Old Madam Zhou stared blankly at the carriage that had stopped before her door. The guards announced that the Emperor and Empress had personally arrived and asked her to call her husband back home.
Today was the spring plowing ceremony. A large area outside the city had been cordoned off, and every household had been keeping their children indoors, afraid they might accidentally wander into the restricted area and offend the nobility. Who would have thought the nobility would come to their home?
It took Old Madam Zhou a long moment to process. She quickly pushed her daughter to go fetch her husband, then hobbled over to a clay jar to find some chestnuts and jujubes that were still presentable. She found two intact plates, arranged the fruits, then leaned on her rough walking stick and hobbled over.
Just as she was about to kneel in obeisance, she was gently supported by the arm and lifted up. A warm, sweet fragrance washed over her, and she felt dazed as she was guided to sit down.
The farther one got from the emperor’s gaze, the poorer the people became. Jiang Nong hadn’t imagined they lived in such hardship—sallow faces, hair dry as straw, sunken cheeks. Their suffering was heartbreaking to witness.
Old Madam Zhou fidgeted nervously, not daring to lift her head, unsure why they had come. She was so frightened her mind went blank.
Occasionally she stole a glance at His Majesty—dressed in black, sharp features, heavy brows, a faint, almost imperceptible air of bloodshed about him that made her shudder. She lowered her head even further.
Though she’d heard His Majesty was merciful and loved the people, she’d also heard he’d killed many ministers. In her heart, she was terrified. For common folk like them, their lives were no more than a single word away.
The Empress, on the other hand—she was so kind, young and beautiful like a fairy. Smiling, she took her hand and asked about her life, her harvest, how she’d injured her leg, how old her daughter was. Old Madam Zhou’s tense shoulders gradually relaxed as she answered one by one.
She cautiously glanced at the Empress, then at His Majesty. She wondered how a gentle, water-like woman like the Empress could get along with such a man—whether she was afraid when she was with him.
Before long, Old Madam Zhou’s husband was brought back by their daughter. Along with him came nearby farmers and peasant women that the Golden Guard had rounded up—unkempt, having worked in the fields all day, reeking of mud and sweat, trembling as they took their seats.
Jiang Nong had never been feared like this before—mostly because of Yu Lingxin’s presence. She tried to prod him into loosening up, just as she had in Xi Kingdom when he couldn’t pretend. She worked hard to lighten the atmosphere. Through a back-and-forth of questions and answers, the tension slowly eased.
But when asked about their land, they hesitated and wouldn’t speak clearly.
Old Madam Zhou’s daughter cowered in the corner, biting her finger, her round little face like a red apple.
Jiang Nong’s heart softened at the sight. She called the girl over. Children were less shy than adults—the girl came forward, clumsily bowed, and called out: “Empress.”
Old Madam Zhou and her husband watched nervously. Jiang Nong pinched the girl’s cheeks and lifted her onto her lap. The couple’s faces went white in alarm: “Please, Your Highness—the child is filthy, always rolling in the dirt…”
Jiang Nong waved her hand dismissively, bounced the girl lightly, and handed her a jujube to eat.
Yu Lingxin didn’t understand what was so great about holding a child—dirty, smelling like little animals, like a chick that had been cooped up for days. By the time Yu Ling Yin reached eight or nine, Yu Lingxin found her irritating just to look at.
Only Jiang Nong liked children—anyone’s child she’d pick up and kiss. She’d even taken Princess Pingning’s grown daughter into the palace to raise.
Seeing the Empress hold a child and play with her so kindly—not as an act—the farmers felt their hearts warm. Perhaps the imperial couple truly loved the people and could give them justice. Slowly, some of their hesitations loosened, and they dared to speak.
“We have no land, Your Highness—let alone harvests.”
Yu Lingxin raised an eyebrow, his sharp gaze fixed on Old Madam Zhou’s husband: “Wasn’t land distributed by head count in recent years? Why do you have none?”
In his previous life, he had only focused on warfare and never concerned himself with such matters. As long as the territory was large enough and enough people died in war, everyone would have land.
“The land… we were forced to sell it at a loss…”
At that, some couldn’t hold back tears: “It’s not that we were lazy or neglectful—nor that we were greedy for petty gains. But if we hadn’t sold, how could we have survived?”
“We’d be in the fields at dawn, not returning until moonfall. We tended those few acres like our own ancestors. Those wealthy households wanted to buy them cheap. We refused—waiting for the harvest to feed our families. But just before autumn harvest, our fields were burned in the night.”
“We couldn’t pay the land tax, nor the poll tax. We had no choice but to sell the land at an even lower price and become tenant farmers for the rich. It was the only way to stay alive.”
“Your Majesty, Your Highness—please, give us justice! That fire was no act of heaven—it was done by men!”
“Madam Zhou’s leg—she broke it trying to save the rice when the burning trellises collapsed on her.”
At that, even a few burly men wiped away tears.
The dynasty had inherited the previous taxation system: two layers—one based on headcount, the other on income. Ordinary peasants with only a few acres of thin land paid land tax. They relied on the autumn harvest to pay both the land and poll taxes, saving the rest to get through winter.
In years of good weather, it was manageable. But when disaster struck, they had to tighten their belts. If a fire burned their crops before harvest—not only could they not pay taxes, they’d have nothing to eat until the next autumn.
The peasants’ harvest structure was fragile. Wealthy households, seeking to consolidate more land for greater profit, could manipulate circumstances to force them to sell—reducing landowners to exploited laborers overnight, forced to live at the mercy of the rich.
