In reality, the Emperor had done only two things: adjusting the names of academic disciplines and reducing their content. Lu Zhongmao thought that academic fields also needed to be marketed effectively. If subjects like water management and architecture were lumped together and called “Miscellaneous Studies,” the very character “miscellaneous” would deter many aspiring scholars. The Emperor’s decision to rename “Miscellaneous Studies” as “Principles Studies” seemed, at first glance, arbitrary. However, the more he reflected on it, the more fitting the name appeared – the single character “理” (principle) carried a profound sense of encompassing the universe.
If Lu Zhongmao had known the truth, she would have realized that Wen Yanran’s decision to change “Miscellaneous Studies” to “Principles Studies” had nothing to do with intellectual refinement but was simply a continuation of her pre-transmigration naming habits.
Moreover, the significant streamlining of educational content also made it easier for ordinary people to get started. At present, only the gentry clans could pass down classical learning through their lineages, and many of them treasured their own knowledge so much that even if their clan lacked a suitable heir, they would never deign to impart their family’s canonical texts to those of lowly status. Now, by having the imperial court provide only rudimentary education to the common folk, the monopoly on knowledge held by these great clans remained unaffected, thereby naturally reducing resistance to its implementation.
Wen Jishan wiped the sweat from his brow. “When Her Majesty summoned me to the palace, she specifically instructed that the total number of pages in the books used in the village schools must not exceed ten, and preferably be written on just two or three sheets of paper.”
In his view, such extreme brevity could no longer be called streamlining; it was outright oversimplification. Even if the village students memorized every single word on those pages, what kind of real skills could they possibly acquire?
Lu Zhongmao, however, shook her head. “It is precisely this that makes it effective. With content confined to two or three sheets of paper, no matter how numerous the individual pieces of knowledge, the total is limited – even the dull-witted can commit it to memory.” Then she raised a question that, at first glance, seemed unrelated to the matter at hand. “I have often wondered how Xuanyangzi, that man, managed so easily to gain the trust and allegiance of hundreds of thousands.”
Undoubtedly, a large part of the reason was the people’s desperate circumstances; with lives of hardship, they had no choice but to place their hopes in a charlatan. But another part was the sheer simplicity and directness of Xuanyangzi’s methods of persuasion. He did not bolster his claims with classical quotations or historical precedents. Instead, he bluntly declared himself a descended immortal, chosen by heaven’s mandate. The simpler a slogan, especially one tinged with the mystical, the easier it is for people to believe.
The fact that Dian Wue, after rising in rebellion, could, within a short span, inspire simultaneous uprisings across several provinces in the east – killing officials and seizing territory – proved that Xuanyangzi had, in his time, unknowingly grasped a formidable power. Had that man been shrewder, had he not been seduced by the authority of the Great Zhou and abandoned his thoughts of seeking office through orthodox means in favor of plotting outright rebellion, the crisis in the east might well remain unresolved to this day.
Lu Zhongmao had already begun to consider that, in compiling legal textbooks, they could emulate Xuanyangzi’s example by making the content concise and straightforward. For instance, they could directly tell the common people that only the Great Zhou held the mantle of legitimate rule, repeatedly emphasize the authority of the imperial court, and then append a few simple, easily understood points aligned with social morality – such as prohibitions against murder, arson, and brawling – thereby using this to pacify the localities.
Wen Jishan asked, “But what if among those village school students there are exceptionally gifted individuals…”
“This,” Lu Zhongmao replied, “is precisely why the Emperor has arranged for members of prominent families like the Li clan of Jianzhou to serve in the local village and official schools. If among the humble families there appears a person of remarkable talent, would these great houses not seize the opportunity to take them on as students and provide them with meticulous instruction?”
In years past, the Marquis of Quanling, Wen Jinming, had also united officials of humble origins under his banner. If doing so could effectively strengthen their own power, the great families were not entirely incapable of adapting. Especially now that families like the Li clan had already received severe reprimands from the Emperor on matters of principle, any ambition to rise again would necessarily require them to adopt a pragmatic approach.
