Zhuge Liang and Pang Tong sat upright, their expressions solemn as they watched the light curtain.
The others in the Chengdu Prefectural Office were much the same. Even Zhang Fei had pulled out a writing brush, clearly intending to contribute whatever little strength he could.
After all, as one of the "failed men" spoken of by the light curtain, knowing how to farm was only natural.
Which was why they understood all too well the importance of things like water-powered workshops and the curved plow.
Before coming to Yi Province, the revival of Gong'an and Jiangling had unfolded right before their eyes. They might not have been able to fully articulate the cause-and-effect behind it all, but when they compared it to the prosperity of later generations shown on the screen, one truth became undeniable:
Science was a damned good thing.
Because of that, no one present dared—nor wished—to be careless.
Yet the first emotion they felt was shock, followed by disbelief.
"Arithmetic… is really this important?"
The King of Science.
The Mother of Science.
The titles were blunt, almost crude—and precisely because of that, they struck straight at the heart.
If one were to draw a comparison, weren't these mathematical classics essentially what Confucius and Mencius were to Confucianism?
Almost instantly, Zhuge Liang understood the faint note of disappointment hidden in the descendant's voice.
Confucius Kong Qiu—his name echoed through eternity, and his descendants enjoyed favor for a thousand years without decline.
But what of the sages who wrote those great mathematical treatises?
Like the wife of Chen Baoguang, their names vanished into obscurity.
The names of master craftsmen were nowhere to be found, even in unofficial histories—
yet the parasitic aristocrats endured forever.
Zhuge Liang and Pang Tong exchanged a glance, both feeling a trace of shame.
At the same time, a long-standing question in Zhuge Liang's heart finally unraveled.
"No wonder the light curtain praised the High Tang so highly," he murmured, "yet rarely mentioned achievements beyond civil and military power."
Pang Tong understood as well.
The Tang inherited old systems. The great clans had already been weakened—but the Tang rose too quickly. The aristocratic families shed their skins, transforming into scholar-gentry, and clawed their way back to life.
If that was the case, then the Tang's three-hundred-year reign had been sustained purely by military strength.
Otherwise, it would have collapsed long ago.
Now that the Tang emperor had learned the true value of arithmetic, would he suppress literary studies and elevate mathematics instead?
Would those famed Poets Sage, Immortal, and King of the flourishing Tang all turn into Arithmetic Sages, Arithmetic Immortals, Arithmetic Kings?
When powerful families paid visits, would the "patrons" present a series of calculation problems, and only those who solved them fastest earn the right to become disciples?
The thought amused Pang Tong so much he nearly laughed out loud.
But then again—later generations clearly valued literature.
Perhaps he, Pang Tong, could one day ghostwrite a Legend of the Arithmetic Immortal of the Flourishing Tang under Li Shimin's name?
After all—Xiao Er grows up to become Li Er. Perfectly reasonable.
Li Shimin, though no expert in mathematics, still managed to swallow a mouthful of pure envy.
"After the Northern and Southern Dynasties, arithmetic revived," he said grimly.
"So why did the benefits all go to the Song?"
He didn't need an answer.
The light curtain had already given it.
The great clans.
"Half of the empire's wealth flows into their households."
Li Shimin's eyes reddened.
So the Tang emperor himself had become nothing more than their head laborer?
The phrasing was too blunt.
So blunt that even an emperor who had sat securely on the throne for two years felt a dangerous itch in his hands—an urge to don armor again and ride out.
Wealth was the foundation of the state.
If half of that foundation was eaten by parasitic clans, how could the nation not collapse?
In that moment, the civil and military officials of the Ganlu Hall reached a rare, silent consensus:
The aristocratic clans—already battered by the chaos of the Northern and Southern Dynasties—must never be allowed to rise again.
Du Ruhui saw it even more clearly.
Instead of crawling like the Cui clan of Boling, desperately patching together a family genealogy burned to ash by war, why not carve one's name into the annals of a golden age?
As the light curtain continued, everyone leaned forward.
They all wanted to see just how powerful the wisdom of the common people truly became under the Song.
The voice spoke again.
[Lightscreen]
[To speak of the Song, one cannot avoid the Four Great Inventions that changed the course of world civilization:
gunpowder, the compass, papermaking, and printing.
Strictly speaking, all four appeared before the Song.
Gunpowder—its name alone explains it. A substance that burns. The product of Daoist alchemy.
Our ancestors were bold enough to eat the stuff they invented. One could only admire their fearlessness.
During the Tang, fireworks were developed from gunpowder—and remain indispensable to festivals even today.
During the Song–Jin wars, gunpowder was deployed on a massive scale, leading to the creation of the world's earliest cannons.
Modern warfare began there.]
The image shifted.
A Daoist with an immortal's bearing solemnly tossed various ingredients into a furnace and stoked the fire.
The furnace promptly exploded.
The Daoist emerged looking like a plucked chicken and fell backward.
Li Shimin's face darkened.
He still remembered the light curtain implying that he had taken elixirs in his later years.
This was how they were made?
And they exploded?
Those alchemists truly deserved death.
The scene changed again.
