The New Xinan Ancient Pottery Factory officially broke ground.
On a hillside not far from the designated construction site, Zhang Miaoshou sat with his ten thousand subordinates, all of them staring as though their souls had temporarily left their bodies. Below them, Gao Family Village's transport convoy moved back and forth without pause, giant iron vehicles roaring across the earth like mechanical beasts hauling tribute to some industrial deity.
Each iron vehicle carried several thousand pounds with insulting ease, as though weight itself had become negotiable. And the things they transported were not limited to bricks and timber. Tents for ten thousand people. Food supplies stacked in disciplined abundance. Daily necessities bundled neatly. Tools of all shapes and sizes. And that peculiar gray sand piled like small hills.
Zhang Miaoshou narrowed his eyes at it.
He had never seen sand that looked so… confident.
Under the watchful supervision of soldiers carrying flintlock rifles, a young man in scholar's robes stepped forward. He looked refined, composed, the kind of person who probably quoted classics before breakfast. Raising his voice, he called out clearly:
"Form long lines. Step forward in order. Each of you will receive your personal supplies."
Zhang Miaoshou did not dare delay. He barked the command, and the ten thousand labor reform prisoners shuffled into formation with surprising discipline. The line stretched long across the slope, winding like a reluctant dragon.
The first prisoner stepped forward.
The scholar handed him a small bundle.
"Here. Your labor reform gift package."
The prisoner blinked.
Gift package?
For labor reform?
For a moment he wondered if this was some sophisticated method of psychological torment. Still, hands moved faster than suspicion. He accepted the bundle and stepped aside.
Curiosity won.
He crouched down, untied the cloth, and opened it.
Then he froze.
Inside lay a set of thick cotton clothes, well-stitched, padded properly, the fabric sturdy and warm. He reached out as though touching something fragile.
"These… are for me?"
"Of course," a militia soldier nearby replied flatly. "Clothes like that have a large circle on the back with the character 'Reform' written inside. Ordinary people would not dare wear them."
The prisoner hurriedly flipped the garment over.
Sure enough, there on the back was a bold circle, and within it a large, unmistakable character: Reform.
It was impossible to ignore.
The militia soldier continued, maintaining a serious expression, "This identifies you as a labor reform prisoner. Your treatment is inferior to that of ordinary citizens."
The prisoner stared at the cotton clothes again, then at his own patched rags.
"Inferior?" he muttered. "With cotton clothes like these, how much lower can it be? Back in my village, even the wealthiest landlord did not own two sets this fine."
The militia soldier opened his mouth.
Closed it.
There were moments when ideology collided awkwardly with reality.
The prisoner dug further into the bundle and pulled out a pair of cloth shoes. The soles were made of rubber supplied by Dao Xuan Tianzun himself, soft yet resilient. He slipped them on.
The transformation was immediate.
His entire face brightened as though someone had lit a lantern inside him.
"These shoes… they are far more comfortable than straw sandals."
The militia soldier felt an urge to scold him for lacking ambition, for being moved by something so basic. Yet when he saw the prisoner's eyes glistening, that urge dissolved into something heavier.
He looked up at the sky.
Back then, his entire family had hovered on the edge of starvation. His father had dragged them across dusty roads to seek refuge with Gao Family Village. On the day they arrived, thin as shadows, desperate and ashamed, they too had been issued work clothes and work shoes.
His father had clutched them exactly like this.
Crying without restraint.
Later, when his father received his first month's wages, he had bought two ounces of meat. Just two ounces. That night, the entire family ate premium wheat flour, each bowl crowned with a spoonful of minced meat sauce.
At the time, it felt like a miracle too large to be real.
After he grew up, he joined the militia without hesitation.
He had not joined for glory.
He had joined to protect that bowl of wheat flour.
The soldier lowered his gaze and patted the prisoner's shoulder.
"Reform yourself properly," he said quietly. "Perhaps one day your son will wear the same uniform as I do."
The prisoner looked up at him, stunned.
