Hot flashes

Zhou Heng didn't say anything. The next day, he took Chen Shen's men and went into the mountains.

What I saw was a completely different scene.

The terraced fields on the hillside were pitifully barren, sparsely planted with miscellaneous grains, the leaves all turning yellow. The farmers' thatched huts were drafty, and the children were barefoot, their faces pale and sickly.

An old farmer, upon hearing that he was an official from the capital, was so frightened that he knelt on the ground and dared not raise his head.

Zhou Heng squatted down and helped him up.

"Grandpa, how many years have you been farming this land?"

The old farmer stammered, "It's been passed down from my ancestors... for three generations..."

Zhou Heng looked at the barren hillside, then at the faintly visible remains of the irrigation ditch at the foot of the mountain in the distance, and asked, "Why is that irrigation ditch abandoned?"

The old farmer shook his head: "That was built in the previous dynasty. It's been broken for twenty years, and nobody's repaired it..."

Zhou Heng didn't ask any more questions.

He stood on the hillside, gazing at the land beneath his feet, his heart heavy.

He knew what agriculture was like in this era—no improved seeds, no farming tools, no irrigation, no credit. Farmers used half of what they grew to pay rent, half to repay usurious loans, and the rest wasn't even enough to fill their stomachs.

He came to the right place.

But he also knew that all of this couldn't be changed overnight.

He took a deep breath and said to Chen Shen beside him, "Go back and draft a list. We need blacksmiths, carpenters, craftsmen who know water conservancy, and also a few literate people to help me register them."

Chen Shen agreed.

On the hillside, the spring breeze carries the scent of earth and the faint smoke rising from distant chimneys.

Zhou Heng stood there, and for the first time, he felt that he was actually doing something.

On the seventh day after arriving in Jiangling, Zhou Heng went to Qingnigou.

He noticed the place name last night while flipping through the county annals—thirty li northeast of the county seat, deep in a mountain valley, lies a barren slope. The annals only mentioned it briefly: "Qingnigou, barren land and impoverished people, the annual harvest is insufficient to support themselves, and most rely on loans to survive."

Zhou Heng folded a corner of this page.

Chen Shen advised him, "That place is too remote, and the mountain roads are difficult to travel. Young Master, you've only recently recovered—"

Zhou Heng turned and walked out before he could finish speaking. Chen Shen had no choice but to shut up and ordered six bodyguards to follow him.

The mountain path was indeed difficult to traverse. Calling it a path was a stretch; it was more like a narrow trail worn down by mountain dwellers, with a steep slope on one side and a deep ravine on the other. The horse's hooves slipped, forcing us to abandon it and walk.

After walking for nearly two hours, as the sun began to set, we finally saw a few scattered houses in the valley.

The house was made of mud, with a thatched roof and peeling paint revealing the brownish-yellow mud bricks underneath. There was no fence around the house, only a few stones casually surrounding it, where a few skinny chickens pecked at the stones.

Zhou Heng stood on the slope, looking at the low houses, and remained silent for a moment.

"Let's go down and take a look."

They approached the nearest house. In front of the mud house sat an old woman on the threshold, her head down, seemingly doing something.

Hearing footsteps, she looked up, a flicker of fear flashing in her cloudy eyes. She then stood up and tried to hide inside the house.

"Grandpa," Zhou Heng said quickly, trying to keep his voice gentle, "Don't be afraid, I'm just passing by and wanted to ask for a bowl of water."

The old woman stopped and looked back at him. Her gaze held fear, wariness, and an inexplicable numbness.

She sized up Zhou Heng for a long time, then looked at the few ordinary-looking but extraordinary guards behind him, and finally nodded slightly.

Zhou Heng accepted the water and thanked him. The water was a bit murky and had an earthy taste, but he still took a sip.

"Grandpa, how many people are in your family?"

The old woman kept her eyes down and didn't answer. Zhou Heng asked again, and she slowly raised her head, opened her mouth, but only managed a few hoarse "ah ah" sounds.

Dumb.

Zhou Heng's heart tightened. He returned the bowl to her, gestured to express his gratitude, and glanced into the house.

The room was pitch black inside, and nothing could be seen clearly except for a faint smell of musty and herbal odors mixed together.

Is someone in your family sick?

The old woman nodded this time. She hesitated for a moment, then stepped aside and pointed inside.

Zhou Heng bent down and entered the house.

After his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could finally see what was inside. The mud house was very low; he almost had to duck to stand.

Inside the room was only a bed made of adobe bricks, and curled up on it was a man, in his thirties or forties, thin as a skeleton, with a sallow complexion and chapped lips. His eyes were closed, his chest rose and fell slightly, and his breathing was shallow.

Two children were squatting by the bed. The older one was a girl, about seven or eight years old, and the younger one was a boy, about four or five years old. They were both barefoot and wearing tattered clothes.

The girl held a chipped bowl filled halfway with dark, murky soup. She was feeding the man little by little with a wooden spoon.

Hearing the noise, the two children looked up together. Upon seeing Zhou Heng, the girl instinctively shielded her younger brother behind her, her eyes filled with a wariness—a premature vigilance born from countless trials of life.