Reborn Liu Bei: I'll lead this Three Kingdoms to victory!

On the 30th day of the twelfth month of the sixth year of Jian'an, in Xiangping.

The snow fell all night, only gradually stopping at dawn. The old plum tree in the backyard of the governor's mansion, its branches bent under the weight of the snow, suddenly burst forth with several bright red buds, dazzlingly beautiful.

I stood under the eaves admiring the plum blossoms.

When Xun You arrived in Xiangping last night, the city gates were already closed. He stayed overnight at the post station, delivered his invitation this morning, and is now waiting in the side hall.

four years ago.

I never asked him what he had been doing in Qingzhou for the past four years. When he left, he only said, "My lord, I have something to attend to. I will come to see you when it is done."

He came today.

I did not see him immediately.

It's not about putting on airs. It's about a 49-year-old man, four years and 1,400 days and nights—I need to think about how to accept this heavy responsibility of "accomplishment" from him.

"teacher."

Zhuge Liang's voice came from behind me. I turned around and saw him holding a bowl of hot soup, his expression calmer than a fourteen-year-old boy.

"Mr. Zheng said that you only slept for an hour last night."

I took the bowl of soup without arguing.

"Master Xun has arrived." Zhuge Liang's gaze fell towards the side hall. "I just went to serve him tea, and he was organizing his manuscript. There are seven volumes in total, bound with hemp rope, and the covers are freshly inked."

"What did he say?"

He said, "The manuscript is not yet finished and still needs the lord's corrections."

I remained silent for a moment.

The manuscript is not yet finished.

Four years have passed, and he's still saying he "hasn't finished the manuscript yet."

"Kongming".

"The students are here."

"It's time for you to come out of seclusion."

He raised his head, his eyes showing no surprise, only a solemnity he had been prepared for.

"You will take up your post as Prefect of Qingzhou on the fifteenth of the first month." I placed the bowl of soup, which had already cooled down, on the railing. "Tian Yu will take you on a tour of each county first. Before May, the commercial tax law will be implemented throughout the entire territory."

"The student obeys."

He didn't ask "Why me?" or "Am I capable of doing this?"

When he was seven years old, he came into the governor's mansion with me for the first time. Looking at the maps on the walls, he didn't ask, "What is this?" but rather, "Teacher, where do we fight to stop the people from going hungry?"

I knew then that the child wasn't waiting for an answer.

He was waiting for an opportunity.

---

At Chenshi (7-9 AM), in the main hall of the Governor's Mansion.

Everyone who was supposed to come had arrived. Guan Yu had just returned from Qingzhou last night, dressed in a black outfit, his brows still bearing the frost of an urgent messenger; Zhang Fei carried a wine jar, pouring wine for everyone, but Xu Shu jokingly stopped him; Zhao Yun stood in front of the map, whispering something to Gao Shun; Tian Yu held a thick stack of rosters, the files of three thousand displaced people who would be allocated land in the first month of the year.

Sima Yi sat in the corner, his tea untouched. He had only recovered from his injuries half a month ago, and his complexion was still somewhat pale, but his eyes had regained that unfathomable calmness.

The door to the side hall was ajar.

Xun You was inside. Four years had passed since they last met, and now they were separated only by a door.

I didn't call him immediately.

Let's discuss the matter first.

"It's the seventh year of Jian'an." I said in a low voice, my back to everyone, "Once the first month is over, we'll have three and a half years left on our five-year agreement with Cao Cao."

The hall fell silent.

"He won't wait three and a half years." I turned around. "I don't plan to wait either."

I looked at Xu Shu: "Yuanzhi, news from Ji Province."

Xu Shu stood up, his voice steady: "Cao Cao's tax increase order was officially implemented on the first day of the Lunar New Year. Each mu (unit of land area) will be taxed with an additional liter of 'military aid grain,' and each household will contribute one bolt of 'military aid cloth.' According to reports from scouts at night, some people who resisted the tax have already been imprisoned in various counties of Ji Province, and people in Qinghe, Zhao County, and Julu have begun to flee north in groups."

"Number of people?"

"From the third to the ninth day of the first lunar month, in just seven days, 1,700 households of refugees have been taken in from the border of Youzhou." Xu Shu paused, "At this rate, the number of refugees fleeing each month could reach 5,000 before February."

Someone in the hall gasped.

