Fuzhou.

Outside a palace that could hardly be called opulent, heavy rain was falling. Far off, from the direction of the sea, came flashes of lightning and rolls of thunder, wind and rain howling together, giving the halls of the palace the feeling of a ship tossed at sea.

Zuo Wenhuai sat in a chair in the middle of the imperial study, speaking with the young-looking Emperor before him about a series of matters concerning the southwest. Zhou Pei and Cheng Zhouhai, among others, sat in attendance nearby.

“…As for the development of natural studies out here, before I left, Master Ning mentioned that the southeast was well suited to developing seafaring ship technology. As for the artillery and other implements needed on the battlefield, the techniques we’ve already brought are sufficient for now. The southeast happens to lie along the coast, and needs to develop trade — following that line, the returns on research might well be the greatest…”

“But seafaring technology isn’t of much use on the battlefield.” Zhou Junwu looked at Zuo Wenhuai with a smile. “Once you’re on the battlefield, in the end it’s still cannon and gunpowder you can rely on. With what Master Ning has sent us, we might be able to defeat Wu Qimei, but if the day ever comes that we finally face the Huaxia Army on the battlefield, while we’ve spent our time researching seagoing ships, the Huaxia Army’s cannons and rockets and the like will already have gone through several more generations of improvement. In the end, wouldn’t we just be doing the legwork for the Huaxia Army?”

“If I may… speak bluntly.” Zuo Wenhuai hesitated, then cupped his hands. “Even if we develop artillery alongside everything else, the southeast will, in the end, never catch up to the Huaxia Army.”

He had followed Zuo Xiuwen and a group of young Zuo family members from the southwest, crossing several thousand li to reach Fuzhou not long ago. In his own mind he still thought of himself as a Huaxia Army soldier, even though he had been granted rank and title here. He was well aware that what he’d just said might sound almost treasonous to the people present. Fortunately, after he’d said it, no one showed any sign of anger.

The composed and dignified Princess Imperial Zhou Pei even smiled. “Why is that?”

“There are two problems with the development of natural studies. On the surface, it looks like nothing more than research — pour in money and manpower, rack people’s brains to invent new things, and that’s that. But the deeper issue actually lies in spreading the mindset of natural studies itself. It requires that the researchers, and everyone involved in the research work, hold as clear a conception of natural principles as possible — that one thing is one thing and two things are two things, that people must understand truth does not bend to human will. The researchers doing the direct work need to understand this, and the officials managing them from above must understand it too. Whoever fails to understand it becomes a drag on efficiency.”

When Ning Yi had lectured on natural studies back in the southwest, he had gone into unusual depth on this point, and so Zuo Wenhuai now spoke with real fluency on the subject.

“Research and the mindset of natural studies reinforce each other. When the research work goes well, the mindset improves along with it; and as that mindset improves, the research naturally goes better still. In the Huaxia Army, Master Ning has been laying the groundwork for this mindset in people ever since the days of Xiaocang River — it took over ten years to reach today’s results. For the southeast to catch up on both fronts, it would first take several years just to fully digest the ready-made achievements already available. Only after digesting them, when it comes time to create something new, would the true test of the mindset itself begin.”

“Over those ten-plus years, the Huaxia Army worked desperately on research and breakthroughs every single day, and it was through that process that the researchers developed a clear method of comparison, induction, and summary. If the southeast simply copies someone else’s existing technology wholesale, the researchers might glance at it, tap their heads, and think they understand it — that simple. But when it comes time to research something genuinely new, they’ll discover that their grasp of natural-studies thinking simply isn’t up to the task.”

