Chapter Sixty: Autumn of the Fourth Year of the Zhen'guan Era

Beneath a sky of endless blue, the boundless golden fields rippled in waves under the gentle caress of the breeze. Out among the fields, Li Kong gazed upon the Champa rice before him, a surge of pride rising within his heart. A double harvest in one year had truly become a reality. Back at the end of April, these paddies had already yielded once, and now the second crop appeared hardly less abundant than the first. In effect, this meant that a single plot of land was being used as though it were two—an unprecedented feat in the entirety of Great Tang.

After inspecting these rice fields, he rose and walked toward the direction of the workshop.

Now, it was already the fourth year of the Zhenguan era. Nearly three years had slipped by since he was unexpectedly thrust into this place on the first dawn of the second year. Over the past two years, the workshops under his control—producing Hero’s Drunk and glassware—had expanded four times over, generating profits of tens of millions of strings of cash each year.

Beyond these ventures, he had also sent men to seek out resources in Guanzhong, where they discovered an open-pit coal mine. Though the reserves were not vast, they would suffice for the empire’s needs for a decade or more, providing him with several million strings of profit annually.

There were also horseshoes. After producing them, he had them delivered to Li Shimin, and by now, all of Great Tang’s cavalry should be equipped with them.

He had also brought forth the Quyuan plow, distributing it freely throughout the empire. As these cost little to manufacture, he did not charge a single coin, and this act rapidly elevated his reputation among the people—so much so that many had set up ancestral tablets in his honor, praying for his long life.

Alongside the Quyuan plow, he had also introduced waterwheels, again without charge.

None of these were particularly complex inventions, so Li Kong merely set an example; he believed that, in just another two years at most, Great Tang would enter a period of rapid development.

Of course, the reason for such confidence was that his ventures over the past two years had grown so vast—not only liquor and glass, but also silk and textiles—snatching over half of the markets once dominated by the great aristocratic clans.

Though those noble families had organized multiple counterattacks, even resorting to assassination, each of their attempts was thoroughly foiled—and always by the Armored Guards. This left them deeply dissatisfied with Li Shimin, causing considerable trouble for him over the past two years.

Were it not for the fact that Li Kong provided Li Shimin with over twenty million strings of funding each year, the Great Tang might already have collapsed.

With the influx of wealth, Li Shimin was no longer constrained as before. He reformed the bureaucracy with a firm hand and continuously expanded the army’s strength. By now, the military prowess of Great Tang was at least threefold greater than in the first year of Zhenguan.

No matter how much the noble families stirred up trouble, Li Shimin showed no sign of compromise. Frustrated, the aristocrats only accelerated their land-grabbing efforts.

When Li Kong first heard of this, he couldn’t help but give these people a silent nod of approval. He knew full well that when those noble hands reached far enough, it would be time for Li Shimin to sever their heads—and that day was not far off.

In the meantime, Li Kong had attempted to improve smelting techniques, hoping to produce specialty steels—perhaps even a cannon. But, alas, the era’s technological base was far too primitive for such ambitions. After repeated failures, he decisively gave up on these unrealistic dreams.

Still, though cannons were out of reach, he succeeded in creating gunpowder and fashioned several small explosive charges. Their power was respectable—at the very least, with current fortress construction methods, no city wall could withstand the blast of a large charge.

It is worth mentioning that in the winter of the second year of Zhenguan, after countless experiments, Li Kong finally succeeded in producing paper. Each sheet cost less than a single cash coin to make. He divided the paper into two categories: one, intended for writing, was sold and quickly became coveted throughout the empire. At a price of just ten coins a sheet, everyone could afford to buy paper and learn to write. Li Shimin personally inscribed a dedication: “A merit for the present age, a benefit for a thousand generations,” and named it Zhenguan Paper.

This writing paper alone brought in over thirty million strings of profit each year, surpassing both Hero’s Drunk and glassware to become the most lucrative of Li Kong’s enterprises.

The other portion he sold as toilet paper, at an even lower price. Now, ninety percent of Guanzhong’s populace had bid farewell to bamboo slips, and the innovation was spreading rapidly elsewhere.

It could be said that Li Kong was now the wealthiest man in the empire, second only to Li Shimin himself, whose private treasury had become the richest place under heaven, counted in tens of millions of strings of cash.

Li Kong was not far behind, with several tens of millions of his own. Moreover, every half month, Princess Li Lizhi would pay him a visit, and his days were comfortable enough.

Naturally, the reason Li Shimin permitted Li Lizhi to come was because Li Kong had brought him so much convenience in these two years. Whether it was money, paper, the Quyuan plow, or the waterwheel, all had raised the emperor’s prestige among the people to unprecedented heights. Compared to these, the things Li Kong had once said were of little consequence now.

Besides Li Lizhi, Li Chengqian visited even more frequently. Though Li Kong no longer lectured him on grand principles, in following Li Kong, Li Chengqian had made great progress. He learned how crops were cultivated, how artisans worked, how commerce was conducted, and how scholars lived their daily lives.

As Li Kong had said, knowledge comes from practice. The regal air about Li Chengqian was gradually fading, replaced by a man’s fortitude and decisiveness. The bearing of a true man was growing within him.

By now, Li Chengqian’s conduct had won the approval of more than ninety percent of officials, especially Li Shimin, who was thoroughly pleased with his crown prince. He often left state affairs to Li Chengqian, who never disappointed him—handling every matter with order and efficiency.

Following Li Kong’s advice, Li Chengqian refrained from establishing the Six Departments of the Eastern Palace at this time, leaving all palace appointments to Li Shimin. This was to prevent any seeds of suspicion between father and son. Clearly, Li Chengqian’s actions pleased Li Shimin greatly—so long as his son did not rebel, the more capable, the better.

In short, by the fourth year of Zhenguan, Great Tang was advancing just as Li Kong had envisioned. Many past regrets had been avoided, and things could be considered almost perfect.

Li Kong was quite satisfied with this outcome, yet he knew that the coming days would not remain so peaceful for Great Tang. All of it would begin in the early winter of this year, but his presence had changed so much that even he was now unsure about the timeline.

Lost in thought along the way, Li Kong arrived at the gates of the workshop, where a court attendant suddenly hurried over, his face filled with anxiety. Grabbing Li Kong by the arm, he urged, “Oh heavens, Young Master Li, you’re finally here! Hurry, come with me—the Emperor summons you. Duke Cai is gravely ill. Your medical skills are renowned; please come and take a look!”

Li Kong’s entire body tensed as he thought to himself: So, there are some things that cannot be changed after all?