Lu Zhongmao took a sip of tea to moisten her throat before continuing, “Moreover, since the content in the books is so brief, producing those textbooks becomes much easier. Otherwise, merely preparing them would drag on for a year or even several years – our emperor is truly a pragmatist.”
The Great Zhou had stood for centuries, and during that time, more than one insightful figure had recognized the difficulty of disseminating knowledge, yet none had been able to fundamentally solve the problem. Ultimately, it came down to the exorbitant cost of books – woodblock printing had not yet been invented, and texts were circulated solely through manual transcription. Papermaking technology, too, remained under monopoly. Here in Jianzhou, the paper used for official purposes was still relatively supple, but further out, some households still resorted to bamboo slips.
If the content of books could be made extremely concise, it would, to some extent, alleviate these issues.
Lu Zhongmao said with a smile, “Furthermore, I have been pondering another matter. The four subjects currently established, in their order of precedence, are Classics, Law, Agricultural Texts, and Principles Studies – why would Her Majesty place the Classics first?”
Wen Jishan hesitated, on the verge of speaking but stopping himself. He had nearly corrected the other man, pointing out that the ordering of these four subjects was actually their own doing and had nothing to do with the Emperor. However, he quickly realized that the reason they had arranged them this way traced back to Her Majesty’s earlier establishment of the Talent Selection Examination, in which the very first subject tested was the Classics. So, in the final analysis, what Lu Zhongmao said was correct – it was the Emperor herself who had placed the Classics first; her ministers had merely discerned the sovereign’s intent and followed suit.
Lu Zhongmao continued, “The primary reason, naturally, is that the classics contain profound truths in subtle words, embodying the very principles of the world. The second reason is that when we compile the textbooks, we need only select important chapters and passages, without having to write them ourselves. Once the selections are finalized, we can first distribute these textbooks to various regions, and then proceed to determine the content for Law, Agricultural Texts, and Principles Studies. This way, the village schools can begin their instruction without delay.”
Currently, aside from institutions like the Imperial Academy, where each subject is taught by a different instructor, in all other private schools, a single teacher is responsible for multiple subjects simultaneously. Lu Zhongmao’s idea was to first have those village school teachers instruct the Classics, and by the time they finished teaching them, the subsequent textbooks here in Jianping should also be compiled.
At this point, Wen Jishan finally spoke a sentence befitting his position as Chencellor. “The texts to be studied should naturally be selected from the Stone Classics.”
Within the Imperial Academy, there are many stone steles inscribed with classical texts, known as the Stone Classics. These are important works that have been screened by great Confucian scholars and hold a pivotal status.
Lu Zhongmao chuckled, “Naturally. After the New Year, the Imperial Academy students should also be returning. Let’s first decide which texts should be taught, and then we can have them help with copying the books.” He added, “However, a single village might have tens of thousands of students – relying solely on manual copying would likely be far too slow.”
Wen Jishan suggested, “Why don’t we submit a memorial to Her Majesty, requesting silk and large sheets of paper from the imperial stores? We could first make several hundred rubbings from the Stone Classics and distribute them to various regions. After all, the village school initiative hasn’t yet been implemented nationwide, so there’s no immediate need to accumulate too many textbooks.”
Although woodblock printing had not yet been invented in this era, the technique of ink-squeeze rubbing was already sufficiently mature.
Since Wen Jishan had limited the number of rubbings to fewer than a thousand, he had essentially only considered the textbooks needed for teachers in the vicinity of Jianzhou; students were not counted in this estimate. This was a common practice – some individuals from humble backgrounds, constrained by their circumstances, were unable to access proper paper and brush, and could only practice writing characters with twigs in the sand. Only those with exceptional talent might catch their teacher’s eye and receive some assistance.