For the first time, the word reform did not feel like a brand burned into his back.
It felt like a door.
Far away in the Qinling Mountains, a soft silicone Dao Xuan Tianzun waddled forward with cautious determination.
Ever since discovering the first Qinling panda, Li Daoxuan had been completely captivated. In the modern world, he had long dreamed of personally petting a panda. Chongqing Zoo would not allow it. The Chengdu Giant Panda Research Base would not allow it. Ordinary tourists were meant to observe from a respectful distance, as though pandas were sacred relics.
But inside the diorama box, rules were flexible.
At least, in theory.
"Good boy… my sweet little darling," the soft silicone Dao Xuan Tianzun coaxed gently, holding a bamboo shoot in each hand like an offering. "I am a good person. I brought snacks."
The Qinling panda lifted its head.
It let out a deep roar.
Then its claws flashed inward.
The silicone Dao Xuan Tianzun was cleanly torn in two.
Attempt number one hundred and one to pet a panda: failed.
Li Daoxuan stared at the split remains of his avatar and fell into serious contemplation.
Was this a problem of technique? Of timing? Of insufficient cuteness?
Perhaps he needed professional guidance.
He suddenly remembered that Zhao Sheng, also known as Dian Dengzi, was currently on a business trip in Sichuan.
Sichuan.
Home of pandas.
A brilliant idea formed.
Let us check on Zhao Sheng.
Co-sensing activated.
The world shifted.
The first thing that appeared before Li Daoxuan's vision was a towering stone pillar, rising steep and proud against the sky.
He blinked, then understood immediately.
Stone Pillar. Mount Wanshou. Wanshou Stronghold. Stronghold of the Sichuan White Pole Soldiers.
The terrain was treacherous beyond exaggeration, cliffs layered upon cliffs, narrow paths coiling upward like reluctant serpents. Easy to defend. Nightmarish to assault.
In the original historical timeline, after the Great Ming fell, the White Pole Soldiers retreated here. Qing forces could not conquer the mountain by force. The dynasty collapsed, yet this stronghold endured.
Only in the sixteenth year of Shunzhi, more than a decade after the Ming Dynasty's demise, did this mountain fortress finally withdraw from history when Ma Wannian surrendered.
History had long memories.
Zhao Sheng stood before a group of honest farmers, smiling with the confidence of a man about to disrupt several thousand years of agricultural philosophy.
"Today," he announced, "we will discuss scientific cultivation methods for various cash crops."
From his sleeve, he produced a carefully compiled book. The knowledge inside came from materials Li Daoxuan had gathered from a friend at an agricultural science and technology university. He flipped to a marked page.
"Let us begin here."
The farmers listened attentively, though their expressions carried polite skepticism.
Standing at the edge of the field were Qin Liangyu, Ma Xianglin, Zhang Fengyi, and others. They had no intention of studying farming techniques. Their presence was political, not agricultural. Authority radiated from them, and that authority transferred to Zhao Sheng.
Even so, one old farmer raised his hand.
"Mr. Zhao," he said cautiously, "we already grow excellent potatoes, sweet potatoes, and corn. Our bellies are full. Why must we learn about these strange so-called cash crops?"
Zhao Sheng laughed, not mockingly but firmly.
"If you only grow staple crops, you will only avoid starvation. That is survival, not prosperity. Do you know why they are called cash crops? Because you grow them to sell, to earn money, to become wealthy."
The farmers exchanged looks.
"Farming… can make people rich?"
For thousands of years, feudal systems had taught them a single truth. Farming prevented death by hunger. It did not produce wealth.
Zhao Sheng reached into his pocket and took out a piece of Coptis.
"Do you recognize this? And do you know its price?"
The farmers nodded.
"That is Coptis from Shizhu Huangshui. A precious medicinal herb. City merchants buy it at very high prices. Dozens of times more expensive than rice. But it is extremely difficult to cultivate."
Zhao Sheng smiled.
"Exactly."
And in that single word, the old order of farming quietly began to tremble.