Volume One: Carefree Journey Beyond the Paper Leaves Chapter Seventy-Seven: In the Fields

The village Gu Qinghan spoke of was, in fact, quite small. At its edge rose a cluster of low hills, their slopes cloaked in thick camphor and oak trees—indispensable materials for making charcoal. Indeed, within a hundred miles of this place, camphor trees were the most common sight, and the camphor charcoal produced here had long been renowned. Every winter, a shipment would be sent from Jiangling to the capital.

At the foot of the hills nestled a scattering of households, built against the slope, their lights like stars. Beyond lay vast stretches of farmland. Although dusk had fallen, Yang Ning could still make out farmers working the fields. All the grain had clearly been harvested, leaving the earth bare and exposed. Under the setting sun, the landscape stretched endlessly into the distance.

“San-niang, it’s already late autumn—if the grain has been gathered, why are people still working the fields?” Yang Ning, riding alongside Gu Qinghan, couldn’t help but ask.

Gu Qinghan smiled gently. “You’ve never toiled in the fields, so you wouldn’t know. After the harvest, the farmers loosen the soil. When spring returns, it’s easier to plant the new crops.”

“So that’s how it is.”

The two dismounted and walked along the field ridges. There weren’t many farmers about, but the sight of two strangers leading horses along the edge of the fields drew curious glances.

“San-niang, where in Jiangling is your family from?” Yang Ning noticed Gu Qinghan’s calm, contented expression as she gazed about. “Is it far from here?”

“Not far,” she replied, her mood evidently bright. “The Gu family, like the Qi family, is one of Jiangling’s old and respected clans. Our families have always been close. Even now, only the Qi family outranks us in local prestige.”

Yang Ning immediately understood. Years ago, when Third Master Qi married Gu Qinghan, it was likely as much for the old friendship between their families as to strengthen the Qi family’s footing in Jiangling. Though Gu Qinghan spoke lightly, Yang Ning knew that if the Gu family’s influence was second only to the Qi’s, their power in Jiangling must be formidable indeed.

The Qi family’s prestige in Jiangling was unmatched, and understandably so—two generations of “Marquises of the Embroidered Uniform” had been pillars of Great Chu. Not just in Jiangling, but throughout the empire, few families could rival them.

Apart from the Qi family, the Gu family was clearly the most powerful in Jiangling.

“The Qi family’s estates and properties are mainly in the north, around Jingzhou City,” Gu Qinghan explained. “The Gu family’s lands are to the south. From Jingzhou, you travel south for dozens of miles until you reach the Jingyue River. Years ago, everything beyond that river was the Gu family’s domain.”

Imperial authority ends at the county line.

Yang Ning had long heard this ancient saying and understood its meaning. In the old days, the influence of local gentry often outweighed the emperor’s own edicts. For any imperial policy to be enacted locally, officials needed the cooperation of these local notables. Without their support, an official could hardly function.

Clearly, both the Qi and Gu families had been powerful local gentry in Jiangling, wielding enormous influence. From Gu Qinghan’s words, Yang Ning gathered that before the Qi family’s rise, the two had been equals in Jiangling: the Qi family dominant in the north, the Gu family in the south. Later, as the Qi family gained a marquisate, the Gu family could no longer compare, though their roots in Jiangling remained deep.

Yang Ning thought to himself that with such a family background, it was no wonder Gu Qinghan had been married into the marquis’ household and entrusted with managing its affairs, earning the Old Madam’s particular favor.

Ahead, an old man sat on a ridge between the fields. Yang Ning stepped forward and greeted him with a smile. “Sir, you haven’t finished for the day?”

The old man had already noticed them—Yang Ning was unremarkable, but Gu Qinghan’s exceptional beauty and fair, delicate skin marked them as people of no ordinary background. He returned the greeting with a warm smile. “Are you two lost? Where are you headed?”

He assumed that such people wouldn’t usually be found at the field’s edge and must have lost their way.

“Yes, we’re traveling through Jiangling and took the wrong road,” Yang Ning answered easily. Gu Qinghan shot him a sidelong glance, thinking to herself that the boy had grown not only clever but also smooth-tongued—such a lie came to him as naturally as breathing.

“Where do you mean to go? I know these parts well and can point you in the right direction,” the old man offered kindly.

