Song Dynasty: Yuan Dynasty, you didn't expect this, did you? I'm still alive.

The first order issued by the Song army after occupying Quanzhou was not to appoint officials, to govern the people, or to post notices to reassure the people.

It's about distributing grain.

At the Quanzhou dock, transport ships are arriving one after another.

There were no cannons, no soldiers, just ships full of grain.

Javanese rice, Indian wheat, Siamese sugar, Australian flour, and Southeast Asian eggs—basket after basket were unloaded, piling up like mountains on the dock.

The people of Quanzhou peeked through the cracks in the door, their eyes wide with amazement.

Zhao Qian stood by the dock, followed by two clerks.

He is now the Pacification Commissioner of Fujian and Zhejiang—a third-rank official, in charge of both Fujian and Zhejiang provinces.

Zhao Xi personally appointed him to this position for a simple reason: he was able to gather intelligence so thoroughly even in the brothels of Yingtian Prefecture that he was more than qualified to be a pacification commissioner.

Zhao Qian's assessment of this was: "The Emperor is good at recognizing and appointing talent."

Although his rank seemed unchanged, he suddenly went from being a government official in the capital to a local official, and his status plummeted.

Logically speaking, Zhao Qian should be frustrated.

However, since the time of Ye Li in the Eastern Song Dynasty, there has been an unspoken rule that in order to reach the highest position, one must have experience in governing a region.

Zhao Xi's decision to demote him now indicates his intention to have him succeed as prime minister.

Thinking about this, Zhao Qian felt full of energy.

At this moment, the envoy, who was good at recognizing and appointing people, was frowning at a basket of eggs.

It was shipped from Southeast Asia and was tossed around at sea for almost half a month, resulting in many pieces breaking.

He squatted down, reached out and flipped it over; the egg liquid had stuck the straw together in a clump.

He stood up and said to the clerk behind him, "Pick out the broken pieces, don't send them out."

Then he turned around and shouted to the people of Quanzhou who were gathered outside the dock.

"By order of the Emperor of the Great Song Dynasty, each household in Quanzhou shall receive one bag of flour and ten eggs."

The soldiers, who had already received their orders, also shouted at the top of their lungs.

This was a strategy proposed by Zhao Qian in court to win over the hearts of the people, and for this reason, the Song Dynasty had been continuously drawing grain from its various colonies for ten years.

Although Java had a high grain yield, it was more than enough to supply the Song people in Southeast Asia, and at one point it even fostered the Song people's bad habit of wasting food.

However, the Song people had been living like this for decades, and being transferred from Java inevitably affected their quality of life.

On the contrary, the barbarians in the colonies were already living in dire straits and were very hardworking.

Since they are so talented, it wouldn't hurt to let them eat a little more.

Quiet.

Nobody moved.

An old man squatted in the corner, hunching his shoulders, and muttered under his breath, "If I take it, the government might go back on their word and confiscate my grain reserves."

Zhao Qian glanced at him, thinking to himself, "You old codger, you're pretty smart."

The old man shrunk his neck even shorter.

Zhao Qian did not explain.

Because explanations are useless.

He had people move the flour and eggs to the open space outside the dock and stack them neatly.

Then he moved a chair, sat down next to him, and made himself a cup of tea.

The tea was pre-Qingming Longjing tea brought back from Yingtian Prefecture. He took a sip and frowned—it had been sitting for more than half a year and was a bit stale.

I sat there all morning.

Around noon, one of the young men couldn't hold on any longer.

He wore a patched-up short brown, and his face was so pale it looked like he had been coated with bitter melon juice.

He stood in front of the pile of flour for a long time, looking at the flour, then at Zhao Qian, then back at the flour.

Zhao Qian held his teacup, pretending to be looking at the sea.

The young man gritted his teeth, bent down, picked up a bag of flour and a bag of eggs, and ran away.

He ran a few steps, then looked back.

Zhao Qian was drinking tea, his gaze passing over the teacup and parallel to the horizon.

The young man ran a few more steps, then turned back.

Zhao Qian changed his posture and crossed his legs.

Young people have stopped running.

He carried the flour and eggs, walking home step by step.

He ran into a neighbor along the way, who asked him what he was carrying. He whispered, "It was issued by the Song people."

