Niu Jinda was truly ugly—his face was dark and swarthy, with a lion’s mouth and leopard’s nose, bulging eyes and bristling beard, a tiger’s back and bear’s waist. This was a genuinely imposing man, the kind who could truly run horses on his arms and have people stand on his fists.
He was a born soldier—brave and skilled in battle, resourceful and shrewd. When a military order was given, he would charge through boiling water and tread on fire with no regrets even unto death. It was precisely by relying on numerous death-defying warriors like him that Emperor Li’er had raised his army, pacified the realm, forced his way into the palace, and claimed dominion over the world. Originally, one would think that these butchers who slaughtered people like cutting grass saw every person’s head as military merit, ready at every moment to take your head to achieve their own heavenly dreams, using white bones to exchange for their own brocade futures.
Yet now this fierce and unruly tough man was apologizing to him. His methods were childish, his words were poor, his threats were powerless. He didn’t need to humiliate himself like this—it was only because he heard a possibility, a myth of fifteen dan yield per mu, that he lost control of his emotions and fell into complete disarray. This was not the reaction a battle-hardened veteran general should have. It could only mean he cared too much about the quality of crop harvests, cared too much about how many people went hungry, and how many people would starve to death.
Yun Ye had never experienced hunger. “Starving corpses for a thousand miles, exchanging children for food”—these were merely eight characters recorded in history books. Old Niu had experienced it and knew how terrifying hunger could be.
Yun Ye struggled to raise his hand and grasp Old Niu’s sleeve, then lifted his leg to walk outside. Old Niu was startled, but seeing Yun Ye’s smiling expression, he simply went out with him.
The rain continued falling at a leisurely pace. Zhuang Santing had already moved the potato seedlings out of the grass pavilion early, letting them receive the nourishment of rain and dew. The dark green branches and leaves rustled under the fine rain threads. The low vat with a one-meter diameter was almost completely covered by leaves. For some reason, Yun Ye had never seen potatoes in later generations with such vitality. Could they have been altered by the wormhole? Seeds sent into space would mutate—could potatoes passing through a wormhole also change their genes?
Old Niu crouched enthusiastically in the rain, gently caressing the potato leaves as if stroking a beloved woman—a sight that made people feel somewhat nauseated. Yun Ye suppressed his malicious speculation and said to Old Niu: “Uncle Niu, each potato plant produces over five pounds. Each mu can accommodate one thousand five hundred to two thousand plants. As long as they’re planted and the seeds sprout, you pile the soil into ridges, and then it’s just a matter of waiting. As long as it’s not a year of severe drought, fifteen dan is still guaranteed.”
Yun Ye knew that in later generations, if anyone planting potatoes yielded less than eight thousand pounds per mu, it would be considered a failure. Considering that one Tang Dynasty mu was only 0.871 of a later generation’s mu, and one dan was fifty-nine kilograms, he stated a yield of less than two thousand pounds precisely to avoid frightening these ancient people. Just mentioning fifteen dan nearly got him crushed to death—if he said fifty dan, wouldn’t he be buried in a pit?
“These few potato seedlings are probably the only ones in all of the Great Tang. A foreign friend of my teacher brought them unintentionally from distant overseas lands, intending them as a rare delicacy for my teacher to try. My teacher ate two of them, and upon hearing of this astounding yield, decided to try planting them. Who knew my teacher ultimately wouldn’t last until that moment and departed from this world in early spring. A peach blossom flood left this nephew stranded in the wilderness. Fortunately, I encountered Zhang Cheng and the others who were delivering grain. Hearing that the army lacked salt, I helped Chumo produce salt. Throughout this busy journey, I almost forgot about the potatoes. They were only planted in the sixth month and are estimated to mature in the tenth month. By then, how much one mu can produce will be clear at a glance. Uncle’s concern for the world’s suffering fills this nephew with the utmost admiration.”