Yang Ning thought Gu Qinghan was right—the local folk here were honest and good-natured. The old man was gentle and kind, so Yang Ning squatted down beside him, glanced at the field, and asked, “Sir, was the harvest good this year? Has all the grain been brought in?”

“Not bad,” the old man replied with a smile. “The harvest is in, and after turning the soil, next year’s crops will grow well.”

“With the harvest in, you’ll have a good, comfortable year ahead, I suppose?” Yang Ning said. “I’ve heard this is the fief of the Marquis of Embroidered Uniform, and the taxes are much lower here than elsewhere.”

Yang Ning had already learned from Gu Qinghan that all taxes on the marquis’s three thousand households were under his sole control, free from government interference.

The Emperor of Great Chu was indeed benevolent—taxes had once been a third, but with frequent wars in recent years, they had risen to forty percent. Yet the marquis’s fief had always paid only twenty percent, unchanging as iron. Among all imperial fiefs, the Marquis of Embroidered Uniform’s taxes were the lowest.

The marquis’s household was never extravagant, and since its fief was on its ancestral land, the fields were tilled by its own people. In this way, the marquis, by virtue of his fief, did his own folk some good.

The old man merely smiled and said, “We make do.”

Gu Qinghan, ever perceptive, noticed his evasiveness and gently asked, “Sir, how many are in your family?”

“Two sons, and nine of us all together,” the old man replied, still smiling.

“How many acres do you farm?” Gu Qinghan, being a woman, could not squat as Yang Ning did, so she stood and asked from his side.

The old man pointed ahead. “All my fields are here—about eight acres of thin land.”

Gu Qinghan nodded slightly. She was familiar with the area’s circumstances; the fiefs granted in the late emperor’s time had been chosen from the best land. The three thousand households didn’t each hold only a single acre—Jingnan was a granary region, and most families had ten acres or so, the smallest families at least four or five. Eight acres made this old man’s family comparatively well-off.

“How much grain does an acre yield each year?” Gu Qinghan inquired.

The old man bore her no suspicion, taking the outsiders’ interest as mere curiosity. “The weather’s been kind these past two years. From my eight acres, each yields two to three shi of grain.”

Yang Ning knew that one shi was about sixty kilograms, or over a hundred jin. So an acre yielded over three hundred jin—a low yield by modern standards, but in this era, with limited agricultural techniques, it was a high output.

“So, your eight acres bring in more than twenty shi of grain a year?” Gu Qinghan said. “I hear the marquis only collects twenty percent tax, so your family should have plenty left, enough to feed everyone well.”

Yang Ning agreed—after tax, the old man should have at least two thousand jin of grain left. With nine mouths to feed, that should be enough.

But the old man sighed. “If it were only so, we’d have no worries about food or clothing.”

“What do you mean by that, sir?” Yang Ning exchanged a glance with Gu Qinghan and pressed him.

The old man only shook his head and forced a smile. “No use talking about it. Where are you headed?”

Gu Qinghan sensed trouble and would not let it go. In a gentle voice, she asked, “Sir, do you mean to say that after a year’s work, you can’t keep all that grain?”

Seeing her bright eyes and gentle tone, the old man gave a bitter smile. “With twenty shi, of course we could all eat our fill, have enough to get by, even live well. But... ah, in the end, we’re left with maybe ten shi. With so many mouths, we eat less rice, more porridge, and scrape by.”

“That can’t be,” Gu Qinghan frowned. “How could you be left with only ten shi?”

Before the old man could reply, the distant sound of a gong broke the conversation. Yang Ning and Gu Qinghan turned at once, spotting a middle-aged villager banging a gong and shouting, “Luo is here! Everyone back to the village, Luo is here!” His voice was loud, echoing far.

The old man leapt up, grabbed his hoe, and called out to the two, “You’d best leave the village—this isn’t a good place to linger.” Without another word, he hurried toward the man with the gong. All across the fields, the villagers dropped their tools and streamed towards the commotion.

“San-niang, something’s happened in the village,” Yang Ning said, frowning. “Let’s go have a look.”

Gu Qinghan’s face was full of worry, but she nodded. “Let’s see what’s going on. Who is this Luo, and why are they all running because of him?”

They watched as the villagers, young and old, gathered and hurried towards the village at the foot of the mountain, as if their homes were on fire.