After two harvests of millet and wheat, the tribe's granaries were overflowing, and no one bothered to dig up grass roots anymore.
The craftsmen taught them to weave linen that was both soft and strong. The tribespeople couldn't wear it all and even thought of "giving some to His Majesty Zhaoning".
Li Qian also sent back a brick they had fired themselves, with the three characters "Xie Zhaoning" crookedly engraved on it, the edges still bearing the warmth of the kiln fire.
I placed this brick on the imperial desk, next to the bronze tally left by the regent.
Whenever I got tired of reviewing memorials, I would touch them—the bronze talismans had the cold hardness of knife marks, and the bricks had the warmth of kiln fire.
The contrast between cold and hot is just like my days of guarding the country: I had to harden my heart to eliminate the parasites, and at the same time, warm my heart to find a way for the people to make a living.
The copper bells on the eaves rang again, ding-a-ling, ding-a-ling, mingling with the snoring of the bright moon and the distant sound of the watchman's drum—it's the third watch, time to rest.
I opened the window, and the scent of wheat in the night breeze was even stronger; this year's wheat harvest was good again.
The Minister of Revenue said that even the western tribes had to send people to "pay tribute" and bring them the millet and wheat they grew themselves.
I whispered to the starry sky, "Look, this Zhaoning Dynasty has not only been defended, but it's also become more lively. You said to take a few steps west, and I not only took those steps, but I took them steadily."
The fragrance of roses wafted in on the breeze and landed on the memorials on the emperor's desk.
Haoyue jumped onto my lap and curled up into a warm, fluffy ball.
I stroked its back and gazed at the lights of the palace in the distance.
The lights were very bright, stretching from the palace gate all the way to the end of the street, like a warm ribbon of light illuminating the smoke from every household.
This prosperous era is truly as you wished, and as I have always hoped.
Over the years, he has always used the excuse of being busy with state affairs to suppress the matter of building a cenotaph for the regent.
It's not that they forgot, it's that they dared not touch it—it was the emperor's hidden selfishness, ingrained in his very bones, concealed within the folds of his dragon robe.
Like a piece of warmed mutton fat jade, the moment your fingertips touch its coolness, you fear you might startle the long-cherished dream you've held for so many years.
I always felt that as long as that symbolic mound of yellow earth wasn't piled up and that white marble stele inscribed with the three characters "Qin Qianluo" wasn't erected, she still had the possibility of returning on the clouds.
Perhaps it was a frosty, dewy morning when the vermilion door of the imperial study creaked softly in the wind. She was still wearing that blue robe, with ink stains on her cuffs from grinding ink.
Clutching the newly drafted military strategy in his hand, his shoe tips still damp with morning dew from outside the palace, he smiled and said, "Your Highness, I have finished investigating the Northern Barbarian grain routes and rushed back to accompany you in reviewing the morning court memorials."
Perhaps it was a snowy night, and as I was reviewing memorials until my knuckles ached and I was rubbing my temples, I turned around and saw her sitting on the brocade stool by the fireplace.
He was flipping through a yellowed copy of the Records of the Grand Historian with curled edges, while steam rose from the Qimen black tea brewing on the stove. When he saw me looking over, he reached out and handed me the cup by the handle.
"Your Highness, the tea is just the right temperature. Warm your hands." I even hope that she will suddenly reach out and flick my forehead, just like before, her fingertips tickling my forehead.
She laughed at me for "daydreaming while reviewing memorials and should be punished with a piece of milk pastry"—she always hid the milk pastry in her sleeve pocket, and crumbs would fall on the imperial desk. I even laughed at her for "the dignified Prince Jinrui Zhao, who even leaves crumbs when eating pastry."
When she really comes back, I want to hold her hand and travel all over the fertile fields of Zhaoning.
From Zhuque Avenue to the water towns of Jiangnan, you can see the loquats at the entrance of Suzhou alleys so ripe that they bend the branches, and the vendors selling loquats carrying loads on their shoulders, their calls as crisp as honey.
The woman picked through the fruit in the basket, pinching the golden fruit between her fingertips, and said with a smile, "I'll save two for the child, just enough to satisfy his craving."
Look at the old farmers on the Huaihe River embankment carrying heavy ears of wheat, the awns sweeping across their dark faces, their smiles still streaked with wheat chaff.
He touched the ears of wheat and said to his half-grown son beside him, "This year's harvest is plentiful. I'll save it up for you to get married and build a three-room brick house."
Go and see the canal she oversaw the construction of back then. Now, merchant ships come and go, the boatmen's chants drift far on the water, and even the wind on the river carries the warmth of the prosperous canal transport.
The dockworkers carried cargo boxes with lighter steps than before, humming the tune of "In the year of Zhaoning, the ships are full of grain."
From the old camp of the Northern Barbarians to the valleys of the Western Frontier—pointing out to her the camel caravans on the trade route carrying silk and tea from the Central Plains westward.
The camel bells jingled like the nursery rhyme "Picking Ferns" that she taught me to sing back then. When the camel caravan leader saw the envoy from the Central Plains, he dismounted from afar.
Holding a snow-white hada (ceremonial scarf), he bowed and said, "The road to Zhaoning has reached our tents. The cattle and sheep are fat, and life is warm."
The stone buildings of the Anxi Embassy are neatly constructed, and the "Ning" character carved on the roof tiles shines brightly in the sunlight.
Watch as the children of the tribe, dressed in soft linen clothes, gather around the agricultural teacher to learn to write "heaven, earth, and man," their little hands gripping the wooden pens tightly.
The ink smudged onto the rough paper, leaving tiny black dots, much like how my little hands trembled when I first learned to write, and I wrote the character "宁" crookedly.
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