Morning light streamed through the window lattice of the duty office, casting slanted patches of shadow across the floor.
Administrator Wang stood in the middle of the room, having just finished assigning the task of revising the "Great Qian Water Classic Annotations." His gaze swept across the three men. Liu Zhixing's expression was calm, Chen Wangbei's demeanor focused, and Pei Cijing... well, he seemed to be listening attentively enough.
So he cleared his throat and added a few more remarks.
“There’s no rush with this matter,” Administrator Wang said, his tone flat but earnest, genuinely offering guidance. “Since this is your first assignment, better to go slowly and get it right. If there’s anything you don’t understand, feel free to come ask me.”
He paused, then added, “For the necessary files, go to the Library Pavilion to retrieve them. I’ll notify them in advance, so you can go whenever you need.”
The three men clasped their hands in unison. “Thank you, Administrator Wang.”
Administrator Wang gave a slight nod and turned to leave.
At the doorway, he paused, glancing back at the three—particularly the one who had corrupted the office's atmosphere, the tanhua scholar.
You’ve had it easy these past few days, haven’t you?
Enough tea drunk, enough books read, enough leisure enjoyed. Starting today, you three will truly understand that the Hanlin Academy’s salary isn’t earned without effort.
The faint sense of imbalance that had lingered in Administrator Wang’s heart finally dissipated, replaced by an indescribable satisfaction. He withdrew his gaze, stepped over the threshold, and gradually walked away.
The office fell silent for a moment.
Pei Cijing stared at the spot where Administrator Wang had disappeared, feeling that the look he’d given them carried some unspoken meaning. As if to say—your good days are over.
He turned his gaze back to share a glance with Liu Zhixing and Chen Wangbei.
None of them said much.
Since a task had been assigned, there was no point in delaying. As newcomers to the Hanlin Academy, their first official duty had to be done well—they couldn’t afford to be looked down upon.
“Let’s go,” Liu Zhixing said first, his tone as calm and detached as ever. “To the Library Pavilion.”
Chen Wangbei nodded, already flexing his wrists. Having been idle for so many days, he was eager to put his strength to use. Now that real work was at hand, he felt light and focused.
Pei Cijing walked at the back. He glanced back at the potted bamboo on the windowsill, then at the copy of "Unofficial Histories of the Former Dynasty" still unfinished on the shelf.
Farewell, leisurely days.
Farewell, times of getting paid while taking it easy.
He silently waved goodbye in his heart, then took a deep breath and strode forward to catch up.
The Hanlin Academy’s Library Pavilion stood in the northwestern corner of the courtyard.
It was a two-story brick-and-wood building, with gray walls and black-tiled eaves, its flying corners shaded by the thick foliage of several old locust trees. From a distance, it exuded a quiet, dignified atmosphere.
Pushing open the vermillion double doors, worn with flakes of lacquer, a gust of air mixed with the scents of ink, paper, and aged wood rushed out.
The smell was not overpowering, but it instinctively made you lower your steps.
And your voice.
Inside, the light was dim. On all walls, shelves rose as high as the rafters, packed neatly with countless files, classic texts, and atlases. Sunlight slanted in through high windows, falling on the yellowed spines and turning drifting dust motes into slow rivers of light.
The head of the Library Pavilion was a retired scholar in his sixties, surnamed Sun, known as Elder Scholar Sun.
He wore an old, faded robe and sat behind a desk near the entrance. In front of him lay an open, half-read ancient text, and in his hand, he held a magnifying bronze lens, squinting as he read, word by word.
Hearing footsteps, he looked up, his clouded eyes scanning the three men.
“What brings you here?” he asked, his voice husky but full of vigor.
Liu Zhixing stepped forward and clasped his hands. “We three are here on Administrator Wang’s orders to retrieve last year’s water administration files from all prefectures, along with past editions of the ‘Water Classic Annotations.’”
Elder Scholar Sun nodded, set down his copper lens, and slowly rose to his feet. He turned and walked deeper into the shelves.
His steps were slow.
But steady.
As if he could navigate this sea of books and scrolls blindfolded.
As he walked, he ran a finger lightly over the tightly packed spines, muttering to himself.
“Water administration files… last year’s… last year’s… here we are.”
He stopped before a row of shelves, reached up, and pulled down a thick stack of files, handing it to Chen Wangbei, who was standing behind him.
