Chapter 340: Journey to Taicang

Gao Xuan finished his congee and ate two sticks of youzhagui. He glanced wistfully at Old Master Huang’s remaining one. Old Master Huang always ate only one, saving the other for an afternoon snack with tea.

Gao Xuan, being young and with a hearty appetite, felt that one stick was never quite enough. He settled for taking a few extra pieces of pickled radish, wrapping them in paper to have with his tea later in the afternoon.

After the servants cleared away the breakfast dishes, everyone got busy. Some reviewed manuscripts, while others wrote. Gao Xuan had been hired as a creative writer, and his job was to write novels specifically for the Shanhaijing Pictorial. Moreover, he had a specific genre assigned to him: Zhao Yigong had tasked him with writing supernatural tales—what would be classified as fantasy novels in the old world.

Gao Xuan had never written a novel before, but the editorial department had a library and resource room stocked with various story collections from the Tang Dynasty onwards. Most were purchased by Zhao Yigong’s agents from bookstores in Nanjing and other cities, but some rare ones were printed and shipped from Lingao.

What intrigued Gao Xuan most were several locked bookcases. These cabinets held “rare Australian editions” that couldn’t be found anywhere else. These books were not for loan; they could only be read in the resource room, and one had to apply for permission just to make copies.

Among them, what captivated Gao Xuan was a martial arts fantasy novel by an author named Huanzhu Louzhu. He simply couldn’t put it down. As a result, Gao Xuan spent every lunch break “studying” in the library. The bookcases also contained many collections of ghost and fox stories. Among these, he most admired the works of two “great Australian Confucians,” Ji Xiaolan and Pu Songling. Not only that, but Gao Xuan often drew inspiration from their works. In fact, many of the so-called fantasy novels he was writing now were expansions and rewrites of these short stories.

In general, books like Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio, Notes from the Yuewei Hermitage, and What the Master Would Not Discuss served as his source of themes, while The Legend of the Swordsmen of the Mountains of Shu and The Nineteen Swordsmen of Mount Qingcheng provided writing material and instruction.

Gao Xuan spread out the gridded manuscript paper provided by the publishing house and began to write. His daily quota was three thousand characters, totaling sixty thousand a month. The magazine had a high demand for content, and his writing could be published not only in the Shanhaijing Pictorial but also in small booklets. The Tianshui Society irregularly published a 16mo booklet called Story Club, which featured various urban news and ghost stories. Written entirely in vernacular Chinese with common characters, it was very popular among the citizens.

“Mr. Gao, tomorrow is the deadline for this issue. The chief editor asks if your piece, ‘Zombies Attack the Back Garden Three Times,’ will be ready by noon?” a young boy, responsible for running errands for the editors, came to ask. Zhao Yigong had installed speaking tubes made of thick bamboo between floors for simple messages, but within departments, communication still relied on runners.

“Tell the chief editor I’ll give him the first installment before noon. I think this one could be a serial.”

Gao Xuan sent the boy away and returned to his zombie war. He was just writing about the zombies storming the garden when the Green Bean Hero, having acquired the Repeater Grass, could now fire four flying swords at once, routing the zombies completely. Suddenly, a loud roar, like a cannon blast, came from beyond the wall, and a red-eyed giant monster appeared…

As he wrote, he sighed. Although he didn’t dislike writing this, and it earned him a handsome income—the first time he had supported himself and his family with his writing—he still felt that his work was of a lower class, “an insult to the learned.”

He envied the “editors” in the “Current Affairs Department” next door. As the name suggested, the old gentlemen in the Current Affairs Department were all masters of the eight-legged essay. Not only were their essays beautifully crafted, but their examination poems were also perfectly rhymed and metered. Although these old masters remained mere Xiucai despite numerous attempts at the examinations, they possessed a keen eye for writing and critiquing contemporary essays. Thus, Zhao Yigong had hired them to compile collections of these essays, gathering papers from all levels of examinations, from the children’s test to the provincial, metropolitan, and palace exams, for them to edit and comment on.

Zhao Yigong had given these old gentlemen some guidance. At the time, there were many famous editors of such essay collections. While these men were skilled, they couldn’t compete with the appeal of collections edited by Jinshi or Juren. Therefore, Zhao Yigong suggested they take a unique approach: not just compiling and commenting on the winning papers, but also selecting some of the losing ones and analyzing why they failed. They would also pick out papers that were considered good and should have passed but didn’t, and publish them in a separate collection with commentary. After every examination at the prefectural school, the Tianshui Weekly would also release a special issue of essay commentary, featuring analysis of the questions, the chief examiner’s biography, and background context.

These old gentlemen had always made a living this way, but their fame was limited, and their income was low. Now, with a dedicated place to work and good food and drink provided, their sense of self-worth soared, and they were full of energy. Every day, one could hear them chanting those classical essays.

It was, in essence, the equivalent of a college entrance exam study guide or a civil service exam prep book from another time.

Still, as insulting to the learned as it might be, it was better than the miserable fate of writing letters for others. As for what he was writing at the Tianshui Society, he could simply avoid talking about it.

