Li Shimin's expression grew unusually vivid.
The message he had sent to Marquis Zhuge Liang had, in truth, been driven largely by personal curiosity. The thought of establishing contact with the famed Loyal and Martial Marquis—of trading strategies, of clashing across time with Emperor Wu of Wei, Cao Cao—was irresistibly entertaining.
The good news was that Zhuge Liang had truly replied.
The bad news was that the reply cut straight into the heart.
Standing before the light screen as it slowly dimmed, Li Shimin fell into deep thought. What surfaced first was not Zhuge Liang's words themselves, but an earlier, seemingly casual remark the screen had once made about Emperor Wu of Han:
"If Liu Che had died five or ten years earlier, his reputation would have been far better."
Li Shimin knew Emperor Wu of Han intimately—perhaps too intimately. When he had still been Prince of Qin, he revered Han Wu's sweeping ambition and extraordinary talent. After ascending the throne himself, however, he came to loathe Han Wu's obsession with immortals and divine signs. A ruler capable of achieving even greater feats had instead exhausted the people's strength in pursuit of illusions, leaving behind a name forever shadowed by controversy.
From the very first night the light screen proclaimed him a "Peerless Emperor," Li Shimin had lain awake, tossing and turning, repeatedly warning himself never to repeat the mistakes of Qin Shi Huang or Han Wu of Han.
And yet…
Li Shimin let out a quiet sigh.
Was he, too, destined to become someone "great in achievement but lacking in virtue"? Would future generations also wish that he had died earlier?
As Li Shimin brooded, Zhangsun Wuji finally abandoned his silent contest of glances with Wei Zheng and stepped closer to the Emperor.
"The Crown Prince is only eleven," Zhangsun Wuji said gently. "The other princes are still toddlers. Your Majesty is in the prime of life—why burden yourself with such worries?"
Li Shimin's gaze passed over him and settled on Wei Zheng, the mirror that reflected him most clearly.
"The ancients said that a gentleman does not take water as his mirror, but people," Li Shimin said slowly. "Yet I believe that such a mirror does more than reveal fortune and disaster. It shows where one's virtue falls short of one's achievements."
Wei Zheng's chest tightened. He bowed deeply.
"I only pray," he said, "that under Your Majesty's hand, the Great Tang will awe the four corners of the world and grant its people lasting prosperity."
Behind them, Zhangsun Wuji felt an uncomfortable tightening in his chest.
Even Wei Zheng had a place on the light screen. What about him?
Had he retreated too early? Would the Emperor forget old companions once new names from the future appeared? A sense of unease—what later generations would call crisis awareness—quietly took root in his heart.
"Your Majesty," Du Ruhui interjected at just the right moment, presenting a memorial, "the floods must be addressed."
To the light screen, matters from a thousand years ago were little more than drifting clouds, mentioned only in passing. Li Shimin, however, did not hesitate.
"Have Keming finalize the plan," he ordered. "Submit it to Dai Zhou tomorrow."
Dai Zhou, as Minister of Revenue, would oversee disaster relief and allocations.
Afterward, Li Shimin turned to the notes his ministers had hurriedly copied down—those dense, crawling lines of future text that looked like centipedes on paper. He chuckled at the references to the Ming dynasty's "Zhu Chongba" and his extravagant rituals at the Altar of Heaven.
"Squandering the funds of a northern campaign just to buy the hollow fame of a Fengshan sacrifice…" Li Shimin shook his head, then snorted. "This Zhao Heng was a scoundrel. Still, his father's generation must have been passable, no?"
Hou Junji looked unconvinced. Before he could speak, however, the light screen suddenly flared to life again, startling him.
Fang Xuanling smiled calmly. "This segment is usually light. Watch without concern."
Text appeared, accompanied by images.
[Lightscreen]
[This time… no comment. Honestly, this is the first time I, your poorly educated host, have eaten 'ancient-method canned fruit.'