Chen Wangbei accepted it with both hands. The stack was heavy, but he held it firmly without even flinching.
Elder Scholar Sun moved to another shelf and did the same, pulling down more stacks and handing them to Liu Zhixing and Pei Cijing. Then came the past editions of the “Water Classic Annotations”—seven or eight thick volumes, each bound in deep blue hard covers, with labels on the spines marking the years.
Back and forth they went, making several trips.
Each of the three now carried a large load of files as they made their way back from the Library Pavilion.
As they walked down the bluestone path, passing colleagues looked at them sideways.
There they were—each with their chin resting on top of their pile, only half their faces visible, yet walking steadily in a line, like three squirrels clutching pinecones.
Back in the duty office, they dropped their stacks onto their desks.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Three heavy thuds echoed, and the room fell silent again.
Pei Cijing stared at the pile on his own desk, towering like a small mountain. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly. Liu Zhixing’s desk was similarly packed, so much so that his potted bamboo had been shoved to the corner of the windowsill. Chen Wangbei, on the other hand, remained unperturbed—he even reached out to straighten a crooked stack on top.
This was the work ahead of them.
Pei Cijing sat down at his desk and scanned the pile of files. He had a pretty good idea of what was going on.
This task.
It wasn’t complicated, to be honest.
The “Water Classic” had been written over a hundred years ago by Master Shuijing. It recorded the courses, currents, and hydrological details of all the rivers and lakes across the Great Qian Empire, along with advisory guidelines.
Essentially, it was the master plan for the empire’s waterways.
And what they were to produce—the “Great Qian Water Classic Annotations”—was meant to check that master plan against the actual water governance measures taken by each prefecture over the years, compiling the real results into a formal record.
In simpler terms.
The “Water Classic” was the overall blueprint; the “Annotations” were the project progress report.
Earlier scholars had already set the template. The format was fixed, the structure was predetermined. All they had to do was follow the set pattern, enter last year’s data under the appropriate headings, and attach a brief commentary.
The difficulty wasn’t high.
Not high at all.
But the problem was… Pei Cijing glanced at the sheer volume of files on his desk, then at the equally impressive sight on Liu Zhixing’s and Chen Wangbei’s desks.
He did a rough mental estimate.
There were at least over a hundred water administration files submitted by the various prefectures.
Each document had to be read carefully, with key data extracted—how many miles of embankment were built, how many sections of canals were dredged, how many floods occurred, how severe the disasters were, how much silver was used for relief—and then categorized and filled into the corresponding entries of the Water Classic Commentary.
The task was not difficult.
But it was tedious.
Extremely tedious.
What it required was meticulousness, patience, leafing through files one by one, extracting data entry by entry, copying word by word. There were no shortcuts to save time, no clever tricks to cut corners.
One could only gnaw through it honestly, bit by bit. Pei Cijing leaned back in his chair and stared at the pile of files for a moment.
Then he took a deep breath and gave himself a silent pep talk.
A true warrior could either laze at home like a salted fish or go to work and earn that meager salary to support the family.
Ganbatte!
Pei Cijing, you can do it!
He cheered himself on in his heart.
Then he sat up straight.
Liu Zhixing was already sorting through the files.
He moved them from their respective desks, organizing them by year and prefecture, stacking them neatly on the floor. Then he looked up at the other two.
"There are three of us. How about each handling a portion?"
Chen Wangbei nodded. "That’s how it should be."
Pei Cijing nodded as well.
The three of them crouched on the floor and divided the hundred-plus files into three piles.
It wasn’t a meticulous division down to the last detail—just roughly even. If one pile was a bit thick, they’d move a couple of rolls; if another was thin, they’d add one.
After all, they were colleagues working together, sharing the bond of being fellow degree-holders. Who did a little more or a little less wasn’t worth quibbling over.
Before long, the three piles were ready, each about the same thickness.
They each carried their own share back to their desks.
Liu Zhixing straightened up, dusted off his hands, and was about to return to his seat when he remembered something and turned around.
"One more thing," he said, his tone still calm and matter-of-fact. "After the Water Classic Commentary is revised, we’ll need to redraw the Great Qian waterway maps based on the previous version."
"This task..."
Before he could finish, Pei Cijing and Chen Wangbei’s hands reached out simultaneously.
Each took a portion of files from Liu Zhixing’s desk and placed them on their own, the movements crisp and decisive, as if rehearsed.