Zuo Wenhuai paused. “As I understand it, Your Majesty has for some time now been attempting to imitate and research things like hot air balloons and artillery, all of which the Huaxia Army already has. But replicating them has proven extremely difficult. Your Majesty gathered craftsmen together and had them rack their brains, offering money to whoever came up with a good method — but in the end, these craftsmen’s methods amount to little more than guesswork, trying this and that, hoping to get lucky. True research, however, ultimately comes down to the researcher’s own ability to compare, induce, and summarize. Of course, after all these years of promoting natural studies, Your Majesty must surely have some people who’ve developed that kind of methodology by now. But to truly stand at the forefront of the realm, that mode of thinking has to be second to none, ruthless and uncompromising even toward one’s own kin — the slightest bit of vagueness, and you fall that much further behind.”

“I like that phrase of yours — ‘uncompromising even toward one’s own kin.'” Zhou Junwu’s expression remained grave as he answered, giving little away of what he was thinking. Zuo Wenhuai glanced around and saw that Zhou Pei and Cheng Zhouhai both wore equally solemn expressions, and only then did he rise and cup his hands. “I… spoke rashly.”

“It’s fine.” Junwu smiled and waved a hand. “You’ve studied in the southwest for years, and it’s good that you’ve kept this straightforward temperament. When I asked the Zuo family to send you all back, what I wanted was exactly this kind of blunt, unvarnished reasoning. From what you’ve said, I can get a sense of what kind of place the southwest really is. Don’t hold back — go on. Why should we research maritime shipping?”

“Relying solely on digesting existing technology has limited value for cultivating a natural-studies mindset, because researchers can too easily convince themselves they’ve achieved something — and can deceive others into believing it too — since they aren’t under enough real pressure. It would be better to find a field here that is more urgently needed and whose results are easier to verify, and set people to work researching it. Among those who can solve problems again and again, it becomes easy to identify the capable ones, weed out the weak, and encourage the right way of thinking to take root.”

By this point in Zuo Wenhuai’s speech, both Junwu and Zhou Pei were nodding. Cheng Zhouhai spoke up. “Our dynasty has always had some development in seafaring technology. Coastal shipping along the southeast is already thriving these days, and there’s no real shortfall there. If Master Ning is encouraging us to focus on seagoing ships, I fear his intentions may not be entirely well-meaning.”

“Money will always… fall short, I suppose.” Zuo Wenhuai glanced at the others; having only just arrived, he didn’t know these matters well, and so he spoke somewhat hesitantly. Then he continued: “Also, Master Ning once said that the vast ocean connects to every foreign nation on one hand, and maritime trade brings rich profits — but on the other hand, the sea is a lawless place. Once you leave the shore, everything depends entirely on yourself. When facing pirates and enemies of every kind, whether your ship is a little more sturdy, whether your cannon can fire a little further, these are matters of hard, concrete fact. So if we want to bring about long-term technological progress, the maritime environment may in fact be even more critical than the land.”

“Of course, this is… the thinking from over in the southwest. Master Ning has great foresight, and over the years he’s mentioned the benefits of opening up the seas several times in casual conversation, though he mostly spoke of long-term gains. Now that I’ve come here, the short-term benefit I can think of is simply maritime trade — maintaining an army costs a great deal of money, while maritime trade brings in rich profits. And besides, the better your ships, the better your cannons, the better off you’ll be at sea. I think that principle will never change…”

Ever since Zuo Wenhuai had arrived in Fuzhou, Junwu had granted him an audience almost every other day. Bringing up the subject of the sea now felt more like idle conversation than anything else, and having passed the idea along, Zuo Wenhuai didn’t press the point further — after all, a matter of such broad strategic direction couldn’t be settled in a few words. And whether or not maritime research was pursued, replicating artillery would certainly remain the top priority — this much everyone already understood.

They talked a while longer in this vein, and as the heavy rain gradually eased, Cheng Zhouhai saw him out of the palace. By the time Cheng Zhouhai returned to the imperial study, Junwu and his sister Zhou Pei were sitting with teacups in hand, speaking quietly. Cheng Zhouhai bowed, and Junwu waved for him to sit as he pleased.

“This one from the southwest was offering us advice,” Zhou Pei said, then looked toward Cheng Zhouhai. “What do you think — is this the thinking of the southwest, or the thinking of the Zuo family… or is it his own thinking?”

