214 BCE
In midsummer, the blazing sun hung high in the sky, making the roof tiles of the palace shine and scorch.
The cicadas in the trees had all been carefully captured with spider webs by palace attendants. Gaoquan Palace was silent and soundless. Even the spring water gurgling down from the hillside had, due to the season, trickled into small streams that flowed along bamboo pipes into a newly dug small pond.
On one side of this pond, some oddly-shaped rocks had been casually placed, some already covered with moss. Lotus flowers planted in the pond quietly bloomed on the water’s surface, with jade-green lotus leaves floating on the pond, occasionally rolling off one or two crystalline dew drops with the breeze. Sometimes carp would surface for air, stirring up ripples in circles.
In the center of the pond stood an elegant pavilion. From the stone bridge at the entrance of the former side hall, one could reach the pavilion in the middle of the pond. This pavilion didn’t rise much above the pond’s surface—sitting within it was like sitting in the water’s center, surrounded by the planted lotus flowers. The pavilion was open on all four sides, only enclosed by hanging pale yellow curtains. When a breeze blew, the curtains gently swayed, and through them one could vaguely see two young men sitting inside.
The man wearing ash-colored shan garments sat on a cool jade mat, leaning against an armrest while reading bamboo slips in his hands. Across from him, the youth in dark green robes was fiddling with a small tripod in his hands, his expression focused. This small tripod was entirely blue-green, with occasional white specks or gold sand glittering within—it was actually made entirely from lapis lazuli.
“The actual field system has been implemented in all prefectures with excellent results. Even the three Baiyue prefectures want to implement it—difficult indeed.” Fu Su lightly tapped the memorial in his hand and spoke indifferently. The actual field system was a decree issued two years ago, actually called “Making the Common People Report Their Actual Fields.” Common people referred to ordinary citizens. This decree meant all landlords and farmers had to report to the court the actual number of fields they occupied at the time. The reported content was reviewed and verified, and the land’s quality uniformly assessed to estimate approximate yields, calculate tax amounts, and register them. Thereafter, land taxes were collected according to registered numbers.
After this decree was issued, Great Qin’s tax revenue had multiplied several times over. After all, everyone wanted to occupy more land, and correspondingly had to pay more taxes to the court. This was actually just land registration. As for what underhanded methods landlords used privately to seize more land, as long as it wasn’t excessive, the court would turn a blind eye.
So having tasted the benefits, the court wanted to extend this decree to the newly pacified Lingnan. Since the Magic Canal was completed two months ago, the First Emperor unified Lingnan and established Guilin Prefecture, Xiang Prefecture, and Nanhai Prefecture.
The green-robed youth also disagreed with this idea. After brief consideration, he said: “After all, it’s barbarous territory where the overall situation has just stabilized. Moreover, the three Baiyue prefectures are mostly dense forests—I fear this land isn’t primarily for farming and requires more consideration.”
Fu Su furrowed his thick eyebrows, knowing his tutor spoke the truth. Lingnan was full of barbarous tribes who didn’t even share a common language—administration was already a problem, let alone taxation. Fu Su tapped the low table before him with the bamboo slip in his hand and sighed deeply: “Superfluous effort.”
The green-robed youth had long grown accustomed to such complaints and continued fiddling with the various bottles and jars around him.
Since unifying the six states, the King of Qin who proclaimed himself First Emperor considered all lands under heaven his territory. South to Baiyue, north to the Xiongnu—all regarded as possessions in his bag. Yet just the Baiyue lands alone consumed seven years and deployed nearly one million troops in total. Plus the expenditure on building the Magic Canal and provisions for this million-strong army—when would it be recovered from impoverished Baiyue?
Baiyue and the Xiongnu weren’t the same. The Xiongnu might invade the Central Plains, but Baiyue’s barbarian tribes lacked such strength. He truly didn’t know why the First Emperor would be so obstinately opinionated.
