Chapter Forty-Seven: Paper Made, Homesick

The banquet concluded amidst a joyful atmosphere, and when Liu Tan once again boarded his imperial palanquin, the moon hung high in the sky. The emperor’s palanquin was indeed comfortable, but far too troublesome; in ancient times, whenever the emperor traveled, all passersby had to kneel and shout their reverence—simply put, it was too ostentatious. Liu Tan resolved privately that it would be best to use the palanquin as little as possible.

Within the Hall of Cultivation, Liu Tan touched the pulp spread on the stone slab. After an afternoon of drying, it was now at a stage where it could be pressed firmly. He summoned Wang Li, who then called for two eunuchs. Liu Tan directed them to lift the stone roller and begin rolling it over the pulp on the slab.

Both the slab and roller had been polished to a mirror-like smoothness. Under their combined pressure, the pulp grew increasingly compact and thin. After two or three rounds, Liu Tan bent down to inspect it, finding the pulp pressed very thin—though it could not compare to the paper of his previous life, it was sufficient.

Later, borrowing the empress’s hairpin, Liu Tan trimmed the pressed pulp on the stone slab, fashioning it roughly to the size of an A4 sheet from his former world.

Having completed this, he glanced at the weather; although the sky was not shrouded in dark clouds, some were obscuring the stars. He surmised that rain might be imminent, so he instructed the guards to carry the stone slab indoors, finally calling it a day.

The next morning, light rain indeed began to fall. Liu Tan felt his actions from yesterday were wise—otherwise, the rain would have ruined the pulp overnight, wasting a day’s effort.

In recent days, the eunuchs and maidservants serving the Hall of Cultivation had grown accustomed to his routine. The emperor now valued early morning exercise, and they had to prepare everything he required. For example, clothes for changing after practice—while he did not insist on new garments each time, they had to be washed daily. There was also the preparation of bathwater and the brewing of body-strengthening medicinal decoctions. Though these tasks were organized by the three empresses, it was the eunuchs and maidservants who carried them out.

Wielding Zhao Yun’s Dragon Courage Spear, Liu Tan again made his way to the rear courtyard. From today onward, he added a new training regimen: weightlifting. The tool was the very spear in his hand, which he needed to strengthen himself to wield properly.

Horse stance was essential and must be maintained; as a martial artist, a stable foundation was crucial. Looking across the history of military campaigns in the Three Kingdoms, most were conducted on horseback, so practicing horse stance would help Liu Tan gallop in the future.

He also needed to train in Tai Chi. As his foundational technique, it had to be practiced to perfection—not every moment called for the crossing of weapons. Moreover, Tai Chi was created by Zhang Sanfeng as a Daoist martial art, reputed to have health-preserving qualities.

Zhang Sanfeng, originally from Shaolin Temple, later founded the Wudang Daoist sect, and subsequently developed Tai Chi. Yet, through the ages, few in Shaolin were renowned for longevity—the most famous was Shakyamuni, who was foreign. Zhang Sanfeng, however, was considered a Daoist immortal, said to have lived for centuries. Though this claim was exaggerated, his longevity was well-known; rumors without foundation rarely persist.

Another training focus was to build strength—simply using the Dragon Courage Spear as a barbell, thus simultaneously increasing his power and affinity with the weapon, killing two birds with one stone.

During his exercises, Liu Tan worked on channeling inner energy as Zhao Yun had taught him. Although it was still not smooth, the duration of his internal circulation was lengthening. He reckoned that if he could complete a small cycle during his physical training, his strength would progress by leaps and bounds.

It rained lightly for several days, and the humid climate of Shu further slowed the drying process. It took four days for the paper in the hall to meet Liu Tan’s standards.

That day, after his morning practice, Liu Tan and the three empresses carefully peeled the sheets from the stone slab.

Each picked up a sheet, examining it closely.

The color of the paper was tinged with green and yellow, just as Liu Tan had anticipated since there was no bleaching agent. Yet the hue was gentle, lighter than the yellow paper used for funerary rites in his previous life, making it suitable for writing with ink.

The paper’s surface was exceptionally smooth, thanks to the polished stone slab and roller, and the finely ground bamboo pulp. Liu Tan concluded that the paper was even smoother than the Xuan paper from his former world.

The texture was firm, owing to the bamboo fibers being harder than softwood, and the rolling process had tightly bound them together. He estimated its hardness matched that of the composition books used by schoolchildren in his previous life.

The final step was to try writing and drawing.

Liu Tan placed a sheet on the table, ink already prepared, and began to write.

Before the window, the moonlight gleams,
As though frost upon the ground.
I lift my gaze to the bright moon,
And bow my head, longing for home.

In a moment, the poem “Thoughts in the Silent Night” appeared upon the paper.

When he finished, the empress immediately picked up the sheet.

“Oh! It really can be written on! Your Majesty, you’ve truly made writing paper?” she exclaimed after a while.

In contrast, Lady Li’s eyes lit up. “Your Majesty, you’ve composed another poem?”

She recited it several times, then asked, “Are you thinking of the Central Plains again?”

Indeed, Shu Han had always regarded itself as the true heir of Han, and the Central Plains could be considered the emperor’s homeland.

Liu Tan’s heart quivered—he had always avoided thinking about it.

In his previous life, his parents were alive, his grandmother still living, and he had a circle of friends and family. He had been here nearly a month; if not, he supposed his body had already been buried. What impact would his sudden and absurd departure have on them?

If this world was entirely separate from his former existence, Liu Tan dared not contemplate it. Or perhaps, from the moment his soul crossed over, all from his previous life ceased to exist. His parents, relatives, friends now lived only in his memory—he dared not dwell on it.

But now, he only meant to test whether Li Bai’s poetry could be written on the new paper. The experiment was a success, but his inadvertent act forced him to confront these thoughts.

There might be many possibilities, but one thing was certain: his parents, kin, and friends were now beyond his reach.

What did it matter that he was emperor? If possible, he would abandon everything to return, hear his parents’ nagging, honor his grandmother, and drink beer and sing with his friends.

But everything was lost from the moment he fell from the building.

He could not think of any way to return. Perhaps dying again might allow it, but he dared not gamble.

Not just him—Liu Tan was certain that no one else in the world would dare take that risk.

If he died again, he was sure he would be utterly finished, beyond hope, not even a trace remaining.

Since things had come to this, the only way forward was to persevere—perhaps one day, he might see them again.

Though the hope was faint, at least it was something to hold onto.

Having come to terms, Liu Tan cast aside his troubles and picked up another sheet, confirming it was indeed suitable for writing.

The three empresses could not understand why the mood in the room had shifted so abruptly.

Moments before, they had sensed a surge of sorrow, desolation, and despair emanating from the emperor.

But in an instant, all those dark feelings vanished completely.