“Ning Yi’s own thinking is quite clear,” Cheng Zhouhai said with a smile. “He can give us cannons, he can give us natural studies, he can help us defeat everyone else — true to his usual overbearing style, he might even want us to cultivate some researchers with that so-called natural-studies mindset for him. When he eventually sweeps the realm clean and gathers everything under his own banner, and if he’s had us develop maritime shipping technology in the meantime, well — when he eventually comes for us, that technology will simply become his.”

“What Wenhuai said also makes sense,” Junwu said, cradling his teacup with a smile. “The natural-studies mindset really is important. Back when I built the Institute of Natural Studies in Jiangning, I gathered together a great many craftsmen and supported them day after day, hoping they’d produce something worthwhile. When they did, I was generous with rewards, even wanting to grant them official rank and title… That wasn’t wrong exactly, but with only that kind of approach, those craftsmen were ultimately just relying on luck. The real path forward is to give them that method of comparison, summary, and induction. When he was speaking just now, it felt like a sudden blow to the head — if only I’d heard these things years earlier, I would have avoided so many wrong turns.”

He took a sip of tea. Perhaps the reason his expression had turned so grave was that he’d been reminded of the past, of his time with Ning Yi back in Jiangning. Unfortunately, he had been too young then, and Ning Yi could hardly have explained such complicated matters to a child at the time. Now, realizing that several years of wasted effort could have been resolved with a single conversation, his feelings inevitably grew complicated.

Cheng Zhouhai said with a smile, “I was going to say that Master Ning tossing us cannon technology outright was really a scheme to keep us from developing our own natural-studies mindset — but thinking about it, that does seem a bit like biting the hand that feeds us.”

“The young people from the Zuo family have been well taught — there’s no need to be hard on him,” Zhou Pei said, then frowned slightly. “Still, his bringing up maritime shipping wasn’t without reason. I got word yesterday that the shipment of goods Wu Peiyuan sent from Jiangnan West Circuit was robbed along the way — we still don’t know yet whether that’s true or not. Several ships’ worth of goods in Guangzhou are now delayed. Ever since last year, many of the people who once loudly proclaimed their support for us have started sitting on the fence. Fujian was always a place of high mountains and long roads — if they slip in a few extra tolls along the way, plenty of goods simply won’t make it through. Without trade there’s no money, and relying only on the current commercial taxes from maritime trade, we can only hold out until August.”

“The last few times I’ve been out of the palace, things outside looked fine to me — thriving, even,” Junwu muttered between sips of tea.

“You lifted the maritime ban, distributed land, encouraged farming and trade — of course the common people of Fuzhou are doing well. But the great old clans didn’t make their fortunes off small transactions here in Fuzhou, buying snacks and steamed buns to get by. In the past they had connections abroad and ties within the military, and used that access to smuggle goods out of Fuzhou and bring in goods from elsewhere. Now that we’ve taken back most of that authority, those who lost their power have gone off to do business somewhere else. Water that’s too clear holds no fish — can we really expect the steamed-bun sellers and the farmers to carry goods out for us?”

“You’ve done a great many things this past year, and all of them cost money,” Zhou Pei said, counting off on her fingers. “Maintaining Han and Yue’s two armies out there, establishing a military academy for the generals to study at, setting up newspapers, expanding the Institute of Natural Studies, conducting censuses of population and land, building weapons workshops… And now with this shipment from the southwest, you want to expand the Institute again. There’s no money left to expand with — we can only make adjustments slowly…”

This kind of rambling concern from Zhou Pei was nothing new. Ever since the new Fuzhou court’s intent to “honor the sovereign and expel the barbarians” had become clear, a great many of the old Wu dynasty clans who had originally stood with Junwu had begun, little by little, to shift their behavior. Proposals urging a return to “governing the realm together with the scholar-officials” kept being raised, and the old ministers at court had been dropping hints in every direction, hoping Junwu might change his mind.