Old Niu used his hand to pile some soil around the base of the potato seedlings. Without bothering about his hair being soaked by the rain, he looked at the potato seedlings and said to Yun Ye: “I’ve heard you’re from Lantian in Chang’an. When this old man investigated your past, everyone actually knew nothing about you. Judging by your age, you’re only fourteen or fifteen years old. At that time in Chang’an, Yang Xuangan’s military defeat resulted in thirty thousand people being implicated and killed—many were innocent. Your Yun clan had many members. Aside from Yun Dingxing’s branch, which managed to preserve their safety, those implicated all had their families destroyed without exception. I estimate you’re an orphan from among those who were implicated. In those chaotic times, for you as an infant in swaddling clothes to encounter your master was your good fortune. Pitiful are those with no one to take them in—lacking food and clothing, some became slaves and servants, some became entertainers and prostitutes. But strangely enough, even though they perform the lowliest tasks in the human world, they carefully maintain the Lanshan ancestral shrine, making offerings throughout the four seasons and eight festivals without interruption. The shrine is filled with peachwood tablets. Do you know what that’s about?”
As these words came out, Yun Ye felt as if his forehead had been struck by a heavy fist. His eyes flashed with golden stars, blood rushed to his head, his mouth filled with a fishy taste, and fresh blood dripped from his nostrils. How could Yun Ye not know about the Lanshan ancestral shrine? When his son turned eight, he had specially carved a peachwood name tablet and sent it to the ancestral shrine for safekeeping, to be retrieved at eighteen and carried with him thereafter.
Yun Ye’s name tablet had always hung around his neck. After turning eighteen, he had never taken it off. The peachwood had long since turned dark red, soaked by sweat and oils until it was glossy and smooth.
Raising his hand without feeling any pain, he tore open his collar, exposing the peachwood tablet around his neck, and asked in a fierce voice: “Is it this kind of wooden tablet?”
This was a standard wooden tablet—one inch long, half an inch wide, one-tenth of an inch thick. Old Niu looked at the wooden tablet around Yun Ye’s neck and nodded: “That’s right, this kind. It seems your Yun family has few males left, doesn’t it? The Hundred Cavalry Division observed that those entering and leaving were all women. I presume the tablets being offered are all for deceased male members of the family?”
Yun Ye felt his vision blurring severely. He had inexplicably traveled to the Tang Dynasty and had originally thought he had no more relatives. The background story he had initially mentioned was just said casually because the ancestral shrine was in the ancient county of Lantian on the outskirts of Chang’an. Who would have thought that there was already an ancestral shrine in the early Tang? The Yun family of later generations had always believed the Yun clan shrine was only established in the mid-Tang period. A thousand thoughts tangled in his mind. He felt he had so much to say yet couldn’t utter a single word. Days and days of accumulated loneliness and grief all gushed out of his body with a mouthful of fresh blood.
Niu Jinda sighed and carried Yun Ye into the tent. This tiny person—why did he have such a strong reaction upon hearing news of his relatives? But then again, over ten years as an orphan wasn’t easy to endure either. Hearing that all his relatives were suffering—anyone would find that unbearable. The Yun family—the perseverance of those widows, young girls, and widowers still had merit. With this young man emerging from the family, prosperity and success were right before their eyes. That mouthful of blood he just spat out was a good thing—hadn’t he noticed that the melancholic air between the boy’s brows had completely dissipated?
Cheng Chumo quietly slipped inside, looking at Yun Ye with concern. Seeing that he had only fainted, he breathed a sigh of relief. He asked Niu Jinda: “Uncle Niu, young Ye is alright, isn’t he? How did he react so strongly when you told him about his background? If I had known, this nephew should have told him instead.”
“You tell him? On what grounds would you tell him? Tell him you were investigating his background? This old man holds the position of vice commander and also inspector general. For official reasons, the investigation is perfectly justified—no one can say anything about it. However, as this old man sees it, this young man presented the salt-making method, improved military rations, and established hygiene regulations—there’s really nothing worth investigating. To accomplish such great merit requires no small talent. Not to mention the potatoes behind the tent. Never mind the claim of fifteen dan—as long as there are seven or eight dan, this old man and your father can guarantee him a hereditary marquisate without replacement. If anyone in Chang’an City dares to bully him, this old man can make them wish they were dead.”