The beginning of the story of the Tang Dynasty's Imperial Son-in-Law: A rhinoceros comes knocki

Chapter 121 Exceeding Three Stones

Fang Xuanling put down his teacup, walked behind Zhao Youtian, and remained silent. His shadow fell on Zhao Youtian's notebook, motionless.

Li Shimin also walked over and stood next to Fang Xuanling, his gaze fixed on the steelyard. The steelyard swayed slightly, each sway drawing everyone's attention.

Zhao Youtian's hands were trembling. He had farmed all his life, spent twenty years at the Ministry of Agriculture, and handled countless land registers and yield reports.

But never once did he personally harvest, thresh, or weigh the grains.

But I never once thought of harvesting, threshing, or weighing the grains myself.

The first bundle, after threshing, weighed five jin and three liang.

The second bundle weighs five and a half jin.

The third bundle weighs five jin and four liang.

Following the method taught by Wang Zhihuan, he selected a plot of land with bundles of rice, threshed them all, removed impurities, and weighed them.

Then he wrote the numbers down in his notebook and calculated them three times. With each calculation, his breathing became heavier.

Fang Xuanling stood behind him, his gaze fixed on the paper. The paper was covered with densely written numbers, the ink still wet, glistening in the setting sun.

"Fang Xiang—" Zhao Youtian stood up, his voice hoarse, as if he had been walking in the desert for a long time, "and I've figured it out."

"How many?"

Zhao Youtian swallowed hard, his voice trembling: "One fen of land—forty-five jin of clean grain."

There was a moment of silence in the courtyard. The silence felt like something was pressing down on everyone's chest, making it hard to breathe.

One fen of land weighs forty-five jin, and ten fen of land per mu weighs forty-five hundred and fifty jin.

One jin in the Tang Dynasty was equivalent to more than 600 grams in later times. Four hundred and fifty jin was equivalent to more than 500 jin in later times.

Fang Xuanling did not speak. He squatted down, grabbed a handful of freshly threshed rice, and placed it in his palm.

The grains were plump, golden, and heavy. The lines on his palms were filled with grains, and the weight pressing down on his hands felt so reassuring that it made him want to cry.

His hands were trembling slightly. It was an uncontrollable tremor that ran from his fingertips to his wrists.

He knew all too well what this moment meant, and his eyes slowly welled up with tears.

Perhaps, he was thinking of his compatriots who shared the same Chinese bloodline, but who did not live to see this day.

Cheng Yaojin's eyes widened, and he snatched the notebook from Zhao Youtian's hand, calculating it again himself.

His fingers were as thick as radishes, but he moved the abacus quickly and accurately, the beads spinning rapidly under his hands.

"Four hundred and fifty catties." He looked up, his voice so loud it startled the sparrows in the jujube tree, which fluttered into the sky. "One hundred and forty-four catties per mu of top-grade millet from Guanzhong. This is three times! More than three times the amount of grain!"

Li Shimin took the stalk of rice from Fang Xuanling, looked down at the golden grains in his palm, and remained silent for a long time.

His thumb gently caressed the grains, as if trying to etch their texture into his memory.

Li Chengqian stood behind him, his throat bobbing.

He was the crown prince, and he knew better than anyone what that number meant.

This means that more people can have enough to eat, that the border troops' provisions can last for another three months, and that the foundation of the Tang Dynasty will be strengthened.

Li Qing squatted on the edge of the field, still clutching the stalk of rice in his hand, muttering, "One hundred and eighteen grains — forty-five catties per fen — four hundred and fifty catties per mu —"

He suddenly stood up, turned to look at Wang Zhihuan, his eyes shining: "Master Wang, could you... possibly..."

"Qingque," Li Chengqian called out softly.

Li Qing closed his mouth, but his eyes remained bright. The light was undeniable.

Fang Xuanling stood up and turned to Wang Zhihuan.

His voice was hoarse, but he enunciated each word heavily, as if carving words on a stone slab: "Master Wang, I will take this number back to Chang'an."

I will personally oversee the promotion of this rice variety. You—you have done a great service.”

Wang Zhihuan cupped his hands in greeting: "Prime Minister Fang, you flatter me. I've only cultivated a few acres of land; it's hardly a merit."

He spoke in the same calm tone, as if nothing could stir the slightest ripple in his heart.

Fang Xuanling looked at him and suddenly smiled. The smile was very light and fleeting, but it was indeed a smile.

This child is completely different from what he expected.

He doesn't take credit, doesn't boast, and isn't eager to curry favor with the powerful. He talks about even the most important things as casually as everyday meals.

If it were someone else, they would probably have already started negotiating terms by now.

But the young man simply cupped his hands in greeting, as if he were replying with a casual, polite remark.

Cheng Yaojin didn't care about any of that. He had already sat down at the long table, picked up his wine bowl, and started drinking.

"Come on, everyone! Sit down! We're not leaving until we're drunk!"

Everyone took their seats one after another. The long table was filled with dishes again, and more dishes were being brought out of the kitchen. Xiaoman brought out a large bowl of sauerkraut stewed pork ribs, steaming hot, which made her face flush red.

