This year, the entire Central Plains enjoyed a bumper harvest.
As the saying goes, war has a way of drawing out the full potential of a people.
Had the Central Plains still been united under a single dynasty, even ten consecutive years of sweet potato harvests in far-off Dragon City might never have reached the ears of the capital. The common folk would have had enough to scrape by, the officials and gentry would have gone on merrily drinking and listening to music, and that would have been called enlightened rule — a golden age of peace and prosperity.
Who would have bothered with the tiresome business of developing high-yield crops?
Better to keep the peasants hungry — hungry enough to suffer, but not quite hungry enough to die. Who could say what they might get up to on a full stomach? What if they stirred up trouble? Keep everyone scrambling for their next meal, and they'd have no energy left to think about anything else.
As for whether the emperor wanted a good harvest — well, go take that up with the emperor. What business was it of any self-respecting lord?
Let the music play and the dancing go on!
But things were different now. The Central Plains stood divided three ways, and all three powers lived in a state of constant, gnawing anxiety. The officials and administrators were busy lining their own pockets, yes, but they also wanted their own faction to grow wealthy and strong. Only then could their ill-gotten gains be kept safe. Otherwise, if someone came crashing through the gates one day, what would all that graft have been worth?
Just as every side had been studying the Wolf Soldiers' armor and scheming to replicate it, the sweet potato — that crop which had blessed Dragon City with abundance year after year — now caught everyone's attention.
Dragon City had always encouraged the planting of sweet potatoes, hoping that people everywhere might have enough to eat. So when the old imperial court came to negotiate a purchase, there was nothing to discuss: sold. The other two factions, aware of the awkwardness of approaching Dragon City directly, sent agents disguised as traveling merchants, claiming they wished to bring fine crops back to their home regions. Dragon City suspected as much but turned a blind eye. Let them buy — the price was fair enough.
And so it was that many places saw their own sweet potato harvests this year. To say the crop could feed all under heaven would be an exaggeration, but by next year, it would probably not be far from the truth. The day when most of the common people no longer went hungry was drawing near.
…
Dragon City had just finished absorbing the population it had previously purchased from the imperial court and was preparing to press forward and acquire more, when unwelcome news arrived.
Jinyi sat on the sofa in the reception room, brow furrowed. "So you're telling me the Prince of Fu has declared himself emperor — and torn up our prior agreement?"
Wen Jingran, Governor-General Wen, nodded with visible embarrassment. "I apologize, Mayor Jinyi. This was never my wish."
"Then tell me — you, Governor Lin, the Crown Prince — how much control do you actually have left?"
"Well... Qingjiang Prefecture is under Xuejin's management, that we can hold. But Linjiang Prefecture is another matter entirely..."
"After all, the court now has a new emperor."
Jinyi nodded slowly. "It seems someone has decided their wings are strong enough to fly on their own."
"I hear the court has raised a new army of fifty thousand men, equipped with modern weapons. No wonder they feel emboldened."
"Dragon City needs population — we'll simply continue sourcing people from the areas around Qingjiang Prefecture. By our estimates, there are at least a million common folk in that vicinity, conservative as that figure may be."
Wen Jingran shifted uncomfortably. "The new emperor — that is, the Prince of Fu — has ordered me, Governor Lin, and Xuejin to proceed to the new capital immediately to report for reassignment. He has also forbidden any further buying and selling of subjects."
"Forbidden purchases? Then we simply won't pay. Still — your position is rather delicate at the moment, isn't it? What do you intend to do?"
Governor-General Wen drew himself up with an air of righteous indignation. "The emperor still reigns! For the Prince of Fu to dare proclaim himself emperor is nothing short of treachery — a crime against heaven and ruler alike! We will not be going to the new capital to bow our heads before him!"
"The trouble is, the court's senior ministers have all thrown their support behind the Prince of Fu. There's little we can do against them."
"If you can't find a way, I'll find one for you. Issue an imperial edict — exactly as you just framed it — declaring him a traitor and rebel. Then seize as much land and population as you can and hold on tight."
"If it comes to a fight, so be it. Dragon City won't send troops, but we will be your steadfast backing. Go — with confidence."
Wen Jingran stared at the woman before him, momentarily speechless. Was she truly intent on splitting the imperial court a second time?
Was this woman no longer making any effort to disguise her ambitions?
He sighed inwardly. But then — after all his time in Dragon City, if the common people everywhere could live as they did here, what did the imperial court amount to in the end? And hadn't it been their own emperor who first raised the white flag?
And here he was now, risen to the post of Director-General of Prisons, drawing a Grade Seven salary — no, he'd been promoted again, Grade Nine now.
Old Wen had to admit: he envied it.
"Mayor Jinyi," he said, "I know what needs to be done."
Wen Jingran left Jinyi's office and had a brief word with Governor Lin, then spent considerable time in discussion with the Crown Prince. The Crown Prince let out a long, slow sigh, sought out his father, and expressed his own wish to contribute to the building of Dragon City.
Li Xuanji appeared pleased — whether genuinely or not was impossible to say.
Once again, he took up his brush in the name of emperor and began composing imperial edicts.
Three edicts in succession, condemning the Prince of Fu — his nominal younger brother — as a rebel and traitor, and demanding that he present himself to Dragon City to surrender and atone for his crimes.
Before long, the Prince of Fu's rebuttal spread across the realm.
He declared that his imperial elder brother had long been dead — killed, he claimed, at the hands of Dragon City. The court would seek vengeance. Dragon City was an enemy with whom they could never be reconciled. His words were absolute, leaving not a crack of room for negotiation.
Yet beneath the rhetoric, nothing moved.
The two sides traded blows in words, and all eyes turned to the five provinces south of the Great River to see which way they would fall.
In the end, three provinces aligned with the Prince of Fu — hardly surprising, since the court's senior ministers were entrenched there, and their students, protégés, and old connections naturally rallied to their banner.
Jiangxi and Yunnan-Guizhou fell in behind Governor-General Wen and Governor Lin. There was little choice: Wen and Lin were the top two figures in Jiangxi, and Dragon City sat right on the doorstep. Siding against them invited destruction.
Yunnan-Guizhou found itself in a still more awkward predicament. In its heart, it wished to stand with the Prince of Fu — but Jiangxi lay squarely in between. How was it supposed to get there, fly?
So it was that the realm, once divided three ways, now fractured into four — and very nearly five.