Within the Imperial Study, the faint scent of burning ambergris incense drifted softly through the air.
The fragrance was exceedingly light.
Yet it pressed down heavily upon one's shoulders.
Shen Zhongcheng stood before the imperial desk, slightly bowed, his gaze fixed upon the tips of his boots. His posture was respectful, his demeanor composed and steady.
He had just presented that memorial and now waited quietly, without uttering a single word.
Behind the desk.
The elderly emperor opened the memorial.
What met his eyes was the neat, standard calligraphy of the court script—every stroke written with utmost care, no erasures, no sloppiness. Even this handwriting alone inspired goodwill.
The old emperor’s gaze shifted from the script to the content of the memorial.
Then.
His brow furrowed slightly.
Not from displeasure, but from the unconscious, incredulous tightening of a person encountering something beyond the ordinary.
What the memorial described was a material never before heard of.
It was called cement.
This substance was made from ordinary materials such as limestone, clay, and iron ore slag.
It underwent processes of crushing, proportioning, calcination, and grinding to become a powder. When mixed with water and stirred, it formed a slurry that could be used to lay brick and stone or coat walls.
Once set, it hardened like rock—impervious to water, unyielding to sun and cracking.
Used to build dikes, it could withstand flood erosion; used to pave roads, it could bear the weight of heavy carts; used to construct city defenses, it could resist swords, fire, and water.
Its cost was less than one-tenth that of glutinous rice mortar.
Its method required no rare treasures or skilled artisans—ordinary craftsmen following the recipe could produce it in large quantities.
The second half of the memorial also included trial production records from the estate: standards for selecting raw materials, specific ingredient ratios, calcination firing times and temperatures, inspection results for the finished product, and the water-to-clinker ratio after grinding.
Finally, there was a simple diagram showing the structure of a lime kiln.
Clear and complete.
Thorough and intelligible.
The old emperor’s gaze lingered on the memorial for a long time. His fingers pinched the edge of the document, his knuckles turning slightly white—evidence of excessive pressure.
The Imperial Study fell silent.
So silent that one could hear the faint crackling of the ambergris incense burning slowly in the censer, the low murmur from some distant palace beyond the window, and his own heartbeat—steady, yet forceful.
The old emperor closed the memorial.
He looked up.
And fixed his gaze on Shen Zhongcheng.
Those eyes, etched by the passing years, carried interrogation, scrutiny, and a barely restrained surge of excitement held in check by imperial dignity and decades of self-cultivation. It did not show on his face, but the light beneath that gaze could not be hidden.
"Minister Shen," the old emperor spoke, his voice not loud yet each word falling distinctly within the study, "is this matter genuine?"
These four words were asked with great gravity.
Not in doubt, but in confirmation.
Confirming that what the memorial described was not empty theory, exaggeration, or polished rhetoric crafted to curry favor.
"This matter is of great importance; I would not dare speak recklessly." Shen Zhongcheng bowed, his voice steady, each word firm and resolute.
"The formula and method for cement recorded in the memorial have been repeatedly tested by craftsmen."
"The finished product is ready—solid and usable. If Your Majesty wishes to verify, I can immediately arrange for samples to be brought and tested on the spot. If there is any falsehood, I am willing to accept the penalty for deceiving the sovereign."
Perhaps because the secret formula recorded extremely detailed steps for each procedure, firing times, and precise ingredient ratios—
Or perhaps because the rewards Pei Cijing had promised were too generous.
Ten taels of silver per person—a substantial sum for an ordinary household’s expenses—if they could produce something meeting expectations, stacks of silver would fall into their pockets.
The craftsmen’s eyes were reddened.
Not from fatigue.
From seeing hope, burning bright with fervor.
Thus, three lime kilns burned day and night without pause. The craftsmen worked in two shifts, pulling bellows with whooshing gusts, the kiln fires ablaze with bright red heat, turning the night sky over the estate into a deep orange glow.
In just over ten days.
The first batch of cement was retrieved from the kilns.
When it was ground into powder, mixed with water, and formed into solid blocks, the foreman in charge of the trials held that gray lump—his hands trembling.
What followed.
Pei Cijing and Shen Ninghuan did not handle themselves.
This substance was no small matter—not the income from a few shops, not the trade of a few bolts of silk. It concerned river works, city defenses, roads, waterways—something that could shift the very foundation of the Great Qian dynasty.
This merit was too heavy to bear alone!
So the young couple conferred and decided to report it to their elders for handling by those with higher standing.
Ultimately, after discussions between both families, it was agreed: Shen Zhongcheng would present it to the throne.
For one, he had only recently assumed his post as Minister of Personnel.
Although imperial favor was strong, nothing in the court was ever set in stone—an additional achievement would solidify his position.
