"Does the Princess Consort wish to control public opinion?"
Qin Lu could almost read Gu Yanshu's thoughts just from his expression.
Having been seen through, Gu Yanshu didn't bother hiding it—he admitted openly:
"Exactly."
"That won't be easy."
Even Qin Sheng, who now effortlessly wielded the power of public discourse, had spent years laying the groundwork to reach this point.
For Gu Yanshu to achieve the same—or even surpass it—would be far more difficult.
After all, Qin Sheng currently held the capital's narrative dominance, his greatest weapon.
If he caught wind of Gu Yanshu's intentions, he would never sit idly by.
Gu Yanshu naturally understood this and nodded in agreement:
"Indeed, it won't be easy—but it's not impossible."
"From the way you speak, it seems you already have an idea?"
Though Qin Lu had long recognized Gu Yanshu's brilliance, he couldn't help but be surprised now.
From the moment Qin Hao left until now—how much time had passed?
Yet Gu Yanshu already had a plan?
"Of course," Gu Yanshu replied, tilting his chin up with a hint of pride. "Has Your Highness ever heard of a daily gazette?"
That was his solution—a daily gazette.
What was the best way to control public opinion?
To hold authoritative voices and dominate channels of communication.
In the pre-apocalyptic era, this meant controlling major social media platforms and news outlets.
A single platform like Weibo could dictate the public's focus—
Suppressing unwanted news by keeping it off trending lists, limiting its spread—
Or amplifying messages by keeping them pinned at the top for days, ensuring nationwide awareness.
But before social media?
Before the internet?
How did people control narratives then?
The answer was simple: newspapers.
In those times, newspapers were the primary source of information.
If the content was slanted, it naturally shaped public perception.
That was why journalism emphasized objectivity—
To prevent subjective biases from distorting facts.
In Tianqi, daily gazettes didn't exist yet.
If Gu Yanshu could pioneer one, seizing the pen as his weapon—
In time, the capital's narrative control would shift into their hands effortlessly.
Qin Sheng's resistance wouldn't matter.
Since Tianqi had no daily gazettes, Qin Lu was unfamiliar with the concept.
He could only repeat the unfamiliar term with slight confusion:
"Daily gazette? What is that?"
"It can be considered... a type of court bulletin."
After a moment's thought, Gu Yanshu found an analogy Qin Lu could understand.
Tianqi already had court bulletins—
Like most dynasties in Huaxia's history, these bulletins published imperial edicts, ministerial memorials, and political updates.
During wartime, they included frontier reports.
In earlier years, they even glorified Qin Lu's battlefield exploits to soothe public unrest over prolonged conflicts.
So Qin Lu wasn't entirely unfamiliar with the concept.
With this explanation, Qin Lu quickly grasped Gu Yanshu's intent:
"The Princess Consort wishes to publish his own bulletins?"
"Precisely."
Gu Yanshu rewarded him with an approving glance.
"Then why call it a 'daily gazette'?" Qin Lu's frown deepened slightly.
Gu Yanshu elaborated without hesitation:
"Because I plan to issue new bulletins every day—hence 'daily.'"
"Daily issuance?" Qin Lu's brows drew even tighter. "That seems impractical."
"Oh? Why?" Now it was Gu Yanshu's turn to be puzzled.
"From what you described, you intend mass distribution?"
Though phrased as a question, Qin Lu's tone held certainty.
Gu Yanshu's goal was controlling public opinion—
That required widespread circulation, not limited dissemination.
"Naturally." Gu Yanshu nodded, as if this were obvious.
Small-scale distribution would mean fewer readers—
And fewer readers meant no grip on public discourse.
"Even setting aside the challenge of sourcing daily content—the printing alone would be formidable."
Having interacted with the court's bulletin office, Qin Lu understood the technical hurdles:
"I don't know how much content you plan per issue, but currently, carving a woodblock for just a hundred characters takes one artisan a full day."
"If your bulletins are lengthy, production couldn't keep pace. Hand-copying would be equally unscalable within tight deadlines."
This explained why even the imperial court issued only a handful of bulletins annually.
Gu Yanshu had anticipated many hurdles—
Content curation, public acceptance, distribution channels—
But never imagined the first roadblock would be primitive printing technology.
At Qin Lu's analysis, he instinctively frowned:
"Woodblock printing? Is there no movable type?"
"Movable type? What's that?"
Yet another unfamiliar term from his consort's lips.
Though unclear on specifics, Qin Lu's instincts whispered:
This "movable type" might be revolutionary.
