Not Bound by Trifles
After that day, Gongsun Yan stopped even calling the neighborhood kids and began working deep in the household with just a handful of children and family servants. This left the local children—who'd lost their snack supply—thoroughly disappointed, and a minor tension started brewing among the Ho clan kids who'd been following him. It was only natural that arguments would break out, with some wondering if they'd crossed a line with their bold opinions and offended the young master.
But this wasn't about Gongsun Yan trying to assert discipline by making them feel his absence, as they imagined. A 21st-century grown man with military service under his belt wasn't about to stoop to mind games with elementary-school-aged kids. No, he'd simply gained one major insight from Mu Baek's response that day.
"Yeon! Snacks!"
"I told you not to come 'cause it's dangerous, but here you are anyway. What snacks?"
"Snacks~"
"Fine, whatever. Aren't you ever going home? And why'd our house servants let you in anyway?"
After handing a snack to Seona, who as always had shown up and glued herself to his side, Gongsun Yan checked on the work progress and asked his servants and the kids once more.
"Zhang Bai, you did everything just as I instructed, carefully?"
"Yes, young master."
"No accidents? No one got hurt?"
"Aigoo, how many times do I have to say it? Of course not."
Gongsun Yan, who was nagging the servants and kids more than usual, had good reason. The risk level this time was incomparably higher than before.
"Phew... Alright, then gather the kids. Zhang Bai, you bring the family servants... and, uh, Mother too."
"Are you sure it'll be okay?"
"It'll be fine. Honestly, the problem is that we haven't done this sooner."
Mu Baek's answer that day had been obvious in hindsight, but it shattered Gongsun Yan's tunnel vision. Clearing rubble from Mu Baek's collapsed house using levers to recover bodies? Seemed impressive at first glance, but the principle was ridiculously simple.
Yet that simple principle had led Mu Baek to conclude, 'Whatever the young master does, there must be a reason behind it.'
That's it. Modern people don't fully understand every scientific principle or theoretical basis—they trust modern civilization because experts with PhDs say so. Ultimately, modern folks dream of a better future because modernity shows people a vision. And a vision is a dream, not a theory. As long as it looks plausible enough, that's sufficient.
Humans aren't wired to believe in something from absolute scratch. Even Christianity, which hammers "just believe," has doubting Thomas sticking his fingers in Jesus's wounds to verify the resurrection.
In the end, you have to show results right away. And for it to become a dream, it can't be petty or trivial. Ancient people are just as shrewd as modern ones. You can explain blockchain tech's value and possibilities all day to modern folks, and they'll glaze over—but shout "Bitcoin's hitting 100 million!" and it clicks instantly.
So Gongsun Yan was preparing an epic performance, a massive policy promo pop-up show. To that end, he planned to gather the key investors—the Ho clan from Liaodong, the common folk, even his mother—and turn it into a grand spectacle.
The biggest dilemma was what to demo. In the end, he had to pull out "that" thing he'd wanted to save for last.
Truth be told, he knew tons of era-shattering knowledge that could produce these results. But most weren't visually immediate—either too mundanely good, too slow to verify, or too tricky to build. It's like how modern people don't know their professor's citation count or journal pubs, but nod approvingly at "he won some big award."
The key was short, sharp impact. For the past few days, holed up in his room, Gongsun Yan had prepped just that one punch—and now it was ready to unveil.
"Aigoo, Yun Agou, isn't this all because of you? You have to pick the right time for good advice!"
"You agreed back then too—why complain now? Was it just me?"
"Her husband's illness worsens, her only son holes up in the kitchen and won't come out—what was I to do but worry? Now he pulls this sorcerer's trick, deceiving the masses like some wandering Taoist. How will I face my father-in-law in the afterlife? Ah! This foolish child of mine must die for it to end!"
"Madam, please calm down. The young master has his reasons—"
"Reasons? Reasons for that?!"
"... Hah, just like the spawn of that scheming wench—stirring up every pointless nonsense. Fine, now he's gathered everyone for a clown show. Next he'll insist on slaughtering the livestock himself."
From the various kids in Gongsun Yan's group and their parents, to Gongsun household members, to idle Yangpyeong townsfolk drawn by rumors of something fun—the plaza was packed. Roughly one in ten Yangpyeong residents had shown up, and atop the stage Gongsun Yan had built stood a massive rock and hefty timber pieces—whose purpose no one knew.
As the crowd buzzed, wondering what he planned to show, Gongsun Yan strode onstage with puffed-up shoulders and utmost confidence.
"Yeon! It's Yeon!"
"Young master, long time no see!"
"Haven't seen you around lately—what wild scheme this time?"