Lu Zhongmao replied, “Then let us proceed according to your proposal.”
As the youngest Erudite of the Imperial Academy present, Chu Sui had spent most of her time listening quietly on the sidelines. It was only at this moment that she rose and respectfully bowed to Lu Zhongmao. “I thank you, Erudite Lu. If not for your guidance today, how could this junior have come to understand Her Majesty’s profound intentions!”
Wen Jishan also bowed, moved to tears of genuine gratitude. The current emperor’s depth of strategy was too great, her actions interconnected in intricate ways. Had he been left to his own devices, he doubted he could have grasped matters so comprehensively.
The New Year holiday had just ended, and the various ministries and offices had barely resumed their work when a joint memorial from Wen Jishan, Lu Zhongmao, and Chu Sui landed on the Emperor’s desk.
Wen Yanran casually glanced over it, noticed a line requesting “silk and large sheets of paper for printing texts,” and immediately summoned the Imperial Household official in charge of the imperial private treasury.
As someone who had ascended the throne immediately upon transmigrating, Wen Yanran possessed a significant blind spot in his understanding, one that few were aware of but which most certainly existed.
This was because her starting point in her official career was far too high, making it all too easy for her to lose sight of the actual conditions on the ground.
Wen Yanran lacked sufficient understanding of the hardships endured by the common people, yet none of the ministers around her realized this – firstly because, in this era, the gentry class possessed a natural tendency to overlook and disdain the common folk, and secondly because, ever since her ascension, the Emperor had demonstrated insight and judgment far surpassing that of a typical adult. Having been tempered by several rebellions, her ministers had gradually come to accept the notion that the Emperor was endowed by heaven with innate knowledge. Moreover, whenever issues concerning the people’s livelihood were raised at court, the Emperor’s responses were always sufficiently astute. Thus, they naturally fell into the misconception that there was nothing their sovereign did not understand.
The ministers, who had no concept of transmigration, could not possibly comprehend that Wen Yanran’s ability to make basic judgments on matters of state policy stemmed simply from having, during her school days, absorbed a certain amount of knowledge concerning the relationships between productive forces, social structures, and the contradictions inherent in ancient societies.
Just as she truly understood nothing of military affairs and therefore lacked even basic knowledge of cavalry equipment, Wen Yanran, as someone whose daily life involved little more than coming into contact with courtly tributes, also lacked a correct understanding of the current society’s technological level. Consequently, upon seeing the phrase “for printing texts,” she logically and erroneously concluded in her mind that the Great Zhou already possessed the technology of printing.
Since her ministers were diligently working, as their sovereign, Wen Yanran naturally had to resolve their resource problems for them. As soon as the Imperial Household official arrived, she ordered Hou Suo to cooperate with Lu Zhongmao and the others in carrying out their tasks.
Wen Yanran instructed Hou Suo, “Since there is to be book printing, Minister Hou, you shall prepare ample quantities of silk and paper. The rest, such as wooden printing blocks and ink, are also to be provided by the Imperial Household. Given the strenuous efforts of Minister Lu and his colleagues, the Imperial Household must not be overly frugal in its dealings.”
Her words carried that unique, unwavering certainty of an emperor – when assigning tasks, skipping the stage of asking whether something could be done, and moving directly to the step of instructing people on what to do.
Upon hearing this, Hou Suo immediately bowed deeply and gave his full assent. Naturally, he had no idea what the Emperor meant by “wooden printing blocks,” but as a palace official whose professional duty was to cater to the sovereign’s wishes, the Director was confident in his ability to devise whatever object Her Majesty required.
After leaving Western Yong Palace, Hou Suo wasted not a single moment and promptly proceeded to the Imperial Academy to consult with Lu Zhongmao and the others, bringing along a batch of silk and wooden boards.
Wen Jishan stared at the wooden boards, his expression one of utter bewilderment. “…What is the meaning of this?”
