Echoes of My Heart Throughout the Court

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Andrei was very confused.

The Huaxia people who had rescued them dropped them off on an island, told them to bathe, gave them new clothes, and then pushed each of them into a small wooden cabin. Through gestures, it seemed they were telling them this was where they’d be staying for the time being.

The people on Andrei’s ship looked at each other in disbelief, almost thinking they were dreaming.

Then, they lived on the island, learning the Huaxia language and script. They weren’t required to become fully fluent—just enough to communicate with the Huaxia people through speech and gestures. Only after that were they allowed to leave the island.

The place, if he remembered correctly, was called… Old Wa Island?

During their time on the island, Andrei learned that it was specifically designated by Huaxia to temporarily house rescued slaves like them. Because it was uncertain if they carried any illnesses or issues, they couldn’t go to the mainland right away.

“Now you can choose whether to stay in Daxia or leave. If you choose to leave, Daxia will not take responsibility for returning you to your homeland—you’ll need to find your own way.”

In the crowd, Andrei nodded in agreement.

These people had already done them an immense favor by rescuing them; if they still demanded to be sent back, wouldn’t that be what Huaxia people called “taking a mile when given an inch”?

Andrei didn’t know whether he should go home or stay.

He missed home terribly, but he was terrified that if he returned, he might be captured and enslaved again—and who knew if there would be another kind-hearted Huaxia person around to save him next time?

Their handlers took them to the capital of Daxia and told them: “You have three days to think it over. If you don’t give an answer within three days, you will be expelled from Huaxia’s territory.”

Andrei was truly lost.

He wandered through the capital and saw people from many different countries, even people who looked like those who had captured him—likely from the same nation. When he saw them, his whole body stiffened, and he instinctively reached for his neck—where he used to wear a heavy wooden yoke as a slave.

But the other man simply nodded at him with friendly eyes and walked past, showing no trace of greed or the calculating gaze of a slaver sizing up merchandise.

This was a friendly country. There were no slavers here, no slave pens, no slave auctions.

Andrei turned around and returned to the government office from earlier.

“I want to register. I want to stay in Daxia.”

The clerk nodded and brought out pen and paper.

“What’s your surname?”

“An.”

“And your given name?”

Andrei thought for a moment and decided to give himself a Huaxia name.

“Dapao!” (literally: Cannon)

The clerk gave him a strange look.

“Are you sure?”

Andrei nodded solemnly.

“sure!”

So not long after, An Dapao walked out of the office holding a document that recorded his portrait, name, gender, age, height, and place of origin—his identity paper. He was also allocated two mu of paddy field by the court.

—In the South, in normal years, two mu of rice field plus some side work was enough for one person to live on.

The clerk chased after him and said: “Remember, you’re new here, so for the first three years, your taxes are different. You’ll be charged more! The summer tax is four dou, six he, and five shao per mu. The autumn tax is three dou, six he, and five shao per mu! But after three full years, you’ll be taxed like a regular Daxia citizen—only four sheng for summer, and three sheng for autumn. Don’t forget, tax evasion is a serious crime.”

Andrei replied loudly: “Okay! I will remember!”

“And don’t forget to collect your subsidy! You’ve just arrived and don’t have money—you can get half a sheng of grain every day until your first harvest!”

“Got it!”

“Don’t borrow farming tools from those moneylenders! Come to the office to borrow them!”

“Okay!”

“His Majesty recently noticed how hard it is to find housing in the capital, so he ordered the construction of affordable housing—only five hundred wen a month! You don’t have a place yet, so you can apply for one. Since it’s government-owned, just show your identity paper and say you’re new to Daxia—you can defer payment for now.”

Andrei clenched his fists, almost unable to believe his ears.

The king actually provided cheap housing for the people? Dear God—do Daxia people live in heaven?!

Soon after, Andrei’s house and farmland were quickly approved. When spring planting began, he happily carried a hoe to work the fields. The neighbors were very kind, and they soon became familiar. Seeing that he lived alone and wasn’t good at cooking, they often brought him food.