Second, while Marquis Weiyuan Pei Fucheng had the right to an audience, dealing with the old emperor was better left to Shen Zhongcheng. Having spent most of his life as a civil official, he understood this sovereign’s temperament, thoughts, and taboos better than anyone—planning through him was more prudent.
Third, it was fitting for an elder father-in-law to scheme for his fortunate son-in-law.
And so today’s audience came to pass.
The old emperor lifted his gaze from the memorial and glanced down at Shen Zhongcheng kneeling below.
Shen Zhongcheng maintained that honest, upright demeanor, his face showing no trace of cunning—like a straightforward minister who only buried his head in work and never played tricks.
A light chuckle arose in the old emperor’s heart.
This Shen Zhongcheng.
He would not dare lie in such matters.
Cement was either real or fake—verifying it was simple. Send someone to the estate, take material on site, mix it on the spot—truth or falsehood would be clear in a glance.
If he claimed it hardened like rock after setting, take a piece and strike it with an iron hammer—if it shattered, it was fake; if it didn’t, it was real. If he said it would not soften in water, soak it for three days—if it rotted, it was false; if it remained intact, it was true.
The crime of deceiving the sovereign—not even a prince could bear it, let alone a Minister of Personnel. Shen Zhongcheng was not foolish enough for that.
But those little schemes in his heart—did he truly think the emperor could not see them?
Suddenly, the old emperor recalled something.
Just a few days prior, the Chancellor of the Hanlin Academy, Zhao Wenxuan, had submitted a memorial to him. Its content was a revised disaster response strategy covering early warning, mobilization, and resettlement as an integrated three-part system—forming a complete, actionable mechanism for flood response.
He had read that strategy carefully. From how warning signals were relayed to planning evacuation sites and delineating each office’s duties—the logic was clear, layer by layer, not empty grandiloquence but practical, implementable measures.
At the time, he felt that this strategy had been crafted exceptionally well. Zhao Wenxuan, that old fellow, though usually unassuming in his ways, was thorough in his work as it turned out.
Later, Zhao Wenxuan made a point in his memorial to mention that the initial concept of this strategy had been proposed by the new tanhua, Compiler of the Hanlin Academy Pei Cijing, during his work revising the "Comprehensive Commentary on the Waterways of the Great Qian Dynasty." It was later finalized through the collective wisdom of the entire Hanlin Academy.
Pei Cijing.
This name was not unfamiliar to the old emperor.
Shen Zhongcheng's son-in-law.
The tanhua he had personally appointed in this year's palace examination.
Nineteen years old.
The policy essay delivered during the court exam, which opened with the line, "When circumstances are difficult, change; when change is possible, progress; when progress is made, endurance follows," was sharp and bold, brimming with courage and insight. He had thought then that the young man showed promise, which was why he awarded him the tanhua position.
Now, only a few days into his tenure at the Hanlin Academy, he had again uncovered insights from dry archives that others had missed, proposing a strategy beneficial to both the nation and its people.
As the old emperor studied the strategy, he silently nodded to himself, feeling that Shen Zhongcheng's son-in-law was indeed a talent—someone who harbored ambition for the Great Qian Dynasty, filled with the vigor and drive of youth.
But then,
No sooner had Zhao Wenxuan left
than Shen Zhongcheng came seeking an audience, presenting this memorial concerning cement. And the original formula for this cement had also been discovered by Pei Cijing by chance.
The strategy was his proposal, and the cement was also his.
Shen Zhongcheng's timing was impeccable.
Neither too early nor too late.
This was clearly an attempt to combine them, to present them together for credit.
Nevertheless, the old emperor did not feel any resentment. Not because Shen Zhongcheng's machinations were particularly clever—on the contrary, these little schemes were as transparent to him as a child hiding candy, seen through with a single glance.
The reason he wasn't annoyed was that beneath those small tricks lay solid achievements.
Not flattery, not factionalism, but two substantial, concrete contributions that benefited the nation and its people.
The strategy could stabilize the state, offering people a lifeline in times of disaster.
Cement was even more useful, not just for flood control—fortifying cities, building roads, and constructing bridges each could benefit from it, each could make the foundation of the Great Qian that much stronger.
His son-in-law, a nineteen-year-old, had only been at the Hanlin Academy for a few days and had already produced two accomplishments worthy of being recorded in history.
These accomplishments were not born from boastfulness or conjured through connections—they were solidly, bit by bit, achieved through real effort.
Reward those who contributed.
Employ those with talent.
Having sat on the dragon throne for all these years, the old emperor considered himself judicious in matters of reward and punishment. He was neither a miser nor a fatuous ruler who couldn't stand his ministers surpassing him.
"Minister Shen," he began, his tone layered with emotion, admiration, and even a hint of the familiarity that Minister Shen could clearly hear, "You truly have a fortunate son-in-law."
When these words were spoken, the corner of Shen Zhongcheng's mouth lifted slightly.
