Fertilizing the Future and Wedding Vows
In the early days of the fourth month of Guanghe 7 (184 AD), while Father mulled over my proposal, I decided to try making compost. I'd gotten advice from an old farmer and somehow borrowed a book on farming techniques. I prepared plenty of manure, ash, bran, rice straw, and perilla cake—enough for the first experiments. For now, I'd mix these five ingredients in different ratios and test various compost blends.
The manure smelled worse than I'd expected, but since the servants would handle the mixing, it wasn't an issue.
"I hope all this effort pays off."
"Young master, you've never wasted your time before, so I'm sure this will work too."
"A chicken doomed for the ax keeps pecking at feed, thinking tomorrow's the same."
I sighed and grumbled. The servant tried to comfort me in his own way, but it fell short.
Originally, I hadn't considered compost because I didn't want the hassle. I only vaguely knew the basics of making and using it—nothing about ratios.
How are we supposed to feed the righteous army?
But Father's question had hit like a thunderbolt. We were barely scraping by to feed our escorts as it was; recruiting a thousand more men was impossible without solving this. To keep the plan alive, I'd wracked my brains and come up with compost. Of course, we'd need meaningful results within four years to properly assemble the force.
If only I'd asked Grandfather about the ratios back then.
I'd asked about production and application methods, so why skip the ratios? I silently berated my past self.
"So, we'll use eleven ridges in the field?"
"Yes. One ridge with the baseline mix, five ridges each doubling one ingredient, and five halving one—eleven total."
To minimize chance, each ridge would get one compost type. That meant each pile had to be at least two chi high. We'd mature the compost before winter, spread it in spring, and check results. It'd be a multi-year experiment, so I resolved to be patient.
In the eleventh day of the early fourth month of Guanghe 7 (184 AD), Father said we'd think slowly about my plans since compost was key to building the army. But he agreed to expand the escorts for future instructors—a solid gain.
"Myeong."
Father called me after our talk, his voice different from usual.
"I'm thinking of giving you your zi. Any prior arrangements?"
"None, Father."
I looked at him puzzled. A zi—courtesy name—was usually given around age twenty. Why now?
Reading my face, Father smiled faintly and explained.
"Your talents could contend with the world's heroes. You'll meet many famed scholars soon. I want them calling you by the name our family gives you."
"It's only right to receive it from you—how could I promise it to another? I'll take whatever you bestow."
"Good. Then your zi shall be 'Xiaoming.' Linked to your given name."
Xiaoming. It meant "small wisdom" or "a modest bright light." Fitting—not too grand, not lacking.
I thanked him, and he said he was glad it pleased me.
On the eighth day of the early eleventh month of Zhongping 1 (184 AD), Father returned from Jing Province after three months of trade. Zhu Jun had mopped up the Yellow Turbans there, so no issues. As planned, escorts grew by eighty, enough weapons to arm a hundred. The chaos had flooded the market with guards and gear—my prediction spot-on.
"Did you two lay the groundwork well?"
"Yes, Father. Brother and I finished all preparations. Just need the documents."
Father looked pleased at Eldest Brother's reply.
Our groundwork targeted families ruined by the Yellow Turbans. Most merchant houses had suffered losses. Those who'd dodged rebels recovered somewhat, but those who'd lost caravans faced ruin. We'd lend them money in exchange for connections and trade routes. Harsh terms, but we were their lifeline—they accepted.
"Well done. Our trade network will double."
Father planned to visit them tomorrow for seals. We'd perfectly kicked off doubling the family.
On the fifth day of the eleventh month of Zhongping 1 (184 AD), the Yellow Turban leadership crumbled before winter. Dong Zhuo, holding Luoshi, lost to them and missed wiping out the top brass. But Huangfu Song led imperial forces again, smashing their base at Guanzhu. Who'd have thought Dong Zhuo, successful in Xiliang, would falter? Maybe he feigned defeat to preserve his army.