Even in private solitude, the green-robed youth knew to be cautious with words and actions. His internal criticism of the First Emperor remained deeply hidden, not echoing his Eldest Prince’s assessment. He selected some items from the bottles and jars beside him, pouring them into the lapis lazuli tripod in succession.
“Half liang red salt, half liang sulfur, half liang borax, half liang northern ammonium chloride, one liang Puzhou copper sulfate…” Fu Su wasn’t surprised by his tutor’s indifference. Instead, he watched with interest as the other poured various medicinal materials from ceramic bottles—most of which he recognized.
“Recently started practicing pill refinement?”
“Mm.” The green-robed youth nodded. His irresponsible master had Chaofeng relay a message, dumping a whole room of books for him to read without caring whether he could understand them. Glancing up slightly, the green-robed youth noticed Fu Su’s gaze and emphasized with heavier tone: “Pill refinement is a minor path—absolutely must not be blindly believed.”
Fu Su curled his lips, knowing his tutor was hinting he shouldn’t be like his Father Emperor, obsessed with seeking immortals and asking about the Way. Fu Su didn’t believe anyone in this world could achieve eternal life. However, carefully examining the green-robed youth before him—perhaps because the other had practiced Daoist arts since childhood, cultivating body and mind—his entire person appeared several years younger than peers, straddling the boundary between youth and adolescence.
Seeing Fu Su’s obviously unconcerned expression, the green-robed youth didn’t advise further. They were still young—truly unable to understand the feelings of those halfway into the grave. But the Daoists around the First Emperor were each more fraudulent than the last. The green-robed youth had wanted to expose them several times but lacked his master’s divine abilities, so could only restrain himself.
“This lapis lazuli tripod is quite a good thing.” Fu Su, utterly bored, casually praised it.
“Not comparable to my master’s black gold tripod.” The green-robed youth also casually replied, knowing the other’s mind was wandering.
“What is this object?” Fu Su’s gaze swept over those bottles and jars, discovering a strange item. This object resembled a palm-sized bronze mirror but was concave, shaped like an inverted cone with walls so polished one could see one’s reflection. Fu Su couldn’t help sitting up straight, reaching out to hold it in his hand. The back of this object was like a bronze mirror’s top, with a coiled dragon knob at the center surrounded by carved coiled chi-dragon patterns interspersed with wind and thunder patterns.
“This object is called a Yin-Yang Sui.” The green-robed youth didn’t mock his Eldest Prince’s ignorance. In fact, such objects were now quite rare—perhaps occasionally seen among common folk, but unthinkable in the palace.
Fu Su trembled upon hearing this and raised his eyebrows to ask: “Could this be the sui for ‘obtaining bright fire from the sun’?” No wonder he didn’t know—this type of sui was rarely used nowadays. Generally, fire was obtained with wood drills or directly by striking flint. In the palace, fires were constantly maintained—how would such an object be needed?
The green-robed youth knew he referred to the line “The official in charge of fire-making uses the sui to obtain bright fire from the sun” from Zhou Records: Autumn Officials. He nodded then shook his head.
“By convention, cast at noon on the bingwu day of the fifth month, it’s called yang sui. Cast at midnight on the renzi day of the eleventh month, it’s called yin sui.” Seeing Fu Su still wore an uncomprehending expression, he further explained: “Yang sui obtains heavenly fire, while yin sui obtains moon dew.”
“So this so-called yin-yang sui is merely used both to obtain fire and to condense dew.” Fu Su leaned back against the armrest again, using his chin to point at the lapis lazuli tripod in the other’s hands and asked: “Needless to say, this fire and dew are both used in pill refinement, right?”
Hearing the disdain in Fu Su’s tone, the green-robed youth smiled helplessly. He could now confirm that due to the First Emperor’s obsession with seeking immortals and asking about the Way, Fu Su was first-rate in his rejection of Daoist arts. But this didn’t mean all pill refinement arts were deceptive techniques.