Five thousand households, approximately twenty thousand people.

That's 200,000 a year.

"Can you catch it?" I asked Tian Yu.

This veteran minister, who had served me for eight years, did not answer immediately. He opened the register, his finger tracing the dense numbers, and after a moment looked up:

"If there are 5,000 households per month, the grain reserves in Liaodong can last until the autumn harvest."

"What happens after the autumn harvest?"

"If the weather is favorable this year, the newly reclaimed land can yield another 800,000 shi (a unit of dry measure)," Tian Yu said calmly. "At that time, the grain reserves will reach 3 million shi, enough to last another year."

"Then take it on." I didn't hesitate. "Five thousand households per month, not one will be missed. If there's not enough food, deduct it from my salary; if there's not enough housing, conscript soldiers to work day and night; if there aren't enough officials—doesn't the academy support three hundred students? Send them down."

Zheng Xuan, who sat at the end of the table with snow-white hair, rose with a cane, his voice aged yet firm:

"Your Majesty—this old minister requests permission to personally lead my disciples to the border of Youzhou to establish a 'Refugee Registration Office'."

I looked at him.

He is seventy-four years old.

"Lord Zheng, it's freezing cold..."

"I have lived for seventy-four years, and I know how many years I have left," the old man interrupted me, a light shining in his cloudy eyes. "In this life, I have read a lot of books, but if I cannot do something for the people, all my studies will have been in vain."

He bowed deeply, his bow touching the ground.

No one in the hall spoke.

I went over and helped him up.

"Lord Zheng," I said softly, "you are not a man who has studied in vain. These three thousand students in Liaodong are all products of your teaching."

The old man's eyes were slightly red, and he did not answer.

---

At noon, the meeting was adjourned.

The group dispersed to have their meal.

I finally pushed open the door to the side hall.

Xun You sat by the window, a scroll of silk open on his lap. The backlight obscured his expression, but his hand holding the brush remained suspended in mid-air, not falling for a long time.

He looked up when he heard the door open.

Four years have passed.

When he left Xiangping at the age of forty-five, his temples were only slightly frosted. Now at forty-nine, half of his hair is white.

"My lord." He stood up, about to bow.

I held him down.

"Gongda".

"Your subject is here."

"It's been four years."

"The seventh day of the third month of the fourth year." His voice was very soft, as if afraid of disturbing something. "I was in Langya, and I kept track of it every day."

I looked at the scroll on his lap. The cover was covered with neat, regular script:

Han Dian, Volume 1, Field System

There were six more rolls next to it, tied together with hemp rope.

"Finished writing?" I asked.

He lowered his head and stroked the edge of the rolled-up book.

"I dare not say that I have finished writing it." His voice was somewhat hoarse. "The more I write about the evolution of systems and institutions throughout history, the more superficial I feel. I have revised the volume on land regulations seven times; I have written and then discarded the volume on remonstrances, and then written it again... I arrived in Xiangping last night and was still revising the last page."

He didn't say how difficult those four years were.

It doesn't mention how cold the winters in Qingzhou are, the loneliness of writing alone, or how the deleted drafts piled up in half a room.

He simply said:

"I dare not say that I have finished writing it."

"Then let me see it." I held out my hand.

He paused for a moment, then picked up the first volume with both hands and handed it over.

"Please correct me, my lord."

I took it.

Turn it over.

The characters are written in tiny, dense script. Each entry on the evolution of a system is accompanied by annotations in vermilion ink.

"This method was implemented during the reign of Emperor Guangwu, and it had three advantages and disadvantages..."

"It was abolished during the reign of Emperor Huan, because by then powerful clans had become too influential..."

"If it is to be implemented concurrently with the land tax reform, then..."

It's not copying from a book.

He poured all his learning, word by word, into these seven volumes of silk manuscripts.

I didn't speak.

Turn to Volume Two, Volume Three, Volume Four...

Until the seventh volume, "Admonitions".

The ink on the last page is noticeably newer than the previous pages—it was added last night.

"I have heard that when you were young, you wove mats and sold shoes in Zhuojun."

Now our lord possesses four provinces and commands an army of 100,000, drawing the attention of the entire world.

However, whenever I think of my lord's humble beginnings, I cannot help but feel apprehensive and fearful.

Why?

Those who rise from humble beginnings know the hunger and cold of the common people;

Those who forget wealth and status lose the very foundation of a nation.

