Chapter Thirty-Eight: Fortune

Upon returning to Chengdu, they first went to the rice shop. The bodies that had once littered the place had long since been cleared away by the Imperial Guards. On this journey, Yuan Yuan not only brought her own son but also persuaded several close friends among the women to accompany her into the city as assistants. Naturally, there was also Shen Wang, the inn’s attendant. With Shen Wang’s help, the rice shop could be up and running immediately.

Her own home, as it happened, had also found its purpose—serving as lodging for the members of the Shen clan who had entered the city.

Once Yuan Yuan was settled, dusk had nearly fallen. There, in the rice shop, Liu Tan rewarded Pang Bo and the other two, along with the Imperial Guards who had accompanied them, before heading to the palace.

Accompanying him were chests containing the Shen clan’s secret records and gold ingots. Part of this was distributed among the Imperial Guards as their pay for the next six months.

The remainder, save for a small share he kept for himself, was sent to Zhuge Liang.

Warfare demanded vast sums, and if he claimed he would support it, he had to take concrete action. Moreover, he had left the palace declaring the intention to eradicate a clan, yet his actions had not matched his words; there needed to be an explanation. He could not have the world believe he merely paid lip service and did nothing in earnest.

Back in the Hall of Mental Cultivation, Liu Tan ordered the guards to carry the chests into the main hall.

The three consorts of the Li family were already there, and upon seeing the emperor return, their joy was plain. They set to work at once: the empress helped Liu Tan out of his armor, Consort Li had already commanded the kitchens to prepare supper, and Consort Wang brewed him a fresh pot of tea.

After dinner, Liu Tan, by the glow of candlelight, began to study the Shen clan's secret records in earnest.

The first scroll detailed the so-called Emperor’s Art of Immortality. Upon reading it closely, Liu Tan realized it was a most insidious technique—though named for eternal life, it was in truth a method to cultivate corpses.

It harnessed the power of the entire realm to nurture a single body, so that, after a thousand years, the dead might rise again.

Yet the requirements were severe. As Liu Tan saw it, in over four centuries, only three or four individuals could possibly meet the conditions.

The first was the First Emperor of Qin, now sleeping in his burial ground; the second, Liu Bang, founding emperor of Han; the third, Han Wudi, Liu Che, who just barely qualified; and the fourth, Liu Xiu, founder of the Eastern Han.

First, only an emperor could wield the power of the realm itself. All emperors were men of surpassing destiny. Second, the art was clearly designed with the Nine Provinces in mind; therefore, only an emperor who had unified the land could possess such power and merit. Third, it required the aura of lamentation—for, as the old saying went, “One general’s triumph leaves ten thousand bones to wither; how many more in the founding of a state?”

Liu Tan rolled up the scroll and handed it to Liu, saying, “Bring me the next.”

Inwardly, he sighed. At present, he seemed only to meet the first condition, but the remaining two were far more difficult.

His path ahead remained long and arduous.

—

Liu Tan paused, a little startled. This scroll was clearly different from the others in the chest. Sipping his tea, he unfurled it.

He nearly spat out his drink.

Written on the silk:

“Father Shen Chengping presented this technique to Liu Bang, but to no avail; he is thought to have died on the way.
Grandfather Shen Haoyan presented the technique to Liu Che, with the same result; he too is thought to have died on the way.
Ancestor Shen Xi presented the technique to Liu Xiu, again without success; likewise, he is thought to have perished on the road.”

No wonder Liu Tan had nearly choked. The Shen clan truly was persistent; each generation, following the ancestral command, sought out worthy emperors to whom they could offer their art, working with utmost diligence. But whether by misfortune for those emperors or for the Shen ancestors themselves, all the envoys perished en route, leaving the prize to him.

At this thought, a surge of ambition and pride filled Liu Tan’s chest. How fortunate he was!

Gazing at the overflowing chest of silk scrolls, Liu Tan rose, carefully placing the one in his hand back into the box. Suddenly, another thought occurred to him—paper.

If only there were paper, the information from this entire chest of silk could be transcribed onto a mere dozen thin sheets, which would suffice to contain it all. What’s more, silk was perishable. Some of these scrolls were over four centuries old, and Liu Tan could see some of the threads already breaking, forcing him to handle them with the utmost care. He feared that if he kept flipping through them, he might destroy the priceless documents and be left with nothing but regret.

Therefore, he decided to stop reading for now.

Although paper did exist in this era, and even in the palace—he had seen the hemp paper invented by Cai Lun during the Western Han—it was not suitable for writing. Its color was dark and, with time, ink would merge with the dull fibers, making the text difficult to discern. It was also coarse and uneven, so most people still used silk or bamboo slips for writing.

Usage was limited, and so for centuries, no real improvements had been made.

But to Liu Tan, none of this was insurmountable.

Dark color? No matter. Even if he could not produce bleaching powder, he could try other materials—bamboo or rice straw, both of which were paler.

With this realization, he understood that traveling from the modern world to the past did not mean all wishes would be granted, or that everything would come easily.

He knew the recipes for several bleaching agents, and even how to make them. But what about the raw materials? Chlorine could bleach, but where would he find chlorine gas? He could electrolyze saline, but where would the electricity come from? Could he build an electromagnetic generator?

But was there even such a thing as wire yet? Or a ready-made magnet?

—

The more Liu Tan thought about it, the more his head ached. He had come to this world to be emperor, not an inventor.

Almost all substances that could bleach were strong oxidants or reducers—hardly the sort of things that existed naturally in antiquity.

And, ultimately, the power of one man was limited. The reality was that, apart from himself, no one could systematically learn what he knew. To do everything personally? Ridiculous! Just finding the materials would be a full-time job.

For example, if he wanted to improve papermaking, he’d need raw materials, tools, and equipment. Could he, as emperor, be expected to handle all of that himself?

So, with this in mind, Liu Tan had a new idea: he needed to establish a department specifically to serve him and carry out such projects.

But what to call it? He stamped his foot. Perhaps the Ministry of Works?

No, that would make the new department solely responsible for manufacturing.

Why not simply call it the Eastern Depot?

Liu Tan’s eyes lit up. That settled it.

He could not set up a secret police force like in the Ming dynasty—not outright, at least—but indirectly, perhaps. Once the department was established, it could gradually transform, slowly and imperceptibly, like a frog warmed in water.

Having reasoned it all through, Liu Tan felt much better. Looking at his three wives and concubines seated in the hall, he asked, “Who will keep me company tonight?”

He had intended for them to decide among themselves, but the empress, blushing, said, “Your Majesty, the undergarments you spoke of have been finished. I also made some for my two sisters. We would like you to examine them and see if we’re wearing them correctly.”

“What?” Liu Tan’s eyes widened. “Excellent! Quick, light a few more candles so I can have a proper look. And don’t just throw them on any old way!”

All three women’s faces turned crimson, but they did as he wished: lighting extra candles, closing the doors, exchanging glances, then loosening their robes together.

Liu Tan’s eyes shone once more. The sight of the three women in their new attire filled him with a long-lost sense of familiarity.