Out in the world, some of the old Confucian scholars who had once been loyal to the Wu dynasty, willing to sell everything they owned to support Fuzhou, had stopped their efforts. Some of the caravans transporting supplies here had run into trouble along the way. No one openly opposed Junwu, but the great clans controlling the transport routes had simply relaxed their deterrence of the local bandits and horse gangs somewhat. Fujian’s roads were already rugged mountain paths to begin with, and the result had been a steady shrinking of the region’s trade and transport capacity.

People were waiting for Junwu to regret his course and turn back. Junwu and Zhou Pei both understood that if he simply stopped pushing toward centralization, the old loyalists of the Wu dynasty would gradually come around to supporting him again — certainly better than supporting Wu Qimei.

Junwu looked at the map on the study wall. The territory he genuinely controlled at present was small — from Changxi (Xiapu) in the north to Quanzhou in the south. Many places further south nominally belonged to him, but in reality they were watching and waiting, wavering back and forth. Both sides maintained a surface harmony, occasionally sending supplies his way, and for the time being Junwu had held off on any further military action southward.

The remnant court in Lin’an had concentrated its forces around Yongjia (Wenzhou), north of Changxi, building extensive fortifications to block Junwu’s advance north and reinforcing its coastal defenses as well. This was the clearest line of conflict between the two sides. In theory, since Junwu claimed the mantle of legitimate succession, he could hardly spend all his days holed up in Fuzhou — sooner or later he would have to move against Yongjia, and then head north to reclaim Lin’an.

“If we take Yongjia, will that bring in money?”

“Better once we’re out of the mountains, though further out it’s still controlled by Wu Qimei, Tie Yan, and the like — we’ll have to deal with them sooner or later.”

“And once we deal with them, next comes the Fairness Party.” Junwu studied the map. “Is He Wen’s side still refusing to talk?”

The study fell silent.

“…I spoke with General Yue recently. Fuzhou has only just put down roots, and we don’t have much artillery yet, but that doesn’t matter too much. According to Han and Yue, if we go all in, we can probably manage to swallow up the million-strong armies of Wu and Tie combined. But the moment we push north and break out past the mountains of the southeast, we need to be ready for a string of large-scale battles… If we can retake Lin’an, that might turn things around. But looking at how strong the Fairness Party’s momentum is right now, I doubt they’ll settle down anytime soon.”

At this, Zhou Pei said, “You are already the Emperor. Right now everyone is watching what we do. If we keep hiding away in the southeast and delay heading north indefinitely, sentiment is bound to shift eventually.”

“March north, take Lin’an, then take on He Wen, raise my arm and have the whole realm rally to me — I’ve thought that way too. But no matter how I think it through, something feels off. Especially this past year — the changes the Fairness Party has brought about in Jiangnan are unlike any past peasant uprising or religious rebellion. They’re using the methods Master Ning passed down from the southwest. But if a method can achieve this much in a single year, why hasn’t Master Ning used it himself? I think — a method this violent can only be controlled by someone of truly extraordinary ability, and can’t last without the right conditions of timing, terrain, and popular support. Sooner or later, it’s bound to go wrong. I can’t afford to throw myself headlong into it while it’s still burning at its fiercest.”

“Since ancient times, what emperor has ever feared a rebellion…”

“We’ve only got a few cities to our name, and already we’ve forgotten our old ten-thousand-li domain, thinking of ourselves as some little southeastern emperor slowly expanding his territory.” Junwu smiled, then raised his eyes to gaze at the map for a long, long while without looking away.

“Maritime trade…”

he murmured under his breath.

…

It was now the height of summer in Fuzhou. Sea winds came and went, and several more bursts of thunderstorms fell, while the scene within Fuzhou city itself kept changing at a feverish pace.

