Lao Wang's plot was right next to the road. Fang Zichen reined in his horse and leaned down slightly: "Old man—"
Zhao Ger kicked him lightly.
Fang Zichen cleared his throat: "Uncle," he said, pointing toward the village ahead, "is this Ronghe Village?"
Lao Wang's legs were trembling so hard they seemed to blur, and his voice stuttered: "Y-yes, it is."
Fang Zichen dismounted, turned to help Zhao Ger and Guaizai down, then clasped his hands behind his back and began asking questions one by one.
"Uncle, you're hoeing weeds."
"Y-yes, sir."
"Hey, don't shake. Relax—I'm just asking you a few questions, not here to chop your head off."
Lao Wang finally couldn't take it anymore and started to faint. Fang Zichen caught him in one arm and frowned: "You old man, you can't just keel over at the sight of a good-looking fellow! Are you trying to frame me for something?"
Zhao Ger: "..."
The others nearby came over to apologize. They didn't know who Fang Zichen was, so they just kept calling him "My Lord," saying that Lao Wang was timid and easily frightened, that he wasn't trying to pull a scam, and begging for mercy.
Zhao Ger took a water flask and gave Lao Wang a couple of sips, while Guaizai helped pat his chest.
Zhao Ger: "Uncle, don't be nervous. We're not bad people."
Lao Wang stole a glance at Zhang Quan and the others: "Th-then who are you?"
Zhao Ger had lived in a village before, so he knew well that villagers weren't very bold. They were scared even of the lowly tax-collecting soldiers who had no real presence. The Imperial Guards were elite troops—on a whole different level. Not just villagers, even people in the capital were afraid of them. He waved for Zhang Quan and his men to step back, then replied:
"That's my husband, this is my son, and those are our guards. We've come from outside to look into some matters. There's no need to be afraid."
"Yeah, Grandpa, why you so scared? How come you gonna faint just seein' people?" Guaizai turned to look at Fang Zichen and said earnestly, "Father, it's all your fault. Guaizai told you to cover your eyes, but you wouldn't listen. You almost scared someone to death—if someone dies, you go to jail! Father, are you tired of living? You want prison food?"
Lao Wang: "..."
It wasn't from being dazzled by good looks, actually.
Seeing that there was a little kid around, and though Fang Zichen had a sharp aura, he was dressed in obviously fine clothes—and when he saw Lao Wang about to fall, he didn't hesitate to help him up. Lao Wang looked down at his own hands, caked with dust, and his clothes weren't clean either. If this man were truly cruel, he'd probably have kicked him aside for being in the way. Thinking this, Lao Wang suddenly felt much less afraid.
"What do you wanna ask?"
"Spring plowing is coming. In past years, what did you plant in the fields?"
"Sweet potatoes."
"Sweet potatoes?" Fang Zichen frowned. "Don't you plant rice or corn?"
Lao Wang sighed. "Can't grow them."
Now the others chimed in as well.
Ronghe County had the most rocky mountains. What were rocky mountains? They were mountains with more rock than dirt—no large trees grew on them; the biggest trees were only as thick as a person's arm. No streams flowed down from the mountains, so even the village was extremely dry. Ronghe Village had more than ninety families but only one well.
Fang Zichen looked around. The farmland at the foot of the mountains was flat and wide, but those mountains rose abruptly from the ground in scattered peaks, their dark brown rocks standing out sharply.
He jumped from the ridge into the field and borrowed Lao Wang's hoe to dig a bit. It was indeed dry—over ten centimeters deep, and the soil underneath was just as parched as the surface, bone-dry with no moisture at all.
Zhao Ger knew from experience without even digging—the ground was cracked so badly it was obvious.
Sweet potatoes are a crop that can survive very dry conditions, so it's no surprise that was the only thing they could grow.
If they planted rice or corn, forget about a harvest—the question was whether the plants would even sprout.
Lao Wang had brought two sweet potatoes for his lunch, sitting on the ridge. Each was only the size of an egg.
Sweet potatoes—in richer soil, one can weigh a full jin.
"Zhao Ger." Fang Zichen waved him over. "Is this land suitable for growing grain?"
Rice grows best in soil that is a mix of sand and clay. Zhao Ger had over ten years of farming experience and really knew his stuff. He nodded, then sighed and said, "It's possible, but it's much too dry to grow here."
Rice needs water—without it, everything falls apart.
Zhao Ger seemed easy to approach, so a few of the others spoke up. They said not just rice, but corn didn't grow well here either.
In spring, there was a little drizzle, and the corn they planted could actually sprout. But once spring passed, things went downhill. Summer was supposed to be the rainy season, but that rule didn't apply here.
"You might not believe this," said an elderly woman, raising her hand to point into the distance at a mountain range—taller than the surrounding peaks. "Beyond those mountains is Anping County. Over there, it rains in summer, but here in our county—nothing."
There was no reason not to believe her.
Fang Zichen had gone to high school not far from a military district—just a few kilometers away. Several times after school, his grandmother would call and say it was raining, that driving was unsafe, and to stay at school until it stopped, then have the driver pick him up.
But when he looked up, the sun was blazing bright—he could fry an egg on the ground. Not a drop of rain.
"It's so dry back here!" the old woman said worriedly. "Often half a month or more without a single rainfall. The corn doesn't grow well."
They'd toil all year, planting, catching pests, weeding—every morning rising to tend the waste, every evening returning with the moon on their hoe. Not a day's rest. And in the end, the corn stalks would be hollow, no ears, not a single kernel.
They say hard work pays off—but that's not always true.
Beans wouldn't grow either, so the villagers turned to sweet potatoes.
These people were all dressed in drab, faded clothes, gaunt and thin.
Fang Zichen stood up and pointed south: "Is the Jing River in that direction?"
One of the men nodded. "Yes."
Fang Zichen looked thoughtful.
Zhao Ger was curious: "Husband, how do you know?"
He'd never even heard of the Jing River—they'd come to Hezhou together, so how did his husband know about it?
"It's marked on the maps!" Fang Zichen said. "And the Hanlin Academy has books on all sorts of regional matters. You pick it up after reading enough."
Zhao Ger blinked: "You actually read? But aren't you always sleeping when you're on duty?"
"Who the hell told you that?" Fang Zichen's face flushed as he straightened up defensively.
Zhao Ger answered honestly: "The Emperor."
Fang Zichen: "..."
When I'm actually working, it's like everyone's blind—nobody sees a thing. But the second I rest my head on the desk for just a moment, suddenly the whole world knows? And even that blasted old beast of an emperor has to go running his mouth about it?
"Don't listen to his nonsense. That's pure slander."
After asking around, Fang Zichen and his party took a walk through the village, with Lao Wang tagging along.
The village was poorer than they could have imagined. Zhang Quan and his men were born and raised in the capital—the most prosperous place in the land. Seeing these low, shabby thatched huts made of mud, their brows furrowed tight.
Even the poorest family in the capital had outhouses better than this.
Some children were playing by the roadside. At a glance, Fang Zichen felt like he'd wandered into an African tribe.
The kids were barefoot, skin and bones, with matted, unkempt hair. Their clothes...
Their clothes were so tattered that the word "rags" didn't even do justice to how bad they were. And this was already the third month—still bitterly cold, just a few degrees above freezing. The twelfth month of the lunar year was even worse. If they dressed like this all year round, it was no surprise that people froze to death every winter.
Fang Zichen's heart grew heavy. A few of the little ones were shy of strangers—they'd been hopping and playing happily, but the moment they saw Fang Zichen's group approaching, they fell silent. They didn't run away, though—just stood quietly and timidly at the edge of the road, watching the party pass by.
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