The people are water; the ruler is the boat.
But in Li Shimin's own view, it could just as well be put another way:
The Great Tang was the vessel—
and the people of Tang were the surging tide.
He was merely a man standing at the highest point of this immense ship, straining his eyes to look ahead.
The chronicles of past dynasties were the map in his hands. From the explorations and records left behind by earlier generations, Li Shimin knew of Hexi's prosperity, the riches of the Western Regions, the well-fed horses of Liaodong, and the vastness of the Eastern Sea.
These brief records gave the Tang direction—but they also formed a bamboo tube, narrowing his vision of the world beyond, like viewing a leopard through a pipe.
And Tibet or Tubo—was the fish that slipped through the net.
That later commentator, Wen Mang, had said that Tubo "rose and declined alongside the Tang," locked in wars and entanglements for two full centuries.
Looking at Tubo's geography on the map, its west and south were hemmed in by mountain ranges. Inevitably, its expansion would push eastward into Hexi and northward into the Western Regions.
As for those two areas—judging purely by terrain—Li Shimin would never relinquish them.
Nor would Tubo ever abandon its ambitions.
And so… there was only one answer:
War.
That same later voice claimed that Li Shimin had sent a princess in marriage, delivering crucial technologies to Tubo.
After studying the matter with Fang Xuanling and Du Ruhui, Li Shimin felt that such statements—made offhand centuries later—were not necessarily reliable.
After all, whether it was the Turks to the north or Goguryeo in Liaodong, these neighboring states were far better positioned to learn Tang "production techniques."
Why, then, did none of them manage to "rise and fall together" with Tang in the same way?
Understanding why Tubo was strong—how it became strong—was itself part of strategic calculation.
Thus, beginning early last year, Li Shimin had ordered the Qian Niu Guards to dispatch multiple teams of covert agents to Lingnan Circuit and Longyou, tasked with gathering intelligence.
Foreign merchants and Hu monks in Chang'an were also folded into the intelligence net. From noble youths of the Hundred Cavalry to sharp-eyed teenagers of the Ministry of Justice, operatives took turns extracting information, which flowed steadily into Li Shimin's hands.
The Ministry of Justice's "hawks" became so active that Chang'an's common folk had begun calling them the "Six Doors."
Li Shimin merely laughed it off.
As Li Shimin sank into thought on one side, the ministers of the Zhenguan era were on the other side, noisily teasing Li Jing.
"Since later generations adore the old general so much, if he doesn't write a piece of calligraphy, wouldn't that be terribly ungenerous?"
Unable to fend them off, Li Jing rose, spoke to Yan Liben to borrow a writing desk, and there on the spot wrote a piece to be sent over.
His only concern was that a single piece of calligraphy might seem a bit plain. With the gift needing to be sent immediately, there was no time for mounting or embellishment.
"There's also something else here," Du Ruhui said, producing a box.
"It was taken from the Inner Treasury yesterday—tribute from Lingnan Circuit."
Li Jing naturally had no objection. He wrapped the calligraphy in silk, and the two items were sent together.
The procedures at the Chengdu Prefectural Office had also been completed.
At this moment, Zhang Fei was holding a copied manuscript of military theory, consulting the two strategists.
"This Duke of Wei says armies have three 'forces'—how should that be understood?"
Kongming and Pang Tong exchanged glances, then burst out laughing.
Kongming was the first to regain his composure. Shaking his head, he said,
"Yide, Yide—you must remember this: warfare has no fixed form."
"Just like Li Duke of Wei's explanation of orthodox and unorthodox tactics—if orthodox wins, use orthodox; if unorthodox wins, use unorthodox."
"Orthodox and unorthodox, the three forces—all arise from the mind. A thousand methods, one goal: victory."
Pang Tong added helpfully,
"Yide fought exceptionally well at Hanzhong. You deserve foremost merit."
"These principles of military thought must be tested against real battles. You must never apply them mechanically."
When it came to commanding troops and directing battles, even tying Kongming and Pang Tong together wouldn't make them Zhang Fei's equal.
But when it came to interpreting military theory, the two saw far more clearly—and precisely because of that, they worried Zhang Fei might end up tying himself in knots.
Zhang Fei understood this well and repeatedly assured the two strategists.
After all, for a Han man, every discussion of military theory eventually led back to Wei Qing and Huo Qubing; flip a page further, and there was the Marquis of Huaiyin and Emperor Gaozu; flip again—and Zhao Kuo.
Watching Zhang Fei clutch the copied text and run off to whisper with Zhao Yun, Kongming felt deeply gratified.
If Li Jing could still take the field at nearly seventy, then why couldn't Guan Yu, Zhang Fei, and Zhao Yun?
Just then, the light screen slowly unfurled once more in midair.
The officials in the Chengdu Prefectural Office perked up.
It's here!
[Lightscreen]
[Hey hey hey—today's gifts from the big boss are unusually thoughtful.
I tried the two jars of cane sugar myself—pretty sweet, actually. We've got the materials where I live, so I went ahead and made a sugar painting and some candied hawthorn skewers. Please bear with the results.
I really like the calligraphy.
And the metal mirror that came in the same package—it looks like a bronze mirror, but… why is it white?]
Everyone's gaze dropped downward.
The first image showed two small jars of cane sugar—clearly Liu Ba's contribution. The reasoning was simple: since they had used the recipe to make finished products, returning something was only proper.