Your Majesty, I wish:

I often think of the wind and snow in Zhuojun, and I often remember the hands that wove the mats.

In this way, the Han dynasty can be restored and the world can be at peace.

—Your subject bows respectfully.

I closed the silk book.

The snow outside the window stopped sometime ago.

Xun You sat with his head bowed, his white hair particularly striking in the dim light.

"Gongda," I said.

He looked up.

"This is not a correction." I gently placed the seven scrolls of silk back on his lap. "This is national policy."

He was stunned.

"I need to summon Tian Yu, Kongming, Zhongda, Yuanzhi, and Zheng Xuan." I looked at him, "to discuss each point one by one, scroll by scroll."

"My lord..."

"Things that can be implemented immediately will be implemented this year; those that require consideration will be discussed and brainstormed; what you think is finished—I think it has only just begun."

He opened his mouth, but couldn't utter a word.

He's forty-nine years old.

Four years of writing, 1,400 days and nights, deleting and rewriting, locking myself in that small courtyard in Qingzhou, all for this day.

He probably considered many possibilities.

I imagined my lord saying, "Well written, archive it."

I considered what my lord had said: "This and that need to be changed."

I had considered what my lord had said: "Let's put it aside for now and talk about it later."

He hadn't considered this option.

"Gongda." I pressed his shoulder, leaned down to look at him, "I'm not good at writing books, but I'm good at using people. You've been writing this book for four years, and I'll use it for forty years, for four hundred years."

He finally lowered his head.

The white hair trembled slightly.

"Your Majesty..." His voice was extremely soft, as if afraid of shattering this dream, "Your Majesty is not skilled in warfare, nor adept at strategizing, nor capable of using spies..."

"That's all I know," I replied.

He looked up, his eyes red-rimmed.

"Yes. That's all I know."

---

dusk.

The lights in the medical school are on.

I stood outside the courtyard gate, watching that familiar figure bustling about in the medicine cabinet. The eight-year-old girl was standing on a wooden stool, carefully packing freshly dried Scutellaria baicalensis into individual packets, her movements light and steady, as if she had done it a thousand times before.

Fushou.

Fu Wan's youngest daughter. The one Sima Yi rescued from Yangdi Manor during the Xu Du massacre.

"My lord?" Upon seeing me, she quickly jumped off the stool and bowed respectfully.

"What are you busy with?"

"Organize the medicinal herbs." Fu Shou pointed to the row of medicine cabinets behind him. "Mr. Hua said that the medical school will expand its enrollment after spring, so the medicinal herbs need to be prepared in advance."

I looked in the direction she was pointing.

On the outside of each drawer, the name of the medicine, its place of origin, and the date it was stored were written in delicate small characters. Some drawers also had small red labels attached to them—"Scutellaria baicalensis, produced locally in Liaodong, is 30% more effective than that in the Central Plains"—that was her own discovery.

"Fushou."

"The students are here."

"Mr. Hua said you want to study surgery."

She paused for a moment, then lowered her head: "Yes... but Mr. Hua said that for a girl to study surgery, she needs to have a steady hand and a ruthless heart... I'm still far from that level."

He's complimenting you.

She looked up.

"You've got a steady hand, you've done it." I looked at the neat rows of medicine cabinets. "Be ruthless—not to people, but to the disease. Cut away the rotten flesh, one cut, no hesitation."

The little girl listened intently.

"Student...I understand."

I nodded and turned to leave.

"My lord!" she suddenly called out to me.

I turned around.

She stood in the room filled with the aroma of herbs, so small in stature, yet her voice was much firmer than before:

"The students will definitely become doctors like Mr. Hua, saving many, many lives."

I looked at her.

If Fu Wan were alive, he would probably cry.

But I just smiled.

"I know."

---

At the hour of Xu (7-9 PM), in the backyard of the Governor's Mansion.

Zhang Fei somehow unearthed a jar of "Liaodong Shao" liquor that had been buried for three years and insisted on "catching up" with Guan Yu. Guan Yu said that "wine and women are harmful to health," but his sleeves had already swept the jar of liquor away.

Zhao Yun and Gao Shun are still at the military academy and haven't returned. Tian Yu went to settle the new batch of refugees who arrived tonight, while Xu Shu reviewed the first wave of intelligence at the Night Watch headquarters.

