"Father, you've really lost your head," the eldest son said with a sigh. "What even is this 'chemical fertilizer'? Have you ever heard of it before? Our ancestors have been farming this land for generations—the very best we can manage is two shi per mu. The Prefect is a good man, but no matter how good he is, can he possibly know more about farming than generations of our ancestors who worked this land before us?
One shi was one hundred and twenty jin.
Last time, Fang Zichen said one mu could yield four or five hundred jin. Two old men who heard it went home and told their families, treating it as a joke. Later, the story spread, and the whole village knew—this new prefect was a braggart with his head in the clouds.
The village chief also set down his bowl and chopsticks. "Then what are we supposed to do? Fang Fulang wants it—we can't very well refuse him."
His wife glared at him. "Of course we have to give it—but he offered silver, so why didn't you take it? What kind of high-and-mighty position are you in? Why are you playing the big shot in front of him?"
The village chief was about to say that he'd seen the fertilizer at Zhao Ger's place at noon and it did seem like it might actually work, when someone called out from outside.
It was Uncle Tang. The village chief's wife recognized the voice—they'd chatted before.
"Steward Tang, what brings you here at this hour?" She went out to greet him, thinking she should invite him in for a meal.
Their home cooking was coarse and plain—nothing like the prefect's household—but it was only proper to offer. That was just good manners. The villagers never visited during mealtimes, lest they seem like they were angling for a free meal. Uncle Tang naturally knew this too, but if he came any later, it would be dark.
He pulled out a string of copper coins.
Those three plots were small—they wouldn't even yield one shi of grain. Zhao Ger had estimated and given some silver in return.
The village chief had said he didn't want it, but the villagers all had a hard enough life as it was—he couldn't take advantage.
The village chief's wife didn't know whether to take it or not—after all, they'd just been arguing about this very matter. In the heat of the moment, she'd spoken rather loudly. She didn't know how long Uncle Tang had been standing there—he'd probably heard some of it. She was annoyed at her husband, and she was a little upset with the prefect's fulang too.
But now, here he was, bringing silver right to their door.
Uncle Tang pressed it into her hand. "Take it."
"This—this—"
"The Zhujun knows everyone's having a hard time. He won't let you suffer a loss." Seeing that the village chief's wife's eyes were already red, Uncle Tang said helplessly, "Just take it."
The village chief's wife wiped her tears and stopped pretending. "We were just talking about this very thing a moment ago, Steward Tang. It's not that I'm petty and can't see the bigger picture—it's just that…"
We're poor. That's just the truth of it.
If the family were well-off, who would be squabbling over something like this?
The crops in the fields were their very lives—their food, their clothing, their daily necessities—all of it depended on that land. Even a small loss would break their hearts, and they couldn't afford to lose anything either.
Uncle Tang naturally understood.
The village chief's wife wasn't a stingy woman. When the vegetables she grew didn't sell and weren't worth anything, knowing that their household had many mouths to feed, she'd often pick some and send them over.
If she'd been trying to curry favor—well, in the beginning, Uncle Tang hadn't given her so much as a kind word in return, but she kept sending them just the same. The other villagers were like that too.
When it didn't involve money, everyone got along just fine.
The next day, the villagers were heading out to check on their paddy fields. The seedlings had been in the ground for about half a month now, and the fields still needed watering—too little water and the seedlings wouldn't grow well, too much and they'd drown. Everyone was always keeping watch by the field ridges.
But then they saw the prefect walking toward the fields with his two sons and his fulang, finally stopping at the village chief's field ridge.
Gungun and Dandan were tied face-down, spread-eagled, to a carrying pole—so tightly bundled that the pole looked like it was about to snap.
Fang Zichen walked along, swinging the carrying pole like Sun Wukong twirling his golden staff. The two little ones were dizzy from the spinning, but still grinning from ear to ear.
The villagers watching all thought Fang Zichen must be a stepfather—or else these two young masters had been thrown in for free as a bonus when someone bought pork from the butcher.
The two children were fair and chubby, with bright, lively eyes—just adorable. If they were in their families, who would treat children like that?
Zhao Ger hoisted a bamboo basket on his back, rolled up his pant legs, and waded into the field. Guaizai followed right behind him. Everyone's eyes went wide.
Not because Zhao Ger was being "improper"—when villagers worked in the fields, everyone rolled up their pant legs.
But Zhao Ger—someone of his station—actually wading into the field, and the little young master too.
After getting over that shock, something else struck them as wrong.
Because that field belonged to the village chief.
Zhao Ger took the fertilizer and began scattering it into the paddy. Guaizai wanted to follow his example, but that wasn't going to work—the mud in the field was too soft, and it sank all the way up to his little belly. He couldn't even move. Fang Zichen looked at his utterly bewildered expression—it was a classic "What just happened? Where am I? Who am I?" blank stare—and couldn't help but find it hilarious.
Zhao Ger couldn't hold it in either, but he didn't dare laugh—he didn't want to hurt Guaizai's pride—so he forced himself to hold it back.
Fang Zichen reached down and "pulled" him out of the mud like a carrot.
Guaizai pouted, thoroughly disgruntled.
The villagers gathered around.
"My lord, what is this?"
Fang Zichen was busy comforting his eldest son and tossed back a reply: "Putting down fertilizer."
Ah, got it.
This had been the talk of the town, but everyone had taken it as a joke before. Now he was actually going through with it?
Zhao Ger happened to be spreading it along the ridge when an old man boldly called out for him to stop, asking if he could take a look.
Of course he could.
The old man grabbed a handful, and a few others crowded in to see.
Even before they got close, that pungent, irritating smell hit their noses—and not only that, it stung their eyes too.
There was no need to look further.
This wouldn't work.
Crops were just like people—if even they couldn't stand that smell, how could they spread it on the fields?
And besides, it looked like sand. How could just scattering it on the ground possibly increase the harvest?
Even with daily manure watering, they would only gain a few extra bushels at most.
They all knew manure could enrich the soil—could this stuff possibly work better than that?
This plot was small, so Zhao Ger spread only a little, about ten-odd catties. The other two plots got a bit more.
The onlookers had all sorts of things they wanted to say but held back. These were the village chief's fields, and the prefect and his fulang weren't bad people—they'd probably talked it over with the village chief and even paid him silver. Still, watching this, they felt they ought to advise against it. But before they could get a word out, they heard Guaizai shout.
"Ah!! Little brothers!"
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