Zhang Jiao was posthumously dismembered. Rumors said troops exhumed him, cut off his head, and displayed it in Nanyang. The big leaders were gone, but remnants scattered everywhere, roots unbroken. Original hordes were vast; each splinter numbered thousands to tens of thousands. Many would freeze, but come spring, they'd swell again. Trade routes might lengthen next year. Still, with escorts bolstered, we wouldn't be sitting ducks.
On the fourteenth of the twelfth month of Zhongping 1, Father first broached marriage talks. Delayed from early year by Yellow Turbans, he explained.
"Candidates I've scouted. Take a look."
All were higher-status families than ours. He'd arrange matches once weather warmed—but would they accept?
"As long as it benefits the family."
"I'll find a perfect match, don't worry."
Father said that, but could love bloom in political marriage? Neither he nor Brother seemed deeply affectionate.
On the seventh of the fourth month of Zhongping 2 (185 AD), a matchmaker arrived via spring-thawed roads. From a Ho clan in Taishan Commandery, Yanzhou—the youngest daughter, two years my junior. A family with a Master of Writing—why us?
The wedding was five months out, families aligning dates. Father busied with dowry; Brother handled trade. I studied rites at home, no time for else.
With four weeks to the wedding on the twenty-first of the eighth month of Zhongping 2, I practiced firing the repeating crossbow from horseback. Rites memorized, no objections.
"Tch. Tricky."
Stationary shots hit well from practice. But trotting or galloping? Accuracy plunged below ten percent. Horseback repeater drills for a while.
Improved trigger protected my thumb.
On the twenty-fourth of the eighth month of Zhongping 2, I checked the compost fields. Servants had reported, but I wanted eyes on harvest.
"It definitely works, just varies by mix. Need finer ratios."
"You've done well. I'll reward the extra labor."
The eleven ridges grew unevenly. Most composted ones outpaced controls, but some lagged, others fruited poorly despite early growth. Post-harvest yields would pinpoint ratios. Next year, quarter-unit tweaks. Solid start from bare dirt.
On the seventeenth of the ninth month of Zhongping 2, to meet the wedding date, our procession set off to the bride's family. Surreal—I was really getting married.
Dawn woke me early; servants helped don ceremonial robes. No Jojo-level pressure, but nerves persisted. Deep breaths eased me briefly.
At sunrise, we headed to the bride's house. Heart pounded harder as we neared.
Crossing the gate, red silk welcomed the groom—me.
Around noon, I met the bride. Escorted in splendid robes, she lifted her head. I forgot to breathe.
A beauty from my past life's magazines stood before me. Her skin glowed like white jade, black pearl eyes captivating. Rose-red lips, perfect nose and chin. Red silk accentuated her slender figure. Current beauty standards differed—irrelevant. She was my ideal devoted wife.
With little experience, I'd have gawked. I reined in my wits, completed rites flawlessly. Father later confirmed no mistakes.
Post-ceremony, Wife and I attended the feast. Exotic foods and wine filled tables nonstop.
I offered her pheasant; she nibbled daintily.
"Delicious."
Hand over mouth—heart-melting.
Guests mingled, toasting the union. Subtle alliance talks, not overt at the wedding.
Nearing end, Father-in-law approached.
"Son-in-law, take good care of her."
"No worries. I'll be her eternal pillar."
He nodded approval.
"Father-in-law, may I ask something?"
"Of course. Speak."
I voiced my long curiosity.
"Our house seems lesser than yours—why accept this match?"
Local prominence couldn't match a Master of Writing family. Marriages aligned equals, even with gains.
He smiled.
"Heard from Jo Mengde. You sniped an enemy general from a hundred paces—destined for greatness."
I started to protest but stopped. Couldn't recall anyone praising others while downplaying me.
Feast over, we retired to the bridal chamber. Red silk and finery everywhere. Facing her, marriage sank in. Felt grounded from the clouds.
"I may fall short often, but I'll be an honest husband, nothing to shame you."
To my lifelong partner, raw feelings poured—words honed since the feast.
"I'll do my best too."
The wedding night deepened our bond. Her sensitive side was a delightful discovery.