"Like woodblock printing, it's a reproduction method—but far more efficient and adaptable."
While surprised by Tianqi's technological lack, Gu Yanshu was well-versed in the subject:
"Simply put, individual characters are carved into reusable type pieces. When needed, they're arranged into text, inked, and pressed."
"After printing, the type can be disassembled and reused indefinitely."
"Since each character exists independently, combinations are infinitely flexible—hence 'movable.'"
Though brief, Gu Yanshu's explanation perfectly captured the essence and advantages of movable type printing.
Qin Lu was no fool—with just those few words, he immediately grasped its revolutionary potential:
"If movable type works as you describe, we'd never need to carve new woodblocks for each text again?"
"Exactly."
Gu Yanshu tilted his chin up confidently.
Across Huaxia's millennia of civilization, countless inventions had emerged—
Yet movable type earned its place among the Four Great Inventions for good reason.
Recognizing its transformative power, Qin Lu temporarily set aside thoughts of public discourse control and daily bulletins, eagerly asking:
"How much do you know about this technique? Can you explain further?"
"Actually... not much."
Gu Yanshu's brow furrowed slightly, his tone hesitant.
Specialization was key—while movable type was groundbreaking, his era had long abandoned it for digital printing.
His knowledge came only from historical snippets.
Still, he shared every detail he remembered.
Seeing Qin Lu's keen interest—and recognizing movable type as essential for his daily gazette plans—he offered a solution:
"Though I lack technical expertise, finding someone to develop this shouldn't be difficult."
"How so?" Qin Lu leaned forward, intrigued.
"Every craft has its masters. Movable type, while innovative, remains a printing method—evolved from woodblock techniques. Why not consult skilled woodblock artisans? Together, they could bring this to life."
After all, Bi Sheng—inventor of movable type in Huaxia's history—had started as a humble engraver before revolutionizing the field through observation and innovation.
With his conceptual guidance and experienced craftsmen, turning theory into reality was entirely feasible.
"Wisely said."
Qin Lu nodded, appreciating the strategy.
Yet another challenge emerged:
"The selection of artisans requires... careful consideration."
The implications were clear—
Whoever perfected this invention would earn immortal fame.
Such stakes demanded meticulous vetting.
"That task falls to you, Your Highness."
Gu Yanhsu smoothly delegated the headache—
Firstly, he lacked capable subordinates (Bai Zhu's loyalty couldn't compensate for his limitations).
Secondly, Qin Lu's involvement maximized both benefits and operational flexibility.
Understanding his intent perfectly, Qin Lu didn't offer verbal thanks this time—
Some gratitude transcended words, better expressed through future actions.
If movable type printing could be successfully developed, the printing challenges of the daily gazette would naturally be resolved.
However, things were far from as simple as Gu Yanshu had imagined.
Before long, Qin Lu raised a second major obstacle to the gazette's distribution:
"Your idea for a daily gazette is sound, but have you overlooked one issue?"
"What?" Gu Yanshu gestured for him to speak plainly.
"Among the common people, few can read. Even in the capital, illiteracy is widespread. Even if the gazette is mass-produced, most wouldn't understand it."
Qin Lu's tone carried a tinge of bitterness.
The low literacy rate in Tianqi stemmed from years of relentless warfare.
In the worst years of conflict, survival took precedence—how could people focus on learning characters?
At its core, this was the royal family's failure to provide stability, leaving no room for education.
He expected Gu Yanshu to be troubled by this revelation, but he merely waved it off:
"No need to worry, Your Highness. I've already considered this—the gazette won't rely solely on text. I plan to include lianhuanhua as well."
Though Gu Yanshu wasn't fully aware of Tianqi's education levels, the reliance on woodblock printing had given his clues.
Primitive printing made books scarce and expensive, raising barriers to literacy.
So while explaining movable type earlier, he'd already devised a solution.
After the discussions on public opinion and printing, Qin Lu had grown accustomed to unfamiliar terms from his consort:
"Lianhuanhua? What's that?"**
"Simply put, it's storytelling through sequential illustrations. Even illiterate readers can follow the narrative visually."
Gu Yanshu knew lianhuanhua well.
His family's library had housed complete sets of illustrated classics like Journey to the West—his childhood gateway to literature.
With low barriers to comprehension, these picture stories could draw in the masses.
Once people bought the gazette for the artwork, curiosity would naturally lead them to explore the text.
Thus, readership would expand organically.
Qin Lu nodded thoughtfully—then spotted another flaw:
"But lianhuanhua can't use movable type, can it?"