Hou Suo made no attempt to conceal anything and, in front of the three men, directly repeated the Emperor’s words verbatim.
After Hou Suo finished speaking, no one responded. Only a strange silence pervaded the room. Lu Zhongmao’s pupils contracted sharply, as if a hazy yet extraordinarily significant notion was taking shape in her mind.
This era already possessed stone classics, paper, and rubbing techniques. The gap to the invention of woodblock printing was, in truth, merely a single step away – a breakthrough that could come either early or late. Yet Wen Yanran, with a casual remark within the palace, had thrust this potential technological innovation, whose arrival might have been delayed to some unknown future date, directly before the craftsmen who represented the pinnacle of the Great Zhou’s technological capabilities.
Misunderstandings do not only arise in comment sections filled with playful memes; they can also emerge in the daily memorials and conversations between courtiers and sovereign.
Lu Zhongmao felt her mind begin to race. After all, she was advanced in years, and her body involuntarily swayed as he slumped into a chair as if collapsing. “I… I need to think this over further.”
Chu Sui’s expression turned grave. If even Erudite Lu needed to ponder something carefully, it must be exceedingly important.
According to their earlier line of thinking, they would use silk and large sheets of paper to make rubbings from stone steles, thereby reducing the workload of manual copying. Lu Zhongmao had inwardly lamented that the stone steles were so large that they necessitated the use of silk or large paper for rubbings, but it had never occurred to him that they could simply create a “new stele” of a more convenient size.
As for the material of this “new stele,” the Emperor had directly provided the answer – it should be made of wood.
Compared to stone, wood – being softer and lighter – was naturally much easier to carve. Moreover, as she pondered the term “wooden printing blocks,” the more she thought about it, the more she realized what an extraordinarily brilliant concept it was.
The exorbitant cost of books in the present age stemmed not only from the scarcity of suitable paper but also from the high cost of human labor. In an era without woodblock printing, books had to be copied by hand, and there were already few literate people in the world; even fewer were both literate and capable of transcription.
Yet once woodblock printing emerged, the majority of these problems could be directly resolved.
Lu Zhongmao’s gaze suddenly sharpened. Looking at Hou Suo, she spoke with solemn gravity, “It is not that we distrust you, Dirctor Hou, but this matter is of utmost importance…”
Hou Suo understood immediately upon seeing Lu Zhongmao’s expression. Without hesitation, he raised three fingers toward heaven and swore on the spot. “Rest assured, Erudite Lu. Matters commanded by the Sovereign – even if confronted by my own parents or children, I would not dare breathe a single word!”
As he spoke, he felt a faint flicker of confusion, a sense that he had uttered similar words before.
His excellent memory soon reminded Hou Suo of the source of this familiarity: back when he first learned that the emperor had designed the saddle and stirrups, he had sworn the same oath before General Zhong. Hou Suo believed that as long as he continued to hold his position, there would be plenty more opportunities to swear such oaths in the future.
In a private chamber, Chu Sui likewise raised three fingers toward heaven, declaring her allegiance. Wen Jishan followed suit, swearing the oath as well. Even though, as a member of the imperial Wen clan, his risk of being silenced was lower than that of ordinary officials, he dared not challenge the authority of the young sovereign in Western Yong Palace.
Having reached a consensus on their subsequent course of action, Lu Zhongmao and the others proceeded to deliberate on which classics should be included in the textbooks, while all technical matters were entrusted entirely to the Imperial Household Department.
To produce qualified wooden printing blocks, Hou Suo specifically summoned skilled artisans from the Imperial Household, a considerable number of whom were veterans retained from the time of Emperor Li.
The late emperor had delighted in constructing magnificent palaces and chambers, and among the craftsmen he employed, there were naturally many skilled in carving decorative patterns.
Even someone like Hou Suo, who was not particularly learned, could not help but marvel inwardly: carving patterns and carving blocks were, after all, similar skills, yet their effects were utterly different. To carve patterns for Emperor Li was merely to squander the people’s substance; to produce wooden printing blocks for the present emperor, however, was a deed of immeasurable merit, one that might even earn a place in history.