Days passed one by one, and Andrei counted on his fingers:

“A few more years, and I can rent a few strong men and go back to bring my family over. And Anna… Anna… hehe…”

“How are the sweet potatoes doing this year?”

After observing how the foreigners were being treated, Xu Yanmiao headed to the fields and asked the old farmer there.

The old farmer looked like he’d just drunk a bellyful of honey, grinning from ear to ear.

“Very good! Last year was our trial run—we hit a lot of bumps. But we’ve learned a lot since then, so this year’s way better! Like the vines—we didn’t know we had to turn them and trim them, so we let a single vine grow a bunch of little sweet potatoes, and the yield wasn’t great. Now we know, and this year they’re sure to grow bigger and stronger.”

Xu Yanmiao nodded, reassured.

—Though honestly, he had no idea whether the farmer’s explanation was right or not. He’d never farmed in his life.

Truly, specialization matters. Farming should be left to those who actually know how. Time travelers shouldn’t assume they can do everything themselves.

“Fugui—Fugui—”

From a distance, an old woman’s voice called out suddenly.

The farmer quickly said: “That’s my wife!” He called back, “Over here!”

The old woman hurried over, carrying a clay pot.

Turns out it was lunchtime.

“I forgot to bring chopsticks. You’ll have to make do.”

The old man waved her off: “Make do? This is just fine.” He opened the pot, took out a big white steamed bun, bit into it, and then used his dirt- and sweat-covered fingers to pinch some pickled vegetables into the bite, eating heartily.

Xu Yanmiao instinctively averted his gaze, but when the old man spoke to him, he quickly turned his head back.

The farmer spoke around a mouthful of bun:

“Young man, I won’t offer you any—it’s too dirty. But if you come back a month from now, that’s the best time. The vine tips will be tender—steam them with some garlic or stir-fry them with oil, and the flavor is amazing!”

Xu Yanmiao laughed and said, “It is delicious! I’ve even had cold sweet potato leaves before—blanched, then mixed with garlic juice and sesame oil, really tasty! Add some chili oil and it’s even better! A friend of mine likes it with ginger juice too!”

The old farmer gave him a big thumbs-up. “Young man knows how to eat!”

He continued, “Also! Let me tell you—just one field’s worth of sweet potato vines, bundled up and hung under the eaves to dry, can feed pigs all the way through the next year! We didn’t dare raise pigs before—people didn’t have enough to eat themselves, how could we feed pigs? But now it’s different. The pigs eat sweet potato vines and grow nice and fat! We all call this stuff ‘pig grass’ now! If the pigs can’t finish it, people eat it too—cooking sweet potato vine into porridge isn’t half bad.”

Xu Yanmiao asked curiously, “Is sweet potato vine tasty?”

The old farmer laughed. “Tasty? No way! That’s pig food. Unless someone’s starving, people won’t eat it. We had someone frail in the village once, ate too much of it and ended up with diarrhea—almost died.”

Xu Yanmiao sighed. “Glad they made it through.”

After lunch, the old farmer went back to work in the fields. Xu Yanmiao squatted nearby to watch. Before long, he couldn’t help himself. “Can I try?”

In the palace, Ministry of Personnel.

A group of officials watched in shock as Xu Yanmiao staggered in, holding his lower back.

“Master Xu, what happened to you?!”

Xu Yanmiao coughed. “Nothing.”

[No one should be able to tell I pulled my back farming, right?]

[Turns out farming really isn’t something just anyone can do.]

The officials all immediately looked away—some lowered their heads, some turned their backs, others pretended to be absorbed in their paperwork…

Hold it in—don’t laugh!

Xu Yanmiao whimpered silently in his heart, rubbed his back, limped over to his desk, grabbed a stack of documents, and headed to deliver them to the Eastern Palace.

On the way—

In the imperial academy where the emperor’s sons and grandsons studied, the Fifth Imperial Grandson, Gao Yao, wiped his dry eyes with his sleeve and blinked. Just as he was about to return to listening to the lecture, he glanced toward the rear window and saw a handsome young man standing outside, holding a pile of documents and watching the lesson curiously.