The townsfolk greeted the long-absent Gongsun Yan warmly. Ordinary noble heirs rarely earned such familiarity, but Gongsun Yan was different. Unpretentious himself and always wandering the streets, he'd chatted face-to-face with nearly every Yangpyeong resident, making him feel like a friendly neighbor.
Gongsun Yan waved back at the enthusiastic welcome, then pulled out his handmade megaphone, pressed it to his mouth, and boomed.
"Attention, everyone! You've heard the rumors, but I've gathered you busy folks to reveal the true goal behind everything I've done so far."
Right—his servants and followers had spread the word everywhere: Don't you want to know why the young master's obsessed with building latrines like a madman and hoarding beans like they're treasure? Anyone who skipped this after hearing that wasn't a Yangpyeong local—they were Goguryeo spies. (Even spies would probably love the show.)
As the chatter died and all eyes fixed on him, Gongsun Yan—channeling modern CEOs' presentation flair with sweeping gestures—continued.
"You might think I'm nuts for collecting shit and piss, or hoarding beans even beggars skip. The latter got some redemption after tofu, sure."
"Yeah! Tofu rocks!"
Laughter rippled from residents and kids who'd tasted his tofu.
"But that's barely a tenth of what I'm really after. With lowly manure and beans, I'll achieve things far grander—things that directly transform your lives."
He pointed to three or four folks in the crowd, calling them onstage.
"Come check this out. Solid rock? Fake, or real and tough?"
"There's a groove chipped here... but yeah, genuine rock. How'd they even move it?"
"Ouch—my hand hurts more than the rock. Real deal, young master."
"So why the groove?"
"I'll explain later. Now inspect that timber over there."
The selected townsfolk examined the wood pile—eyes, hands, feeling the grain.
"This feels like oak... this board's from one log, that one's joined? No clue with what, but sturdy."
"You can tell that quick? Beats me."
"I do carpentry around town. Anyway, as you said, young master—solid, well-dried stuff."
"Good. Head down. Explain it well to any doubters."
Questions swarmed the returnees; their answers spread outward. Once the buzz confirmed understanding, Gongsun Yan bellowed.
"You've verified this rock is solid and heavy. What if I split it in three minutes flat—believe it?"
Perplexed murmurs from the Liaodong crowd. That boulder would take all day with an iron pickaxe; even stonemasons would wrestle it with fire, water, and wedges for hours, maybe.
Yet with the young master declaring it so boldly, some figured it'd work—others cited common sense. The plaza grew rowdy.
"One thing upfront: no sorcery or Taoist illusions! This is essence extracted from soil and manure. Doubts? Ask my servants and kids—they helped make it!"
He flashed black powder, poured it into the rock's pre-grooved channel, sealed the top with wet cloth and dirt, and wedged a fuse-like cord. The crowd remained baffled.
Touching torch to fuse: it blazed eagerly toward the hole—what sorcery!
"Plug your ears!"
Boom—THUD!!!
"Aigoo, what the hell?!"
"Thunder?!"
"The young master's summoning thunder!!!"
Sudden roar. Crashing collapse. Trembling townsfolk peeked up to see the shattered boulder and scattered chunks.
"As I said: gunpowder, made using manure's properties! I know recipes for countless other wonders. So use the latrines well—"
"Woooah—!!!"
Thunderous applause and cheers erupted. Gongsun Yan knew the presentation had nailed it.
Honestly, he'd planned gunpowder for later. What use now? Black powder isn't like modern nitro stuff—tricky for bombs, mainly for blasting or weapons. No mining boom for blasting yet, and weapons? Premature when iron arms are scarce.
But nothing matched gunpowder's showmanship, so out it came. And more.
"Hit it—hard as you can!"
"Raaagh—!!! Oof!"
"What? It split, but not at the glue—the solid log broke?"
"Taoist magic! The young master fused the wood as one!!!"
Not as blockbuster as gunpowder, but mind-blowingly futuristic: soy protein glue demo.
As the name implies, it's simple: pure soy protein (sans okara and oil), mixed with lime and alum (available since Han times). Yields insane adhesive strength.
Don't mistake simplicity for weakness. Rivals modern epoxies; Henry Ford even built the world's first plastic ultralight sports car with it. Glues wood so well, fibers tear before the bond fails.
Modern folks find it cool—what about these ancients? Faces said it all: dazed rapture, dopamine overload. They'd buy ditch water as a panacea if he peddled it now. Illiterate peasants, Ho clansmen—even Gongsun Huang the hater, and Lady Wang who hated his experiments—all slack-jawed.
Gongsun Yan was certain: no more policy opponents. Marketing was everything. He was proud to be a liberal arts guy.