It didn’t happen all at once—they feared rebellion. So they boiled the frog slowly: fifty acres one year, eighty the next. Over several years, dozens of households were driven to sell their farmland at rock-bottom prices.
The peasants’ livelihoods were held in others’ hands. They had no way to seek justice—the wealthy households had powerful backers, and there was no evidence. The court paid no attention to such trivial matters. As long as taxes were paid in full each year and the people didn’t revolt, it was considered a good year.
Jiang Nong stroked the child’s head, her brow deeply furrowed.
To improve the people’s livelihoods, they could only reduce taxes—but the treasury was not full. Where would they find the funds?
They couldn’t simply forbid the wealthy from consolidating land, could they? They wouldn’t listen. And arresting them all would throw everything into chaos.
But if even the capital region was like this, what must it be like in other prefectures?
Though things hadn’t reached the point of utter destitution, if this continued, land would only become more concentrated in fewer hands, and the people’s lives would only grow harder.
The foundation of a state was its people. If the majority lived poorly while only a few grew rich—what was the purpose of the state’s existence?
Yu Lingxin listened to their wailing—even the commoners held back by the Golden Guard joined in the weeping—tapping his long fingers lightly on the table.
He thought more ruthlessly than Jiang Nong. She thought of the people; he thought of power.
Unless they expanded territory through conquest like in his previous life, eventually unrest would erupt. But even with more land, the rate of consolidation would outpace growth. In ten or twenty years, the people would again have no land. A thousand-li dike could collapse from an ant hole—he had to guard against it.
“I will give you a resolution,” Yu Lingxin said firmly. Though it was only a few words, they carried an inexplicable weight of conviction—not empty promises.
Dusk had fallen. Most of the situation had been recorded, and it was not convenient to stay longer.
Jiang Nong took the sleeping child—one hand supporting her neck, the other under her back—and gently passed her to Old Madam Zhou.
Old Madam Zhou caught her scent and watched how tenderly she handled the child—clearly someone used only to holding infants. Flushing, she said softly: “Your Highness’s crown prince must still be quite young. My Yaya is already a big girl—you don’t need to hold her so carefully.”
Jiang Nong froze, instinctively glancing back at Yu Lingxin, questioning him with her eyes.
Yu Lingxin clearly had more experience: “A child that age could be kicked into a river and climb out on their own.”
Jiang Nong rubbed her hands together awkwardly and stepped back.
Old Madam Zhou warmly packed some jujubes and chestnuts and pressed them into Jiang Nong’s arms: “These are the only things my household has fit to offer—I hope Your Highness won’t think them beneath you.”
She instinctively drew her rough, dark hands back into her sleeves, afraid the noblewoman might find anything touched by them unclean.
Jiang Nong noticed at once. Though she pitied them for giving away their goods, she still accepted—and tasted one right in front of her.
Seeing the Empress did not disdain them, the farmers’ eyes lit up. They offered whatever dried fruits they could spare. The carriage left noticeably heavier than when it arrived.
Jiang Nong instructed Tongye to distribute some silver to them.
As soon as they boarded the carriage, Jiang Nong grabbed Yu Lingxin by the collar and gave him a few punches, demanding: “How do you know a child that age can climb out of water on their own? Who did you kick in? And who climbed back out?”
Yu Lingxin looked up at the carriage roof, then at the window lattice—anywhere but at her: “Guess?”
That shameless look of a dead pig unafraid of boiling water told Jiang Nong everything. Her heart ached as if bleeding: “How could you bear to kick her in? If she’s not your child, you don’t care, do you? She was so small—and born prematurely at that.”
“Spare the rod, spoil the child.”
His words were harsh—and sure enough, he earned a slap.
She’d only spent a year or two with her and she was already this protective. If she’d actually raised her, she would have spoiled her rotten. Pity Yu Ling Yin had such bad luck—she didn’t have that fortune in her last life.
Yu Lingxin didn’t have much affection for Yu Ling Yin. Love was too precious—like a stagnant pool, flowing only outward, never replenished. He had long run dry. So he had none to give her. Other than fatherly love, he had given her everything he could.
“I didn’t drown her—she grew up just fine. What are you so worked up about? The water wasn’t deep—what’s wrong with spending some time in it during summer? I’m not her stepfather—I wouldn’t actually drown her.” Jiang Nong’s grip slackened. Exhausted after a long day, Yu Lingxin buried himself in her arms, wrapped his arms around her waist, and said in a muffled voice, “If you want to raise one, have another.”
Xiaoman had been born just over eight months after Jiang Nong arrived in Tan. At that time, Chao Ning had been dead less than ten months—and Tan’s ministers suspected the child wasn’t Yu Lingxin’s, petitioning to have the bastard executed.
Xiaoman mostly resembled Jiang Nong—so close that a careful eye could detect a faint similarity to Chao Ning. Even if she also had features from Yu Lingxin, that faint resemblance was enough to fuel a man’s suspicion.
For a man of Yu Lingxin’s status, children weren’t precious. If he wanted them, he could have countless legitimate heirs. That was precisely why Jiang Nong had been so shocked to learn he had only one daughter.
Before her death, she’d even worried that Yu Lingxin, in his disgust and suspicion, might kill the child.
Throwing her in the water during summer—it wasn’t too cold. Jiang Nong’s anger subsided somewhat. She smoothed his hair and said: “As long as you remember she’s your daughter.”
“If she weren’t my own, what could I do?” Yu Lingxin was drowsy, nuzzling against her belly, indifferent.
In truth, he had never really investigated whether Yu Ling Yin was his daughter. If she was, she was. If not, what could he do? In any case, Jiang Nong had given birth to her.
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