Liu Zhixing stared at his now-diminished stack, stunned for a moment.
Then he understood.
The two had their motives clear for all to see.
He pointed a finger at Pei Cijing, then at Chen Wangbei, his lips parting as if to speak, but for a moment, words failed him.
Bewildered amusement—that was probably how he felt.
Chen Wangbei scratched his head, a hint of embarrassment showing on his square, honest face, but beneath it lay a sense of righteous justification.
"Brother Liu," he began,his tone as earnest as could be. "Among the three of us, your painting skills are the finest."
He paused, then added, "This mapping work is beyond others. I hope you won’t refuse."
Listening nearby, Pei Cijing silently applauded Chen Wangbei.
Who said Chen Wangbei was bad with words?
Wasn’t this well said—reasonable, sincere, and touching?
So he nodded along, his expression even more earnest than Chen Wangbei’s, adding with just the right amount of admiration: "Brother Chen speaks truly. With Brother Liu’s skill in art, this waterway mapping task is yours alone. Please, Brother Liu, don’t turn it down."
Liu Zhixing looked at the two faces full of sincerity in front of him and couldn’t help twitching at the corners of his mouth.
Both of them were clearly just avoiding the most troublesome chore by pushing it onto him, yet they spoke as if it were a lofty mission meant only for him.
But he couldn’t dispute it outright.
Because among the three, he was indeed the best at painting.
The waterway map had to be both accurate and visually clear, and when submitted to the higher authorities, any sloppy distortions or imbalances would embarrass all three of them.
The minority yielded to the majority.
With two votes already against him, there was no point in refusing.
And besides... Liu Zhixing knew that drawing the map, though laborious, was also an opportunity to shine. When the entire revised Water Classic Commentary was presented, the most immediate and striking element would be that map.
The higher-ups would see at a glance how well it was drawn.
Effort brought reward.
He lowered his finger, shook his head helplessly, but a slight smile tugged at his lips.
"Forget it," he said, his tone carrying a mix of resignation and amusement. "Since you two insist, I’ll take the responsibility."
Pei Cijing and Chen Wangbei exchanged a glance, then bowed together. "Thank you, Brother Liu."
Liu Zhixing waved his hand, too tired to bother with them.
The division of labor was settled.
Each returned to their own desk, faced the mountain of files, and dove into the work.
The office fell silent.
Only the rustling of pages turning, the scratching of pens on paper, and the soft sway of bamboo stalks outside the window remained.
Pei Cijing didn’t start right away.
He leaned back in his chair, his gaze on the pile of files, but didn’t rush to open them.
First, Administrator Wang had said earlier that there was no urgency.
Without a strict deadline, there was no need to rush; he could work at his own pace, as long as he kept up with the overall progress and made no mistakes.
Second, he wanted to first look through the Water Classic book itself.
After all, their task was the Great Qian Water Classic Commentary. If he was ignorant of the Water Classic itself and just mechanically copied from the files, wasn’t that like walking with eyes closed—going wherever he stumbled?
He had to know what the "master plan" said first to understand what those water administration records really meant.
He pulled the Water Classic from the bookshelf.
The volume was thick, with a dark blue hardcover whose edges were worn and faded from countless readings. The cover bore two neat, regukar-script characters: "Water Classic."
This was the original printed edition by Master Shuijing from the Hanlin Academy library. The pages had yellowed, bearing the marks of time, but the text was well-preserved—clear characters, no missing sections.
He opened to the preface and started reading from the beginning.
Master Shuijing’s writing was plain, with little ornate flourish, but every word was earnest, as if speaking face-to-face with a reader.
The first half of the preface recounted his motivation for writing the book.
Master Shuijing said he grew up poor, living by a river. He witnessed floods raging every year—fertile fields turned into swamps, houses destroyed, people displaced and starving, bodies lining the roads. Grieving deeply yet helpless to change things, he made a vow: to travel the entire Great Qian, every inch of land, and record all the waterways, leaving a reliable foundation for future generations to manage flood control.
So he shouldered his pack and walked from the prime of his youth to the graying of his temples. Over forty years, his footprints covered the vast realm. Everywhere he went, he personally approached the riverbanks, measured the currents, recorded the hydrology, and visited the locals along the shores to inquire about the history of floods in the region.