Two more jars of wine were opened, and the aroma of pine syrup mingled with the fragrance of food, enveloping the entire farm in a warm and inviting atmosphere.

As the sun set, its golden rays spilled into the courtyard, casting long shadows of everyone. The shadows intertwined, making it impossible to distinguish one from another.

Cheng Chuliang, holding a wine bowl, toasted everyone in turn, until his face was red and his neck was thick, and he started to slur his words.

Yuchi Baohuan also drank two cups, then lay on the table talking nonsense, muttering things like "rice," "meat," and "wine."

Yuchi Baoqi carried him to a stone bench and leaned him against it, then went back to continue eating, her chopsticks never stopping.

Tie Dan sat on the doorstep with a bowl of braised pork in his hand, his mouth glistening with oil and sauce even sticking to his chin.

Dalang stood under the jujube tree, still holding the "Three Character Classic" in his hands, but his eyes were fixed on the people in the courtyard, the pages of the book rustling in the evening breeze.

Xiaoman was busy in the kitchen, the soup in the pot was bubbling and steaming, making her forehead wet.

Zhou Xia helped chop vegetables, and her knife skills had improved a lot since she first arrived, producing evenly chopped vegetable shreds.

Cheng Yaojin, enjoying his drink, poured another bowl of wine and raised it to Wang Zhihuan: "Young Wang, I don't quite understand your poem, but I do understand this wine! Fine wine! Let's drink to our hearts' content today!"

The wine bowl was held high, and the wine sloshed around inside.

Li Shimin also raised his wine cup. He didn't speak, but simply raised it slightly towards Wang Zhihuan. The movement was very subtle, but Wang Zhihuan saw it.

Wang Zhihuan picked up his teacup and returned the greeting.

After eating her fill, Sizi nestled in Chang Le's arms, her eyelids starting to droop again; children just need more sleep.

Sure enough, Ah Huang obediently brought the rattle drum back.

She was still holding a rattle drum in her hand, shaking it gently from time to time, making a soft, tinkling sound.

The sound grew slower and softer, as if the person was falling asleep.

"Big sister—the food at Guoguo's house is the best—"

She spoke indistinctly, her voice growing softer and softer until the last word was almost inaudible.

Chang Le looked down at her younger sister, unable to suppress the smile on her lips.

She gently patted Sizi's back, one pat at a time, tenderly and patiently.

The palm fell slowly, as if coaxing something precious to sleep.

Chengyang squatted by the goose pen, feeding the geese with Tiedan.

Tie Dan chopped up the wild grass and mixed it with rice husks. Cheng Yang followed his example and scattered handfuls of the mixture into the pen.

The geese flapped their wings and scrambled for the food, their honking creating a lively scene. Their snow-white wings cast a play of light and shadow in the setting sun.

Li Zhi sat on a stone bench, holding a bowl of tea, quietly watching everything.

His gaze moved from one person to another, as if he were looking at a very long scroll painting.

Li Chengqian stood on the edge of the field, looking at the rice paddies in the distance that had already been harvested.

The rice stubble stood neatly, gleaming golden in the setting sun. He thought, 450 jin per mu.

If this kind of rice were planted throughout Guanzhong, how much more grain could be harvested? How many people could it feed? This number rolled around in my mind, carrying a heavy weight.

Li Qing squatted down beside him, still clutching the stalk of rice in his hand, unwilling to throw it away. The stalk was already somewhat wilted, but he still held it tightly.

Li Shimin sat under a jujube tree, holding a bowl of tea.

He glanced at Wang Zhihuan sitting opposite him; the young man was feeding Ah Huang a bone, his expression unchanged from usual.

Two different things.

The setting sun shone on his profile, gilding his features with a golden edge.

Four hundred and fifty jin. He had just heard that number with his own ears and calculated it himself.

If this kind of rice were planted throughout Guanzhong, what would the border troops worry about for food? What would the people fear for famine?

He put down his teacup and stood up.

"Is Master Li leaving?" Wang Zhihuan also stood up.

"Yes." Li Shimin nodded. "I saw it with my own eyes today, so I can report back later."

He paused, looking into Wang Zhihuan's eyes: "Young Master Wang, I will have someone follow up on this matter of rice seeds."

You should focus on farming and brewing wine; don't worry about anything else. Rest assured, we've got you covered.

The tone was ordinary, but every word carried weight.

Wang Zhihuan cupped his hands in thanks and said, "Thank you, Master Li."

Li Shimin turned and walked out of the courtyard.

Cheng Yaojin followed behind, still chewing on meat, and mumbled, "Young Wang, I'll be back next time!"

Fang Xuanling walked at the back, and when he reached the courtyard gate, he suddenly stopped and looked back at Wang Zhihuan.

That look was deep, as if he were looking at someone he had been searching for for a long time.

"Master Wang, I have been waiting in the imperial court for twenty years and have never seen anyone like you."

After he finished speaking, he turned and got into the carriage.

The carriage rumbled onto the official road and gradually disappeared into the twilight. As dusk settled, the distant Qing Shi Ridge became a blurry black shadow.

