Seeing the data of the Song Dynasty presented from the future, the Ming Emperor, Zhu Yuanzhang, let out a sharp exhale. The numbers, the reports, the detailed chronicles of collapse weighed on him. He turned to his eldest son, the crown prince Zhu Biao, and instructed firmly:
"Biao, even if you study matters of finance and wealth, you must remember the disasters that befell the Song and Yuan. You must know that agriculture is the foundation of the state."
Zhu Biao bowed in acknowledgment. Only then did the emperor allow himself a satisfied nod. Earlier, the news that the Ming might perish from starvation had stirred a wave of uncontrolled anger, disrupting his usual composure. Now, reflecting on the common people's suffering, he regained clarity. The Southern Song, while inferior to the Northern Song, had fared even worse against the Mongols.
If trade and commerce were encouraged at the expense of agriculture, leaving the fields untended, would history not repeat itself? Wealth without productivity was useless. Jia Sidao could not turn to the Mongols for grain, nor to Japan. Ultimately, the state relied on the public land law to seize land from wealthy landlords to cover deficits.
Contemplating this, the Ming Emperor's resolve deepened. Agriculture alone formed the foundation of a state, and only agriculture could sustain it.
He spoke again, his voice carrying both reflection and warning. "The title 'landlord' has been heard frequently. It fits more accurately than the vague label of 'local strongman'. They compete with the state over land, extracting profits for themselves while leaving the people in destitution."
"One might say," he continued, "when all landlords are gone, the Ming could perhaps endure for a thousand years."
No one could respond to this but the crown prince. Biao stepped forward and asked carefully, "Father, if that is so, then does our own household become one of these landlords?"
Zhu Yuanzhang glared at his son, the sternness in his eyes reflecting centuries of ancestral vigilance. "Our family rises and falls with the Ming. There is no distinction between us and the state."
The statement was technically correct, yet Zhu Biao sensed a subtle dissonance. Nevertheless, his father's words reminded him of another thought.
"I wonder," the emperor muttered quietly, "when the state falls, where do our descendants go?"
---
In Bianliang's Guangzheng Hall, Qian Chu remained silent. Li Yu, still carrying resentment against Zhao Kuangyin, though a tentative bond had formed from shared struggles against the Jin Prince, could not fully release his grievances. He asked boldly, "Your Majesty, why did the Song divide into North and South? How could the realm be reduced to barely a hundred prefectures?"
Zhao Dezhao tilted his head, uncertain. He had heard vague explanations before. The southward retreat was attributed to invasions, yet the reasoning for dividing the dynasty had been glossed over. Now, confronted with terms like 'physical restructuring' and 'physical redistribution', which the screen presented in detail, curiosity surged.
Zhao Kuangyin remained silent for a moment, then replied lightly, "The capital fell, the dynasty was lost, the royal family fled south and survived as best they could. What more is there to say?"
His tone betrayed unease, yet Li Yu's curiosity flared. "And the descendants of the Jin Prince? Were they like me, living under the shadows of history?"
Li Yu noticed Zhao Kuangyin's unusual gaze, steady and probing. After a long pause, the emperor of the past shook his head. "Like you? I know you wish nothing for the Song people, yet we are all under the same cultural mandate. Out of respect for propriety, I treat you accordingly."
"And the Mongols," Li Yu pressed, "were they aware of these subtleties?"
The answer was chilling. "Some descendants were cast into the sea by ministers. Another hundred thousand Song civilians perished in the depths. This was already mentioned on the screen."
The calmness of the statement contrasted sharply with its gravity. Li Yu shivered. Anger at Zhao Kuangyin's insistence on controlling the south mingled with realization. Without shared language, culture, and history, such patience from the officials would have been impossible. The brutal reality of foreign conquest crystallized in his mind.
Zhao Pu, the prime minister, spoke quietly. "A unified state ensures uniform winds across the six directions. Only when the nine provinces are linked can external barbarians be resisted and the future be secured."
Li Yu, educated in The Book of Han, felt words fail him. The wisdom resonated deeply, leaving him silent before the force of centuries-old policy and statecraft.