After eating it, I finally understand why Cao Pi said lychees weren't as good as grapes. The flavor's average—but it's healthy. Still, I'd recommend just buying them online…]
Images followed in sequence: a rough clay jar; the jar opened to reveal layers of preserved lychee flesh; the fruit served neatly in a white porcelain bowl; finally, an empty bowl beside a raised thumb.
The last image was a handwritten note:
["This fruit was harvested and prepared in Chengdu by Zhang Zijiao during mid-autumn.
In the tenth month of the sixteenth year of Jian'an, it is 'liked' and offered to a friend."]
—Handwritten by Zhuge, the Village Farmer.
The comment section erupted:
[Server Chat Log]
UpvoteGoblin: "A like for the effort! The gift's small, but the sentiment's heavy. This host is seriously addicted to role-playing."
HistorySkeptic: "Ancient canned food? Don't lie to me—I didn't read enough history for that."
BookFlipper: "Why would I lie? Our ancestors lacked knowledge, not intelligence. Go check Qimin Yaoshu."
MerchantBrain: "It's real. The Rites of Zhou mention fish sealed with mud. This was probably preserved with salt or sugar—six months easy."
CareerClimber: "Salt equals sterilization! If they'd had microscopes and boiled the jars, military rations would've existed centuries earlier. Why did foreigners only figure this out in the nineteenth century?"
GeoExplainer: "Exactly. Sell fruit cans to rich idiots and make a fortune. Sell them to sailors—no scurvy. Sell them to nomads and trade for leather. Sell them to Emperor Xuanzong of Tang and you might become a jiedushi."
IsekaiDebunker: "Wait—why didn't the ancients have glass jars? Isn't glass easier to make than porcelain?"
VoidBreak: "Glass needs soda ash. China lacked natural deposits like the Middle East. They used wood ash instead, but leaching and boiling it looked insane to people back then."
LycheeEnjoyer: "I don't care. I'll stick to fresh Concubine's Smile lychees from the supermarket—nine yuan a pound."
"Military-grade!"
Hou Junji's heart pounded. He might not understand chemistry, but he understood soldiers. On the steppes and in the desert, men fell sick and weak from the lack of vegetables and fruit. If these preserved fruits could be supplied…
"Your Majesty, this canning policy—" Hou Junji began eagerly.
Li Shimin cut in without hesitation.
"Wuji," he said decisively. "You will oversee the trial production of these cans."
Zhangsun Wuji, who had been brooding moments earlier, leapt to his feet.
"I will not fail Your Majesty!"
Li Shimin saw the truth clearly. The method itself was simple—almost worthless in isolation. Yet it solved a problem that had plagued the world for more than a thousand years. Used properly, it could allow the Tang dynasty to dominate long-distance warfare and preserved-food trade for at least a decade before anyone else caught on.
He then assigned Hou Junji to search for saltwater lakes to produce soda ash for glassmaking.
Finally, Li Shimin returned his gaze to the note on the screen.
"The Marquis is teaching me," he laughed softly.
Only then did he realize—on Zhuge Liang's side of time, it was already October. Zhang Song was alive, loyal, and history itself had been bent.
"The future calls lychees The Concubine's Smile," Du Ruhui said with a relaxed smile. "The name carries a story. Quite elegant."
Li Shimin laughed as well, though he understood that such a name, in the future, would likely serve as yet another warning about indulgence.
In the Shu Han timeline:
"How can they say lychees aren't tasty…" Zhang Song muttered in protest. He had used expensive salt and the finest fruit when preparing the jars for Kongming, only for some future "host" to dismiss them as average.
Liu Bei laughed heartily. "Zijiao, the merit you gained from sending those lychees will benefit Chengdu for a hundred years. That is profit beyond measure."
While Zhang Fei and Zhao Yun discussed how fruit would strengthen the troops, and Mi Zhu quietly planned how to keep the canning technique a state secret, Zhuge Liang stared at the fading light screen, lost in thought.
Pang Tong leaned closer. "Worried the Tang Emperor won't understand?"
Zhuge Liang shook his head. The message had been practically written on his face.
"No," he said softly. "I am simply in awe… of this thing they call chemistry."