For the Sake of the World - 5
The northern expedition mobilized hundreds of thousands of troops—a massive military operation that would go down in the annals not just of Great Song history, but of the entire Central Plains. Yet whether historic events unfolded or not, the people living in this era carried on with their daily lives as usual. A war breaking out didn't mean someone else would tend my fields for me, nor did it suddenly shutter the businesses folks had been running.
I was no different. Even as I worried about Grandfather, resolved to take better care of myself than anyone else, and watched Yeon-i's belly gradually swell just a little more each day—my duties and responsibilities remained unchanged. The burdens of Han Un, Deputy Censor-in-Chief of the Dochalwon, stayed exactly the same. If anything, with the nation stirring amid the war, my workload seemed to have increased just to keep everything under tight control.
Wartime under a veneer of normalcy.
Since I wasn't heading to the front lines, it was fair to call me a bureaucrat unconnected to the war. But with my duties piling up because of it, one could argue I was very much involved. A strange situation. Depending on how you interpreted it, I could be said to be contributing to the war effort—or not. Was that why they said there were no innocents during wartime?
No such thing as a truly free civilian, that's for sure.
I stroked my chin as I reviewed the reports from inspectors across the provinces. Hundreds of thousands of troops were being sustained, along with all the supplies needed to keep them fed and armed. Just one meal for that many soldiers would consume staggering amounts of grain and water. And the whetstones needed to sharpen their blades and spear tips? Who could even tally that?
In a way, the entire Central Plains and all its people had become a giant factory supporting the war machine. So while I couldn't boldly proclaim like some Stone Age fanatic that "there are no innocent civilians," it was true that in wartime, no one stayed truly free. Even if they could cling to their pre-war routines.
"Wi-cheo."
"Yes, my lord."
"I hear more farmers south of the Yellow River are planting famine crops these days."
Jo Wi-cheo, who had recently started coming into the office, paused in sorting the letters from the inspectors. His expression turned subtly complicated. Famine crops weren't appealing to farmers. They didn't fetch high prices, weren't tasty, lacked rich nutrition, couldn't be mass-produced, and didn't store well for long. No wonder folks were crazy for rice or wheat.
Yet farmers far from the borders, south of the Yellow River, were turning to these flawed crops. Because they had no choice if they wanted to survive.
"It seems the beasts' range has expanded."
"Yeah, probably."
And if farmers' livelihoods now hinged on famine crops, that meant the beasts' rampages had spread as far south as the Yellow River. Not just a few lost stragglers, but massive herds thundering down.
"This reaching south of the Yellow River is trouble."
I let out a small sigh and set down the letter I'd been reading. Famine crop production in Hebei, Shanxi, or Gansu was tolerable enough. Folks there knew they lived near the borders and had been dealing with beasts long before the war kicked off. Even if their fields got trashed overnight and they had to plant buckwheat, they'd grumble a bit, grab their hoes, and get to it.
But south of the Yellow River—the narrow core of the Central Plains—was different. These farmers lacked the northerners' resigned boldness. As long as the Central Plains weren't fractured into warring states, the safest spots were south of the Yellow River and north of the Yangtze. No foreign invaders to fear, and centuries of development had made it prosperous.
Farming ruined even there?
It was a disaster beyond words like "headache." To the common folk who might've heard vaguely about the war but hadn't felt it yet, this would drive home the reality: Shit really hit the fan. They might end up resenting the bureaucrats right in front of them more than the distant Mongols. "What the hell have these officials been doing that even beasts are slipping through?" "How do you screw up so bad that border beasts reach the Yellow River?"
How did they cross, anyway...?
Truth be told, I wondered the same. Winged beasts could fly over the Yellow River without issue, but how did the four-legged ones manage? Swim across? Whatever the case, if even "safe" areas were now in the war's crosshairs, the backlash and fury from farmers and commoners would be intense. In the worst case, that anger could turn from officials toward the Emperor himself.
Can't be helped.
Another sigh escaped me. Part of me wanted to snap, "Even in wartime, little farmers gotta farm, right?" But spouting that would land me in the world's top three infamous blunders, alongside France's cake guy or Qin's meat-porridge idiot. And those two were at least framed or dim-witted. I'd be the sole sane one to utter such nonsense. Horrifying just to imagine.
"Wi-cheo. Let's step out for some fresh air."
So I stood casually, preparing to head out. Farmers were the foundation of the realm, the bulk of the population. They paid steady, reliable taxes, shouldered corvée labor and military service—the nation's workhorses. Docile in peacetime, but quick to riot with field-hardened muscles and hoes as weapons when pushed. That's farmers for you.
To run a peaceful country, you needed their support and goodwill.
If the crown prince pretends to empathize, that'll soothe them.
I set aside my ambition to hole up as Dochalwon's warden and opted for a voluntary inspection tour. Luckily, as Deputy Censor-in-Chief, my rank was respectable enough. As Giwangga's crown prince, my bloodline was noble. And not to brag, but my looks could make a decent first impression. Perfect trifecta for fieldwork.
A bit bittersweet, but swinging a hoe and sharing snacks should mellow their rage. Sure, it was just performative theater—no real fix—but what could I do? I worked for the Dochalwon, not Agriculture or Public Works.
"My lord. Since we're going anyway, why not bring Kki-ing-i and Kki-ong-i?"
"Why them?"
"Nothing more impressive than white deer pulling a plow."
Persuasive enough that I nodded automatically. I'd planned to take them regardless. They sulked if I rode horses instead, so unless I was hiding my identity nearby, they always came along. But white deer plowing? That was a flashy performance I hadn't considered.
Let's do it right now.
Farmers would prefer spirit beasts tilling fields over some lofty official descending. Perfect event for the masses.
Fields dotted the landscape just outside Kaepyeong. Finding spots without them in the Central Plains was harder. Even harsh Gansu and Qinghai had farmers; Zhili, Great Song's heartland, was overflowing. No need to travel far for my "inspection."
- Kki-ing!
- Kki-ong!
"Good job, my Kki-ing-i, Kki-ong-i."
The pair, roused from naps at Giwangjeo and dragged out, now pulled plows like oxen. Just days ago, they'd feasted royally, but now these noble white deer labored humbly. Their cries were sharper than usual, understandably—who wouldn't snap if yanked from sleep to farm?
But it was fine. Snacks included beef noodles and dumplings aplenty. They'd calm once their mouths were happy.
"M-my lord! We'll take over now! How can a noble personage dirty their hands like this?!"
Meanwhile, the farmer watching it all fidgeted, glued to my side. Too awed to snatch the plow from my hands, too guilty to just stand by and let me work. Peak awkwardness from his view.
"Dirty? I live off the crops grown in this very soil. If farming's dirty, does that mean all under heaven eat filth?"
Sorry, farmer, but this awkwardness was exactly what I aimed for. Right now, he was probably losing his mind seeing a high official muck about in the fields. I got it. But later, recalling this—seeing the plot we tilled—he'd think of me. The noble one who plowed and sowed by hand. It'd stick.
That's enough.
Beast-ravaged fields pissed them off, but a top official personally helping rebuild? They'd endure. Might even feel touched that the nation cared for wretches like them.
For that, a plow was a small price. Besides, Kki-ing-i and Kki-ong-i bore the real toil.
"So don't worry. What's so strange about making my own food by hand?"
"My lord..."
The farmer murmured, touched yet conflicted.
- Buooong!
Soon Buong-i trotted up, laden with a cloth bundle—the first round of snacks, no doubt.
Rewarding fieldwork...
Eat that first, then back to it. Only if I kept consoling these farmers would the war effort go smoothly.