The neighbor was stunned: "Really?"

He nodded: "Really."

The dock was empty in the afternoon.

The mounds of flour and the mountain of eggs were moved clean.

Zhao Qian had another batch brought out.

The next day, Quanzhou was deserted as everyone flocked to the city.

The line to receive grain stretched from the dock all the way to the south of the city. Men, women, and children, with their families in tow, were there. Some people even brought stools before dawn to reserve a spot.

The person who received the flour and eggs carried them home with a cautious expression on their face, as if they were holding something fragile—not because they were afraid of dropping it, but because they were afraid that the thing was fake and would be gone in the blink of an eye.

An old woman received her share.

She bent down and touched the bag of flour. It was white and fine; when she rubbed it between her fingers, a layer of frost-like powder adhered to it.

She picked up another egg and held it up to the sun—the yolk was round, and the egg white was translucent.

Her hands began to tremble.

She put the eggs back in the basket, hugged the flour bag to her chest, and then knelt down.

"The royal army has arrived." Her voice trembled, like an old flag that had been blown by the wind for a long time. "The royal army has really arrived..."

Zhao Qian put down his teacup, went over and helped her up.

The old woman's arms were very thin; you could feel the bones through her clothes.

"Auntie," Zhao Qian said, "the Song Dynasty owes the people of the Central Plains one hundred and thirty-five years."

He stuffed the flour bag into the old woman's arms and hung the bag of eggs on her wrist.

"This little bit of stuff isn't even enough to cover the interest."

The old woman gripped his sleeve, her lips trembling, unable to speak.

Zhao Qian patted the back of her hand. "Let's go back. We'll make steamed buns and boiled eggs. There will be more if you finish these."

The old woman has passed away.

She carried the flour and eggs, her back hunched, and walked away step by step.

The setting sun stretched her shadow long, trailing it across the stone-paved road of Quanzhou, as long as one hundred and thirty-five years.

There was no curfew in Quanzhou that night.

There was no curfew during the Eastern Song Dynasty, and Xinxiang was a famous city that never sleeps.

The Song army did not set up checkpoints, patrol the streets, or conduct inspections.

People in Quanzhou spontaneously set up incense tables in front of their homes.

It wasn't organized by anyone; one family set up a stall, and when the neighbors saw it, they set up their own stalls too.

They set up stalls all over the street, and when they saw it on the next street, they set up stalls there too.

Later on, incense altars were everywhere in the city.

The offerings on the altar were not for Bodhisattvas or ancestors, but for a handwritten tablet that read "Long Live the Emperor of the Great Song Dynasty".

The characters were written crookedly, some large and some small, some with ink that was too thick and blotted out, and some with ink that was too thin to be clearly seen.

But every single character was written carefully, stroke by stroke.

Incense smoke curled around the city, enveloping the entire city of Quanzhou in a cloud of smoke.

The people faced south, knelt before the incense table, and kowtowed.

It seems that the hearts of the people are very cheap; a bag of flour and ten eggs are enough to buy them off.

But the people aren't stupid; they can feel the sincerity and kindness represented by a bag of flour and ten eggs.

Perhaps this sincerity and benevolence is rare, but throughout history, most monarchs have been unwilling to give even this small amount.

Zhao Qian stood on the pavilion of the Pacification Commissioner's office, looking at the incense burning throughout the city, and remained silent for a long time.

The clerk behind him whispered, "Sir, won't such words embolden some unruly people to take advantage of us?"

"Moreover, if the people of the Central Plains hadn't failed to defend against the enemy, how could our Great Song Dynasty have ended up overseas?"

Zhao Qian burst into laughter.

"The fall of the Song dynasty to the South Seas is not the fault of the common people. The fall of the Central Plains to the barbarians is the fault of us scholars and officials."

"Those with great talent bear heavy responsibilities, and those with high positions bear profound duties. Those who enjoy such honors and rewards should also bear the burdens."

Zhao Qian patted the clerk on the shoulder, "Your awareness needs improvement; that's why you can't pass the imperial examinations."

Upon hearing this, the clerk was filled with shame.

"Moreover, if we want to win over the hearts of the people in the Central Plains, this is the only way!"