A brilliantly lit city gate. Young men and women dressed in lavish Tang-style robes laughed together, gazing skyward in anticipation.
Suddenly, dozens of fiery streaks spiraled upward.
The Zhenguan ministers were unimpressed—
until the fire erupted.
In an instant, the sky blazed brighter than day.
Stars of every color bloomed in perfect symmetry, forming a spectacle of breathtaking grandeur.
"This," Empress Zhangsun whispered, "is truly the image of a prosperous age."
No one could speak.
Was this really something humans could achieve?
Was this science?
Was this the power of the people?
Fang Xuanling, standing closest to the screen, read the small annotation beside the image:
"Luoyang Yingtian Gate, Lantern Festival Fireworks Gala, 2023."
Li Shimin's expression turned complicated.
He recognized the structure.
Wasn't that the Zetian Gate—the one he himself had ordered burned down?
The name change needed no explanation.
Wu Zetian.
Taboo.
His emotions churned—but the light curtain did not pause.
Scenes flashed rapidly.
A crude iron tube.
A man with a queue tied at the back of his head lighting an enormous cannon.
Blond, blue-eyed foreigners dragging out a siege weapon the size of a city wall.
Having already seen fireworks, the Zhenguan officials remained outwardly composed—
until Li Shiji and Li Jing abruptly stood up, breathing heavily.
They saw a metal cylinder launch into the sky, vanish almost entirely from sight, then streak across plains, mountains, and lakes—
and slam into a warship at sea.
The ship exploded and sank.
The image cut again.
Inside a room lined with glowing screens, people cheered and embraced. Five-pointed stars gleamed on their hats.
Li Shiji read the caption aloud, his voice dry:
"Dongfeng Express… Mission Guaranteed."
In that instant, awe flooded his heart.
Even legends of gods and ghosts held nothing like this.
If such a weapon struck an enemy commander's camp—
The Ganlu Hall fell silent enough to hear a pin drop.
They thought back to the Daoist who had blown himself up.
Who would have believed that a method of suicide could evolve into such god-defying power?
The narration continued.
[Lightscreen]
[Papermaking and printing followed similar paths.
In the Eastern Han, Cai Lun improved papermaking.
During the Tang, artisans developed xuanzhi paper.
In the Song, drawing on earlier experience, cheaper bamboo paper and straw paper were invented.
During the Wei–Jin era, as Buddhism and Daoism competed for influence, woodblock printing likely emerged—possibly invented by Daoists to spread doctrine.
By the Song, with bamboo paper widely available, printing advanced explosively.
Color printing appeared. Printing spread to nearly all industries.
Confucian texts printed on bamboo paper became astonishingly cheap.
Knowledge spread rapidly.
Modern culture set sail.]
The Chengdu Prefectural Office was left speechless.
Fireworks and Eastern Wind Express alone had already shattered their understanding.
They had seen hellish battlefields of the future before—but never imagined that everything began with Daoist gunpowder.
As the light curtain showed paper workshops, Zhang Fei nudged Zhuge Liang.
"Military Advisor, look—papermaking."
Zhuge Liang said nothing.
He watched workers perform step after step, producing sheets of paper white as snow.
Then the image changed again.
A Daoist bent over a block of wood, carving laboriously.
With a shout of joy, he inked the board, pressed it onto paper—
and a full page of text appeared.
Block after block was carved. Page after page printed.
The bound volume's title page read:
Record of Mysterious Elixirs.
Zhuge Liang pointed at the screen, confidence blazing as he turned to Liu Bei.
"My lord—this path is not far from us."
Printing had long been under study. In Gong'an, craftsmen already specialized in relief and intaglio carving. Bamboo paper experiments were underway.
Just last month, Zhuge Liang had written to his wife, asking her to send papermakers to Chengdu to open a workshop.
Yi Province had bamboo in abundance.
He had confidence—
until the light curtain shifted again.
A vast building appeared.
Its name stood proudly at the entrance:
National Library of China.
The view soared inside.
And the Chengdu officials gasped in unison.
Books.
Books everywhere.
Above and below, as far as the eye could see.
The camera weaved through shelves so fast they couldn't read individual titles—only categories.
"Ancient Chinese History… Modern Chinese History."
"Classical Literature… Han Rhapsodies, Tang Poetry, Song Lyrics, Yuan Drama."
"Philosophy, Religion, General Social Sciences."
At last, the final figure appeared:
6.2 million volumes.
Too many.
Just a fleeting glimpse—and yet it drove them nearly mad.
Knowledge lay so close—
and utterly out of reach.
"Damn those descendants! Letting us see but not touch a single book!"
"If we had all of that, how could the Han ever fail to rise again?"
"I wish I could become a ghost of later ages—live there, sleep there, read forever!"
Every face in the Chengdu Prefectural Office twisted with anguish.
Since the founding of the Eastern Han, reverence for learning had run deep.
Seeing that library, only one thought filled their minds:
There has never been a treasure greater than this.
The voice spoke once more.
[Lightscreen]
[As for the compass, it drove the development of Song-era navigation.
To say more would be empty words.
Look instead—
the Nanhai No. 1.]