While the entire Tianshui Society was bustling with the start of a new day’s work, Zhao Yigong was already on a boat to Taicang. Although the key figures of the Fu She were all in Jiangnan and often met in Hangzhou, it was currently the first month of the new year. Apart from Zhang Dai, Fang Yizhi, his closest contact at the Wanbi Bookstore, had returned to his hometown in Tongcheng, and Sun Chun was at his own home in Nanxun. Fortunately, he had learned from Zhang Dai that Zhang Pu had returned from Beijing for the New Year and was at his home in Taicang.

Zhao Yigong decided to strike while the iron was hot and asked Zhang Dai for an introduction to meet Zhang Pu.

Zhang Dai was a naturally indolent person, and he was even less inclined to move during the New Year. But since he often spent his leisure time at the Wanbi Bookstore, he felt he couldn’t refuse. He called for his private boat and set off for Taicang with Zhao Yigong.

Zhang Dai’s boat was exquisitely appointed. He was a man who valued pleasure, and every detail around him, down to the last blade of grass, was meticulously arranged. The boat was not only elegantly furnished with fine food, but even the maids and servants were handsome, charming, and attentive. However, with matters weighing on his mind, Zhao Yigong was in no mood to appreciate any of it.

Zhang Dai noticed his grave expression and saw that he seemed heavily preoccupied. Halfway through the journey, he ordered his servants ashore to arrange a banquet to drink away his sorrows.

He was an extremely intelligent man. Although he had witnessed all sorts of “Australian-style” luxuries at the Wanbi Bookstore—luxuries that even imperial relatives couldn’t match—he knew that at his core, this Master Zhao, who vaguely claimed to be a descendant of the Song imperial family, was a very frugal person, likely not born into wealth.

“Brother Yigong, this matter cannot be rushed.” Zhang Dai, roughly aware that his trip was to help Sun Huodong, offered some comfort. “Tianru has always held Premier Xu in high regard, and Sun Huodong is Premier Zhou’s man. I’m sure he will help.”

Zhao Yigong forced a nod. The possibility of Zhang Pu helping was indeed high, but did he truly have the power to sway public opinion? And even if he did, could swaying public opinion change the current court consensus? These were all unknowns. He sighed, “I am merely doing what is humanly possible.”

“Precisely. As long as we do our part, we cannot defy the will of Heaven,” Zhang Dai smiled. “Sun Huodong’s future is in the hands of fate. We are but mere mortals, how can we fathom the secrets of creation? Let’s drink first!”

Zhao Yigong mulled over his words and felt his mood change drastically. Instead of agonizing over whether the mission would succeed, it was better to relax. He was just a transmigrator, not a god. Even with cheat codes, victory wasn’t guaranteed. Thinking this, the leaden weight that had been pressing on his heart, making everything feel dull, suddenly lifted. Looking at the slowly receding winter scenery of Jiangnan outside the window, his spirits rose, and he felt a sudden urge to drink.

“Alright, let’s drink,” he said, his tone becoming lighter. “I wonder what good wine you have?”

“Naturally, there is Lanling wine…”

“That won’t do,” Zhao Yigong smiled. “I’ve brought grape wine.”

“Excellent, excellent.” Zhang Dai was also fond of grape wine. It existed in the Ming Dynasty but was an imported luxury enjoyed by only a few. Even Zhang Dai rarely got his hands on it.

Zhao Yigong immediately instructed Fenghua to bring out the grape wine he had brought on board.

The wine was in a glass bottle, its crimson liquid shimmering and colorful. Zhang Dai had drunk it before at the Wanbi Bookstore and knew it was the finest “Australian grape wine.” In reality, it was a brew that Xue Ziliang had made in his spare time at the farm in partnership with Wu Nanhai.

Since they couldn’t grow wine grapes in Lingao, they used table grapes, which resulted in a sweeter, more acidic taste that was better suited to the local palate.

Seeing the wine, a maid immediately brought out a set of “Australian crystal glasses” to pour for them. Zhang Dai had specially commissioned this set from the Zizhenzhai in Guangzhou.

“I wonder what we have to go with the wine?” Zhao Yigong asked.

A maid waiting nearby quickly replied, “There is duck.”

She then set out the cups and chopsticks, first serving small side dishes. Then came the hot dishes: a small porcelain jar containing a clear-stewed duck soup. The duck meat was tender and smooth, the soup light and fragrant. There was also a plate of steamed white fish with distiller’s grains; though no grains were visible, the aroma was potent. The fish was topped with a few slices of young ginger and was incredibly fresh and tender. The cooking was superb. The pleasures of an aristocratic family were indeed on another level.

The two men drank and talked, mostly about matters concerning the Fu She. Zhang Dai disliked discussing politics and state affairs, but he was quite interested in the personalities within the society. Zhao Yigong, wanting to gather more information about the Fu She, didn’t interrupt him.

From Zhang Dai, he learned many details about the founding of the Fu She and its major gatherings, as well as the political ambitions, personalities, and relationships of its key figures. This was extremely valuable material for his future work with the court.

After a few cups, Zhang Dai was slightly tipsy. The farm’s wine, being made from table grapes, had a good amount of sugar added to aid fermentation. It was easy to drink, but its alcohol content was not low.

When asked about his future plans, Zhang Dai advised Zhao Yigong to find a way to take the provincial examinations in Jiangnan under a false identity.