…Could it be the Xu Yanmiao his father often mentioned? That top-favored courtier beside Grandfather?

—His body stiffened at once.

Gao Yao sat up straighter, his eyes spinning with thought.

Suddenly, he stood up, bowed, and said, “Teacher, I have a question I’ve been pondering the past few days and would like to ask.”

The Hanlin scholar who taught the princes immediately tensed up. These little masters loved causing trouble.

“Please, Your Highness.”

Gao Yao bowed again. “While studying the Analects, I came across the phrase ‘To attack heresy is a harm indeed’ and found three different interpretations.”

He continued, “Some great scholars interpret it as: studying heterodox teachings is harmful.”

“Others say this interpretation makes Confucius seem narrow-minded. They believe it means: by criticizing incorrect ideas, one can eliminate harm.”

“Yet others argue it means: to deliberately attack opinions different from one’s own is extremely harmful.”

Gao Yao furrowed his brow in feigned confusion. “How can one sentence have three meanings? Which one is correct?”

The Hanlin scholar’s expression went blank.

This was exactly the kind of difficult question that caused massive debates throughout history. Even the court couldn’t agree. Every school of thought had its own view.

After all, there’s no first place in literature, only in martial arts.

And with the number of Confucian commentators over the years, there are as many meanings as there are readers.

If he openly supported one interpretation, especially in a lecture to princes, the other factions would tear him apart.

But if he stayed silent, the emperor might tear him apart.

He forced a smile, anxiety creeping into his eyes. “These three…”

Whatever. A knife to the neck is a knife no matter what—just get it over with.

He gritted his teeth and was about to choose the interpretation he liked most, when the prince raised his voice again with another question—oblivious to the idea of “enough is enough.”

“No matter which meaning is right, I want to ask: what exactly does heresy refer to?”

The Hanlin scholar’s throat itched—he almost wanted to sniff snuff on the spot.

What does it refer to? Everyone knew: anything outside Confucianism was considered heresy.

That was fine in the past, but now many thinkers from other schools had gone overseas to spread their philosophies. Push them too hard and they might not return—then the emperor would skin him alive.

Why was the Fifth Grandson asking this?!

Before he could respond, the prince fired off again like a cannon:

“I understand that in the past, heresy referred to the various other philosophical schools outside of Confucianism. But now that Huaxia no longer confines itself to the mainland and seeks to spread its culture overseas—if we still label other schools heretical, won’t we be laughed at? Should heresy refer to domestic schools, or to foreign religions and ideologies?”

His words left the scholar drenched in cold sweat, face ashen.

Even Xu Yanmiao paused at the window for a moment before moving on to deliver his documents to the Eastern Palace.

The emperor, upon hearing of this, was shocked: “Is this true?”

Ever since Prince Shou had ditched his classes, the Jinyiwei had been assigned to monitor the royal grandchildren’s studies. One of them now gave a detailed account of the scene, including how Xu Yanmiao had happened to be at the window—just a footnote in the event.

The emperor was silent for a long time.

The next day, an imperial edict was issued: “Let it be known: the fifth son of Crown Prince Xian, the imperial grandson Yao, shall henceforth be established as Crown Prince Apparent.”

The court was in an uproar.

The Crown Prince was stunned: Wait, Father just now figured out which of my sons to make heir? Is that normal?

Xu Yanmiao was also dumbfounded:

When did the old emperor decide this? I didn’t catch a single hint! Has my political instinct gotten this bad?!

As for Gao Yao himself—his pupils practically exploded.

Yes, he had been deliberately trying to win Xu Yanmiao’s favor, intentionally displaying his political stance in the man’s presence.

But wasn’t the outcome a bit too effective?

He just wanted Grandpa to like him more, not this!

…The Emperor—personal name Yao—was the fifth son of Emperor Taizong, and born to Consort Wu. When the Founding Emperor learned that Xu Yanmiao had stood at the window and heard the prince’s three questions, he named him Crown Prince Apparent…

—Summer Chronicle: Annals Volume V

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