The Emperor's words were not a veiled warning or a test—they were a sincere, heartfelt compliment, not a counterattack or sarcasm.
He truly believed Pei Cijing was a fine piece of jade.
Shen Zhongcheng's voice remained steady, but beneath that steadiness, he carefully concealed a touch of appropriate humility: "Your Majesty flatters him."
The old emperor waved a hand, his gaze settling on Shen Zhongcheng, his tone still carrying that note of emotion: "I am not flattering him at all, Minister Shen. You needn't be modest about your son-in-law for his sake. At this age, to have this vision, these ideas, this magnanimity..."
He paused, and his tone grew more serious: "Your son-in-law is a raw jade. Minister Shen must take care to polish it well."
Shen Zhongcheng bowed again, his voice more solemn than before: "Your servant shall heed Your Majesty's instruction. I will devote myself to guiding him, ensuring he serves Your Majesty and the country with loyalty, and lives up to Your Majesty's expectations."
The old emperor nodded, a satisfied expression forming on his face.
He withdrew his gaze, gently tapping the imperial desk with his fingers. "Send a sample of the successfully tested cement to me as soon as possible. I want to see it with my own eyes, to see if it truly becomes as hard as stone and resists softening when soaked in water, as the memorial claims."
He paused, his tone taking on a subtle gravity: "If it proves true, this substance should be promoted to all prefectures without delay, benefiting the nation and the people for a thousand years of merit. Minister Shen, you have recommended a fine thing for the court that serves both the country and its people."
Shen Zhongcheng bowed yet again, his voice composed: "Your servant awaits Your Majesty's command."
He hesitated briefly, weighing his words, then added, "The cement sample is already prepared and awaiting outside the palace. If Your Majesty wishes to inspect it, it can be sent in at any time."
Upon hearing this, the old emperor's brow twitched slightly, and understanding dawned within him. That Shen Zhongcheng had truly prepared everything with flawless detail—even the sample was ready, waiting for him to utter the words.
Quite good.
Quite good.
The old emperor said no more, simply nodded slightly and raised his hand: "You may leave."
Shen Zhongcheng rose to his feet, keeping a bent posture, retreating step by step toward the door, then turning and stepping over the threshold of the Imperial Study.
The doors closed behind him with a soft thud, sealing inside the chamber the lingering scent of dragon incense and the weight of imperial authority.
He stood under the eaves.
A spring breeze brushed his face.
Carrying a few petals blown in from the imperial garden.
Shen Zhongcheng straightened his robes and strode briskly away from the palace, his steps neither hurried nor slow, each one planted firmly and steadily.
The old emperor had not explicitly mentioned what rewards would come.
Shen Zhongcheng did not ask.
In the relationship between sovereign and subject, some words need not be spoken too plainly.
His fortunate son-in-law, Pei Cijing, likely wouldn't see too rapid a promotion. He was too young—a nineteen-year-old tanhua, in office less than a month. If promoted too quickly, he would invite jealousy, and that would not be a good thing.
A tree that stands out in the forest is bound to be torn apart by the wind.
This principle.
The Emperor understood it better than he did.
Most likely, it would be just one rank upgrade—from a formally ranked seventh-grade Compiler of the Hanlin Academy to a deputy sixth-grade Senior Compiler of the Hanlin Academy.
If the goal were solely to raise his rank, the cement matter could have been delayed a few years, letting Pei Cijing solidify his footing at the Hanlin Academy and accumulate seniority. Then submitting the report upward, the credit for the cement might have warranted two additional promotions or more.
But some accounts were not so simply calculated.
A year's earlier promotion of cement meant the Great Qian's dikes could be reinforced a year earlier, roads could be built a year earlier, and city defenses could be fortified a year earlier.
This was a matter of great benefit to the nation and its people.
One day earlier.
Meant countless more lives could be saved.
In matters of such fundamental importance, quibbling over one's own official rank was a loss of greater principle. Besides, this time, Pei Cijing had clearly won the sovereign's favor.
The Emperor's words—"raw jade," "polish it well"—with all his decades of experience navigating the court's tides, Shen Zhongcheng could certainly discern the weight behind those phrases.
In the eyes of the old emperor, Pei Cijing.
Had already carved his mark.
And profoundly so.
That was far more valuable than rank or position.
Ranks could be earned slowly. Merits could be steadily accumulated. But sovereign favor—that was something that couldn't be sought, only happened by chance.
How many officials rose and fell on the tides of court, their names never fully remembered by the Emperor, let alone meriting such earnest instructions to the Minister of Personnel to "polish him well"?
The Emperor was telling him to nurture Pei Cijing with care.
That boy.
He was lucky.
Furthermore, while some rewards may not fall to the fortunate son-in-law himself, they will inevitably be compensated to those close to him—such as his parents, wife, and children. Those in higher positions will not allow anyone to suffer a loss.