---
[Lightscreen]
[In 1263, Lin'an's prefect and the transport commissioner of western Zhejiang proposed the purchase of public lands. Jia Sidao praised the plan. Presented to Emperor Lizong, it promised ten million mu of fertile land and revenue of six to seven million strings of cash. The proceeds would satisfy military expenses fully and leave a surplus. This strategy could simultaneously eliminate excessive paper money issuance, stabilize grain prices, reduce burden on military pay, and create benefits across five sectors. The offer was irresistible.
Despite resistance from some officials and large landlords, Emperor Lizong approved the initiative. Public lands were sold and implemented, marking the final major attempt by the Southern Song to stabilize the economy. History shows the law lasted barely twelve years before the dynasty perished.
The plan faced immediate obstacles. The purchase targeted the largest landlords, restricting holdings based on rank, with excess land designated as public. In theory, this seemed just. In reality, Jia Sidao overestimated governmental authority and underestimated landlord solidarity. Initially, the restriction by rank proved unenforceable. The policy quickly shifted to a quota: any holding over two hundred mu had to sell one-third to the state. Large landlords could not be divided evenly, so only small landlords bore the burden. Those small landowners, in turn, pressured the peasants to recover losses. The system quickly fell short of expectations.
Pricing was another critical problem. The government calculated based on rent yield, not acreage. Even then, the state lacked funds to pay sellers. For holdings over five thousand mu, payment was fractional silver, official certificates, or paper money. Holdings under one thousand mu were divided differently, yet actual compensation remained insufficient.
The consequences were severe. Certificates flooded the market, tax-exempt persons multiplied, and bureaucratic positions expanded. Officials became redundant, costs increased, and efficiency plummeted.
Geography compounded difficulties. The policy was intended for two Zhejiang and Jiangnan regions but fierce opposition restricted its implementation to six western prefectures. Landlords resisted strongly. Small landlords also resisted, passing pressure to the peasants. Additional officials and excessive certificates further strained government resources.
Ultimately, the law failed. Its essence reflected the inherent conflict between the state and landlords, a desperate attempt to avert economic collapse while resisting Mongol conquest.
By 1268, five years after partial implementation, the Mongols advanced full-scale against the Song. They surrounded Xiangyang, committing resources without restraint, forcing the Song to test its strength against overwhelming odds. Kublai Khan consolidated forces from Central Asia, forming a coalition of fifteen ethnic groups. Meanwhile, the Southern Song remained embroiled in disputes with landlords, seizing the last grain from peasants and minor landowners.
The outcome was inevitable. The Song state, weakened internally and overextended externally, could not endure. The struggle ended in disaster, confirming centuries of lessons about governance, agriculture, and the balance between power and people.]
---
Back in Huagai Hall, Zhu Yuanzhang sat silently, the details of Song history weighing on his mind. The lesson was unmistakable. Wealth without fields, power without peasants, governance without foresight, all led to collapse. Even centuries removed, these events spoke directly to him.
He looked at his sons, their young faces filled with hope and innocence, and understood the responsibility he bore. Each generation inherited the echoes of past mismanagement, the consequences of neglect, and the lessons of survival. To endure, rulers needed more than force. They needed wisdom, prudence, and an unyielding recognition of the people as the foundation of the state.
The emperor's hand rested on the arm of his throne. He let his mind travel across time, envisioning distant futures, considering both success and failure. He knew that decisions made in the present rippled through centuries. Mistakes of the past warned him, successes inspired him, and history's patterns became tools for foresight.
In his mind's eye, he saw peasants plowing fields, merchants trading cautiously, officials enforcing law without greed. He imagined armies disciplined and loyal, borders secured without exhausting the treasury. He imagined balance, not just conquest, stability, not just wealth, and respect, not just authority.
Zhu Yuanzhang's voice finally broke the silence. "Let it be known, the state is only as strong as its fields. The empire cannot live by coins alone. If the land yields, the people eat, and the people endure, the empire endures."
Empress Ma nodded, her expression grave yet calm. "Only if the people endure can the throne endure."
The emperor smiled faintly, a mixture of exhaustion and resolve. Lessons from centuries past had been distilled into a single truth: governance required vigilance, prudence, and a steadfast heart. To survive the future, one must respect the past and care for those who tilled the earth.