As described, movable type handled characters, not images.
Without it, they'd revert to the original problem:
Woodblock carving's time constraints.
Gu Yanshu anticipated this:
"Correct. So instead of daily lianhuanhua, I'll feature new installments monthly—timed for maximum impact."
"That approach could indeed work."
After brief consideration, Qin Lu acknowledged the feasibility of Gu Yanshu's plan.
With a month's time and limited illustration content, assigning extra artisans to carve woodblocks wouldn't be overly burdensome.
"But what of the remaining days without lianhuanhua? How will you fill them?"
Having devised such an innovative solution already, Qin Lu doubted he'd leave those gaps empty.
True to form, Gu Yanshu shot him a you-read-my-mind glance:
"For that—we'll recruit storytellers."
"Storytellers?" Qin Lu's brow arched at the sudden pivot from gazettes to oral performers.
"Even illiterate people have ears, don't they? Don't they frequent teahouses for tales and songs in their leisure?"
His rhetorical questions came rapid-fire.
"True." Qin Lu nodded—even palace concubines enjoyed occasional theatrical troupes.
"Thus, controlling storytellers means controlling public discourse."
Even without overt propaganda, subtle narrative tweaks could sway minds.
he cited a pre-apocalyptic example everyone knew—Pan Jinlian.
Thanks to Water Margin, most remembered her as the adulterous murderess who poisoned her husband Wu Dalang.
Few knew the historical Pan was actually a respectable noblewoman—
And Wu Dalang a tall, accomplished magistrate, not the dwarfish caricature depicted.
Their slander originated from a friend's misunderstanding after seeking Wu's aid—
By the time the friend realized his error and tried to recant, the libel had spread irrevocably into literature.
Even the author's descendants later erected apology steles—yet the stigma persisted.
This proved how profoundly writers' biases could distort history.
Hence Gu Yanshu's second strategy: recruiting storytellers as mouthpieces.
"Fifth Brother considered this before—but abandoned it."
Qin Lu hated to dampen his enthusiasm, but reality was stark:
"The capital's famous storytellers all serve Eldest Brother. Unrecruitable."
Had it been possible, he and Qin Hao would've acted long ago.
Qin Sheng's grip on public discourse relied precisely on monopolizing these performers.
"Who said anything about famous ones?" Gu Yanshu gave him a look.
"Unknown performers lack influence."
Obscure storytellers worked in empty teahouses—how could they shape mass opinion?
"Unknown today doesn't mean unknown tomorrow."
He remained unfazed:
"Compelling content breeds fame—it's only a matter of time."
In his past life, the Gu conglomerate had owned entertainment firms—
He understood this game better than most.
In the entertainment industry, it wasn't uncommon for newcomers to rise to fame simply because their work resonated with audiences.
Storytellers were no different—if they could deliver captivating tales, who cared whether they were previously famous?
"But crafting stories that appeal to the masses isn't easy either."
In Tianqi, literacy was low, and those who could read were often preoccupied with mastering the Four Books and Five Classics in pursuit of scholarly honors.
Only failed scholars—those with no hope of an official career—turned to writing scripts for a living.
Yet even these old scholars were shackled by classical conventions, producing stiff, overly formal narratives that failed to engage ordinary listeners.
As far as Qin Lu knew, the most popular scripts in teahouses were still the same old stories from three years ago.
But Gu Yanshu only seemed more dismissive upon hearing this:
"Your Highness needn't worry about the stories. Just find me a few storytellers—I'll handle the rest."
His confidence wasn't unfounded.
When it came to entertainment, no era could rival the creativity of the pre-apocalyptic world.
Beyond the Four Great Classical Novels, later generations had spawned countless genres—
Mindless power-fantasy adventures, heart-wrenching romances, domestic dramas about mothers-in-law and daughters-in-law, gripping detective mysteries, spine-chilling horror tales…
While Gu Yanshu wasn't a writer himself, he knew the golden rule: specialization exists for a reason.
He was certain that simply introducing one or two of these timeless themes—
Then letting the storytellers adapt them freely—
Would be enough to captivate Tianqi's audiences, unaccustomed to such narrative diversity.
"If the Princess Consort is so assured, Fifth Brother happens to have a few storytellers under his patronage. I'll have him send them over."
Though Qin Lu didn't know his exact plans, he trusted his judgment implicitly.
These storytellers had originally been recruited by Qin Hao to counter Qin Sheng's influence—
But with negligible results, they'd since been left idle.
Better to hand them to Gu Yanshu and see what magic he could work.