What secretly delighted me even more was that the fragmented passages of her heartfelt words carried the toughness of the military.
Even the decisiveness and meticulousness in his tone were exactly the same as when I was deploying tactics in the military tent in front of the sand table.
Piecing together the clues, I suppose she was a general in her past life, wielding a spear and guarding some territory.
I have witnessed the same snowstorms at Yanmen Pass as I have, and shed the same blood mixed with yellow sand as I have.
He might even have, on a cold night, pondered the provisions by the oil lamp in his tent, frowning and saying, "We can't skimp on the soldiers' cotton-padded clothes, no matter how much we try to save."
This deep-seated similarity, like two swords forged in the same furnace, even the forging patterns reveal a tacit understanding, made me secretly breathe a sigh of relief.
At least we have common topics, so I don't have to worry about showing my lack of literary knowledge in front of her, a person full of learning.
Actually, I've always been afraid she'd find out that I'm really quite ignorant about poetry, classical Chinese literature, and other classical texts.
People who grow up in military camps write military reports most fluently, with every word being "a certain amount of grain and fodder", "a certain number of soldiers", and "a certain number of alarms from the beacon towers".
All they can talk about are tactics, with phrases like "flanking maneuvers," "night raids to burn supplies," and "scorched earth," but they know nothing about refined matters like "romance."
She was different; she could even get close enough to examine a dragon-shaped pillar closely, her nose almost touching the wood grain, her fingers lightly tracing the lines.
He thought to himself, "This is a layered scale carving. Only when each scale overlaps by one-third does it create a sense of layering."
The dragon's eyes need to be chiseled three-tenths of an inch deep with a 'dotting knife' to make them look spirited, and the edges of the dragon's scales need to be smoothed with a 'refining knife'.
As your fingertips trace the wooden corridor of the Imperial Garden, you can count the strokes: "Seven slanted cuts to define the arc, three flat cuts to refine the edge."
Finally, use the "silk engraving" technique to trace the pattern, with each cut space not exceeding half a minute.
When the topic of Yellow River flood control came up in the imperial court, the officials were still debating whether to "block the dikes or dredge the canals."
She had already come up with the idea of "using gabions to reinforce the dikes, diverting water through channels to release floodwaters, and then planting reeds to stabilize the sand."
The novel idea that "reed roots can protect the dikes, and the reeds can be harvested next year to make mats for the people and supplement their livelihood" is more comprehensive than the experience accumulated by the old minister of the Ministry of Works over half a lifetime.
What's even stranger is that there seems to be a magical object called "001" following her around, always popping into her mind whenever she frowns in distress.
"To investigate corruption, we should first examine the accounts of the Salt and Iron Bureau's business partners. The flow of money is the most difficult place to hide shady dealings. We should focus on the 'Taihe Trading Company,' which buys three times more iron each month than ordinary trading companies."
The idea was to "brand the disaster relief grain with the seal of the prefecture and county, engrave a number on each bag, register each household, and have the village head sign and seal the grain when it is distributed, to prevent the grain merchants from replacing it with old grain."
No one could have come up with this idea, no matter how hard they racked their brains.
It was precisely because of this that she obtained the official rank of Eighth-Rank Imperial Diarist at the age of eleven.
I thought I could stand at the end of the line of civil officials in the imperial court, wearing a blue satin robe embroidered with egrets.
A breeze slipped in through the palace gate, causing her braids to sway gently, and the silver bells tied to the tips occasionally jingled softly.
With a soft, ticklish sound, like a feather brushing against my heart, I felt so ticklish that I loosened my grip on the sword hilt by half.
During those days, it was only through the occasional words she uttered that I realized: it turns out I didn't dislike civil officials.
I simply despise those treacherous, cunning, bloodsucking, and corrupt officials from the bottom of my heart.
Those who remained were those who were truly dedicated to their work, like Prime Minister Qin, who dared to speak frankly to the emperor in the Golden Palace, even if it meant the emperor would smash his imperial pen or overturn his desk, without backing down.
Like the Grand Historian who buried himself in his study and spent ten years meticulously compiling the "History of Ning," he didn't even have time to watch the apricot blossoms bloom and fall repeatedly outside his door.
I have always respected both civil and military officials.
Besides, they always surrounded me and said, "The general is only seventeen years old. There are many eligible young men in the capital. The son of the Minister of Personnel is Wenwen and has beautiful handwriting."
"The son of the Vice Minister of Rites is talented and can write poetry and prose. Even the son of the Imperial Censor Su is handsome. It's time for the General to arrange a marriage."
I had originally planned to submit a memorial to return to the border to guard the frontier after the corruption cases in the capital were investigated.
Like their parents, they dedicated their lives to the wind and snow of Yanmen Pass.
In the spring, he would guard the grain transport after the snow melted, fearing that the grain carts would roll on the slippery mountain roads, so he personally led his soldiers to shovel snow and lay straw along the roadside.
Their boots were filled with snow water, and they didn't complain even though their toes were numb from the cold.
In the summer, they would patrol the beacon towers under the scorching sun to see if the soldiers had enough water in their water bladders and whether their linen shirts were stiff from sweat and covered with salt frost.
I helped them turn over the bedding that was drying next to the beacon tower.
In autumn, to guard against barbarian invasions during the harvest, he led his personal guards on night patrols along the border. Frost condensed on his armor, forming a thin layer of ice by dawn, which jingled when tapped.
In winter, wrapped in thick cotton armor, one can watch the snow fall from the city wall and hear the sound of the cold wind whipping up yellow sand and hitting the armor, as if singing a rough border guard song.
Continue read on readnovelmtl.com