However, disbelief was far better than obsession. The green-robed youth didn’t explain, only smiled casually: “I’m merely completing the task my master assigned. I wouldn’t dare eat the pills I refine myself—how would I dare give them to others?” As he spoke, he picked up a ceramic bottle with a thin long neck—this contained moon dew stored over recent nights using the yin-yang sui.
Fu Su watched his tutor gently pour the moon dew from the ceramic bottle into the lapis lazuli tripod, movements elegant and flowing—quite pleasing to the eye. Thus Fu Su no longer criticized his tutor for engaging in idle matters. After all, pill refinement was pill refinement—it didn’t interfere with their discussions. He picked up the memorial in his hand, held a writing brush in the other, reached to dip it in the pond water beside him, then dipped it in the opened cinnabar box at hand, casually annotating opinions on the bamboo slips.
The corners of the green-robed youth’s lips twitched. That box of cinnabar didn’t seem to be for his writing but for his pill refinement… Never mind, calling for someone was also troublesome—he’d just open another box.
Since Gaoquan Palace built this pavilion, except during deep winter, they preferred discussing matters here. Surrounded by water on all four sides, reaching here required passing through the side hall and crossing that single stone bridge. The surrounding shallow pond waters couldn’t conceal anyone—most suitable for discussing confidential matters.
Since the First Emperor became obsessed with tours, he frequently went outside. The green-robed youth understood the First Emperor’s desire to see all territory belonging to him, but still didn’t understand why he could be so at ease. Never mind the endless assassination attempts by remnant nobility from the six states—even major court affairs were casually thrown to Fu Su.
Wasn’t he afraid that when he returned, even the person on the throne would have changed?
Despite harboring treasonous thoughts, the green-robed youth’s medicinal pestle steadily stirred and ground in the lapis lazuli tripod.
Perhaps from habit, sometimes even when the First Emperor was in Xianyang, he still had Fu Su organize government affairs for final submission to the First Emperor for approval. Actually, compared to the First Emperor who decided everything alone with a single word, Eldest Prince Fu Su who was good at listening to court opinions and had a gentle attitude was naturally the better choice for court ministers. In fact, the First Emperor was better suited to iron-blooded Warring States, while Fu Su was better suited to a post-war empire recuperating—this was already accepted fact among all officials.
Now the only problem was the First Emperor continuously suppressing Eldest Prince Fu Su’s marriage without relenting. Those princes below couldn’t endure and privately kept favorites—some even had children who could draw bows and shoot arrows. But while other princes could do so, it didn’t mean Eldest Prince Fu Su could.
Without an heir—truly a problem.
However, this also meant no troublesome in-laws interfering. Ambitious high ministers who couldn’t become the future emperor’s father-in-law themselves didn’t want others to gain the advantage. So throughout court and countryside, regarding Fu Su’s marriage, a strange balance had indeed formed.
Compared to others’ secret anxiety, the person involved—Eldest Prince Fu Su—had long grown accustomed to being alone. Not that he didn’t want to have a complete family and lovely children, but relative to his ideal of ascending the empire’s throne, other wishes could be postponed. Moreover, the loyal tutor kneeling beside him also hadn’t married. Since their youthful acquaintance, he had accompanied him day after day for years.
Perhaps temporarily remaining unmarried wasn’t so bad.
When Mother Consort passed away, Fu Su was still young—what he saw and heard was somewhat confused. But as years increased, some details completely incomprehensible at the time gradually became clear in his heart. Mother Consort’s death was obviously due to losing palace struggles, perhaps even the result of his Father Emperor’s connivance.
A crown prince without mother consort and maternal clan support could only depend on the emperor, becoming a puppet-like successor.
However, over these years, Fu Su had witnessed and heard much palace filth. Combined with Queen Dowager Zhao’s anecdotes, he could understand why Father Emperor hated women, never established an empress throughout his life, and rarely entered the harem.
Simple and plain wasn’t bad—the quiet, peaceful Gaoquan Palace was far better than the murky Xianyang Palace.