After the young Emperor made clear his political stance of “honoring the sovereign and expelling the barbarians,” a fair number of the large trade operations that had once been headed for Fuzhou came to a halt. But with the former coastal port transformed into the center of political power, the resulting increase in commercial scale more than offset that decline. The various reforms had won over the hearts of the common people and lower-ranking scholars, and with ships constantly coming and going, the streets always seemed full of life.

In mid-May, about twenty-some days after the Southwest Huaxia Army delegation had arrived, a certain complicated tension was beginning to gather within the city.

It was a night of bright moon and few stars. At a restaurant on the eastern side of Fuzhou called Gaofu Tower, the serving boys had already seen off the guests early, cleaned and mopped the floors, hung up the lanterns, and arranged the room.

Close to the hour of hai, a carriage stopped outside the building.

In the largest private room at the top of Gaofu Tower, a secret gathering was taking shape.

The first to arrive was the owner of Gaofu Tower himself, Gao Fulai, one of the most prominent maritime merchants in all of Fuzhou. After Gao Fulai came another great merchant with his own fleet of ships, Shang Bingchun.

The third to arrive was a fat man with a white turban wrapped around his head, named Pu Annan — his ancestors had emigrated from Arabia, and after several generations of sinicization, he had become one of the wealthiest men with real standing in Fuzhou.

The fourth to arrive was a slightly stout old Confucian scholar, hair half-white, his gaze calm and proud — this was Tian Haoran, patriarch of Fuzhou’s prominent Tian clan.

After the four exchanged pleasantries and took their seats, a fifth person was finally led in through a hidden passage. This man was tall and well-built, his skin dark and weathered — clearly someone who spent his life at sea. This was Wang Yikui, known as the “Dragon King,” the most powerful pirate along the southeastern coast.

He silently pulled out the fifth chair at the round table and sat down.

“Have some tea.”

Gao Fulai said.

Wang Yikui picked up his teacup, sniffed it, drained it in one gulp, and set it down.

“Let’s get to business,” Gao Fulai said. “Everyone’s heard the rumors going around lately. The Huaxia Army sent over a bunch of young hotheads who’ve been chatting up our new Emperor about the riches of the sea. The court’s short on money, so now they’re planning to fully develop seagoing ships — eventually sending two fleets out to sea, to make money alongside the rest of us. I hear their ships will even be fitted with iron cannon shipped in from the southwest… The Emperor means to prioritize maritime shipping. Going forward, we maritime merchants are about to prosper.”

He spoke these auspicious-sounding words, but his eyes were cold, and so was his tone.

The Wu dynasty had always valued trade and had never imposed excessive restrictions on maritime activity. Back when the Wu dynasty still ruled all of the Central Plains, maritime trade in the southeast had already developed quite well. But given the vast expanse of territory the dynasty controlled, the imperial court had never taken official hand in maritime trade directly — so long as taxes were paid, the scholar-officials kept their distance from the rougher business of the sea, maintaining a certain gentlemanly aloofness, the sort that keeps a noble man far from the kitchen.

Once the Wu dynasty relocated south to Lin’an, the shift of the economic center southward made it far easier for places like Fuzhou to receive goods of every kind, further accelerating the growth of maritime trade. During this period, naturally, some of the great clans took notice of this rich opportunity and came seeking a share of it. But the sea was a lawless place, and ordinary factions found it difficult to band together and penetrate deeply into it. What followed was over a decade of bloody struggle, right up until the Jurchens swept south again and the Wu dynasty finally collapsed.

When Junwu, Zhou Pei, and the others had come to the southeast and conquered Fuzhou, the maritime merchants here had responded with active and positive support, even donating substantial sums as military funds to help the young Emperor push northward from here. Part of this was, of course, to bank some goodwill for the future; another part was simply that this place becoming the temporary political center would naturally draw in even more trade.

But now, the young Emperor was preparing to develop seagoing ships and maritime trade…

“…This shouldn’t be allowed to happen.”

The pudgy Pu Annan pressed both hands flat on the table and spoke, his expression calm.