Hou Suo thought to himself: This, surely, is the aura of a sage ruler!
Having taken on this new assignment, Hou Suo threw himself into researching how to print books using wooden blocks. The craftsmen’s initial attempts ended in failure. Though they managed to print something, the characters on the paper were a complete mess, utterly illegible – at first glance, they could almost be described as possessing a postmodern, magical realist flair.
Failure might have discouraged others, but having grown accustomed to working under an emperor like Wen Yanran, Hou Suo instead felt emboldened to face all setbacks in his work. Rather than being rashly driven by frustration, he methodically directed the craftsmen to investigate not only the crucial printing blocks themselves, but also issues related to ink and paper, striving to resolve the matter as swiftly as possible to ease the court’s concerns.
If anyone in the realm lacked books and paper, it certainly would not be the Emperor. Precisely because of this, the master craftsmen of the Imperial Household, who possessed the most advanced techniques, had long lacked any motivation to innovate in papermaking. However, now that their superior had suddenly placed new demands on paper, many artisans who had long been idle eagerly rolled up their sleeves and plunged into the new research with enthusiasm.
Their fortunes were favorable. The two major wars fought since the Emperor’s accession had not lasted long, and the wealth lost in battle had been partially replenished from the local powerful clans. For now, the imperial treasuries remained relatively well-stocked. Moreover, taking advantage of the New Year festivities, various regions had sent numerous tributes, including plants such as hemp and bamboo. Having received the Emperor’s command “not to be overly frugal,” Hou Suo naturally increased investment, experimenting with various materials to develop new types of paper.
[System:
[Current content cannot be displayed], [Current content cannot be displayed], [Current content cannot be displayed]. Wish you a pleasant gaming experience.]
Wen Yanran, who was in the middle of reviewing memorials: “…?”
So what exactly was this system trying to show her? Had this shoddy interface malfunctioned again?
She set down her brush and stared at the prompt on the screen, falling into a momentary silence.
The new prompt did not linger for long. The characters, which had never been particularly bright to begin with, seemed almost disheartened as they rapidly faded away – in truth, the game panel had attempted to display the message, but no matter what it tried, it simply could not break through the censorship to show “[Papermaking] improved, [Woodblock Printing] emerged, current world [Culture] +5” in a place where the player could see it…
Wen Yanran dismissed the game panel. The system had always had issues like this popping up from time to time. As someone who had played quite a few games before transmigrating, she understood that such situations either indicated a bug in the game itself or that the censored content involved terminology deemed lacking in civilizational refinement. Considering that, at this stage, she hadn’t actually begun her reign as a tyrant, today’s sudden reprimand was likely related to the conclusion of the campaign in the eastern territories.
Aside from dispatching a massive army to sweep through and pacify Hengping County in one fell swoop, Wen Yanran felt that her most provocative action had been her unwavering stance – unyielding from start to finish – on the demolition of the fortified manors. This had undoubtedly severely impacted the interests of the powerful local clans in the east, forcing her inherently useless system to slap a bunch of asterisks over its notifications.
Wen Yanran knew that the groups most supportive of Great Zhou rule were the imperial clan, the aristocratic families, and the powerful local clans. By continually weakening the power of the latter, she was inciting their resentment. Should the realm become turbulent once more, these people would certainly not continue to submit to her authority; instead, they would seize the opportunity to rise again, becoming a key factor in shaking the very foundations of Great Zhou.
With this thought, she spread out a sheet of paper and began writing a letter to Tao Jia. He was a man who saw things through to the end. Although the fighting was over, because their forces had expanded their territory so rapidly, many fortified manors in Zhi Province, where Hengping County was located, remained undemolished. Tao Jia had stated that he would not lead his troops back to the capital until he had fully carried out the Emperor’s orders.
