The Great Song Dynasty: You were put in charge of teaching, and you produced a whole bunch of prime

Three days later, in Hangzhou.

The morning mist still lingered over the withered lotus leaves and silt of West Lake when the crisp sound of gongs and the innocent cries of vendors shattered the tranquility of this Jiangnan water town.

"Newspapers for sale! Newspapers for sale! The West Lake Weekly is launched! A lengthy article personally written by Su Shi on the dredging of West Lake!"

The rough paper, carrying a strong scent of pine soot and ink, flew into the streets and alleys of Hangzhou like snowflakes in a very short time.

Our gaze returned to the muddy construction site by West Lake. The sky was overcast, and the air was thick with moisture and the stench of rotting reeds. Several large iron pots, each half a person's height, were placed on the open ground, with firewood crackling beneath them, and thick porridge of coarse rice bubbling inside.

This is the only hope for the more than 30,000 displaced people to survive each day.

Many people in the crowd still bore old wounds from fleeing famine. In the past, during years of disaster, the porridge provided by the imperial court was so thin that you could see your reflection in it; after peeling away layer after layer, only a few grains of rice water reached the mouths of the common people. But here, chopsticks could be stuck upright in the porridge without falling over.

At that moment, an elderly scholar dressed in a faded blue robe shakily climbed onto a high mound of wasteland. In his hand was the first batch of newspapers that had been hastily printed overnight at the printing factory.

"Fellow villagers, please stop what you're doing! Let this old man read a passage from an article by Master Su!"

The old scholar cleared his throat, his voice echoing across the empty construction site. He skipped the opening embellishments and went straight to the core data section:

"...Now, the Jingshi Academy has taken the lead in dredging projects, implementing a work-for-relief approach. The accounts are clear and made public: able-bodied laborers receive thirty coins per day, while the elderly, weak, women, and children are incorporated into the support staff and receive fifteen coins per day..."

The vagrants who had been whispering below fell into a deathly silence. Countless bloodshot eyes stared intently at the thin piece of paper.

"On the seventh day of the first lunar month, each person is given three large white steamed buns and two bowls of coarse rice porridge. Since the start of the work half a month ago, a total of four thousand shi of millet has been consumed... Not a single soldier has embezzled any grain, and not a single official has pocketed any. The mud and silt in West Lake are decreasing daily, and thirty thousand starving people are surviving on this!"

No sooner had the words left his mouth than a "thud" was heard.

An old man with gray hair and one blind eye dropped the broken earthenware bowl he was holding into the mud. Instead of picking it up, he stared blankly at the old scholar on the mound of dirt, his withered lips trembling violently.

"Thirty coins... three big white steamed buns..." The old man's cloudy tears suddenly welled up and washed away the thick grime on his face.

His knees buckled, and he knelt heavily in the mud with a thud, kowtowing towards the direction of the prefectural government office. His voice was hoarse, like a broken bellows, "Heavens above! What's written here is our fate! The high-ranking officials in the capital want to stop the work, but it's Lord Su risking his life to protect our jobs!"

This kneeling acted as if it had toppled a domino effect.

"Thump!" "Thump!"

Tens of thousands of ragged refugees knelt down one after another like a tidal wave. Suppressed sobs merged together, shaking the heavens and the earth. No one had ever experienced the fear of being treated like ants by those in power, to be wiped out at any moment; nor had anyone ever felt the shock of being treated as human beings at this moment, having their fate clearly settled and announced to the world.

A young man of seventeen or eighteen suddenly wiped away his tears and grabbed a shovel stuck in the mud. Gritting his teeth, his eyes bloodshot, he roared, "Stop crying! As long as Lord Su doesn't stop, and Jingshi Academy doesn't kick us out, we'll dig right through the bottom of West Lake! Anyone who dares to come from the capital and cut off our livelihood, this shovel in my hand will be the first to object!"

"Go! Go all out!"

The roar of tens of thousands of people pierced through the clouds and echoed over West Lake for a long time.

This storm, started by ordinary people, is spreading northward along the Grand Canal at an alarming speed. Within five days, it has shaken the entire scholarly community of Jiangnan.

Suzhou, Heming Teahouse.

This was the favorite gathering place for scholars from Jiangnan. At this moment, dozens of students from the Imperial Academy and other academies were seated in the elegant seating area on the second floor. Several conservative Confucian scholars in long gowns were shaking their heads repeatedly at a copy of the "West Lake Weekly" on the table.

"This is an insult to scholarship! Absolutely an insult to scholarship!" An old scholar slammed his fist on the table in anguish. "How could Scholar Su, a literary master of his generation, write such vulgar prose? The entire piece is filled with common colloquialisms like 'thirty coins,' 'steamed buns,' and 'coarse rice porridge,' utterly devoid of the beauty of parallel prose or free verse. It has completely disgraced us scholars!"

"Exactly. Governing a country should be based on the classics, histories, philosophical works, and literary collections, and extensively discussing the teachings of Confucius and Mencius. Such meticulous calculation, like that of an accountant, is utterly disrespectful!"

"Bang!"

A loud bang abruptly interrupted their sarcastic remarks.

A scholar in white robes, usually renowned for his talent, slammed his hand on the table, shattering the teacups. His eyes were bloodshot. He grabbed a newspaper, pointed it at the old scholar's nose, and shouted angrily, "Full of platitudes about benevolence and morality! Open your eyes and read the second half of this article!"

The scholar in white took a deep breath, his voice trembling with extreme excitement, and began to read aloud throughout the hall:

"Those who dwell in high positions of power are unaware of the hardships of life; those who eat rich food are unaware of the bitterness of hardship. A mere official document falls lightly from the palace, and their words are always invoking etiquette and ancestral rules..."

The teahouse fell silent instantly, and all eyes were on him.

"But can rites and laws fill the bellies of starving people? Can ancestral rules stop the floodwaters of West Lake? If construction and labor are halted, 30,000 starving people will be displaced and their bodies will lie scattered across the fields. I ask you gentlemen, whose fault is this? What kind of benevolence and righteousness is this!"

Upon reading the last sentence, the scholar in white almost roared it out. This resounding rhetorical question struck like a hammer blow to the heart of every self-proclaimed noble scholar.

The old scholar who had just been spouting "disgraceful" remarks opened his mouth but couldn't utter a single word; his old face turned purplish-red.

"We've studied the classics for over a decade, practicing the eight-legged essay every day, meticulously choosing each word, but have we ever considered how many steamed buns we can distribute in a day? How many lives we can save?!" The scholar in white grabbed a collection of contemporary essays from his desk, tore it in half, and threw it into the air. "What we learn from books is ultimately superficial! With the Song Dynasty in such a state, what's the use of learning those affected, sentimental poems and songs?"

Amidst the swirling shreds of paper, countless young students' eyes lit up—the light of faith being rebuilt after its collapse.

"Jingshi Academy...what a fine name for practical application!" Another student suddenly stood up, ripped off his headscarf, and exclaimed, "Fellow students, I'm packing my bags for Hangzhou tomorrow! Even if I have to work at Jingshi Academy copying accounts and measuring silt, it's better than being a pedantic scholar here who only knows empty talk!"

Count me in!

"Let's go to Hangzhou together!"

The teahouse was filled with fervor, and countless scholars were flushed with excitement. On this day, something in the Jiangnan literati was shattered by Su Shi's article, yet it was also subtly coalescing in a completely new form.