Inside the carriage, Fang Xuanling sat upright, still clutching the piece of paper in his hand.

The paper read: 45 catties for one fen of land, 450 catties for one mu. The paper was crumpled from being gripped by his fingers.

He suddenly spoke up: "Your Majesty, I will write down this number in a memorial tomorrow."

Li Shimin leaned against the carriage wall, his eyes closed: "No rush. First, let the people of the Ministry of Agriculture learn the entire set of farming methods and write down the regulations. Only with regulations can we promote them."

His voice wasn't loud, but it was steady.

"Your subject understands."

Cheng Yaojin crossed his legs and chuckled, "Old Fang, this is the first time I've seen you lose your composure today."

He was referring to the incident where Fang Xuanling's fingers trembled as he picked up stalks of rice on the edge of a paddy field.

Fang Xuanling did not refute.

If this happened every day, he would be more than willing to lose his composure every day.

That's 450 jin (225 kg).

This was the first time in his life he had lost his composure on the edge of a field; it was worth it.

The lights were still on in the farm.

Wang Zhihuan sat under the jujube tree, mentally reviewing the day's earnings.

One fen of land yields 45 jin, and one mu yields 450 jin.

He mentally reviewed the clauses concerning land rent in the "Great Tang Code Commentary".

At the current tax rate, how much grain can be saved from one acre of land? How many people can it feed?

How many acres can it be promoted on? Those numbers arranged and combined in my mind, slowly forming a vague outline.

He picked up the teacup and took a sip. The tea had gone cold, but it tasted sweet. It wasn't the sweetness of sugar; it was a flavor that welled up from his heart.

"Master," Zhou Xia walked over and sat down beside him, "do we need to dry the rice we harvested today tomorrow?"

As he sat down, a gentle breeze stirred, causing Wang Zhihuan's clothes to flutter.

"Okay. Spread them out first thing tomorrow morning, let them dry for three days, and then put them in the warehouse."

"What about seed selection?"

"Let them dry before selecting. Choose the plumpest seeds to keep for next year's planting," Wang Zhihuan said. "Seeds are fundamental; we can't be careless."

Zhou Xia responded, stood up, and walked towards the kitchen. After taking two steps, she turned back: "Master, are today's figures accurate? Four hundred and fifty catties per mu?"

His voice carried a cautious uncertainty, as if he were confirming something so good it was almost unreal.

"Don't you know if it's real or not?" Wang Zhihuan said. "You didn't see it being weighed with your own eyes."

Zhou Xia was silent for a moment, then turned and walked away. Her steps were slower than usual, as if she was digesting something.

Wang Zhi leaned back in his chair, looking at the jujube tree leaves overhead.

Moonlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled patterns on his face.

The spots of light swayed gently in the evening breeze, like ripples on the surface of water.

He closed his eyes, and the corners of his mouth curved slightly.

Tie Dan brought out a bowl of leftover rice from the kitchen and squatted on the doorstep to eat it.

Ah Huang leaned closer, rested her chin on his knee, and stared at him longingly.

Tie Dan broke off a piece of steamed bun and threw it to Ah Huang. Ah Huang grabbed it and ran off, lying down under the jujube tree, pressing the bun down with its two front paws, and nibbling on it in small bites.

Xiaoman was washing dishes in the kitchen, the sound of splashing water and the crisp clinking of dishes mingling together.

Dalang was helping to wipe the table, cleaning the grease off the stone table thoroughly, wiping it again and again, as if he were cleaning something very important.

Huihui jumped down from the wall, strolled to Wang Zhihuan's feet, rubbed against his ankle, then jumped onto his lap and curled up in a ball. The warmth pressing against his lap made him feel safe and secure from the bottom of his heart.

Wang Zhi also reached out and touched Huihui's back. Huihui made a gurgling sound in its throat, which was particularly clear in the quiet night.

Whenever this happens, he thinks of those two rascals, Xiao Hei and Hua Hua, wondering where they've gone off to.

I don't even know who the real master is.

On the 20th day of the seventh month of the ninth year of the Zhenguan era, the new rice harvest was bountiful. The yield was 450 catties per mu.

From today onwards, this number no longer belongs to him alone.

It would be written into memorials, discussed in the imperial court, calculated by officials of the Ministry of Revenue, and taken to various parts of Guanzhong by old farmers of the Ministry of Agriculture.

It will become seeds, grains, rice in the people's bowls, and dry rations in the border troops' packs.

He opened his eyes and looked at the moon in the sky.

The moon is round and bright tonight.

The light in the kitchen was still on. Xiaoman was washing dishes, Tiedan was helping to boil water, and Dalang was tidying up today's accounts.

Their shadows were reflected on the window paper, swaying back and forth.

Smoke still lingered above the farm, and a gentle evening breeze stretched the wisp of white smoke long and thin, drifting all the way towards Qing Shi Ling.

The wisp of smoke shimmered with a faint silvery-white hue under the moonlight, like a road leading to the horizon.

As long as the smoke from the cooking fires doesn't dissipate, the people won't disperse.

There's still a long way to go.