The second image was a sugar painting—so ugly it was painful to look at—barely recognizable as a clenched fist giving a thumbs-up.
The third image showed several bright red fruits coated in hardened sugar. They actually looked… rather appetizing?
"These should be qiu fruit—hawthorn," Zhao Yun identified immediately.
They could be found in the mountains and were edible, but so sour they made one's teeth ache, which was why few people bothered to pick them.
Since everyone had visited the sugar workshop south of Chengdu, it took no effort to understand how this had been made.
Committing this to memory, the group's eyes moved on—knowing that what followed must be the Tang Emperor's gift.
The fourth image was a piece of calligraphy. The strokes were upright and correct, but lacking a bit of warmth.
"Victorious armies secure victory before seeking battle;
defeated armies seek battle before securing victory."
The signature was simple:
Li Jing, Sanyuan, Yongzhou.
Zhang Fei, ever fond of spectacle, was instantly disappointed.
"I thought he'd at least write 'Pagoda-Bearing Heavenly King'…"
The final image showed a pale, white mirror.
This, however, gave Kongming pause.
"It resembles a silver mirror, but…"
He decided to wait and see how later generations evaluated it.
[Server Chat Log]
Ironvale: UP has done well enough. Sugar painting is intangible cultural heritage—but in your hands, I think we can drop the word 'cultural.' 'Intangible' alone fits perfectly. The candied hawthorn is decent—after all, it's not hard to make. Though I recall it can help reduce high blood pressure? Didn't Cao Cao ever tell his descendants to eat more of this?
Stormrend: Forget it. Modern hawthorn has been selectively bred. Ancient hawthorn was unbearably sour—before the Song dynasty developed candied hawthorn, it was basically ignored. Only once people started eating it did others realize, hey, this stuff can be medicinal.
Grimward: I don't understand calligraphy, but I'll say this: the writing is good. I don't understand handicrafts either, but I'll say this: the silver mirror is good.
Ashbreaker: The commenter above clearly doesn't know—silver mirrors don't look like that. Judging by the color, it's more likely a bronze mirror.
Bloodhelm: But bronze mirrors are yellow, right? Why is this white? And if aged, shouldn't it turn green? Wait—this reminds me. Could it be white copper?
Dawncleaver: A copper–nickel alloy originating in Yunnan—one of our ancestors' major original achievements in metallurgical history.
That must be it. Considering the big boss's fondness for replication, and the fact that in the Tang dynasty this was priceless—only officials of the first rank or above could use it—and the auspicious-beast-and-grape pattern is also typical of early Tang.
Stonefury: I looked it up: produced in Yunnan and Sichuan. In the 17th century, copper–nickel–zinc alloys exported to Europe were hugely popular under the name 'Chinese silver.' In the 19th century, Britain and Sweden successfully copied it and mass-produced it, completely pushing China out of the market.
Well, of course—assembly lines beat small workshops.
Oathbound: I also remember learning in school that Gansu has the most nickel, plus abundant copper. So why was Yunnan the place that developed this?
Fewer wars. And Gansu has far more than that—copper, coal, molybdenum, lithium, gold, zinc, aluminum—real industrial mineral wealth. But constant warfare made development impossible.
Warforge: The entire Hexi Corridor never knew peace. A simple example: the Qinghai salt lakes produced green salt far superior to brine salt, but because the area was a Tang–Tubo frontline, it couldn't be developed. Yuan didn't care, Song couldn't manage, Ming couldn't spare the effort—it wasn't until the Qing that it was formally developed.
Modern people understand all too well how good the Western Regions' fruit, livestock, and cotton are. In the end, the state must be strong.
"Binary alloy…"
Kongming murmured the term thoughtfully.
As someone widely read, he knew this was the first time the luminous screen had formally mentioned alloys.
Previously, there had been a joke about the Late Tang elite being as solid as titanium alloy—but at the time, he hadn't grasped its meaning. Now, he seemed to understand a little.
Could blending multiple metals actually produce a superior material?
Yet the difficulty was obvious: coal quality.
Though they couldn't quantify temperature as later generations could, the time it took to melt equal weights of iron into liquid metal still gave a rough measure of furnace heat.
With forced draft, small blast furnaces, and coal, the smithies of Chengdu and Gong'an had already pushed furnace temperatures quite high.
The problem was that with the same ore, same furnace, same airflow, different qualities of coal produced vastly different iron.
Smokeless coal yielded blades like Guan Yu's beloved Green Dragon Crescent Blade.
Coal that produced thick smoke yielded weapons so poor they'd snap against stone.
Now Kongming had a new idea.
If poor coal produced poor iron—then instead of fixing the coal, why not mix in other metal ores? Or even miscellaneous substances? Could that salvage the result?
As for turning smoky coal into smokeless coal… neither Kongming nor the craftsmen had any solution yet.
But few in the Chengdu Prefectural Office were thinking along Kongming's lines.
Liu Ba was wondering whether white copper could be used to mint currency—and whether it would even be profitable.
Pang Tong was imagining how Hexi truly was a treasure land, destined to be taken by their lord for the Han.
Zhang Fei's thoughts were far simpler and more direct:
"Zilong—where can we find those qiu fruits—no, hawthorns? Take me to gather some!"
"I've still got some cane sugar left—let me make candied hawthorn skewers for you!"