Sima Yi stood under the corridor, gazing at the old plum tree.

I walked over and handed him a cup of hot tea.

"Zhongda, what are you thinking about?"

He took the tea but didn't drink it immediately.

"The student is thinking...about Mr. Xun's book."

"Oh?"

"I just passed by the side hall and saw Mr. Xun still revising his manuscript under the lamp," he said softly. "Our lord has already said, 'This is national policy,' and he's still revising it."

I didn't respond.

"Students used to think that strategy was all about calculation." He paused, "Calculating people's hearts, timing, and winning or losing. If you calculated it accurately, you could win."

He turned his head and looked at the window in the side hall that was lit up.

"Only today do I realize that the strategy to achieve victory for one person lasts no more than a hundred years. But the strategy for lasting generations—"

He didn't continue.

I finished the sentence for him:

"To devise a plan for the long term, one must have the resolve to lock oneself in a room for four years."

Sima Yi remained silent.

After a long silence, he suddenly spoke:

"My lord, may I study under Master Xun?"

I looked at him.

Eighteen years old. He traveled a thousand miles to save Kong Shao, rescued Fu Shou while wounded, uncovered Cao Cao's spy network, and personally killed the traitor Gray Sparrow.

He never says what he needs.

This was the first time he had spoken.

"Yes," I said, "but on one condition."

"Please speak, my lord."

"Learn from his perspective, not his temperament." I looked out the window. "Gongda locked himself in his room for four years and wrote a book. You can't lock yourself up like that."

Sima Yi did not deny it.

"I don't need you to become a second Xun You." I turned around. "You are Sima Yi. Break your schemes, settle your accounts, and go your own way."

The boy remained silent for a long time.

"Your subject understands."

He did not refer to himself as "student," but as "your subject."

---

Hai hour (9-11 PM).

I pushed open the door to the side hall again.

Xun You was still under the lamp. On his desk lay the "Scroll of Admonitions," and he was dipping his brush in ink to add a few words in a certain place.

He looked up when he heard the door open.

"My lord."

"Aren't you going to rest yet?"

"I'd like to polish the last page a bit more." He paused. "Your Majesty said during the day that this is national policy... I'm afraid there might be some oversights."

I walked over and sat down opposite him.

"Gongda".

"Your subject is here."

How many years do you plan to spend writing this book?

His pen tip hovered.

"minister..."

"You wrote seven volumes in four years." I looked at him. "I'll give you fourteen years to write twenty-one volumes. Then I'll give you forty more years to revise seven editions. If you can't finish, Kongming will continue; if Kongming can't finish, his apprentice will continue."

"My lord..."

"I'm not asking if you're willing," I interrupted him. "I'm telling you—this book isn't just your own project; it's the fate of our nation."

His pen fell softly onto the desk.

The lamp flame flickered.

He's forty-nine years old.

At this moment, he felt like a child who had just started school, being told by his teacher, "This lesson of yours will be engraved on a monument in the future"—he was at a loss, fearful, and yet there was a faint hint of disbelief and joy.

a long time.

He bent down and picked up the pen.

"Your Majesty..." His voice was a little hoarse, "Your Majesty writes."

---

It's past midnight.

The night watchman of Xiangping City walked down the long street, striking his clapper; the sound carried far in the snowy night.

I stood alone under the veranda.

The light in the side room was still on.

The silhouette of the old plum tree was reflected on the window paper, its red buds already blooming.

Zhuge Liang will set off for Qingzhou tomorrow.

Xun You is to meet with Tian Yu tomorrow to discuss the detailed rules for implementing the "Field System".

The day after tomorrow, Zheng Xuan led thirty disciples to the border to set up a registration office for refugees.

On the snowy plains of Jizhou, tens of thousands of people, with their families in tow, are trekking northwards.

They are coming to Liaodong.

They had to survive.

They didn't know what had happened in those four years, they didn't know about the academies, workshops, and medical schools in Liaodong, and they didn't know about the seven scrolls of silk.

All they know is—

There is a Prefect Liu in the north.

If you go there, you'll have land to cultivate; if you cultivate it, you'll have grain to eat.

I took a deep breath of the cool air.

When I turned to go back into the house, the light in the side hall was still on.

On the window paper, the figure bent over the desk remained motionless, like a bronze statue cast in time.

Four years and fourteen hundred nights.

Tonight is only the first night.