Fang Zichen had read widely—all sorts of books on all kinds of subjects—but he'd never actually put any of it into practice, and he wasn't a professional either. Besides, reading about something didn't mean you automatically knew how to do it. From Xiaping Village to Fangniu Village spanned so many li—it was a massive project!
The year before last, mountain floods had submerged the surrounding villages and killed many people.
The scale of the work was enormous. That was why, on the day he went to Anping County to retrieve records, he'd specifically had the county magistrate bring in a few so-called professionals from the field to consult, hoping they could assist.
But when he questioned them, they turned out to be even less knowledgeable than he was.
In a season with abundant rainfall, how do you safely release floodwaters through a river channel?
The few of them exchanged blank looks.
Their answers were hesitant and stammering.
Fang Zichen saw that their responses were all just grazing the surface. After asking a few more questions, he grew disappointed.
The truly skilled ones were in the capital, talking with their mouths. The less impressive ones were sent down to the provinces, and among those, the more capable ones were sent to wealthier regions, while the less capable ones were assigned to the frontier.
It was the same back when he'd passed the imperial examinations. He'd been the best, so he entered the Hanlin Academy. Among the second-tier candidates, some stayed in the capital, while others became county magistrates in places like Shangyang, Hengyang, and Zhouping. The third-tier ones were sent to godforsaken backwaters.
These few were probably the same story.
Since they couldn't be relied on, perhaps the real experts were among the common folk. So Fang Zichen went back to the yamen and put up a notice outside, calling for talented people to come forward.
No one came.
Zhao Ger said he should just do it himself.
There might not be such experts among the common folk—or if there were, they'd be hard to find on short notice. Common folk had a bad impression of officials, so even if there were experts, they probably wouldn't come.
This place was poor, with few educated people. The villagers might be first-rate at farming—they knew exactly when to hoe and when to turn the soil, could gauge crop yields just by feeling the wheat ears, and might even be more accurate than the weather forecast at predicting the weather. But in the rainy season, the most they could say was, "Ah, the river's going to flood." How high would the water get? Who could tell? It wasn't something they could just measure with a scale.
Without any help, Fang Zichen was a little afraid to move forward—this was outside his area of expertise. But he had to do something.
He couldn't let all those days of running around go to waste. If he didn't bring water in, the fields wouldn't produce crops. Last year alone, over a dozen people had died in just one village. How many would die across nine villages?
The books he'd read in his modern life covered water conservancy more comprehensively than even the Ministry of Revenue's manuals. As long as he was careful and conscientious, it should be fine.
River channel construction should fully consider multiple factors—adapt to local conditions, plan scientifically, design rationally, select materials appropriately, and ensure that the project meets the requirements of the ecological, social, and human environments.
Fang Zichen had spent many more days surveying the land in person. After endless calculations and fine-tuning, he finally settled on the final plan.
Zhao Ger understood the pros and cons, and carried out every step strictly according to the notebook, not daring to make a single mistake.
As soon as the village head heard this, he hurriedly went back to re‑measure everything.
The lime was spread quickly, but the measuring was slow. Too little would shortchange the villagers; too much would likely cause trouble—it had to be precise. There was no help for it, so Tieda called over a few of the village elders.
The commotion was so big that villagers called their friends and family and all ran over.
The field ridges were packed with a dark mass of people.
"What's going on?"
"The prefect is taking land."
"Those officials are all damn scoundrels!"
"Don't curse. That round‑faced one—I heard he's the prefect's fulang. He just said the government isn't taking it for free—they're paying silver."
"Paying silver? That can't be. How could that official be that good? Those officials only ever take silver from us. Don't be fooled."
"Fooled or not, can we really fight against the officials? If they don't give us silver, we'll just have to accept it."
"Maybe I should go back and call some men over to give them a beating?"
"Don't stir up trouble—they're carrying swords! And haven't you heard? This prefect is terrified of death. When he came, he brought nearly a hundred guards. If we fight now and they come back later with weapons, can any of us escape?"
Everyone fell silent.
They could only sigh and groan.
After a full day's work, all the land to be taken was finally measured.
Tieda handed a piece of paper to Zhao Ger. On it were circles and crosses. Zhao Ger blinked and stared for a long time, but couldn't make out a single character.
He pointed at one spot—a circle drawn there, followed by seven tally marks. "What does this mean?"
Tieda glanced at it and blushed a little. "That's Gouwa's land—seven fen taken."
Gouwa's (Dog Egg) family—so he drew an egg.
Looking down, the next one was two oxen. Zhao Ger understood—that must be Erniu (Second Ox) or something.
Next was a flower—that should be Aunt Hua (Flower).
The village head couldn't read, but his drawing skills were something else!
At least everything was recognizable.
Zhao Ger choked back a laugh. "…Did you bring the land deeds?"
Every sale or purchase required a written contract.
The land deeds didn't say much—just the exact location of the plot, who the owner was, which year it was reclaimed or bought from whom, and how many mu and fen.
Only seven fen were taken; the remaining three fen still belonged to Gouwa's family—but the deed had to be rewritten.
In Da Xia, one mu of good farmland cost thirteen taels, medium land ten taels, and low‑grade land about seven or eight taels.
Since Gouwa's land could be irrigated and grow crops, it counted as good farmland. Zhang Quan checked against the old deed, wrote a new one, and stamped it with both the county and prefectural seals.
Zhao Ger had Gouwa press his fingerprint, said nothing extra, and directly handed him nine taels, plus a string of copper coins.
The villagers had never seen so much money—their eyes turned red with envy. Gouwa held the silver in both hands, which wouldn't stop trembling.
The government hadn't cheated them—they really did pay silver compensation!
But… wait.
Gouwa's family only had seven fen taken. Their land here was dry and couldn't grow grain or corn—it barely counted as low‑grade.
Low‑grade land was only seven taels per mu.
Gouwa had gotten over nine taels.
There were also some shrewd ones who figured it out after a moment's thought.
"Fang Fulang, your calculation isn't right."
They didn't dare take this bargain—people might not understand now, but if they found out later, they wouldn't let it go.
"Our land here is all low‑grade."
"It's low‑grade now, but once we bring water over, it will be able to grow crops," Zhao Ger said.
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