“The dangers and hardships along the way are not worth speaking of to outsiders,” wrote Master Shuijing in the preface. With just this one sentence, he lightly glossed over more than four decades of wind and frost, rain and snow, and arduous treks over mountains and through rivers.
When Pei Cijing read this, he couldn’t help but feel a surge of profound respect.
So this is what the ancients meant by “establishing a destiny for the people.”
To spend an entire lifetime doing just one thing, and to perfect that singular pursuit—that is truly remarkable.
He continued reading.
The latter part of the preface consisted of Master Shuijing’s admonitions to future generations.
“Watercourses are not immutable things,” the old master wrote. “Mountains and valleys rise and fall; riverbeds silt up or burst; streams change their paths. The river of a decade is not the river of a century, and the waters of a century are not those of a millennium. Therefore, the way of managing rivers cannot cling rigidly to ancient methods, nor can it utterly abandon them.”
“The ‘Water Classic’ records what this old man has witnessed in his lifetime. But times shift and circumstances change. The waters of today may not be the waters I once saw. Those who come after should take the ‘Water Classic’ as their guideline, adapting measures based on actual conditions. They must never copy it mechanically. Otherwise, not only will it bring no benefit, but harm will follow.”
Pei Cijing nodded slightly.
This was spoken with clarity.
Water was alive, so the strategies for managing it must also be alive. To stubbornly hold onto century-old blueprints to manage today’s rivers would be no different from carving a mark on a moving boat to find a fallen sword.
He turned a page and continued.
“I have one more word for those who come after me.”
“The task of river management cannot be accomplished in one stroke, nor can it be solved once and for all. Let one period be five years. This prevents the toil of constant changes and the waste of labor and resources, while still allowing timely adjustments based on actual circumstances. When the five-year term ends, the entire plan must be reviewed—examine its results, investigate its successes and failures—before deciding on the strategy for the next period.”
“By circulating in this manner, generation after generation, floods can be controlled, water conservancy can flourish, and the people can dwell in peace.”
“Remember this. Remember it well.”
Pei Cijing’s gaze settled on the phrase “let one period be five years.”
And then.
He froze completely.
Five years per period. Review the entire plan. Examine results, investigate gains and losses, then decide the next phase’s strategy... this—this was precisely the Five-Year Plan.
Pei Cijing blinked.
Then blinked again.
He stared at those lines, reading them over and over, confirming that he had neither misread nor misunderstood.
Master Shuijing’s advice, in both concept and specific operational cycle, matched the “Five-Year Plan” from his previous world to a tee.
A thought arose unbidden from the depths of his mind.
This Master Shuijing...
Could he, too, like Pei Cijing himself, be a time-traveler?
No sooner had this thought emerged than a system prompt exploded in his mind.
[Ding! Successfully savored the gossip: “Shuijing is also a visitor from beyond the sky, two of you stranded in a strange land.” Gossip points +1234]
[Current gossip points: 27329]
Pei Cijing’s hand, holding the book, stiffened slightly.
What did it mean by “two of you stranded in a strange land”?
Was the system taking a dig at him?
It definitely had to be taking a dig at him, didn’t it?
He took a deep breath, suppressing that subtle sense of injury back into the depths of his heart, and lowered his head to look at the yellowed copy of the “Water Classic” in his hands, at the few lines left by Master Shuijing at the end of the preface.
So that was it.
A hundred years or so ago, there had been another person, just like him, who had inexplicably traveled from another world to this one. That person had no system, no cheat code—only a heart full of courage and two legs. And so he spent an entire lifetime, traversing the mountains and rivers of the Great Qian Empire, leaving behind this “Water Classic” to benefit future generations.
He had left behind not only the atlas of waterways but also wisdom that spanned the ages.
The Five-Year Plan.
Pei Cijing closed the book, placed it gently on the corner of the desk, setting it straight as a silent tribute. Then he withdrew his gaze and looked at the mountain of scrolls and documents before him.
Alright.
His predecessor had already blazed the trail.
What those who came after needed to do was simply follow this path and walk it steadfastly. Master Shuijing had spent a lifetime drawing a master blueprint. What they—all these people—had to do was to fill in that blueprint year by year, to pass it down from generation to generation.
This, then, was the very meaning of “annotating.”
Pei Cijing rolled up his sleeves, picked up the first file from the very top, untied its strings, and opened it.
Time to get to work!
