of their own skills. Who could have imagined that all these innovations would come from a single man?

What was more, this sage-like leader was humble and respectful, never too proud to ask questions, and ever diligent in studying the arts of war and governance. It filled Liu Ye and Lu Su with both awe and shame.

At this moment, their eyes met.

They reflected inwardly, realizing that though they were praised as men who could assist in ruling the world, before Chu Feng they were as stars before the moon, as a plodding nag beside a fine steed—utterly eclipsed.

To serve such a lord, how could the world not be set right? How could the people not live in peace and contentment? How could their own names not be inscribed in the annals of history?

Now, Chu Feng dipped his brush in ink and pressed white paper upon the characters. Unveiling it, the poem was revealed in clear, crisp strokes: “Spring Sowing” as the opening, and “Pity for the Peasants, by Chu Feng” at the end.

The characters were clear and the poem complete.

“My lord, this work will surely be passed down for generations, and your name with it,” the two declared, cupping their fists in respect.

Afterward, Chu Feng checked on the progress of other items being crafted in the camps—repeating crossbows and cloth armor. The repeating crossbow could not be widely equipped, as its construction was intricate, so their numbers were limited. As for cloth armor, there were only about one or two thousand sets in all of Shouchun, three hundred of which were third-grade, meaning they included a layer of leather.

In theory, there should have been more, but drought in the Jianghuai region had made raw materials scarce, so they had to rely on purchasing supplies, which hindered production. The following year should see improvements.

Various farm tools had also been greatly improved with Chu Feng’s help, and the variety was now vast, significantly speeding up agricultural work.

——

The thirtieth day of the twelfth lunar month.

This day was called “Year’s Dawn” in Han times, also known as New Year’s Eve. Legend had it that the beast “Xi” would bring disaster to the world on this day, hence the name “Xiyue,” or “the Thirtieth Night of the New Year.”

For the common folk, today was a day of celebration, marking the end of the old year and the hope for a bountiful new one. For children, it was the happiest day of all.

In a thatched cottage in Little Wang Village.

At dawn, just as the sky brightened, seven-year-old Iron Egg was shaken awake by his mother.

“Get up, it’s New Year’s Eve. Your father says you’ll get to taste some meat today!” his mother said. She was just past twenty, but her skin was wrinkled and her face darkened by hardship. Yet her smile was the most beautiful thing in the world.

“Meat? Really?” Iron Egg’s eyes sparkled with longing. He could no longer remember if he’d ever eaten meat, only that people said it was delicious.

“Mother, we don’t have much grain. Perhaps we should wait until the autumn harvest to eat meat?” Iron Egg said, determined but with a hint of disappointment.

“Your father says Lord Chu is a good man, saving the country and its people. To let the common folk eat meat and have a good new year, the government is buying pigs at a loss and selling the meat to the people.”

“Besides, your father worked all winter chopping wood and earned two coins,” his mother replied, her eyes slightly moist but her face smiling.

Life was hard, but there were fewer harsh taxes and levies than under Yuan Shu’s rule, when extortion was rampant. Now, the poor at least had some hope.

Hearing this, Iron Egg grinned from ear to ear.

“Mother, I want to wear the new clothes you bought me!” Iron Egg said happily.

“They’re too small. Just wear these, and next year, I’ll buy you new ones,” his mother replied, her heart aching.

“But I want to wear them!” Iron Egg insisted.

In the end, she relented and dressed him in his slightly-too-small “new” clothes, which were still only relatively new, with just a few patches.

“So comfortable!” Iron Egg said, though the clothes squeezed him like a rice dumpling. His face, however, was all smiles. “Mother, I’m going to the city with Father to buy meat!”

“Drink your porridge first!”

Soon, he followed his father out of the village, showing off his new clothes to everyone he passed, as if asking, “Aren’t I handsome?”

Father and son walked briskly. After more than half an hour and some twenty miles, they reached the county town, which was bustling with activity.

Vendors shouted from every stall, and in the center of the market, several butchers were at work.

Iron Egg gazed at the pork, mouth watering.

His father asked, “How much is pork per catty?”

“Thanks to Lord Chu’s kindness, it’s fifty coins per catty today. In other places, even grain costs more than that!” the butcher replied, flashing a mouthful of yellow teeth.

“Fifty coins…” The man pressed his lips together, his calloused hands trembling slightly. How many bundles of firewood had he chopped to earn that sum? Yet seeing his son’s eager eyes, he gritted his teeth, took a cloth pouch from his chest, and said, “Eight taels, please,” which was just over two taels by modern measure.

“Half a catty then!”

“That’s enough—let the child have a taste. We parents can do without,” the man said with a sheepish grin. “All fat, please; the lean doesn’t render enough oil.”

“No can do—unless I mix the fat with some ribs!” the butcher refused at once. Fatty meat sold best, while ribs were the least desirable; he couldn’t sell just fat.

When the man insisted, the butcher finally cut a piece of streaky pork, weighed it, tied it with a grass string, and handed it over.

The man carefully counted out twenty-five coins with his rough, callused hands, double-checking before handing them over with a smile—a look both reluctant and delighted.

“Come, son, tonight we’ll have stewed meat at home. I’m telling you, it’s the best thing ever,” he said with a broad grin, his weathered face alight with joy.